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jasmines-library · 6 months

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Baby, It's cold outside.

WHUMPTOBER DAY 17. Prompt: Hypothermia Fandom: The Witcher.

Summary: On your way back to Kaer Morhen, the perilous weather manages to get the better of you, leaving you in a vulnerable state. it is upto Geralt to get you back back to the keep before it is too late.

Warnings: Hypothermia, taking off clothes (non-sexual).

Word Count: 1.6k

MASTERLIST ⛤ WHUMPTOBER WORKS

🕸 ⋆ ⁶𖤐⁶ ࣪⋆🕸

It was cold.

That’s all you really had to say about the weather. The snow had settled on the ground like a blanket and the frost crawled up the trees that scaled the mountains. The snow was thick and seeped into your clothes as you trudged alongside Geralt who sat proudly upon Roach, who seemed to be coping much better than your horse was against the conditions. A few miles back, she had spooked. Her sudden jerk threw you from your back, tossing you onto the ground. Your body collided with the snow with a thud. You groaned and pushed yourself to your feet, gripping onto Geralt’s gloved hand. After that you had opted to walk alongside him as he kept a steady pace, claiming that it would be ‘good for you to stretch your legs.’ Geralt seemed hesitant to let you walk, as he offered you a seat on his horse multiple times, but you still relented. You were beginning to wish you had taken up his offer though, as the cold sank through your clothes and bit away at your skin.

Geralt frowned deeply when your trudging began to slow and the prints you left in the snow shuffled closer together. His forehead wrinkled together as he suddied you. You had pulled the edges of your coat closer to you, though it wasn’t very effective as it was soaked through. It was a deep blue decorated with hand stitched embroidery. The inside was lined with a thin layer of fur. Geralt had brought it for you at a local market when he noticed the way you kept turning back to awe at it. His ‘reasoning’ for buying it after you had relocated after reading the price tag and checking your coins, was that it was practical. Your old cloak had been falling apart and would soon be useless against the conditions, especially when the two of you reached Kaer Morhen at the heart of the blue mountains. Your violent shivers didn’t go unnoticed by the Witcher as he looked down on you. He couldn’t see your face because it was sheltered by your hood, but he could vividly picture your trembling lip.

His worry really peaked when you stopped to lean against the tree, just a few miles short of the keep. You could see it now in all of its glory, peaking through the snow tipped pines. The two of you had been travelling a while, and it was a far from easy trek- particularly without your horse. Your eyes drooped and you slumped entirely against the frost-riddled bark.

“Y/N?” He asked tentatively, steering roach around to a halt besides you.

“I’m okay, Geralt. Just tired is all.”

That was an understatement. Each step felt like you were wading through tar and the burning in your fingers and toes had begun to become unbearable in the exposure. You were hunched over like your body had completely forgotten how to function. Each of your limbs ached and your joints stiff as you fumbled with the latch on your coat, trying to pull it implausibly closer. When you took a step forward, your knees buckled and you crumpled to the floor.

Geralt all but flung himself from his saddle, dropping to his knees besides your trembling body. Ignoring the icy dampness that dug into his knees, he swiped the hair that had fallen over your eyes and pushed back the blue hood. He was startled by how alarming your skin felt. Your face was pale and your eyes were hooded, though he could still see them moving around, struggling to focus on anything for too long.

“You’re freezing.” He muttered.

You made no move to reply, watching him vanish into your peripheral vision. He returned only moments later, reaching an arm behind you back and under your knees to lift you effortlessly. The movements made your joints protest as he lifted up onto Roach before climbing up onto her behind you and securing you in front of him. You hardly spared your mount a second thought, consumed only by the never faltering winter, although Geralt had tied her reins to Roach .

Bringing your icy body towards his, he hoped that the closeness would allow your body to steal some of his. It radiated off of him like a wave, but did little to soothe you. With a quick snap of his reins, Roach raced forwards before settling into an even pace which would get you to the keep in adequate time.

