#they wrote a musical about jaskiers life

[blooms-in-april]

In Oxenfurt there is a sacred tradition, which no one dares encroach upon: no one can be arrested during a theatre performance. And the scholars of Oxenfurt, for all their learning, are a dramatic, suspicious sort, and so the law stands. It's been taken advantage of by many a drunk and disorderly student, taking refuge in the audience of the Grand Theatre to evade the guard, until inevitably, the curtain falls and their reprieve is over.

When they come to arrest Professor Pankrantz, his students won't have it. He had come back to them quiet and broken this winter, more careless with his dissent, more bold in his defiance. He did not seem to care when the warrant was put out for his arrest, as an elvish sympathizer, a sodomite, and a conspirator against Nilfgaard.

"He knows the White Wolf will save him. He always does." Essi had said with false confidence, but the weeks pass and the university's protection wanes and the White Wolf does not come.

"He's not coming." Adrien whispers, hunched over his songbook. "We must do something."

"We will," Essi responds.

When he hears the guards outside his office, Jaskier puts down his quill for the last time. He swings open the door.

"Gentlemen!" He says. The armored faces are featureless, unmoving. "How would you like me?" They grab and cuff him hard across the head, then frogmarch him down the hall. His head rings like a great bell tolling the hour. He can feel the blood trickling out his ear.

There is a great crash, and a scuffle, and a large hand grabs him by the elbow. "Geralt." He whispers.

But it's not. Jeremiah smiles awkwardly, and holds his dented tuba in one hand. "I used to be a blacksmith before this." The quiet youth says. "Never thought it would come in handy again."

"My dear boy." Jaskier says as he's pulled along. "You shouldn't have. You saved my life."

"Your tutoring saved mine during finals. I think we're even, Professor."

Jaskier is hurried in through the backstage door, crowded with students carrying instruments, costumes, sheet music, and props. They all part way to let him through. "Top box, Professor." Essi says, hurrying him. "We saved it just for you."

He sits down, bewildered, as the guards shout outside and the orchestra tunes frantically. The curtain opens just as the guards make it into the auditorium. Everything hushes in that special breath before a show.

Essi steps on stage.

"Thank you and welcome to the members of the Oxenfurt Academy faculty, staff, and student body who have come to support this performance," she says. "We'd also like to welcome representatives of various law enforcement communities who have chosen to join us in the Academy Grand Theatre tonight. In the spirit of the arts, leave all discord at the door, and please enjoy this special performance by the students of Oxenfurt - 'The Adversities of Loving', a tribute to the life and works of Professor Julian Alfred Pankrantz."

She bows. The audience applauds. The play begins.

[geraskierfanficprompts]

Julian, the reluctant heir of Lettenhove, completes his duties well. His people are safe, fed, and educated. He and his counsel have also been working to rewrite the prejudiced laws regarding non-humans.

While Julian was satisfied with the results of his efforts, he wouldn’t say he enjoyed politics. No, he got his daily dose of enjoyment from indulging in hobbies: music, writing, and collecting art.

Most recently, he acquired an incredible marble statue. The subject was a humongous, long-haired man wielding a long sword. The detail was incredible, and the eyes were painted black with veins sprawling over the rest of the face.

It was titled: “The Witcher”

Julian was immediately captivated by the statue. He’d bought it and placed it in his atrium the same day. The statue reignited the whispers about Julian’s eccentricities, but he didn’t care. Hours were spent staring at the statue, writing poems about it, and talking to it. Yes, he knew the statue wasn’t technically a person; however, it helped Julian organize his thoughts to speak them aloud.

One night, an assassin slipped into Julian’s castle. They killed his personal guard and eventually cornered him in his atrium. When Julian closed his eyes, bracing himself for the killing blow, there was a noise like a landslide.

Upon opening his eyes, Julian stared at the back of a figure clothed in black armor with hair as white as marble.

YES YES YES YES YES!!! I actually just recently wrote something vaguely similar for promptapalooza, I LOVE the idea of things coming to life because of how much you love them! ESPECIALLY when it's Geralt being released unto the world as Jaskier's guardian You're beautiful, Anon!

[cha-mij]

One of the many reasons Joey Batey was perfect for Jaskier, but only if Netflix had left their character alone. (That being said I do think him being bi is definitely within character, just not with bloody Radovid).

