Imagine Immortal! Jaskier who gets a factory reset every time he dies. Scars go away, any previous injuries or non-fatal aches disappear, etc. The only catch is it takes anywhere from a few minutes to several hours/days to come back depending on the extent of his injuries.
But Jaskier isn’t stupid, and so he carries around a very potent poison that can kill him almost instantly, and from experience has been proven to only leave him dead for around fifteen minutes. Because he does travel alone sometimes, and it’s better to kill himself in the middle of nowhere than to risk getting robbed when he’s sick, injured, etc.
Even though he can do it though, he’s not a big fan of it, and prefers to just ride out the pain/sickness with Geralt when possible. Because, okay, dying HURTS, and he’s never been able to find a poison that works rapidly and doesn’t make it feel like he’s being boiled alive, his heart thudding painfully in his chest until it just…gives out.
(Plus, he secretly likes the way Geralt will give him his cloak, and make him tea, and gently check his wounds. The witcher doesn’t exactly fuss, but he does let him ride Roach sometimes when he’s particularly unwell, with the witcher sitting behind him in the saddle and making sure he doesn’t fall off as he dozes.)
But then the mountain happens. And Jaskier is traveling with Geralt again, sure, but now he knows how he actually feels about traveling with a “human”. So even though Jaskier would prefer to just power through the nasty head cold he feels coming on, he digs in the bottom of his pack for the poison as soon as Geralt leaves to hunt. Because he can’t give the witcher yet another reason to leave him, not when the fix is so easy, not when Geralt clearly already wants as little contact, physical or otherwise, with him as possible.
He downs the vial, the familiar spasms taking over him almost instantly, and is about to let his eyes fall shut when he hears Geralt returning far too soon. A Geralt who does not know about Jaskier’s regeneration ability.
But the bard’s mouth has already stopped working, he can’t even lift his head, and the last thing he thinks before he’s gone is that Geralt looked a lot more…concerned? Than he thought he would.
And when Jaskier wakes up in Geralt’s arms, and explains everything, the bard is more than a little confused at the witcher’s insistence that he never kill himself again, at least when traveling with Geralt. The bard tries to argue that sometimes it’s necessary, but agrees to not do it unless it’s an emergency at the wild look in the man’s golden eyes.
Jaskier is still a little worried when he starts to feel another cold coming on two months later, but instead of Geralt leaving him like he feared, the man becomes a verifiable mother hen, refusing to leave the bard alone for even a second. And if Jaskier notes the way all weapons are kept far out of his reach, and the dagger he usually hides in his boot goes missing, well.
A little bit of extra comfort and coddling won’t kill him.
Summary: The Witchers find out about Jaskier’s torture, they’re not happy.
Gratuitous hurt Jaskier fic where the Kaer Morons make it better.
Do not repost or rewrite any of my work. Minors and ageless blogs get blocked.
Masterlist Asks
"Let me see those hands." The older voice commanded.
"What?"
"Let me see your hands bard." Vesemir was finishing kneading bread dough when he broke the stinted silence between the two of them. His back was turned to Jaskier but without his stream of chatter the old Witcher could hear the bard's knuckles click and sharp inhale of breath whenever he bent his fingers. It was one of the reasons why he insisted on the boy staying while he finished the last of the bread and stew for his lunch.
"Uh there's-there's no reason for you to-"
"You reek of pain." Vesemir turned to face the now blanched looking bardling. "Anyone under my roof who is in pain gets taken care of, especially when they mean as much as you do to my pups."
Jaskier wouldn't, couldn't, look him in the eye. He wasn't ready for this conversation. He thought he'd been so careful in hiding his injuries, always making sure to use his left hand before he could pull on the blisters of his right.
"-Bardling? Jaskier!" It was only at Vesemir's shout he registered that the old man had been talking to him, which made him feel like more of a burden. Not only had he managed to inconvenience the man who probably viewed this being about as serious as a papercut, but now he managed to ignore him as well. Great.
"I-I'm sorry, you must be very busy. I'll take my leave."
"Jaskier wait-" But the mentioned man had already scuttled out of the kitchen and therefore out of sight; also without his food.
Vesemir sighed and ran a weary hand over his face. Their poor bard. No-one knew what happened to him while Geralt was having his little crisis, and it appeared he wasn't eager to share either.
"What happened old man?" Vesemir flicked his eyes up hearing the judgement already lurking in his youngest's tone; fiery red hair adding to the heat in his eyes.
"It seems our bard is injured. And he refuses my help in the matter." He acquiesced.
"Injured where?" Lambert cut to the chase, not willing to hear the drabness the old man was more than likely to add on. That's what his brothers were for.
"His hands, and his heart."
With that Lambert stood straight from where he was leant and walked over to pick up the remains of the bard's food, leaving the kitchen in the same flourish as his predecessor.
He found the human hiding out in his room. On his own.
Not a good sign.
"Little human?" Lambert knocked using his foot as both hands were occupied.
"I'm fine Lambert." Jaskier replied with some urgency.
"Doesn't sound like it so I'm coming in."
Using coordination that was previously unknown to him, Lambert opened the door with his elbow and let himself in, kicking the door shut behind him. "You left your food downstairs."
"Wasn't particularly hungry." Jaskier had stood from his bed and was staring off with the young Witcher (who was still decades older than himself).
"Well you won't mind if I help myself then." Lambert defiantly dropped himself down onto Jaskier's bed and leant against one side of his headboard, silently offering an olive branch.
"Don't mind at all." He slid in next to the redhead.
But Lambert didn't start eating. He didn't move, because he noticed A) how cold it was (and Witchers have a higher core temperature) and B) Jaskier's teeth were chattering.
"You're cold."