You were quiet. Too quiet. Normally, you would be talking nonstop with Jaskier, feeding into his fantasies or singing along to one of his songs; often just to spite the Witcher. Geralt didn’t like your silence. It felt wrong. So, he tried talking to you. He knew that he had to keep you awake long enough to get you back to the keep.

“Y/N?”

It was faint, but you hummed against his chest.

“Do you remember that Bruxa we fought a while back?”

You smiled weakly at the memory. “Scared the shit out of me and Jaskier.”

“That's right.”

“I’ll never forget… the look on his face when she flew out of nowhere.” Your words were slow as you thought hard to form them on your chapped lips.

“He didn’t sleep for a week.”

You chuckled softly, but then drifted back into that perilous silence as Geralt continued to try and get you to talk to him. Your mind was hazy as the cold consumed you; made your body numb.

“Y/N?” Geralt called out to you again at your lack of response.

“Cold.” You could only bring yourself to say one word. It was slurred and barely coherent though your blue lips.

“I know.” He urged his horse to move faster across the last stretch of the rocky terrain. “Just hold on a little longer. We’re almost there.”

His words fell of deaf ears as you were pulled down into the warmth of unconsciousness. Geralt could hear your slow heartbeat.

Geralt barged through the gates of Kaer Morhen, riding much faster than he should have done. The sudden disturbance unsettled the horses in the stables and caused a sea of heads to snap in his direction. When Vesemir caught sight of you lying limply against his chest. He raced forwards and was by Geralt's side by the time he had slid out of the saddle. The two of them walked quickly, your head rolled against his body and your arm hung uselessly by your side.

“We need a fire.” Geralt told him. “And dry clothes. Blankets too. She’s hypothermic.”

The elder man nodded before speeding off to various places within the keep. Geralt urged his legs to move quicker down the hallways, until you reached a cosy room with a large fire. It crackled loudly and illuminated the room with a flickering orange light. When the doors flung open, Eskel, who had been seated by the fire, turned his head to find the source of the commotion. His eyes widened at the sight of your lifeless body in his arms, and was quickly helping his brother to get you settled on the sofa. Then, he left to go and fetch you a cup of something warm to drink once you awoke.

You stirred as Geralt began to strip you of your wet clothes. You whined at the loss of the fabric, clenching onto your top.

“I’m sorry, but I have to take off the wet things. It’s going to make it worse if I don’t.”

“Geralt?” You furrowed your brow.

He hummed.

“Where are we?”

This caused bile to rise in the back of his throat. “We’re at the keep, Y/N.”

You nodded and reluctantly allowed him to peel off the wettest outer layers of your clothes, leaving you in your undergarments which were dry for the most part. He covered you with his cloak and rubbed your arms to try to generate warmth.

Soon, Eskel returned with a warm mug of herbal tea. Geralt coaxed you to drink it. It offered blissful relief as it trailed down your throat and pooled in your stomach. When Vesemir returned with a handful of your warmest furs, Geralt tugged them over your body. You had begun to shiver again as the burning returned to your fingers and toes. He let out a breath of relief. It took a long time for your body to finally stop shivering and to fall into some sort of regular temperature. Sure, you were still cold, but it was nothing compared to the agony you had felt a short while ago. Geralt watched over you as you began to drift to sleep again; your exhausted body just couldn’t keep up with the demands of your brain. Although worry still tugged at his heartstrings, he felt some sense of reassurance that you would be okay, wrapped up within his arms. He wasn’t going to leave you anytime soon, that was one thing he knew for certain.

🕸 ⋆ ⁶𖤐⁶ ࣪⋆🕸

<- DAY 16 ⛤ DAY 18 ->

Taglist:

@senjoritanana

@deans-spinster-witch

@amaryllis23

#whumptober #whumptober2023 #whumptober23 #no.17 #hypothermia #cold #the witcher x reader #geralt x reader #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt of rivia #roach #kaer morhen #whump #angsty #cold reader #hypothermic reader #hypothermic #fanfiction #the witcher fanfiction

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kingthunder · 1 year

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Prompt for Geralt and Jaskier: “God I hate you” & “Prove it.” I know you’ll make a masterpiece (like all of your work)!!💜

Rience plays with him. Rience hits him. Rience lights a flame, and laughs, and laughs, and laughs, and all Jaskier can do is burn.