Witcher series one: "we have this bard. He's known as the finest in his generation. Is a friend to elves, a speaker of Elder speech, and is a lecturer of the arts at the prestigious Oxenfurt University. We wrote this song that we think perfectly encapsulates him. It has the line "He thrust every elf far back on the shelf". Let's get Joey Batey to sing it.

Joey Batey in real life: one of the best lyrical writers of at least his generation. Creates works that if removed from their music would be right up there with the poets of the romantic era. Writes a 9 minute epic about fatigue that would be perfectly happy in any fantasy genre. Is part of an astounding group of musicians including Madeleine Hyland who is a modern day trobairitz.

[kingthunder]

Analysis of Jaskier's songs from s1—

—and how they reflect the narrative events and Jaskier's character arc through the show. I'm trying to keep this as canon as possible and not look at it through shipping goggles, but there is textual stuff about Jaskier's relationship with and love for Geralt that's impossible to ignore.

Toss a Coin to Your Witcher: Jaskier’s first big break, the famous and famously annoying Toss a Coin. He wrote this when he was around eighteen and it definitely feels immature. He’s cracking bad jokes like “elf on a shelf” (god I hate that one, it grates me every time) and substituting “bleat” for “beat.” He’s taking enormous creative liberties with facts. And he’s being a little thoughtless; in his enthusiasm to hero-wash Geralt, he’s throwing elves under the bus, calling them devils and pests while he’s talking about Geralt as a friend to “humanity.” (more about this when we get into some of his later songs and his time as the Sandpiper)

This is an upbeat, catchy (and kind of shallow) song that I mentally classify as one of his “narrative” songs. It tells a story. It feels optimistic, much like Jaskier himself at this point in his life. After all, this is the kid who saw a big scary witcher brooding in a corner and decided that nothing could go wrong by following him around. He’s got a head full of heroics and heartbreak and nothing is going to dissuade him, not even being nearly killed. This song is a perfect time capsule of the beginning of Jaskier’s career and also the beginning of his long-running relationship with Geralt.

The Fishmonger’s Daughter: Jaskier plays this at Calanthe’s court when she orders him to play “a jig.” It seems like a pretty typical bawdy tavern song, the kind where you try to drum up audience participation. Most of the court seems to know it and sing along with it. No idea if Jaskier wrote this himself. He probably didn’t. It seems like one of those songs that everyone just knows.

Her Sweet Kiss: This song makes me feel deranged. This is definitely a Jaskier original. We see him writing and noodling with it at the beginning of The Mountain (tm) and asking other people if his lyrics are scanning well. He’s been traveling with Geralt on and off for about twenty years now, so he’s forty years old or close to it. He’s seen some shit, and part of the shit he’s seen has been Geralt and Yennefer’s relationship. He is not a fan. He is so deeply not a fan that he’s writing a whole song about it. But also? He’s putting himself in the song too, and he’s putting his heart on his sleeve, the same way that he tries to do when he talks to Geralt about going to the coast. The lyrics of this song are about three people—a man (Geralt), a woman (Yennefer), and the singer (Jaskier). It’s about how the woman is bad for the man, and how much the singer loves the man.

Whether you see Jaskier’s feelings for Geralt as romantic or not, these are the facts:

He doesn’t like Yennefer or think that she’s good for Geralt, and says so, repeatedly, both in casual conversation and in his music. In the song, he writes, “She’s always bad news, it’s always lose-lose” and that, “She’ll destroy with her sweet kiss.” 

In the song, Jaskier calls Geralt “my love” and says, “I’m weak, my love, and I am wanting.”

He asks Geralt to go to the coast with him, so they can “work out what pleases” them. He wants them to stay together and not go their separate ways like they often do.

Immediately after this plea, Geralt goes straight to Yennefer and (just in case anyone was doubting that Her Sweet Kiss was about the three of them) Geralt and Yennefer fuck while an instrumental version of Her Sweet Kiss plays over the sex. I still can’t believe the showrunners did that. That was A Damn Choice. (deranged, I am deranged about everything about this)

The kicker is that the song wasn’t even finished when Geralt flipped his lid and shouted Jaskier off The Mountain (tm) and out of his life. Which means that Jaskier, alone and heartbroken (his own words from s2), finished this song and published it afterwards, even knowing that the entire situation had gone tits up and that he might not even see Geralt or Yennefer again. Maybe it gave him some catharsis to sing it, who knows.

This isn’t a shallow catchy tune like Toss a Coin or even Fishmonger’s Daughter. It’s deeply personal and a tonal shift from his previous music.

