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fandomweekly2020-03-02 08:43 pm
quicksilverfox3) wrote in fandomweekly2020-03-02 08:43 pm
Entry tags:
[#042] Cold Splintering, Breaking (The Witcher TV)
Theme Prompt: #042 - Winter Nights
Title: Cold Splintering, Breaking
Fandom: The Witcher
Rating/Warnings: T, descriptions of injury, mentions of death
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 658
Summary: Jaskier is hurt. Geralt has to find a way to defeat the monster prowling outside before it is too late.
Lmk if two enteries aren't allowed and I'll take this one down ^^ Just had two plot bunnies I had to get down
“Geralt?”
“Hush,” Geralt murmured reflexively, eyes never moving from the barricaded door. It wasn’t a real call for him, just Jaskier’s fevered mind pulling names. He had to keep telling himself that. To believe otherwise would hurt too much when their paths parted ways once again.
Jaskier’s breath was warm against his neck, faster and sharper than it should have been, heart beating sluggishly as the noise consumed every inch of Geralt’s being despite the storm raging outside.
He was a Witcher. He wasn’t meant to have these attachments that wrapped around him like weeds, threatening to choke him with his own breath, and yet he succumbed to their embrace willingly.
Jaskier’s fingers spasmed, skittering across Geralt’s chest without finding a purchase on his armour. His eyelids fluttered, exposing the bloodshot whites, a low groan punching it’s way out of his chest, lost in the throes of a nightmare even as a manic grin contorted his face.
Geralt growled, the noise lower than any normal human could have produced. Even that sound was so tightly wound up in thoughts of Jaskier — the coy smile that would spread across his face before some crude remark muttered into Geralt’s ear, the blush that would creep up his neck — that it distracted him from the task at hand.
“Let me have him Witcher.”
The Mahaha’s voice was high, far higher than it’s towering gaunt form would have suggested possible. Jaskier choked out a bitten off noise of pain, pressing himself further into Geralt’s chest, feet slipping on the floor. The snow was slipping in through all the tiny cracks in the walls, the house groaning under the pressure of the wind, but Geralt could hear the slow methodical tread of the Mahaha as it circled the hut.
It was laughing.
“Geralt,” Jaskier said again, eyes dazed and half focused as he raised himself up, resting his forehead against Geralt’s. He was so close, so warm against Geralt’s freezing skin. He shouldn’t be this close to the Witcher, every second was more heat leached from Jaskier, but Geralt couldn’t bear to sit by and watch Jaskier search for him in his pain filled daze.
His sword was a weight on his back, the words of his teachers — now hopefully long dead — ringing in his ears. No emotions, no attachments. Kill the monsters, no matter the cost. However, considering a world where Jaskier had died before his time — before his hair had turned to the finest silver, and his hands had gnarled like the branches of an oak tree — was not a world Geralt could consider living in.
He’d only caught a glimpse of the Mahaha when he had scooped Jaskier up — too light, red blood already colouring the snow a lurid red — and ran for the tiny hut. The sight of it, face twisted into a grin, laughter shaking it’s shoulders with skin stretched too tight over its bones, stirred a memory. Geralt snarled as it slipped away from him once more. He had to remember, he couldn't let Jaskier die.
“Let me have him Witcher.”
More laughter, Geralt’s skin prickling with discomfort.
“Want you to be safe,” Jaskier whispered before he lapsed back into unconsciousness.
“There’s no-one here,” Geralt called, eyes darkened by the potion staring at the section of wall the Mahaha lurked behind. Deadly, but stupid, easily tricked. His grip tightened on Jaskier as he waited, breath fogging on the cold air—
The Mahaha shrieked, high and piercing, Jaskier whimpering as Geralt hunched over him. His teeth tore into his lip, adding his own blood to the mess staining Jaskier’s tunic. Couldn’t scream, couldn’t move—
Then it was gone. Geralt was alone with Jaskier, injured and grey with cold, trading one problem for another.
