If you're still doing the letter prompts: B for geraskier
Hope you like bard whump! Your word is BRUISE. Warning for post-torture angst.
~
There’s a soft, choked noise from the bed, and Geralt stops pacing.
Jaskier has rolled over in his sleep. The blanket has slipped down, folding around his middle to reveal the bare plane of his back.
Not quite so bare; not as bare as it once was.
A vibrant bruise mars Jaskier’s skin, yellowed around the edges. Geralt has no idea what made the blow - the mark is too large to have been a fist or a boot - and to dwell on it only further fuels the anger that's still swirling in his chest.
The anger - red hot and painful - hasn’t abated since Yen brought Jaskier to him two days ago, beaten and bloodied and terrified. After seeing to the worst of the injuries, and lulling him into a magical sleep, Yen had left to return to Ciri, leaving Geralt to watch over the bard. The only thing stopping him from storming out, pulling himself onto Roach’s back and seeking out the people who did this is the knowledge that if Jaskier wakes alone, he’ll think that the last thing Geralt had said to him had been true.
That fucking mountain. It follows him, even now, even when the pieces he’d shattered are so tentatively placed back together.
Jaskier makes another choked sound - this one more like a sob than anything else - and Geralt rushes to the bed, lowering himself down onto the mattress gently enough that he won’t wake him. He grabs the blanket and tugs it up, covering the bruise. He’s trying to be careful not to touch Jaskier’s skin, unsure of what will happen if he startles him. He’s placing the blanket over his shoulders when Jaskier sniffs - catches his breath - and then suddenly wakes, eyes wide and panicked, gasping for air.
“Geralt--”
“I’m here.” He doesn’t know what else to say. “Jaskier, I’m--”
Jaskier hurls himself forwards, shoving the blanket aside and throwing his arms around Geralt’s neck, clinging to him.
“Don’t go.”
Geralt’s desperate not to touch him, not to press the bruises, not to tug at the stitches or knock the broken bones or catch the bloodied fingernails. But Jaskier sighs into his neck, the scent of fear and sadness seeping from his skin, and Geralt finds himself wrapping Jaskier up in his arms, trying not to squeeze too hard.
“Stay with me,” Jaskier gasps. “Please, Geralt, I can’t-- just stay.”
There’s a blinding, burning pressure behind Geralt’s eyes. He buries his nose in Jaskier’s hair. He still smells of blood.
“I’ll stay,” he mutters. “I’m here, Jaskier. I’m here.”
Y’all know that whole “two cakes” thing? That’s me with any and all fic wherein Jaskier gets kidnapped and hurt in an effort to gain info on Geralt and/or Ciri and Geralt must deal with the aftermath. I’m just. Kirby. I inhale it. All of it.
If any of you, ever, write kidnapped!Jaskier fic, tag me please
honestly, this AU is the most complicated thing that @butch-bigfoot and I have been throwing around for like a week now, and it’s gotten entirely out of hand.
essentially, it’s a Chilling Adventures of Sabrina AU, with the Academy being the Witchers, all the schools are different houses, and all the boys are friends and it’s basically a frat. We’ve thrown Geralt and Jaskier and all their friends into high school, this time with demons and powers, and a little bit fae!Jaskier. Jaskier is Geralt’s boyfriend, but every single Witcher there calls him “Boyfriend” as a nickname, and Jaskier is like a mascot to the group.
This AU honestly spiraled out of hand, but all you need to know for this very illustration is that a Witcher-hunter shows up in town, and finds Jaskier sitting on the side of the road with a twisted ankle. Jaskier can’t call for help because his phone is dead, and he and Geralt are fighting, but another Witcher watches as the hunter forces Jaskier into his car and takes him away, and he immediately goes back to the Academy for backup.
the hunter has Jaskier strung up on his satanic cross, blood rushing to his head. the locator charm around Jaskier’s neck is left neutralized by the hunter, who will do whatever it takes to find out the secrets of the Witchers through obviously the weakest link there. Jaskier will hold out for as long as it takes to protect his family, no matter what. He can only look at the key between his eyes, there but unable to help him. just out of reach.
how long does jaskier have until the blood pooling in his head starts to affect him permanently? where is geralt, and how will he find his boyfriend before it’s too late? all these questions and more will be answered soon in a fic that will hopefully be written soon.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Jaskier's 35th birthday was supposed to be a night full of song and food, a grand banquet to remember. Nothing went as planned.