(and it makes me deranged)

Stay tuned for my season 2 thoughts!

[bae-nhargreeves]

the witcher netflix and blood origin may have a lot of issues but the songs the write for my boy jaskier fucking slap. like song of the seven didn't need to be a bop, but I've listened to it nonstop in the mornings for the past week.

thinking about how, in twn universe, someone who follows jaskier's music/career could potentially place songs into eras. like the progression from how jask portrays elves in toss a coin to how he portrays them in song of the seven, and how he kinda reveres the dragon (and the soft way he sings the sorceress beauty) in the golden rule.

like i know in fanfics people wanna play up the effect toss a coin must've had on witchers in general and making their life easier or w/e, but i wanna see more about jaskier impacting the lives of elves and marginalized races in the witcher universe. I know people have kinda done that with jaskier being the sandpiper but not to the degree i see it in fics with the other witchers

also dear twn, i need an album of songs jaskier has written over the years. all performed by joey. i wanna know what song he wrote for the countess de stael

[kueble]

Congratulations!!! How exciting!!!

Has anyone sent in Teardrops on my Guitar? For geraskier?

(also if you were looking for smutty asks specifically then feel free to ignore this 😂😂 I realize that's a hard one to smuttify)

Thank you Comfy! I went with angst to fluff, so I hope you like that.

Teen. Warnings: None. 1,600 Words.

Geraskier

---

Jaskier didn't mean to start avoiding his best friend, but once you start pulling back little by little, it just happens. Gone were the days in college where they were attached at the hip, Jaskier cheer-leading on the sidelines while Geralt played football. Hell, they even shared a dorm room junior and senior year. They had carried that momentum right into a shitty two bedroom apartment the day after graduation. They were some of the best years of Jaskier's life.

It had been so amazing that he came close to confessing his feels, almost on a daily basis. But no, Geralt met Yennefer at a work event and they struck it off like a match on fire. She is a fierce woman, a fiery ball of energy and sass, and there's no way Jaskier could compete with that. He doesn't hate her for loving Geralt, though. It's hard not to.

Trust him, he's tried.

Hell, Jaskier was best man in the wedding, playing his part with a fake smile on his face. Nothing could keep him from making sure Geralt was happy, not even giving him away. Two years later, he's stuck in a lonely studio apartment and hardly bothers to text the man he's been in love with for ages. It hurts, but he can't bear to see Geralt's secret smile directed at anyone but him. It's selfish, but he hurts so much that he cries himself to sleep some nights.

All this yearning and depression has done wonders for his musical career, though. He's in talks with an indie label and hopes to get something signed soon. The local crowds adore him, and it's not hard to plaster a smile on his face and put on a show. The audience never realizes the smile doesn't reach his eyes. It's just another part to play, one he's perfect at.

So here he is, sitting on a stool in the corner of a packed bar on New Year's Eve, singing his heart out. He tries to stick to the upbeat, positive songs, but his fans know him better than that. He finishes August, every ounce of heartbreak he has clinging to his words, and he hopes the next request is for something more cheerful.

But then someone shouts out "Teardrops!" and she looks so pleased with herself that he can't help transitioning into the first verse.

“He looks at me, I fake a smile so he won't see that I want and I'm needing everything that we should be. I'll bet she's beautiful, that girl he talks about, and she's got everything that I have to live without,” he croons out, and the bar starts swaying along with his guitar. It’s so easy to fall into the song, to let his mouth and fingers move on muscle memory. He still feels every bit as sad as the night he wrote it, but these people will never know who it’s about. His heart is safer that way.

The girl who requested the song is belting it out, and for a moment he feels like he's on top of the world. No matter what a disaster his personal life is, he gets to hop on stage and entertain people who love him for him, and they can't take that away from him. He could probably survive on just this, may have to actually.

But as he scans the crowd, he almost drops his guitar. Bright purple eyes stare back at him, and Yennefer raises her cocktail glass in greeting. He can feel his cheeks heating up, but he keeps singing. He tries to avoid her gaze, but it's like watching a car crash, he can't pull away. The start of the last verse falls past his lips, and he knows that she knows exactly who it's about. "'Cause he's the reason for the teardrops on my guitar. The only one who's got enough of me to break my heart."

He finishes the song and mumbles something about needing a break and a beer before making a beeline towards Yennefer. Once he gets there, he isn't quite sure what to say. She's standing at a high top table, all stunning and glamorous, and he is pretty sure he hasn't washed these jeans in over a week. Thankfully she hands him a glass of water before breaking the silence.