“Come on,” Geralt said, not expecting Jaskier to respond for once, gently rising to his feet to not jostle him again, “You aren’t dying on me yet.”
Title: Cold Splintering, Breaking
Fandom: The Witcher
Rating/Warnings: T, descriptions of injury, mentions of death
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 658
Summary: Jaskier is hurt. Geralt has to find a way to defeat the monster prowling outside before it is too late.
Lmk if two enteries aren't allowed and I'll take this one down ^^ Just had two plot bunnies I had to get down
“Geralt?”
“Hush,” Geralt murmured reflexively, eyes never moving from the barricaded door. It wasn’t a real call for him, just Jaskier’s fevered mind pulling names. He had to keep telling himself that. To believe otherwise would hurt too much when their paths parted ways once again.
Jaskier’s breath was warm against his neck, faster and sharper than it should have been, heart beating sluggishly as the noise consumed every inch of Geralt’s being despite the storm raging outside.
He was a Witcher. He wasn’t meant to have these attachments that wrapped around him like weeds, threatening to choke him with his own breath, and yet he succumbed to their embrace willingly.
Jaskier’s fingers spasmed, skittering across Geralt’s chest without finding a purchase on his armour. His eyelids fluttered, exposing the bloodshot whites, a low groan punching it’s way out of his chest, lost in the throes of a nightmare even as a manic grin contorted his face.
Geralt growled, the noise lower than any normal human could have produced. Even that sound was so tightly wound up in thoughts of Jaskier — the coy smile that would spread across his face before some crude remark muttered into Geralt’s ear, the blush that would creep up his neck — that it distracted him from the task at hand.
“Let me have him Witcher.”
The Mahaha’s voice was high, far higher than it’s towering gaunt form would have suggested possible. Jaskier choked out a bitten off noise of pain, pressing himself further into Geralt’s chest, feet slipping on the floor. The snow was slipping in through all the tiny cracks in the walls, the house groaning under the pressure of the wind, but Geralt could hear the slow methodical tread of the Mahaha as it circled the hut.
It was laughing.
“Geralt,” Jaskier said again, eyes dazed and half focused as he raised himself up, resting his forehead against Geralt’s. He was so close, so warm against Geralt’s freezing skin. He shouldn’t be this close to the Witcher, every second was more heat leached from Jaskier, but Geralt couldn’t bear to sit by and watch Jaskier search for him in his pain filled daze.
His sword was a weight on his back, the words of his teachers — now hopefully long dead — ringing in his ears. No emotions, no attachments. Kill the monsters, no matter the cost. However, considering a world where Jaskier had died before his time — before his hair had turned to the finest silver, and his hands had gnarled like the branches of an oak tree — was not a world Geralt could consider living in.
He’d only caught a glimpse of the Mahaha when he had scooped Jaskier up — too light, red blood already colouring the snow a lurid red — and ran for the tiny hut. The sight of it, face twisted into a grin, laughter shaking it’s shoulders with skin stretched too tight over its bones, stirred a memory. Geralt snarled as it slipped away from him once more. He had to remember, he couldn't let Jaskier die.
“Let me have him Witcher.”
More laughter, Geralt’s skin prickling with discomfort.
“Want you to be safe,” Jaskier whispered before he lapsed back into unconsciousness.
“There’s no-one here,” Geralt called, eyes darkened by the potion staring at the section of wall the Mahaha lurked behind. Deadly, but stupid, easily tricked. His grip tightened on Jaskier as he waited, breath fogging on the cold air—
The Mahaha shrieked, high and piercing, Jaskier whimpering as Geralt hunched over him. His teeth tore into his lip, adding his own blood to the mess staining Jaskier’s tunic. Couldn’t scream, couldn’t move—
Then it was gone. Geralt was alone with Jaskier, injured and grey with cold, trading one problem for another.
“Come on,” Geralt said, not expecting Jaskier to respond for once, gently rising to his feet to not jostle him again, “You aren’t dying on me yet.”