"Observation of the year." The bard snarked under his breath, uncharacteristically.
"I'll light the fire."
"No!" No sooner had the words left Lambert's mouth that the bard shrieked and desperately stopped an igni being cast into the fireplace.
"Jask?"
"No fire!" He scrambled.
"Alright alright no fire." The Witcher held his palms up in a placating gesture. "But you're shivering. You need to get warmer somehow lark."
Jaskier continued his shuddering for a bit before nodding. "Fine, I'll eat the stew."
Lambert inconspicuously reheated the stew with a subtle igni and passed the bowl and the bread over.
"That's not gonna be enough Jask.”
Through a mouthful of stew Jaskier sideyed the Witcher and smirked, a little too tight to be genuine.
"If you wanted to cuddle Lamby you could've just said."
"Fuck off."
Jaskier snorted at the inelegant response. He moved easily enough though when he was tugged into Lambert's chest, encompassed from all sides with warmth.
Yes, this was much better than a stupid fire.
~~
"Vesemir?"
He lifted his head from the book he decided to drown his feelings in and looked to his eldest pup.
"What’s wrong Eskel?"
“I think I should be the one asking you that.” He entered the library and stood next to his mentor, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. “You’ve been hiding in here for the past three hours instead of correcting Geralt’s stances. You’ve never been able to leave us alone for that long without a criticism, what’s wrong?”
“Jaskier’s hurt, Lambert’s with him now but he won’t tell me what’s wrong so I can fix it.”
“Maybe he’s just not ready to tell you?” Eskel suggested with a shrug.
“I know. I just want him to be comfortable enough to tell us how he’s feeling. At the very least if he’s in any pain.”
Eskel sighed but didn’t say anything. He had never seen Vesemir look so out of sorts, and it was alarming to say the least.
“How long has Lambert been up there with him?”
“Around three hours.”
“I’ll get Geralt to come and sit with you, and then I’ll go and check on him, give Lamb a break. Alright?”
Vesemir chuckled and stood up from his chair to sit on the sofa instead. “You know, I am more than capable of being left on my own?”
Eskel smirked. “Yeah, doesn’t mean you should though, old man.”
“You little-”
Eskel bent down and kissed his cheek in farewell as he spluttered and ran out of the room on the hunt for Geralt, smiling all the way at his mentor’s grouching.
With Geralt now sat with Vesemir, Eskel ventured up the stairs and followed the scent of his brother, which led him straight to Jaskier’s room. He knocked and heard Lambert’s disgruntled groan at obviously being woken up from a nap.
The Witcher shook his head and opened the door to see the two inhabitants snuggled up together underneath Jaskier’s furs. He could barely see Jaskier other than a tuft of hair poking up from beneath Lambert’s arm, however his heartbeat told him that the bard was sleeping.
“What do you want scarface?”
“I’m here to check on the bard. Found Vesemir sulking in the library and he said he’d hurt himself or something.” Eskel whispered and refused to rise to the bait of his brother’s nickname for him.
“He’s sleeping.” Lambert said gruffly, tightening his hold around their bard.
“Yes I can see that thank you, Lambchop.”
Lambert grunted at his brother’s jesting and settled back down again. “You joining or just gonna stand there like a lemon?”
“I should go back down and tell Vesemir not to worry, no doubt Geralt-”
“Will make his own way up shortly after having his cuddle time with Vesemir. Get in, and hurry up about it. Making the damn bed cold.”
Eskel hesitated for another few seconds before closing the door silently and crawling in behind Jaskier, wrapping his own arms around their lark and resting his hand on Lambert’s side under the furs.
“Go back to sleep Lamb.” Eskel could see his youngest having trouble keeping his eyes open and bent across to kiss his forehead in a similar way to Vesemir.
“Don’t give me an old man kiss, give me a proper one.” He grumbled, already halfway gone.
The older Witcher snorted quietly before doing as requested and giving him a kiss, pulling back once Lambert allowed him to and giving Jaskier his own little kiss on the crown of his head.
They settled down quickly and Lambert joined Jaskier in dreaming while Eskel merely dozed, happily watching over his family as they rested.
~~
Lambert was right about Geralt making his own way up.
Soon after he’d joined Vesemir in the library at his brother’s request, he was settled in for his obligatory head scratches and rested a little while Vesemir recounted the story with their bard for the third time.
They stayed in silence for a while whilst Geralt contemplated what to do; it wasn’t unpleasant, just contemplative.
“You get started on dinner, I’ll see to Jaskier.”
“Your brothers are already up there.”
“About time I join the fun then.”
Geralt pressed his forehead to Vesemir’s as a comfort and sent the man on his way to the kitchen with a tap to the bottom, leaping out of the way when the older Witcher went to clip him round the ear for being cheeky.
Following his brother’s footsteps, Geralt arrived at Jaskier’s door; however unlike Eskel, Geralt walked straight in with no pretence of knocking.
At his arrival it looked like Eskel had been dozing but was now awake seeing who had come in, Lambert was still out cold and in the middle of both of them Jaskier was just coming to, eyes fluttering every now and again and shifting up and down the bed sheets to try and get comfortable. Eskel put his hand on Jaskier’s back to try and settle their little lark, rubbing up and down every now and again to either rouse him enough to get up or send him back to sleep.
Since the bard still had his eyes closed, he hadn’t yet seen or noticed Geralt in his room, so he settled down again just into a light sleep on his back, trapping Eskel’s hand.
With his lark now calm again, Geralt crawled carefully up the bed and into Eskel’s open chest where his arm was stuck out to the side, leaning down to give him a few hello kisses and lowering himself down to rest his head on the elder’s shoulder, facing Jaskier. Eskel’s unoccupied arm came around Geralt’s own shoulders and held him close, combing through his hair with his fingers.