"You look truly awful," she says, and Jaskier just snorts.

"And you look like your age is finally catching up with you. What are you doing alone on New Year's Eve? Don't you and Geralt usually do that fancy big band dinner downtown?" he asks, priding himself on not tripping over his insults. He doesn't mean any of them, but the playful taunts are how they work. She shakes her head and takes a long sip of her drink.

"I'm fucking my secretary, and we're getting a divorce. It's completely amicable, but I figured I owed it to you to let you know. He's been moping around the house these past few months, you know. Completely pathetic. A grown man shouldn't pine so much," Yen says with a twinkle in her eye.

"P-pine?" he manages to choke out, and she just rolls her gorgeous eyes at him.

"Neither of you are very subtle, you know," she says, shaking her head. "Geralt and I never should have been more than friends, and I know that now. But you still have your chance, so don't waste it. He misses you, and for some stupid reason I want you both to be happy. So don't waste tonight, Jaskier."

"I'll try," he mumbles, still not sure of what is happening to him.

"He's staying home tonight. Alone. Don't fuck it up," Yennefer informs him before tossing back the rest of her drink. She leaves him there, sauntering over to the bar and wrapping an arm around a pretty woman with chestnut hair. They look good together, and Jaskier truly wishes her the best.

He'd run right out the door, but he can't skip out on a gig. He's on contract until 11:30 when the house DJ will take over for the countdown. Checking his watch, he vows to make the last hour count. He's met with drunken applause when he jumps back on stage and snags his guitar with renewed energy. A man in the crowd winks at him, and Jaskier doesn't miss a beat, just blows him a kiss before rolling right into Blank Space.

Everyone goes wild, and he plays his heart out for the rest of his set.

He normally sticks around after a gig, just soaking up the praise from the crowd and enjoying the free drinks, but tonight he packs up his equipment as quickly as possible and races to his car. Geralt's house is fifteen minutes away, and he just might get there before midnight. For some silly reason, telling him before the year ends seems important. It's possible he breaks a few speed limits getting there, but he pulls into Geralt's driveway with five minutes to spare.

He knocks on the door like a man possessed, pounding at it until Geralt swings it up and scowls at him. "What the fuck - Jaskier?" he shouts before fading into a whisper. He looks shocked, and Jaskier knows he should say something to calm him down. He sure as hell should apologize for avoiding him these past few months, but time is short and he has to put all his faith in what Yen told him. Because this has to work, it simply has to or he'll surely die.

"I've been in love with you since senior year," he blurts out, and Geralt just blinks at him, so Jaskier keeps talking. "I mean, everyone kinda knew? Except you I guess. But I've been so fucking ridiculous about it, pathetic according to what Yennefer told me tonight. I just…thought maybe you wanted to know? And now I realized that I'm rambling, but you know how I get when I'm nervous, and if you could please either tell me you love me to or tell me to fuck off, I would really appreciate it."

"Yen? That sneaky witch," Geralt says, smiling so hard his eyes crinkle up in the corners. "I love you too, Jask."

And then there's noise in the background, cheering from the TV and the neighborhood kids shooting off firecrackers, but all Jaskier can do is stare at Geralt. His heart is beating wildly in his chest, and he's sure Geralt can hear it over the sounds of the celebrations. But Geralt stares right back at him, his gaze dipping down to linger on Jaskier's mouth before coming back up again.

"Kiss me, you fool," Jaskier says softly, and then Geralt's mouth is on his. It's chaste, just a press of lips, like he's unsure about it, and Jaskier can't let that happen. He deepens the kiss, hands coming up to clutch at Geralt's arms, holding him close as he licks into his mouth. He tastes like stout and cheese nips, and it should be weird but it's fucking perfect, because it's him.

It's the best New Year's Eve he's ever had, and as Geralt yanks him over the threshold and into the house, he knows the year is only going to get better and better.

---

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If you'd like to be added/removed, please let me know. Thank you!

[bloodxstarved]

@hellahell for Jaskier

Traveling with the bard has been the best part of his life Alucard couldn't see himself with anyone else. Even on the road their life has become lavish thanks to the dhampir getting very good gigs all across the land. No more singing at bars for pocket change, they went to balls and banquets that earned hundreds of gold coins a night. They had earned enough to pay for a nice carriage to travel in, big enough to carry their new fine clothes and a bed to sleep in when they were on the road.