Jaskier isn’t quite the same afterwards. The non-essential parts of him have gone up in smoke and what’s left is this: he has found out in the most intimate way possible that when it’s time for hurting—when the very meat of him is black and charred and he can taste the smoke of his own fat on the back of his tongue—that even then he cannot redirect the hurt onto Geralt. He’ll take it all and fold it up inside him and keep Geralt safe, even though Geralt didn’t do the same for him.

He wants to be angry about it. He wants to scream his righteous fury to the skies. Hell, he’s been doing that for a year already, in every tavern that will let him through the door, insisting that he wants Geralt to burn, burn, burn for what he did to Jaskier’s heart.

Only he isn’t angry anymore. He’s burned enough for the both of them. He’s just tired and lonely and misses his friend and wonders, like pushing on a bruise, if Geralt misses him too.

He wants Geralt to miss him too.

Later, when everything has gone to hell and back and the dust has settled, Geralt comes to Jaskier’s room in Kaer Morhen.

“We can’t stay,” Geralt says. “I was trying to keep Ciri safe, but all I did was put everyone else in danger. I need to take her somewhere where she can be trained properly.”

Jaskier doesn’t know who Geralt means when he says “we.” It’s been weeks since they hugged through three inches of creaking leather and metal, and in that time he has yet to figure out if he’s still included in Geralt’s life or if the shapes they’ve been broken into don’t fit together anymore. He’ll love Geralt the same regardless, but he needs to guard his heart.

“I wish you the best,” Jaskier says, thrusting his hand out for Geralt to shake.

Brow furrowed, Geralt takes it. Then he turns Jaskier’s hand palm up and says, “What’s this?”

His thumb is running over the scars Rience left.

“It’s nothing,” Jaskier says.

“It’s something.”

So Jaskier tells him, because he could never really deny Geralt anything. His words are dispassionate, a simple recounting of events, but what he means is, I love you. What he means is, I’d do it again but please don’t make me. Describing the depths of his one-sided devotion, even in such dry terms, leaves him aching and raw, and by the end of it he can’t stop his chin from quivering.

He’s clenched his hand into a white-knuckled fist without realizing it. Slowly, Geralt unbends each finger. He presses a kiss to the middle of Jaskier’s palm and Jaskier’s nostrils flare with the effort of holding in a sob.

“Stop,” Jaskier says.

Geralt stops but doesn’t let go of Jaskier’s hand. He says, “Thank you for keeping Ciri safe.”

“Did a pretty shit job of that in the end, didn’t I?”

Jaskier’s chin is still quivering.

“I’ll never let anyone hurt you like that again,” Geralt says. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“How was I supposed to do that?” Jaskier says helplessly. “Oh hello Geralt, nice seeing you after all this time, I know you hate my guts right now, but by the way, someone tortured me for information about you, just thought you should know, cheers, mate.”

“I don’t hate your guts.”

“Yeah, well you did a pretty good impression of it.”

“I’m sorry. I’m not…good at feelings.”

“He’s sorry, he says. And no, you’re not. Good at feelings, that is—oh bloody hell.”

Geralt has started kissing Jaskier’s fingertips one by one. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs between each one.

“God, I hate you,” Jaskier says, whimpering. “You just do whatever you bloody want, don’t you?”

Geralt pauses and looks up at Jaskier, eyes troubled.

“Do you not want this?”

“I do,” Jaskier says. “Gods help me, I do, but I won’t give myself away so cheaply again, witcher. You have to want it, too. You have to really want it, with every poorly articulated feeling in that whole gorgeous body of yours.”