“Do you know what’s wrong?” The white wolf whispered into the cool air of the evening.
“No. Couldn’t get anything out of Lambert before the lazy shit fell asleep as soon as I got in. Anything from Vesemir?”
“Apparently he’s hurt his hands, and his heart.”
Eskel blew out a breath. “Well, we could always check his hands now, while he’s drowsy?”
Geralt scrunched his nose. “Doesn’t that seem a little..”
“Like an invasion of privacy, yes it does bonehead.” A third voice answered for him.
The cuddling Witchers lifted their heads to see Lambert awake and scowling at them.
“Nice to see you rise from the dead Lambchop.” Geralt answered with a smirk on his face, knowing how much it irritated his brother when he called him that.
“You are the reason I wanted to stay in the land of the dead.”
Lambert went to turn his back to his brothers when Geralt grabbed his arm and brought him back over, planting a kiss on his lips too so he wouldn’t feel left out.
“Stop being so grouchy, you’ve only just woken up.”
“That’s precisely why I’m grouchy.”
“Uh, hello there.”
It appears the so called ‘silent’ Witchers were actually quite loud and consequently had woken up their bard. Their bard who upon waking had a face of Geralt’s abdomen and an extra Witcher cuddled up next to him in his bed.
“Hi little lark.” Geralt greeted after retreating back to Eskel’s side of the bed and flipping on his side to look at Jaskier, the other Witchers following suit.
“How are you feeling?” Eskel followed on from his brother.
The bard shrugged and sighed before stretching. “Less tired, and significantly warmer.”
“That would be my doing.” Lambert was hasten to add.
“Jask if you were cold, why not light the fire? I’m sure Vesemir would’ve helped if you were having trouble on your own.” Geralt said softly, frowning at the thought of their poor lark suffering silently in the cold.
“No I- I didn’t want the fire on. I wasn’t cold.” The bard refuted stubbornly.
“You were shivering.” Lambert pointed out helpfully.
“Thank you.” Jaskier hissed through his teeth, to which Lambert shrugged unaffected.
“Lark,” Eskel started, diverting his attention back to the issue at hand, “ we’re all up here because Vesemir said you were hurt. We don’t want to see you hurt, we want to help. But we can only do that if you talk to us.”
“Not something you’re exactly new to.” Lambert mumbled under his breath, earning himself a clip to the head from Geralt.
Jaskier used the two Witcher’s fighting as an excuse to stay silent, or at least think of an excuse he could use.
After realising Jaskier’s plan, Eskel wrapped his arms around Geralt and flipped him to the edge of the bed he was previously lying on so he could talk to the lark himself.
“Please little human, let us help.” He pleaded, reaching up to cup Jaskier’s face in one of his hands.
Being careful not to detach Eskel’s hand, Jaskier sat up against the headboard and the others followed.
“I was in Oxenfurt. Don’t remember a lot of it but, I got kidnapped and tied to a chair. The guy that took me could use f-fire.”
“Firefucker.” Geralt said under his breath.
“What did he want?” Eskel asked, stroking his thumb along Jaskier’s cheekbone.
“To know about the Princess of Cintra and The White Wolf. And when I didn’t tell him anything, he didn’t take to it kindly.”
The bard could feel the growling come from the redheaded Witcher behind him, along with the murderous expressions covering each of their faces all whilst staring at the ceiling.
“Let us see your hands lark.”
“Geralt-”
“Please.”
Slowly and as painlessly as he could, Jaskier lifted his blistered hand from beneath the covers and revealed it to the brothers.
None of them touched, thankfully, but the collective intake of breath was enough to gauge their reactions.
“Bardling, why didn’t you tell us?” Eskel asked gravely, almost being able to feel the hot pain in his own hands.
“I just wanted to forget about it.” He whispered, head down.
Before anyone could say anything else, Lambert took Jaskier’s chin in hand and poured all the emotion he couldn’t say aloud into a kiss. The bard almost felt like crying as he held tight to the redhead, unwilling to separate for more than a few seconds at a time. After trying and succeeding to separate for the third time, Jaskier attempted to get his breath back as Lambert held him steady.
“You will never, ever, go through anything like that again. I swear it.”
“We all do.” Geralt promised.
Jaskier turned around to see the other two Witchers watching him with a new fierce protection in their eyes. This time it was Eskel who pressed his lips to the lark’s, opening his lips for his tongue to taste the human’s mouth, a mix of stew, vegetables and spearmint leaves the bard often chewed on.
After a pitiful whimper crossed with a moan got caught in the lark’s throat, Eskel backed off to leave some of him intact for Geralt; giving him little kisses on his cheeks and forehead before leaning back into the headboard. Geralt shuffled between Eskel’s spread legs and leaned into Jaskier, sticking his face into his bardling’s neck and just inhaling his scent for a minute.
“You’ll never be alone again. You’ll always have one of us.”
If Jaskier thought Eskel was intense, Geralt was next level. Licking into his mouth as soon as he could, tasting, swirling, biting, sucking. Anything to make his bard feel safe and secured again, covered in the scent of his Witchers.
“We should go to Vesemir, let him heal your hands.”
Jaskier broke apart from Geralt and hesitated before agreeing, knowing he’d have the support of his Witchers.
~~
Upon arriving at the kitchen, Vesemir had the bread, stew and ale all set out on the table and was playing with a loose thread on his tunic until he heard his pups arrive.
Silently the three Witchers parted and Jaskier stepped through them looking small. When he plucked up the courage to look at the eldest Witcher in the eye, he held out his injured hand. “I’m not sure about my heart, but I’ve heard you might be able to help with my hands.”