Another masquerade Alucard got to attend while the bard song another beautiful song. Many tales of adventures and heros and love. He had more than a few that the bard wrote just for him and he always felt so flustered when Jaskier sang them for all. Though tonight the tone of the music was a bit somber it spoke of a dragon that disguised itself so it could hide then it ended up falling in love with a knight that was suppose to slay them. The crowd loved the heartbreaking song and when it ended the other instrument players took over the music for the dance.

Alucard grabbed a glass of wine and offered it to his lover when he came over. "That was a very deep song, Jaskier... Is everything okay?" The dhampir asked curiously. Usually the bard liked to tell him about the songs and practice just for him, but this song was one he hadn;t heard before.

[tielmamon]

Legacy

714 words • angsty bittersweet ending • major character death (not depicted, just implied) • established relationship

Somewhere, within the stone walls of Kaer Morhen there is a room filled with history of past witchers. Those who established themselves as legends, their stories serving as tales of caution and inspiration to all witchers old or ancient. But within the room of armour and blades, is a peculiar thing.

A lute, elven design, hung proud amongst swords and daggers and gauntlets. Some who wander in might ask if a legendary witcher used music as their weapon. Maybe some would spin tales of a particularly twisted witcher, unsuspectingly ensnaring their monsters with melodies before dealing the final blow. 

But no, the owner of the lute is no witcher. That is the most curious fact of all. A bard's spirit nestles amongst witchers in that room. Some may think its a joke, truly. What could a simple bard do to make it into this sanctuary?

Vesemir, the eldest of the witchers would tell you that that bard is a legend, a brother amongst witchers and that his legacy is that which shaped the continent witchers live today. Why people see them as hope, as heroes rather than mutants.

Under the lute, a nameplate hung. Etched carefully and artfully in a slab of stone, wrote Jaskier, the Voice of Witchers. A lark and wolf etched at each end of the title. 

Every winter, when the keep is alive and full of family and warmth and safety, a grizzled man with white hair and tired yellow eyes will enter. He will greet his family with a warm smile and a clap on the back. He will especially greet his daughter, the blonde, fiesty woman beating Lambert's ass in Gwent with a bone crushing hug and a kiss on the forehead.

 Then, when the moon was up and the others are laughing, merrily sharing stories and spilling drinks, he will make his way to the room of legends, with 2 drinks and a dandelion pressed between the pages of his journal. He would make a beeline to the lute, sit down and talk.

"Hey, Jask."

 He would say, as he begins to recall everything that has happened for him this year. Every monster he's slayed, every place he's traveled, every child he's hugged back. He would tell the lute of Ciri, how she's the best witcher out of them all, how the keep is so full of warmth and life despite the cold. He would tell how villages that were once filled with hate and prejudice welcome him and his brothers now with open arms and open purses. He would tell the lute of one particular village in Oxenfurt,  close to the university had just announced that they will be having a festival, in honor of witchers and their service towards the continent. He'd mention that even though he hates festivals, he still went because the university send him a letter asking him- because not only is the festival dedicated to them but also to a certain bard that now has a lovely garden named in his honor on campus. A bustling corner of nature with birds and a bright blue pond and dandelions everywhere.

He would tell the lute how much his family missed him, how Lambert still loses himself in a daze for a split second whenever he hears music from a tavern. About how Eskel keeps his favorite poetry book with all his little notes and marks near his bedside. About how Vesemir would tell the young ones he encounters at the village near the keep about this brilliant but insufferable bard that used to roam the halls, how Yennefer would mention him the most still, criticizing his taste in clothes and gaudy fineries when she passes by a storefront display. He'd tell the lute how Ciri would quietly mumble "I miss his voice." under her breath whenever they find themselves in quiet moments. 

 He would have the most content look in his golden eyes, and he would say the words that never left his heart even after all these years.

"I love you. I miss you. Wait for me."

Then he would place a kiss on the wooden body, place the flower between the strings and leave, all while clutching the bronze tuning fork charm that hung just beside his medallion. 

[myidlehand]

There's a Witcher on the Hill leading to his house.

Jaskier has often seen him. He won't come down, he knows, but the others will.

There's a Witcher on the Hill leading to his house. The Witcher is tall and broad but his hair is the wrong colour. He's nice and polite so Jaskier offers him a good bed, some food and music to ease his nights. Sleep well, Jaskier says.