Geralt’s voice is rough. “I do.”

Jaskier cups Geralt’s cheek with his scarred hand and says, “Prove it.”

Geralt kisses him. It’s everything Jaskier has ever wanted and it’s not—quite—enough.

“Prove it,” Jaskier says again, breathing hard, his forehead rocking against Geralt’s. “Prove it,” he whispers, drawing back a fraction as Geralt’s lips chase his.

“I’m trying.”

“Not like that.”

Geralt pulls back far enough to look at him. After a moment of silence, Geralt says, “Come with us. Me and Ciri and Yen. Come with us. Then you can let me prove it every day. I’m tired of missing you.”

Jaskier smiles and finally lets Geralt kiss him again. Melts into it and kisses him back, warm and soft. He feels seen. Wanted. The hurt deep inside him dislodges itself and he thinks, for the first time in a long time, that it's possible to be happy again.

“That’s a good start,” Jaskier says.

#witcher #geraskier #fanfiction #prompt fill #geralt #jaskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier the bard #i'm sorry i don't know where all this despair came from #whump the bard #physically and emotionally #my ask box is still open for prompts if anyone wants to send me one #my fic

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shy-urban-hobbit · 7 months

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Care to go up against me, Princess?"

Ciri looked over from where she'd been whacking seven shades out of the training dummy to where Lambert's cat, (' Aiden', her brain supplied), was leaning against the wall. She was sure he hadn't been there a minute ago.

"Why?" She asked warily, Geralt's warnings about cat Witchers coming to mind.

Aiden shrugged, "Everyone else is busy and I'm bored. Vesemir gave me the okay to oversee your training for the day. Would go and bother Lambert but learnt the hard way not to do that when he's playing with his bombs. It gets messy, and not in a fun way."

Jaskier, who had been sat bundled up by a brazier watching (read: babysitting. Ciri wasn't stupid), snorted a laugh.

"You can tell me to piss off and I can see about trading with Eskel or Coen. I won't be offended" Aiden offered with an open smile. He'd recognised Vesemir's olive branch straight away but he wasn't about to use it to make the young cub uncomfortable.

She looked between him and Jaskier, the bard merely shrugging as Ciri mulled it over. He couldn't possibly be that bad if Vesemir had allowed him to stay and with Jaskier sat right there and Eskel just in the stables, she wasn't technically alone with him…

"Alright. But just a quick spar."

Aiden's smile grew.

"Don't be afraid to move." Aiden said, leaning on his wooden training sword, Ciri stood bent double as she heaved for breath, aching and frustrated from the multiple hits Aiden had managed to land on her whilst she'd barely touched him, "You keep coming at me full frontal like that you're basically painting a target on yourself. It became predictable, which means it became dangerous."

Ciri straightened up indignantly, "The wolves are always telling me-"

"No offence to the wolves." Aiden interrupted gently, "But they're all over six feet tall and built like brick shithouses. Brute strength and stubbornness works for them. They can take the hits and keep on coming. You, unfortunately, are a bit more breakable." He very lightly poked her in the belly with the end of his sword, "But you're also small and fast. Use that."

He tilted his head thoughtfully, "If you like, I can show you some basics from my school that might benefit you."

"You mean how to fight dirty?" The words left her mouth before she could stop them. To her relief (and confusion) though, Aiden merely laughed in response.

"Is it fighting dirty if it's against something trying to kill you? And out of the two of us, which one has more bruises right now?"

He replaced the training sword and picked up the coat he'd discarded earlier, shaking the snow free, "Again you're free to say no, but the offer stands. You too, if you like." He said looking towards Jaskier, or more specifically, the small dagger at his belt as he made to leave, "I'm curious if you can actually use that."

"Wait."

Aiden stopped, waiting for Ciri to continue.

"Learning a couple of things couldn't hurt. Could it?"