Vesemir looked minutes away from crumbling. “Oh pup.”
He sweeped Jaskier into his arms and held tightly, the others covering them in their own hug as they tried to heal their songbird with their love for him, no matter how long it took.
Proposal: Jaskier's got a fist clenched painfully hard one time when he's really really hurt and Yen has to force his palm open so she can tangle their fingers together and try to keep him from hurting his own hand. And they're both kind of like "oh" at some point idk 😳
Anon this apparently awakened something in me, so thank you for expanding on my post and giving me the inspo to write (checks notes) 1.7k. Hope you enjoy whatever this is!!!
Pre-yennskier, description of blood and injury, 100% hurt/comfort. Read on AO3
“Stop fucking moving,” Geralt hisses, pushing down hard on the hips beneath his hands to still the man’s squirming.
A choked off, muffled whine dies in Jaskier’s throat, his lips pursed tight enough to turn them pale and thin. He’s panting through his nose, clearly in agony, and too out of it to understand that moving will only make this worse.
Yennefer spares the witcher a glance, noting the anxiety and fear that’s obvious on his face, in the tension across his brow, the frantic not-focus of his eyes that flick between the bard’s half-delirious expression and the gaping wound at his side.
She’s done all she can to heal him, sealed up the torn and leaking insides that they all know would have killed him if they hadn’t been here – that still might kill him if they can’t stem the blood loss and prevent infection. She thinks of it like this; clinical, sensible, because she has to.
Jaskier’s heartbeat is quicker than it should be, his breathing equally fast, panicked and pained and shallow. She keeps her ear trained to its frantic rhythm, notices how Geralt’s heart thumps faster than normal too, almost human, almost matching hers. She’d laugh at the symmetry of it all, if it were funny. She’s sure Jaskier would write a poem, if he knew, but she won’t ever tell him.
He stills a little under the pressure of Geralt’s hands, though still struggles. He probably can’t help it by this point, too confused and the pain too intense to allow much rational thought. Geralt can’t work if he keeps kicking, shifting his hips to try to escape the discomfort.
“Yen,” Geralt growls, and she’d tell him off if she thought it would help.
She tells him off anyway, growling his name back as she presses her weight onto the bard’s chest, keeping him pinned. She watches his face, stares at the lines of tears down his temples, wrung out from his scrunched eyes.
The tight seam of Jaskier’s lips splits open, a deep groan and hitching sob forcing its way out as Geralt flushes the wound. He shifts again, and it’s only then that Yennefer notices his hands. The one nearest her grips at her skirt, tugging it towards himself, the other clenched tight enough at his side that the whites of his knuckles stand out even against his bloodless skin.
She reaches for it before she can think about it, dragging his hand over his chest, looking at the way he’s digging his nails into the meat of his palm.
Yennefer doesn’t say anything as she fits her thumb under his, prying it open like the hinge on a rusted box. There’s no treasure within as she does the same with his fingers, forcing them loose enough that his reflex to clench releases, each digit unfolding only to reveal deep indents in his skin like faint purple mouths.
She slips her fingers between his, taking the pressure into her own grip, resting their joined hands over his heart.
He blinks up at her, eyes wet with tears, then lifts his head to look down at himself.
“Don’t look,” Yennefer snaps, pointedly leaning forward to block the vivid red of Geralt’s hands from view.
She knocks her knuckles against his breastbone, drawing his attention back, and he focuses in on the press of their skin together.
She thinks that if he had enough blood left in his body to do so, Jaskier would be blushing. She feels heat rise in her own cheeks in sympathy. His lips part on an inappropriately dreamy sigh, and she realises she’s stroking her thumb back and forth over his clammy skin, then swiftly stops.
Yennefer checks his expression and discovers his eyes on her again, a long moment dragging on as she finds herself unable to look away, their faces closer than she realised and his short breaths puffing against her skin. She’s horribly aware of their entwined hands, the unpleasant sensation of drying blood and mud between them, the frantic heart mere centimetres away, trapped beneath only by fragile human flesh and bone.
Between another aborted cry of pain and a feeble attempt at another kick, Jaskier lets his head fall back to the ground, gaze swimming and dizzy as he stares up at the canopy of the trees above them, his grip tightening to the point of pain as the joints in Yennefer’s hand compress.
She loses track of time for a while, her knees and back aching from being folded over for so long, the quiet and sometimes unpleasant noises coming from Geralt working opposite her the only way to gauge how long they’ve been here, alongside the warbling beat that still echoes against her eardrums. It’s not like his usual music.
She looks back to his face after some time, catches his eyelids fluttering.
“None of that,” she scolds, loud enough to jerk him back into wakefulness.
She turns her head to look at the wound, relieved to find it closed with stitches, no longer sluggishly leaking blood down Jaskier’s side. He’s still covered in it, soaked into his shirt and the trousers covering his propped-up legs, even on the blanket they’ve thrown over him.
Geralt looks up and the relief is clear on his face; they’re not out of the woods yet, but it’s a step in the right direction. His eyes flick to Jaskier’s hand in hers, looking pointedly at where he’s still gripping her dress too, then walking away with a mutter about getting bandages.
Yennefer finds herself alarmingly embarrassed, and withdraws her hand.
Jaskier doesn’t complain, his fingers falling loose and curled where she leaves them.
Geralt returns quickly, begins packing the injury. Jaskier jerks again, then they begin the agonising process of winding bandages around his waist, having to manoeuvre him upright enough to pass them under his back.
By the end he’s even sweatier and paler than he was before. His noises of pain throughout have been quieter than Yennefer was expecting, the usual volume and raucousness of his voice muffled and contained. It’s simultaneously impressive and irritating – men, she thinks.