The door creaked, and Geralt roused from a light slumber at the sound. The lingering scent of the snuffed candle by the bed suggested the passage of several hours. Not more than three, which was strange. Jaskier should have been awhile yet, if he was going to return to the tavern at all. And yet… an uneven step, and the door clicked shut.
The unfamiliar tread brought Geralt’s drowsy senses to focus, and he picked up more.
The copper of blood.
Musk of seed.
Pallor of salt.
No Archive Warnings Apply
Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
“This drink, the mage made it. It is going to make you a good boy,” she brushed back his hair, too long nails trailing along his cheek. “But you cannot tell anyone. You cannot tell a soul about this drink or this spell. You don’t talk about it. You keep it secret.”
Julian opened his mouth to ask more and was hit by a pain he had never experienced. The boy cried out in pain and doubled over, arm wrapping around his screaming middle. His mother shushed him and pet at him until he was able to catch his breath.
“See what happens to naughty little boys who don’t listen?” Her voice was sharp. “I told you not to say anything.”
--
Jaskier was cursed with obedience as a child and has mostly learned to get by without others knowing. Geralt is not most people.
For @whataboutthebard, day 2
Prompt: Meeting after a long time apart (but its whump now)
Pairing: Geralt/Jaskier, if you squint
Rating: Teen
Warnings: Post-mountain angst, aftermath of torture, Jaskier is in shock, hurt/no (real) comfort.
~
Jaskier spits blood at the ground. Something feels wrong in his mouth; a tooth has been loosened. Fuck. That will bother him for days until the little bastard sees fit to slide out of its own accord. At least it's near the back: a toothless grin will not win him hearts or favours when he returns to the road.
If he returns to the road. The guard who'd been trying to wheedle words from him for five fucking days now had only moved onto his fingers an hour or so before Yennefer had made her spectacular entrance. If he gets them seen to and splinted quickly, he may still be able to use them.
He barks out a harsh laugh at that; he must be mad, if all he cares about are his broken fingers and not the myriad of tortures hoisted upon him this past week. It helps to focus, to keep himself distracted, to stop him from giving in to—
"Jaskier." Yen is watching him. Her expression is unreadable. "I'm going to create a portal. Stand back."
He does as she asks—even torture is not quite so fierce as Yen's steely purple gaze—and allows himself himself be manhandled through the swirling air.
He collapses out and onto his knees, landing on something surprisingly soft. A deep fur rug; she's taken him somewhere fine. He feels the urge to vomit, but he's not eaten in three days so all he does is cough, his already strained throat burning.
Yennefer pulls him up, a hand on his back. He wants to shake her off, but he hasn’t the strength. He peers around; he’s in a wide room, a bed and table to one wall, a fireplace. There are no windows.
“Show me your hands,” she says. He does, and she takes his bruised fingers in her slender ones, peering at them. There’s an odd, painful tingling beneath his skin and he watches as the weird angles of his joints right themselves again. “There,” she breathes. “Better.”
He blinks at her. “Thank you.”
She nods. “That is all that can be done, for now. Stay here.”
With that, she leaves. Jaskier wobbles slightly as he stands in the centre of the room, and is about to move towards the bed so he doesn’t simply collapse when the door opens again, and in walks—
His blood turns cold. He really is going to collapse now, and he stumbles backwards, legs colliding with the bed. He falls back onto it with a wince.
Geralt looks at him from the doorway. He looks tired, eyes darkly bagged, hair tangled. He’s a fucking mess, frankly, and Jaskier can’t stop the haggard laugh that crawls from his chest.
“You look like shit,” he wheezes.
Geralt only blinks at him. He turns to Yen. “Is he okay?”
She rolls her eyes. “Of course not.”
“I’m right here, you know,” Jaskier says, although his voice sounds far-away. “Rude.”