There's a Witcher on the Hill leading to his house. The Witcher is shorter, snarkier and in pain. Jaskier offers a warm smile, a bath and materials to repair what's broken in and out. Be well, Jaskier says.

There's a Witcher on the Hill leading to his house. The Witcher is older and wiser. He only wants to meditate and contemplate the stillness of life from Jaskier's little garden overlooking the ocean. Rest well, Jaskier says.

There's a Witcher on the Hill leading to his house, where Witchers are always welcome. And yet Jaskier is afraid. After all he's seen, after all he's done, he's scared the man he wants to see will never show up on the Hill overlooking his little house. So he turns away, turns his back from the Hill and goes inside his little house, alone and waiting.

There's a Witcher on the Hill leading to his house, and Jaskier longs for him to ride down. He will never visit, he knows, but he can't stop himself from glancing at the top of the Hill at the lone rider. One day, he thinks, one day, when everything is done and said, he will look outside, and his Witcher on the Hill will know he's welcome again and come down to the little house by the coast.

.

.

.

Some background for this. Back in July 2017 I wrote a freeform Witcher story called A Little House by the Coast (AO3) (Tumblr link here). It's a one-minute read (335 words) about Geralt's longing to see Jaskier again.

It took me about five and a half years but I'm ending 2022 with a follow-up story, about as short (292 words) from Jaskier's pov and how he too longs to see Geralt again.

I suggest reading both A Little House by the Coast and A Witcher by the Hill cause they mirror each other and the form of A Witcher on the Hill will make more sense, but both are fine to be read on their own.

I know Freeform is not common in this fandom (I actually don't know if anybody else is writing freeform apart from me?). I know I'm probably someone who writes some of the shortest things in this fandom and I know freeform is weird but I'm very proud of the 3 freeform stories I wrote, please consider reading them and commenting?

[bluegarners]

i’m torn between “time time time” and “24 pound paper,” so whichever you’re more inclined to share about i’m all ears!

hellooooo kate!!! <3 and how about both??

so 24 pound paper is more or less what it said on the tin- dick asks bruce to adopt him. with one exception!! i personally have my own gripes about this specific trope about these two- i tend to stay away from this kind of fic bc it always strays towards the angsty "bruce never adopted dick and dick thought that was because bruce never wanted him and so he's insecure and sad and and and". don't get me wrong- i love angst! just not on this particular topic... so!! this fic is entirely meant to be wholesome and all about how bruce has always loved dick and dick has always loved bruce, and how bruce respected dick's choice not to have bruce's name be attached to his legally in a way that bound them as a father-son pair because dick already had a father that he loved dearly but now dick feels like he's ready to open up the topic for discussion again bc he realizes that john grayson will always be his father but maybe bruce can also be his dad too

it's still entirely a wip and i really only have a paragraph or two for them, but these were the sentences that really got me started on it <3

“I know we talked about this a long time ago-” Bruce feels like his heart is about to rocket out of his chest, and Dick must be feeling the same because the papers in his hands are shaking, trembling like lost leaves in the wind, but he’s offering them, giving them over, and Bruce feels- he feels- “But I thought we could talk about it again.”

okay so "time time time" is also a wip that really doesn't... go anywhere? i wrote it sometime last year, in the height of my witcher fascination, and i had fallen down a rabbit hole of jaskier headcanons and delightful fics that added a bit of angst into his world. eventually, i came to my own headcanon that i thought jaskier might have obsessions but little to no compulsions. his thoughts are his obsession- like, i've always thought about how jaskier is always running around, occupying his time with people, with writing, with so many different things that i started to form some kind of idea that jaskier liked to keep busy in order to prevent the tendency for him to really and truly get lost in his thoughts. in this headcanon of mine, i liked to think of jaskier getting so wrapped up in his thoughts (mainly ones of the past) that he would dissociate and lose time here and there if he's not occupied with his hands or otherwise. so! that resulted in this wip (which i'm putting below the cut bc it's kind of long and i dont really have any intentions of finishing it)

See, it goes like this: suddenly, he has time. So much of it. Abundances. The most time he’s ever had, probably, in all of his many years of living. The castle walls are long and cold, and Jaskier has time like he’s never had it before. When a life is filled with composing and singing, wooing and bedding, traveling and yearning, bargaining and pleading, avoiding and skittering, and then suddenly it is not, emptied and spilled out over the edge, life becomes rather overflowing with time. His hands are ruined as they are, and his lute is far away in the likes of someone’s campfire or second-hand shop, so he has nothing to busy his fingers with. He has no notebook or quill to occupy his anxious thrumming, nothing to properly rid his ever circling thoughts and discard them somewhere that isn’t in his head. That means he’s left with not only ample time, far too much of it, but also too many thoughts. Jaskier now has thoughts and time and fuck-all to do with them except to let them invade through his eyes and stay trapped behind clenched teeth. 