He groans long and low nonetheless as they shift him sideways onto a bedroll and prop another bag under his knees.
“It’s done, it’s over,” Yennefer finds herself saying quietly while Geralt resituates the blanket.
She wipes a tear away from Jaskier’s cheek with the backs of her fingers, and tries not to overthink the action in the seconds afterwards as his sobs subside.
He’s trembling, either from pain or shock or the cold, and Geralt wastes no time getting him water with some herbs mixed in. He drinks greedily, water spilling out around his mouth until the witcher urges him to slow.
Geralt lays him back down, calls his name softly until his wobbly attention wanders back to them.
“All better?” Jaskier murmurs after a moment, eyelids already half-mast.
Geralt lays a wet cloth over the bard’s forehead and holds his palm on it, steady and reassuring, long enough to lean over and catch Jaskier’s gaze.
“Good enough,” he says, beginning to wipe away the sweat and dirt from Jaskier’s face in gentle strokes.
“Bastard,” Jaskier mutters, eyes falling closed. He only settles for a moment before jerking awake, his eyes wide and alarmed. “Yen?”
He looks around blearily, waving an uncoordinated hand out – seeking her presence, Yennefer realises. She reaches for him, grasping his hand in hers. His gaze snaps to her, and softens.
“Okay?” he asks.
His skin is cool, his heart still racing.
“You’ll be pissing us off with your usual obnoxious poetics within a day, I imagine.”
He frowns at her and shakes his head almost imperceptibly.
“No,” he swallows dryly, “you okay?”
Yennefer opens her mouth, ready for a witty retort to manifest, but all that emerges is the escape of a surprised breath. She thinks of the way they’d been standing side by side when the attack had happened, the way the bard had fallen against her and brought her to her knees in the grass and mud, last autumn’s shed of rotting leaves compacting beneath her hands. The drip of red blending against the dirt. Her stomach twists, then releases.
“Rest, Jaskier.”
He still stares at her.
“I’m fine, you fool.” She squeezes his hand again, thinks of the indents on his palm. “Rest.”
He does, finally, slipping easily into something deeper than sleep. She knows she and Geralt will have their senses fixed on the pump of his blood for days yet, and that it’ll be a while before his body replenishes what he’s lost.
For now, the steadiness of his pulse and his breathing will have to be enough, even if they remain unnatural and fast.
Yennefer realises she’s been staring for a while when she notices Geralt bringing a bowl over, his hands and arms already washed clean of the mess from the past hour.
“Wonderful timing,” he says dryly, shaking the red-tinged water off his fingers with a couple of quick flicks.
“For what, witcher?” Yennefer says shortly, her nerves strung thin and dangerous.
Geralt snorts. Yennefer glares.
“For a realisation.” He smirks at her, smug.
“Fuck off,” she spits, not turning away quick enough to miss the way the man’s smile widens further.
She draws her hands away from Jaskier, his grip limp now, and washes her hands too, surprised to see the ripples on the surface from where she’s shaking. Geralt comes up behind her, his hand falling to her shoulder, and they both look down at the bard. The porcelain tinge of his skin is unnerving, his eyes bruised, and dirt and leaves still cling to his hair. But he’s alive, alive, and the knots in their chests release.
She thinks about leaving now her job’s done, the unpleasant warmth blooming somewhere in her gut making her want to run away, to flee from whatever the bard’s pain and gaze and hands have triggered in her, the feeling snapping sharp like a wire under her skin.
Geralt squeezes her shoulder.
“Stay with him.”
Yennefer feels the words rumble through her, less than an order but more than a suggestion. Her heart leans into it, giving way so carelessly to harmonise with the rhythm of his.
Hiiiii Idk if you're still doing asks from the angsty prompt list but if you are, could I have; 6) Why are your eyes so red? With 14) should you be drinking that much? And as is my usual want, can it be angsty but resolve in comfort 👀😂 ❤️
thank you @hailhailsatan for the ask! I am always happy about these things, because these prompts really jumpstart my creativity! I hope it’s to your liking.
CW: post mountain fix-it, Jaskier is drunk, he is hurt and kinda depressed, but there is a happy ending
read on ao3
---
“Why are your eyes so red?” Geralt asked.
Jaskier jumped in surprise. He hadn’t noticed someone approaching his table. The bard was sitting in a shitty, dark and dirty tavern in a village in the middle of nowhere. His doublet was open but not in any attempt to seduce someone, just because he didn’t care. He had stopped caring after he stumbled down a mountain two weeks ago, angry words thrown at him still ringing in his ears.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Jaskier huffed, “and why the fuck do you care? Life did finally give you the blessing of getting me off your hands. So fuck off and leave me be.”
Jaskier was strangely proud that he had managed - in spite of the bottle of cheap awful red wine he had already downed - to get this out without slurring the words - at least he thought so.
Geralt was silent for a moment, looking from the bard, who pointedly looked anywhere but at him, to his hands.
“Have you been crying?” Geralt asked quietly.
“Since when do you care?” Jaskier asked, “maybe I am just allergic to your stupid face. So fuck off before I shovel shit on you again, like I apparently did for the last 20 YEARS OF MY FUCKING USELESS LIFE.” His voice had gotten louder with every word.
Geralt flinched slightly as Jaskier threw the words he had said after the dragon hunt back at him. Geralt had tried to forget the awful things he said to the bard. But now the shame he had felt right after they left his mouth rose up in him again.
The thing was that Jaskier had abstained from drinking any alcohol till tonight because he knew alcohol always enhanced his feelings. If he was happy, a few glasses of ale would make him jubilant, but if he was sad, angry or hurt (or all three at once), he would feel infinitely worse and cry for half the night.