Geralt smiled as he made his way back through the gates. The sun has almost set and with how treacherous the mountain could be, he knew the sensible thing would have been to hunker down and make his way back in the morning but after three days, he was too eager to see both his bard and his girl. His excitement was short-lived as the sight that greeted him at the other end of the courtyard had him immediately seeing red. Jaskier sprawled on his ass on the ground, Aiden with his back to Geralt but he spotted a very familiar head of blonde hair peeping over his shoulder as Ciri appeared to be struggling in his hold. the pommel of a sword in the hand which wasn't restraining her. Fucking bastard! He knew he should have given in and allowed the two of them to accompany him on the hunting trip!

Abandoning Roach and the game she was carrying, Geralt unsheathed his sword and charged.

"Aiden!"

Jaskier's yell came a second too late as he realised what Geralt was intending. Witcher reflexes meant Aiden was able to move quickly to drop the sword and shove Ciri away from him but not quickly enough to avoid a blow to his shoulder as the white haired Witcher roared furiously, "Get the fuck away from them!"

Aiden immediately dropped to his knees, as he turned to face Geralt, trying to look as non threatening as possible with one hand pressed to his now bleeding shoulder.

"Geralt, no !"

"What the fuck, Geralt?!"

"What the hell is going on out here?" Eskel yelled as he emerged from the stables, nose wrinkling at the overwhelming mixed scents of anger, confusion and fear.

"Eskel. Go get Vesemir." Geralt growled, not taking his eyes off Aiden.

"No need." The Witcher in question appeared next to Jaskier, drawn out of the main hall by the sudden noise. He offered Jaskier a hand up as he took in the scene, "What is happening here?"

"I found the Cat threatening Ciri with a sword."

"You mean this sword?" Jaskier asked moving forward to pick up the wooden blade and waving it in Geralt's face, "We were training, nothing more."

"By whose leave?" Geralt demanded before turning to Eskel, "And you! Where the hell were you when they needed you!"

"Hey!" Eskel snapped, "I've been in the stables since they started this morning. You really think I wouldn't have intervened if I'd heard anything untoward? Which. I. Didn't. They were never in any danger."

" Aiden!" Lambert came running towards them, panicked by the scent of blood and the sight of Aiden on the ground, "What is your fucking problem!" He yelled, squaring up to Geralt, "The old man put him in charge of Ciri's training for the day, he wasn't doing anything he wasn't supposed to be!"

"Forgive me if I don't take you at your word given your attachment. I don't want Ciri learning anything from him. "

Aiden was marginally surprised that Geralt didn't spit on him for emphasis.

" Enough!" Vesemir barked in a tone he knew would immediately bring his pups to heel, "Everyone inside. Now! Eskel, take Ciri and help Coen in the kitchen. Lambert, see to Aiden. Geralt, with me."

Read the rest on my A03!

#the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #aiden/lambert #aiden x lambert #lambden #lambert/aiden #lambert x aiden #witcher aiden #witcher lambert #lambert #aiden whump #geraskier #geralt/jaskier #geralt x jaskier #witcher geralt #geralt of rivia #geralt #witcher jaskier #jaskier

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agonyalley · 9 months

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#whump #the witcher #the witcher spoilers #the witcher season 3 #henry cavill #geralt of rivia #pain #injury #pale #sick #worry #comfort

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arianaofimladris · 1 year

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A whumpy Geralt and a very displeased Nenneke - can you ask for more?

Prompts used:

- NO. 11 "911, WHAT'S YOUR EMERGENCY?" - Self-Done first aid

- NO. 15 EMOTIONAL DAMAGE - New Scars

- NO. 19 ENOUGH IS ENOUGH

- Alt. 11 Stabbed

#whumptober2022 #the witcher books #The witcher #geralt of rivia #Geralt of rivia whump #Nenneke #Book fic #Witcher book fic #Young Geralt

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hannibard · 2 months

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Y'know those post s2 fics where Jaskier hides the fact that he was tortured from Geralt bc the witcher has enough on his plate and he doesn't want to be a burden?

#geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #meme #fanfiction #jaskier whump #(<- my favorite thing in the world)#twn #the witcher #julian alfred pankratz #the witcher season two #rience #text #dandelion #gerlion #crispy

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whumpypepsigal · 10 months

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#besties

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fandom-junk-drawer · 1 year

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The Witcher Headcanon - Mistakes

(More Feral!Jaskier)

Jaskier usually spent his winters in Kaer Morhen. He liked the illusion of solitude, where he could drift around the endless corridors, letting his mind wander and invent scenarios that he could use to inspire ballads and poems.

He could stay up into the wee hours every night, scribbling away in his notebook as the muses whispered to him in the quiet of his small room.

He could sleep late into the morning after the muses finally allowed him to sleep, and then drag himself down to the Great Hall for some strong tea and whatever was left over from breakfast.

He could spend a few hours with his Witcher friends, laughing, telling stories, and helping with chores. Witnessing the brotherhood humans didn't think them capable of.

He could stare out the window, singing softly to himself, working out a tune or the lyrics to a song.

He could scribble down random thoughts inspired by watching the sun move over the landscape, or from the feeling of the snow falling on him, or the sounds and sights he experienced while riding with Geralt in the woods around the Keep.

The way the snow clumped on a branch, the sound of Pegasus's hooves in the snow, the crisp chill of the air on his cheeks, the silence of the woods as the snow fell around him, all of it was fodder for his creativity.

He could live in a room that was a mess of scattered piles of parchment organized in a way that only he understood.

He could forget to eat, and comb his hair, and shave, and change his clothes for days at a time. There was no one there who would care if he let his personal standards of grooming slip.

He could live his lonely, tortured artist aesthetic to his heart's content.

But then, one winter, his pleasant routine was interrupted. There had been a few times when the subject of Jaskier being able to defend himself had come up. He had always bushed the conversation off.

Bards were an important part of society! They were the Keepers of History! News Bringers! Stewards of The Arts! King-Makers! They were practically a protected species! Besides, who would dare harm a bard who is friends with a whole pack of Witchers?

Inspite of his protests, Jaskier still found himself being pushed out to the training grounds at the ungodly hour of almost noon. Coen was determined to teach him at least some basic sword skills.

Jaskier had stood there shivering, and holding the wooden training sword out at arm's lenght as if it were a snake that might curl up and bite him. He'd whined and complained while Coen showed him how to hold the sword, and adjusted his stance. Jaskier continued to natter on as the Witcher took him through a few basic moves.

Coen had tried giving Jaskier different weapons. The bow had been a bad idea. Jaskier's aim was so bad it was almost comical. Coen hadn't even dared to think about handing him an axe, or a spear.

Coen found himself growing incresingly frustrated with the bard as the weeks went by. Jaskier showed very little improvement. He spent the majority of the training time whining about training, making jokes, and putting in lackluster effort.

Jaskier had shown only mild interest in each of the weapons. It was the novelty and an interest in the physics and mechanics of the weapon that grabbed his attention. When it came to seriously training with one, the fun went away, along with Jaskier's interest.

The other Witchers would sometimes come along to watch and offer unhelpful advice, make jokes, and try to encourage Jaskier.

Lambert could always be found watching the awkward training sessions. It was good entertainment. And then things got really interesting.

Coen was chasing Jaskier around the courtyard, trying to get him to use some of the moves he'd been showing him. He was usually a patient teacher, but Jaskier had a knack for being incredibly irritating.

Maybe it was the way he acted so fussy and prissy, as if his hands were too delicate to hold a training sword. Or the way he babbled ceaselessly, making jokes or complaints. Or perhaps it was how he seemed so flippant about being able to defend himself, as if he refused to acknowledge the imprortance of it.

Coen finally lost his patience. He started getting into Jaskier's space, pressuring him. The bard had squeaked and backed up, swinging his wooden training sword wildly. He'd yelped as Coen smacked him with his sword, giving him a surprised look. He'd backpedaled, holding his arm, and Coen had hit him on the thigh, then sent him sprawling to the ground.