See, it went like this: Jaskier has done his best his entire life to keep himself busy, away from his thoughts. He studied and worked hard, buried himself to his elbows in texts and scrolls and sheet music. He learned and received criticism, in turn teaching others and doling his own critiques when the time came. He observed others, observed himself, dove head first into what carnal pleasures of the flesh appeased him, what delicate sweet fruits of life satisfied his appetite. He chased after muses, throwing himself into the masses in the hopes that someone might catch his eye, or even lay claim to himself. He sowed and fretted over wounds and blood, journaled the color of a griffin's wings and the exact viscous consistency of Swallow. Much of his life has been devoted to the precise realities of others, far from his own, so that he might indulge in lives that are more pleasant or fearsomely less so than his own, for Jaskier has never much liked thinking about his life. He has never much liked thinking in general, no matter what his ramblings and countless musing might say, because when he thinks, he thinks in false circles and misshapen lines, broken off segments that he pieces together with other loose lines and fragments that don’t quite fit. 

But now, Jaskier does nothing but think. He has not the strength nor fortitude to build up the walls of Kaer Morhen, and the Witchers have expressed ill gratitude to his unhelpful chatter and presence. Ciri is never not busy, countless lessons and more lessons dogging her every breathing moment, and were it not for the girl herself to declare she does not mind the schedule and actually enjoys it, Jaskier would have already stolen her away so that he might regale her with court stories and songs. But he dare not, knows her destiny is none forged in more than blood and the will of others, and every second that he might take from her, from her destiny, is one where he condemns her. And he has never wished to harm anyone in such a way. 

Blessings. Godsdamn the blessings. His mother said that once, cursing her bastard son, and Geralt had also said something of the sort. He is not a blessing. He is not a curse. However, and this is where things get tricky, all have muttered that his ceasing might just lead to a blessing. Does that make him an omen, a propehcy? But, oh, those things are so fickle, so oft to lead to tragedy and misunderstandings, and nothing like a blessing. So it might very well be that he is actually nothing, not a curse or omen or prophecy, and that his being gone might also just be nothing. His mother damned him and the man that fathered him. Geralt damned him on the mountain, called forth the gods to give him at least one thing he might be granted in all of his miserable years. Godsdamn the blessings and all who ask for it.

But, really, he has no legs to stand on in the matter, for what has he ever asked for that has not led to the sufferings of someone else? Oh, how his mother loathed him and his father side-eyed the blueness in his son’s gaze. Oh, how his fellow students scorned and spurned his aptitude. Oh, how the barmaids and stable boys and all the beauties of the world spat at his feet when he could only love them for a night. Oh, how Geralt scowled and snarled and wished for a single blessing. 

on and on and completely circular in jaskier’s self loathing and memory cycle

He finds himself losing time. Odd, since he has so much of it. It slips through his hands though, even as he bathes in it, and one day, as he lays in his bed and stares at the ceiling, he thinks about his mother and what he might’ve done to ensure he would not have been a bastard had he just known what to do to not be one, and suddenly, daylight is at his window and his eyes are dry and his head achy. Daylight is at his window, and it is strong daylight, yellow and peppered with the shadows of winter clouds rolling over the mountain. The fire in his room has long since died, embers and ash completely still in the grate, and Jaskier’s lips itch.

It happens again, when he goes to the sparse library and chooses a random book, sitting himself down in a chair and thinking about how the tale he’s chosen reminds him of the stable boy that spat at him come the morning after of their evening together, and he blinks and finds that his eyes are dry again and his head achy and his lips itchy and his right index finger scabbing over from a paper cut he doesn’t remember getting.

The days go by and Jaskier does not register them as days any longer. He lapses, often and without notice, and he suddenly realizes he does not know the date or time. There is no way to tell, and he finds himself unable to ask, unwilling to bother or burden any one of the six other people within Kaer Morhen’s walls. Not when the mere thought sends him spiraling down yet another warped memory, too faded to really recall but within his mind and trapped all the same. 