But because nothing else had worked to make him feel any better - singing, composing new songs, dancing, fucking - he thought a night getting pissed and crying his eyes out could maybe help to get all this misery out of his system.
And at exactly this night Geralt of fucking Rivia, the one responsible for his horrible mood, decided to grace him with his presence and ask stupid questions. How was he supposed to forget him, when he was standing right in front of him?
“Jaskier,” Geralt began, unsure of what to say. After a moment he gestured vaguely to Jaskier and the table with the empty bottle of wine, “is this because of me?”
“Maybe it’s hard for you to understand,” Jaskier said, finally looking at the wither, pointing at his chest, “but not everything revolves around you. Not everything I do is because of you.”
Geralt furrowed his brows, pointing at an empty chair, “can I sit?”
“No, but you will do it anyway…” Geralt sat down, as Jaskier had predicted.
“Maybe I just like this fine establishment and the exquisite wine they serve here,” the bard said, gesturing around.
Geralt just raised an eyebrow, “can I talk to you, Jaskier?”
“You are already talking to me, why ask now?”
“You don’t make this easy for me…” Geralt replied, rubbing his hands over his face.
“I don’t make it EASY FOR YOU?”, Jaskier started to raise his voice again, face red.
“You are right,” Geralt grumbled, lifting his hands in defeat “I am sorry, Jaskier, I am sorry for this, and for what I said on the mountain and for everything. I’ve been looking for you the past two weeks to apologize.”
The bard tried to focus his eyes on him, but couldn’t quite manage it. He leaned his head back at the wall, closing his eyes, “yeah, whatever.”
“Jaskier, did you hear me?”
Geralt could see that Jaskier rolled his eyes even with them closed, “yeah, I heard you, you are sorry… bla bla bla… I am not THAT drunk.”
Jaskier opened his eyes as he heard footsteps and waved to the barmaid, shouting louder than strictly necessary, “another bottle of this fine wine, my lady.”
Geralt furrowed his brows again, “should you be drinking that much?”
“Are you my mother now?” the bard replied.
They sat in silence for a while till the barmaid brought a dusty bottle of wine over, not bothering to get Geralt a glass. She waited with an outstretched hand till Jaskier placed a coin in it.
The bottle stayed untouched and for a while the two men sat in silence.
When Geralt had finally organized his thoughts and got up the nerve he said, “Jaskier, I wanted you at least to know that I did not mean any of the words I said to you on the mountain and that I am so sorry.” He was looking down at his hands and continued, “the thing with Yennefer… I was so hurt and I just wanted someone else to hurt as badly as I did and you were there…”
Jaskier stayed silent, so after a deep breath Geralt continued, “sorry, this is a shitty apology, I am… not good with words…” and more quietly, “I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness.”
“Maybe not,” the bard replied, breathing out slowly and continued, “but forgiveness is not about deserving but about choice. At least for me.”
He had opened his eyes again, looking at Geralt. All the anger and rage he had felt just moments ago gone.
“And I chose to forgive you.”
Geralt looked up in surprise, the slightest hint of hope in his eyes.
“But…”
“No buts,” Jaskier said, “I am still hurt and I don’t think everything can or should go back to where it was before, but I was never able to stay mad at you for long...and I really missed you”, the last words were barely audible.
The witcher looked up in surprise. He had moved his chair closer to Jaskier without him noticing. They were sitting so close now that their elbows were brushing. After a moment Geralt turned to Jaskier and lifted his hand slowly to Jaskier’s face, softly brushing his thumb over the warm skin of his cheek.
“I think I worked out what pleases me,” Geralt whispered, his face so close to the other’s that Jaskier could feel his warm breath on his skin.
Slowly but deliberately the witcher leaned closer, till their lips met, first just a light brush and after another breath more firmly. Geralt inhaled the familiar scent of his bard, something he had not realised he had missed, the scent of home.
To his surprise the bard drew back after a moment. “Stop, Geralt,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” the witcher began, “I thought…”
“No, I mean yes, I want to kiss you,” Jaskier said, “but I want to be sober for this.” He gestured between them.
With a hopeful smile Geralt asked, “so you will kiss me tomorrow?”
The bard laughed, a melodic sound Geralt had missed even more than his scent, “probably, if this is not some drunken hallucination of mine…”
With a grin Geralt got up, “I ask the barmaid for a room for the night.”
“I have a room already, we can share,” Jaskier said, and with a giggle, “like in the good old days.”
Geralt laughed, held out his hand for his bard and said, “like in the good old days.”
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, The Witcher (TV)
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Lambert
Characters: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion
Additional Tags: Torture, Suicidal Thoughts, Attempted Murder, Angst with a Happy Ending, Angst and Humor, loosely based on the Merlin episode with the same name, mentions of murderous sex, like strangulation, drowning and stabbing, Non-Explicit Sex, Hopeful Ending, cause you can't solve everything with a kiss, it goes torture- comedy - sad - bad time - hopeful ending
Summary:
Jaskier is held hostage and cursed to kill one Geralt of Rivia. He ends up at the keep. He tries very hard to do a murder.
Fortunately for everyone involved he's a terrible assassin.
----
Funny? Check
great characterization? check
hurt Jaskier? check
happy end? check
And the rest? Wonderfully written, suspenseful, tragic and funny at the same time and just perfect in overall. :-)
prompt: I love your witcher in need fic! For a prompt- maybe a monster or robber or something tries to use jaskier as leverage over geralt? Or as a hostage? And geralt realizes how scared that makes him?
/shrugs. What can I say? I’m a sucker for a good hostage fic.
Mentions of this fic.
Geralt and Jaskier spend the next few days in town upon Geralt’s stern insistence, the latter wishing to allow Jaskier a chance to fully rest and recover from a nasty wound received after a rather terrifying encounter with a couple of Kikimora soldiers.