Lambert had stood up, uneasy as Coen swung down at Jaskier's head, growling at him to get up as the bard scrambled frantically to get out of the way.

"Get up you lazy s*d! Do you think this is a game? Do you think I'm doing this for fun?" Jaskier had swallowed, twisting up to his feet and yelping again as Coen hit him across one shoulder. He was covered in bruises, some old, some very new, and they ached in the cold. He barely got his sword up in time to haphazardly block Coen's next swing. The Witcher contined to go after him, "Stop running away and start fighting back!"

"Coen, stop! I don't want to-!"

"Geralt and Yennefer aren't always going to be there to do the fighting for you!"

"Coen," Lambert said, an odd note of warning in his voice. "He's a bard, not a Witcher. He hasn't been in anything more dangerous than a drunken bar fight."

"And that's why he needs to learn how to actually fight! He might be able to handle a drunk, but a sober enemy is another matter! He can't spend every fight he gets in flapping around uselessly like a terrified chicken while Geralt or Yennefer do the fighting!"

Coen went after the bard, driving him around the courtyard, not letting up. Jaskier frantically stumbled back, parrying and trying keep his feet. His mind was a storm of panic. He needed to get away from Coen fast, or things weren't going to end well. He desperately looked for an escape route, tried cricling to the doors to the Great Hall, but Coen was always there, blocking his way.

The bald Witcher pushed him towards a corner. Jaskier yapped as Coen hit him hard on the side then shoved him into the wall.

"Coen, back off! He's-!," Lambert warned, having seen a familiar look in Jaskier's eyes.

"F**k off, Lambert!"

"No, you ar*ehole, listen-!"

"I said to f**k off!"

"Fine. It's your funeral," Lambert muttered, crossing his arms and leaning against a training dummy.

"Coen, stop!" Jaskier pleaded, a weird edge to his voice.

"Or what? What are you going to do? Go crying to Geralt or Yennefer? You think an enemy is going to politely wait until they get there?" Coen growled, shoving him roughly.

"Please...just stop..." Jaskier had said quietly. Tears started welling up in his eyes.

"Don't start that crying sh*t! You aren't getting out of this!"

Coen shoved Jaskier into the wall again and cuffed him hard on the ear. Jaskier let out a surprised sob, trying to curl in on himself, one hand going up to hold his ringing ear.

"Yennefer is going to-!" Jaskier began.

Coen slapped his hand down and grabbed his jaw, pinning his head to the wall. "Going to what? Be mad? Go ahead and cry for her, I'll kick her a*se around the yard too!"

And that was when Jaskier snapped.

He twisted and bit The forearm Coen was holding him with, the shoved the Witcher away.

Coen saw the flash of the push knife barely in time to avoid being gutted. He staggered back, bleeding but with his guts still on the inside.

Jaskier switched the push knife to his off-hand, scooped up his dropped training sword, and slammed the pommel hard into the crest of Coen's hip bone. Coen cursed and went down as pain exploded in his hip.

Lambert ran to help, yelling for Jaskier to stop, and had to twist abrutly to the side to avoid the thin throwing knife that whistled past him. The little sh*t had throwing knives too?! F**k!

Coen kicked Jaskier away from him, groaning as the pain in his left hip flared sharply. Jaskier rolled in the snow, gained his feet, and jumped on Coen.

He was going for another push knife when Coen smacked him hard on the side of the head with the flat of his sword.

Jaskier reeled, disoriented, and dropped his knife. Lambert kicked it away, and helped Coen pin Jaskier face down on the ground.

The bard was still trying to fight them, even though his head was swimming from the blow.

"What the f**k?" Coen panted, checking his bleeding stomach, leaning heavily on the struggling bard. The wound wasn't too deep, but it would need stitching. His hip, on the other hand was killing him. "What the absolute f**k?"