Geralt’s gaze snaps back to him. He makes his way across the room in only a few strides, and Jaskier resists the urge to scuttle back across the bed as he approaches. Geralt lowers himself down at Jaskier’s side, kneeling on the stone floor. He reaches for him, cupping Jaskier’s jaw, his thumb brushing against what Jaskier knows is a bruise purpling his cheekbone.
Before, the touch would have thrilled him. Now he only feels a shadow of that; old love mingling with new hurt.
“You are safe,” Geralt says, desperately. “You can get better. Yen is here, and Triss will return soon. They can help with the worst of the injuries. You can stay here until you heal. For as long as it takes.”
Geralt is talking nonsense. He cannot truly expect his words to be true. Geralt cannot expect Jaskier to remain beside him after— after everything. He pushes his hand away. Geralt lets him.
"No," Jaskier says. "I don't think I will be staying, actually."
"Jaskier—"
Jaskier stands, which is a struggle in itself. "You told me you wanted rid of me. Now you are. Be happy with your lot, Geralt, for as you can see—" he waves his bruised digits in front of Geralt’s face, "—I am quite content with mine."
"You're in shock," Geralt says, refusing to listen as Jaskier pushes past him. "You'll get yourself killed out there. It's a wonder you haven't already."
"Not through lack of trying, clearly!" Jaskier spits, delighting in the crack in Geralt’s calm expression.
"At least wait until you're healed…"
"So they can torture me all over again? Psh, Geralt, what's the use? Next time they'll just go for the fingers first and leave the kidneys till last."
"Please—"
"No!" Jaskier is shouting, now, even though it makes his throat sting. "I am through with being hurt by you, or because of you. If I'm going to be tortured I'd rather it be by someone who knows what he's doing, and not by your inability to get to fucking grips with your own emotions."
"I didn't mean—"
"You didn't mean to hurt me? You didn't mean to bring me here? You didn't mean those shitty things you said in the mountain? Or is it simply that you didn't mean to let a humble bard into your life and let him believe you could have possibly—" Jaskier cuts himself off. He's trembling, his throat painfully constricting. He's spent five full days screaming: a sixth appears to be too much. "I refuse to stay here. So if it's all the same to you…" he pulls the tattered remains of his leather coat tighter, more for show than anything else, "goodbye, good luck, and good riddance."
He storms from the room and finds himself in a wide stone corridor. A keep, then; he’s been in enough keeps throughout his life to navigate even the strangest castle, and heads swiftly down the hall towards the top of what he assumes is a staircase. His body aches all over—from his lungs to his ankles and his still-tingling fingers—but he cannot stop. If he stops, Geralt will catch up with him, and he will be lost.
He struggles down the stairs, and by the bottom step he’s breathless and sweating, but he doesn’t stop. He’s in a great hall with a burning fire to one end and several long benches pushed to the side. Thankfully, it’s empty, so he strides across the wide space towards the huge double doors at the far end. Hopefully, they’ll lead outside, and from there he’s free.
He pushes open the doors and freezes. The view beyond is not the rolling hills he's expecting, but blasted, snow-covered mountainside. There are towering cliffs to either side, great black clouds above. The air is full of thickly falling flakes. He gasps, and the freezing wind burns his lungs. He's trapped here. There's no way he could flee this place; especially not as bruised and beaten as he is, especially not with the broken bones that are finally making themselves be felt over the swirling panic of his mind.
"Jaskier."
He turns. Geralt stands just behind him, a fur blanket gripped in his hands. His knuckles are white.
"Where am I?" Jaskier whispers, already half-sure of the answer.
"Kaer Morhen," Geralt says, without moving closer. "The witcher’s keep. It was the only place I could guarantee you'd be safe."
"Safe from who?"
Geralt sighs. His breath fogs the air. "Everyone else," he says. "Everyone but me."
Jaskier blinks at him. He steps closer, watching him like a tracker watches a deer, then in a swift movement flings the fur around Jaskier's shoulders. Its a needed relief: he hadn't even realised he was shaking.
"I will leave you alone," Geralt continues. "But you must stay. You have to at least heal, and you're in shock. Give us… give us a month or so, until you are well enough to move on, and then we can find you somewhere else to go."
Jaskier tugs the blanket closer. His fingers press into the soft, thick fur.
"You sent Yen to find me?" He says.