However, while Jaskier’s wound slowly heals, his health takes a turn in the opposite direction, leaving him with harsh, barking coughs and a near-constant fever that’s got him bedridden, more so with each passing day. Geralt’s initial fear was infection, but Jaskier’s wound isn’t an angry swollen red, but rather a faint pink around the edges, leaving Geralt to settle for Jaskier’s insistence that he merely caught a chill after being pulled under water by one of the Kikimora soldiers, though Geralt has his doubts with Jaskier’s rapidly deteriorating condition.
Geralt’s taken to the town each day Jaskier can’t find the energy to move from bed, asking around for a mage, a doctor, any single person who has even the slightest ounce of medical knowledge, yet the small town proves sparse in the medical field. Still, Geralt goes out each day, moving along a hint of desperation, and when he’s not asking each and every person he crosses paths with, he’s trying to make sense of Jaskier’s many medical books, finally pinpointing on a section detailing an infection of the lungs. His eyes dissect each symptom, and he applies each to Jaskier: the alarming coughing, the gripping fever, the inconsistent chills, the fatigue, and more recently, the rattle coated along each wheezing breath.
When he wakes on the fourth day to Jaskier’s harsh, labored breathing, face pinched in discomfort, Geralt doesn’t hesitate to slip into his clothes and seek help, medical book in hand. He moves about the town for hours, and those who do agree to stop and hear him out only offer non-descriptive medical help, instead detailing vague accounts of their own children who were stricken down with the same illness. When one woman tears up, claiming this apparent infection of the lungs claimed her seventeen-year-old son’s life a year ago, something pulls in Geralt’s stomach, a clear sense of uneasiness and fear that twist and mold together until he’s starting back to the inn to ensure his bard is still breathing.
When he steps into the inn, despite moving through familiar motions, the uneasiness in his stomach grows into a pit, his senses chasing an odd feeling that something feels terribly off. He takes to the stairs, taking the steps two at a time, before he’s throwing the suite door open, eyes zeroing in on the empty bed.
“Jaskier,” he growls, hand instinctively moving over his shoulder, fingers brushing against this hilt of his sword. He can still make out the lingering smell of Jaskier’s illness, of sweat and pain, but there’s a second smell mixing in the air that has Geralt creeping to the bed, light and quiet on his feet. The comforter is knotted on the floor, and the sheets have been pulled half-off, revealing the old, worn mattress underneath, the bed showing clear signs of a struggle.
Geralt rests his hand atop the sheets, taking note to the faint, damp warmth that coats his palm. Not long ago, he thinks, and he moves through a quick sweep of the rest of the suite, checking every inch and coming up empty with every narrow drag of his gaze. The pit in his stomach grows, fear swirling to the center, and his fingers curl tightly around the hilt of his sword as he bounds down the steps, stopping before the inn-keeper.
“My companion is missing,” he announces bluntly, pulling the inn-keepers attention toward him with a deep growl.
“A man stopped by, said he was a doctor here to help.” The inn-keeper’s voice is distracted, her attention already flicking back to her book, but Geralt presses, voice deep, threatening.
“There are no doctors in this town.”
“Maybe he’s from the next town over.”
“The next town is three days away even on the fastest horse--”
“--look, Witcher,” the inn-keeper spits out, voice colored in a clear tone of annoyance. “I don’t know where your lover went, but maybe it’s for the best.” She drags a slow gaze back to her book, and for the briefest of moments, anger sweeps across Geralt’s vision, but just as quickly, he blinks through it, sighing lowly as he moves away from the wooden counter and out the door.
He pulls a narrow gaze around his nearest surroundings, relying solely on his senses, and he starts toward the woods surrounding the small town, figuring he would have already heard a commotion if Jaskier’s been taken through the center of town.
His instincts prove accurate when he walks around a few trees and spots a series of faint footprints in the mud, one set unsteady and pulling in a different direction compared to the other even set. He moves with the footprints, often losing them at times, but he keeps in a single direction, taking note to leaves ripped from vines, to small tree branches looking as if they’ve been unwillingly broken, a second sign of a struggle.
The uneasiness shifts to a muted burn of desperation within his stomach, moving and mixing with the fear up to his chest, past his rib cage to fight against his slower heart beat. His hand brushes against the sharp edges of a broken tree limb, and then he hears an incredibly faint yet frighteningly clear sound of muffled coughing that’s got him moving quickly toward it.
The air around him, though fresh and clear, is beginning to take to a familiar scent that has hope trying to push to the front of Geralt’s thoughts, and he chases the sound and scent, through bushes and around towering trees until he’s stumbling into a small clearing where a lean man with a pointed nose has Jaskier pinned to his chest by a knife pressed to his throat, just hard enough to warrant a small trickle of blood.
Jaskier’s eyes go wide with relief, yet they’re still clouded in fear, glassy with fever, and he mutters Geralt’s name around the cloth tied against his mouth, a few, ragged coughs following. Geralt can hear the deep rattle with each, struggling breath, the shallow, choppy inhale and exhale through Jaskier’s nose, and he tries to will his mind and heart to steady so he can fully assess the situation.
Moving may prove fatal for Jaskier, so while he keeps his shoulders squared and he tightens his grip on the hilt of his sword, he doesn’t move, only offering a small tilt of the head in silent question.
“You are quite difficult to track down, Geralt of Rivia.”
Geralt recognizes the voice, and he casts his eyes down to the dirt below him as if searching for an answer along the mud, brief patches of grass, and footprints.
“You don’t remember me.”
Geralt pulls his gaze back up with a frown, and the man groans, pressing the knife a little harder to Jaskier’s neck.