"I told you to leave him alone!" Lambert panted back. "Did you think I was joking? You alright?"

"Yeah, just a cut and I think I have a hip pointer. Mother of-! Yeah, " Coen said, lightly touching the large hematoma on his hip, "It's definitely a hip pointer. F**K it hurts like a b*tch!" Coen paused as something Lambert said caught his attention. "You knew this was going to happen, didn't you, you ar*ehole!"

Lambert shrugged. "I tried to warn you, but you know, sometimes you just have to learn from your own mistakes."

"You're such a jacka**!"

"Calm the h*ll down, you daft b**tard! " Lambert snapped at Jaskier, who continued to desperately struggle and snarl. "We aren't trying to hurt you!"

"Aww, f**k, he's bleeding!" Coen said, spotting the bloody bruise on the side of Jaskier's head. He scooped up a handful of snow and gently pressed it to the lump. Jaskier flinched, then got quiet, distracted by the coldness of the snow. He lay still, letting the cold soothe the intense ache in his head. His head was swimming, and he felt nauseated. Familiar voices were talking to him. His bruised brain recognized the faces leaning over him. Friends! They looked worried...oh d*mn, something was wrong with him!

Lambert and Coen cautiously rolled him onto his back. Jaskier blinked and squinted, then reached for his head with a pained moan. "Shhhh, here, Songbird," Lambert said, holding a fresh handful of snow to his head wound.

Jaskier flinched and clutched at Lambert's sleeve, fear and confusion swirling in his dazed, unfocused eyes. "Easy, easy! It's alright!"

"We should probably get Geralt."

"He's going to be p*ssed!"

"You want to get Yennefer instead?"

"F**k no!"

"Eskel?"

"He went out hunting,"

"D**n it!"

Jaskier, throughly concussed, disoriented, scared, and in pain, called for the only person his foggy brain could remember at the moment. Unfortunately, his bruised brain was having trouble matching a name with Vesemir's face. What was it again? Oh, Yeah!

Jaskier's mouth worked for a second, and then he whimpered, "pA!!!"

Lambert and Coen felt the panic only older siblings feel when they 'accidentally' cause their younger sibling to start crying. Lambert slapped a hand over Jaskier's mouth and hissed "No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no! Shh, shh, shh, shh, shh! You're okay! Shhhhhhhhhh! " He and Coen sat absolutely still. Listening.

"It wasn't very loud...maybe he didn't hear...."

Vesemir: *busy roasting some venison*

Vesemir: *hears The Voice Crack*

Vesemir's brain: *Mental image of baby!jaskier*

Papa Vesemir: I must go! My adopted grandpup needs me! *yeets his hand embroidered "I'll Feed All You F**ks' apron and flies to the courtyard*

Coen and Lambert were just about to relax when Vesemir was suddenly there, looming over them. And if that wasn't bad enough, Geralt appeared barely a second later with an unhappy growl.

Lambert looked at Coen and knew he was thinking the exact same thing: Oh, we're f***ed!

Coen was lectured by Vesemir as his injuries were treated, while Lambert escaped the dressing down because he was considered an innocent bystander who'd tried to help. He spent his time helping Geralt clean up Jaskier's head wound and get him to drink a watered down healing potion to take care of his concussion.

Coen had limped in later, to see how he was doing, and found out that Geralt, Aiden, and Lambert all knew about Jaskier's feral side. They showed him their scars from their encounters, except for Lambert ( because his weren't in a place that he could exactly proudly display), and Aiden, who didn't have any scars because he had been present when Geralt had gotten his.

They then swore him to secrecy, as was the tradition now. Eskel would have to find out on his own not to f**k with the bard.

#the witcher #the witcher headcanon #the witcher netflix #twn #geralt #geralt of rivia #jaskier #julian alfred pankratz #geraskier #vesemir #coen #lambert #eskel #kaer morons #bamf!jaskier #feral!jaskier #mistakes headcanon #jaskier whump

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