"I couldn't leave Ciri. The—" he hesitates, looking guilty. "My child surprise. I found her, Jaskier.”
“I know,” Jaskier says, simply.
“You know?”
He shrugs, then curses as the movement jars his ribs. “That’s why they caught me, after all. They wanted to know where you’d taken her. I discovered that you’d found her through a Nilfgaardian torturer.” He sighed. “Next time you must send out cards, or something. Much more efficient, and less likely to break my ribs.”
“I’m sorry, Jaskier.”
“I’m sure you are.”
Geralt’s expression is clouded with guilt. “I have to ask,” he says. “I have to. Did you tell them anything?”
Jaskier swallows back the insult he’s desperate to hurl at the witcher. “Of course not,” he says instead. “I hate you. But I lo—” he pushes that thought down too. “But I would never have told them anything, even if I had anything to tell.”
He takes another calming breath, and his lungs scream at him. He’s stood still for too long, allowed himself to feel so much; and now he can feel everything at once. There’s a pounding in his head, a churning pain in his gut, a sharp, trembling pain in his ankle. Both ankles.
The wind picks up. Geralt steps forward, frowning. All Jaskier can see are a pair of yellow eyes in the snow. His head rings.
“They broke my fingers,” he whispers, like its important. “But Yen fixed them.”
And then his vision goes dark. The last thing he feels is something sturdy and warm below him, something wrapping around his arms, and the smell of leather, and sweat, and horse, and onion.
I dunno man!! It got angsty!! Your word is RESTRAIN. Again, this feels more like Geraskier-lite than anything.
~
“Let me go!”
Jaskier thrashes against the ropes that bind him to the tree, eyes wild, hair a tangled mess around his head.
“I can’t,” says Geralt, surprised at how calm he sounds.
Jaskier swears, hurling insults into the air, then resumes wriggling against the ropes. It won’t do any good; Geralt has restrained people twice Jaskier’s size, double his strength. A cursed bard won’t break through those bonds.
He doesn’t even know what the curse is. The forest around them is rich with chaos, and Geralt’s medallion had begun vibrating the moment they stepped in. It had been inevitable, he now knows, that one of them would have walked into a spell. He supposes its luck that it was Jaskier: had it been himself who’d wandered into the trap, Jaskier would have been unable to hold him back.
It’s fuelled by emotion, that much he can tell. Jaskier had flown into a rage the moment the spell had gotten root in his mind, flinging himself forwards until Geralt had managed to grab him and pin him down.
That’s often how these sorts of spells go: low-level magic, no more than a trap designed to lure victims towards a hungry beast lurking deeper within the forest. It could even be a Fiend or some other mind-alterer, waiting for its next meal to willingly walk themselves into its mouth. It'll only last a few hours; but it's torture to wait them out.
“Please.”
Geralt turns. He’d been too lost in thought to pay attention to Jaskier’s futile efforts to escape. He’s stopped moving, slumped forwards, the ropes keeping him from falling. As Geralt watches, his limbs twitch and jerk. His mind is still clearly snagged, but his body is exhausted with the effort.
“Let me go,” he says, voice hoarse. “Let me go, Geralt, you fucking--”
His words crack, slurring into a pained hiss. Geralt cannot stand it. He moves closer. Jaskier’s arms are bound to his sides - it had been necessary with the way Jaskier had clawed at him and attempted to steal his swords, even if it had pained Geralt to do it. He’s harmless, now. Just tired.
Without thinking, Geralt wraps his arms around him as much as he can, taking his weight, guiding Jaskier's head against his shoulder. Jaskier twitches against him, swearing weakly into his tunic.
“Let me go,” he repeats. This time, it’s a sob. “Geralt, please--”
Geralt holds him tighter. Jaskier’s arms jerk, and Geralt can feel hot tears spill against his skin.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
So I finally got around to writing this fic!
Jaskier had been on his own since he left home at 15. He didn't need someone to take care of him then. He definitely didn't need someone to take care of him when he was traveling with that brooding Witcher for 10 years; and he sure as hell didn't need someone when he was kidnapped by bandits as Witcher bait.
Of course, Geralt of Rivia knows better.
Stop by, maybe spare some comments, some kudos, some feedback?