“Three years ago? You killed my brother.”
For a brief moment, Geralt’s mind chases the new information back to a small town three years ago, a town he had been sorely unwelcome in the second he and Roach stepped foot into their territory, specifically to a small group of men known as the tavern regulars. Though small, the town was quite rowdy, and he remembers sleeping at the inn, only to be pulled awake by a knife piercing his shoulder. He remembers moving on instinct, reaching for his sword, and then he remembers pulling a knife from his shoulder, the scar still prominent to this day. He remembers stepping over lifeless bodies, and he remembers tipping the inn-keeper well.
“Your brother and his friends tried to kill me.” He finally says, blinking away the past.
“No, they only wanted to rough you up!”
“I think my sheer act of self-defense having been woken by a knife to the shoulder was severely warranted,” Geralt presses, voice low and eyes dangerously narrow.
“They were never planning on killing you!”
Geralt remembers now, those same words being yelled at him as he had pulled himself up to Roach’s back.
“They were just,” the man starts, voice abandoning the squeaking cry and turning to a darker, malicious tone, “roughing you up a bit, just as I’m doing.” He presses the knife deeper against Jaskier’s neck, eliciting a small whimper from Jaskier that Geralt clings to, fear now gripping at his heart.
“Rough me up, then. The bard’s done nothing to you.”
“No,” the man draws out, a devilish grin tugging at the corners of his lips, “but he’s my ticket to you.”
He moves to make the final press to Jaskier’s throat, to slice clean through the small, bleeding slit, and suddenly, Geralt’s potion is weighing a hole in his pocket, but he can’t reach for it, he can’t move against the pure, icy, terrifying clutch of fear that’s pushing against him, freezing his limbs in place, but then Jaskier’s swinging his head back away from the knife, bashing the back of his head to the man’s face, and Geralt takes the brief moment to snag his potion, ripping the lid off with his teeth and dumping the contents down his throat in one, long swig.
His eyes coat to a deep black, and his veins jut out underneath his skin, and then he’s moving, drawing his sword while pulling Jaskier away from the man while the man’s staggering a few feet away, cradling a bloody nose.
Jaskier hits the ground, coughing miserably and wincing at the pain that jolts up and down his arm, his sutures pulling against the sudden jerk and pressure. He drops to his side, and he can barely watch as Geralt moves effortlessly along the effects of the potion.
Geralt moves without thinking, swinging his sword until the man’s running off into the woods, sobbing and leaving a pooling trail of blood, and only when he’s sure the man’s gone, listening closely to the fading footfalls, does he turn to Jaskier, movements aggressive, desperate. He yanks the cloth from Jaskier’s mouth, and Jaskier struggles to suck in a ragged breath, lungs quaking, failing, and then he’s coughing over and over until blood trickles past his lips.
And true, unaltered fear hits Geralt like a crashing wave in an ocean, fear of Jaskier’s condition, fear of losing Jaskier, an endless push of fear that Jaskier’s death would be his fault. He scoops Jaskier into his arms, so quickly it’s almost dangerous, and he spins on his heel, stopping when black eyes lock onto sharp, purple ones.
“Yennefer?”
“Looks like your bard’s dying,” Yennefer starts, sighing, “again.”
Jaskier’s unconscious in Geralt’s arms, barely breathing, chest moving in quick, shallow motions, and Geralt brings a gaze from Yennefer, to Jaskier, then back, and his voice is shaking despite the potion bleeding strength to every crevice of his body.
“Can you--”
“--yes,” Yennefer interrupts, already turning sharply on her heel. “I’ll save your lover.”
Geralt doesn’t think of anything other than the shivering bard in his arms, and he follows Yennefer back to the inn. His potion begins to wear off when he sets Jaskier into the bed, and he backs away, Jaskier’s ragged coughs sounding far too loud to his ears, until his back hits the wall across the room. He slides down the rough wood, hitting the floor with a low thump as Yennefer works through touch and magic. He watches with bated breath, only exhaling when he hears Jaskier suck in a deep breath, no rattle clinging to his lungs. He can hear Jaskier’s heart beat slow to a steady, rhythmic thump, and he cranes his neck to see the pained, flushed expression fade to smooth lines and pale cheeks.
“He’ll sleep for a while, but he should be well when he wakes,” Yennefer announces, heels clicking against the wooden floor as she turns from the bed and starts to Geralt. “I even worked on the wound. Some of the sutures ripped out. It’ll scar, but,” she pulls her gaze over her shoulder to the sleeping bard before dragging it back to Geralt, “it will be healed when he wakes, as will his neck.”
“I can pay you,” Geralt starts, voice still shaking slightly. “I’ll do whatever you would like to repay you for this,” but when he moves to stand, to retrieve the money he’s earned from jobs, Yennefer stops him with a single sharp gaze, a single hand raised.
“I don’t want your money, Geralt,” she draws out, sighing, voice tinged with slight annoyance. “All I want is for you to realize that your kind doesn’t mix well with his kind.”
“What--”
“You’ll get him killed one of these days.” She walks out of the room, and Geralt listens as the faint sounds of her heels disappear, her words pushing around his mind as he slowly gets to his feet. He stumbles to the bed, crawling in beside Jaskier, desperate to drift off to the comforting sounds of Jaskier’s beating heart, but then Jaskier rolls over until he’s facing Geralt, and his eyes flick open.
“Jaskier--”
“She’s wrong,” Jaskier whispers, voice thick with sleep. “You won’t get me killed. I trust you completely.”
You shouldn’t, Geralt thinks, but he only pulls Jaskier to his chest, pressing his lips to the top of Jaskier’s head. “Rest, Jaskier.”