He misses meals, sometimes. Most often breakfast. No one makes a move to confront him about this development. Jaskier does not know what to think of this, but he supposes it doesn’t matter too much seeing as he’s already so preoccupied in thinking of so many other things. The blisters on his hands heal slightly, hot red scars numbing the tips of his fingers and cramping his palm, and were he not already trying to not think about the pain and the fire and the heat, Jaskier would have surely thought about his imprisonment and his torture. As it is, however, he is simply much too busy thinking to really give much thought to it. 

Enough time spills from his hands that he begins to smell. He takes note of it absently one evening, occupied as he is with his forehead against the rough stone wall and his ever evolving plan on how to prove to the Countess that he’s not a worthless harlot after all, and the smell of his own odor reaches his nose. It’s not quite rank, not enough to really give anyone reason to cover their face with their hands, but it is odd. At some point, Jaskier is sure he would have had the time to wash and take care of the odor, exchange his clothes for new ones and soap out the oil and grime from his hair, but, as it is, his plans are far too complicated and growing to stop thinking now. He’s too busy to take the time to wash. 

[dapandapod]

Uh.... So I accidently wrote another 3800 words of this? On Ao3 here, with all the tags I could thing of.... CW: loss and grief and mentions of spirits unable to let go, angst, Character death (Renfri) and possession, and Temporary Character Death. This is not a fluffy tale, even if it ends happily, so treat yourelf nicely please <3 For the full experience, I was listening to this whilst writing. It is very nice and very hurtful!

Awakening as a spirit guide seals Jaskier’s fate.

The first spirit he helps to rest is his mother, her carved wooden mask in the elegant shape of a swan.

She had known her time was coming to an end, and she prepared her own spirit mask. With only an old book of tales for company and help, Jaskier learned what he needed to do.

The mask can help the soul to find their way to the next life, and if needed, help him guide them there.

Jaskier leaves Lettenhove behind, her mask crumbling to dust in his hand in front of his father’s grave. There is nothing left for him here now.

The shard of his ancestral Spirit Staff is around his neck, the last thing that connects him to his home. The forest is filled with spirits, of those who have passed, of those who guard, and of those who live there.

They become his friends, his guide, as he travels the path forward, ever forward. There is a shrine, somewhere in the mountains, where he hopes he can recharge the shard.

All he knows, Jaskier learned along the way. Every spirit he helps to rest, he carries with him. It is a heavy burden, but watching the land around him ease, breathe, grow, he finds it is worth it.

Along his travels, Jaskier receives a lute. It was from an elven king, who’s spirit clung to the ruins of his home. Haunted by loss, by crushed wishes, edged by madness, Jaskier carved him an owl mask.

Upon one of the stones of his kingdom, Jaskier etched runes of peace, of reverence, of grace, and placed the mask upon it. It will take centuries for the king’s mask to turn to dust, he knows, but that journey is his. All Jaskier can do for this spirit is to carve out the way, and watch over him.

The lute remains with him, however, and it reminds him of a piece of home. His mother used to love music, used to put tone to his father’s words.

The first notes that Jaskier plays are not his own. Eyes closed, shard trembling against his chest, Jaskier sings about the Lover Swans.

Time teaches him how to deal with the loss of others. Jaskier learns how to smile, how to cry with them, how to fight, and how to let go. It is heard, and it breaks his heart every time, but such is his task. Sometimes the scars they leave him are just not on his heart, but on his skin, when their darkness takes physical form.

The spirits thank him, sometimes they curse the world, sometimes they tell him of their memories. Jaskier finds a way to honor them, and he sings of them, sings for them. He finds his travels are smoother when you can pay, and when you have ears to listen.

This is how Jaskier learns of Blaviken, and the princess who fell.

Her spirit is angry, and her rage is not easily quelled. She was done so wrong, and he knows to summon her to help her move on. He has her dagger, but her mother’s brooch is lost. With her dagger, he carves her mask. The princess without a kingdom, without a home, is hard to give a final resting place.

Jaskier learns of the man who took her life. Her memories show him pale white hair, and eyes filled with hopelessness. He begged of her to stop, but her rage cannot be contained. As soon as the mask has its shape, a shrike, Jaskier takes to the path again. He knows he must find the brooch, and the man who killed her.

The butcher of Blaviken.

Jaskier finds him in a small tavern in Posada, and Renfri’s spirit mask shudders.

It is a witcher, Geralt of Rivia. But he is not alone.

There is a darkness wandering with him, every step the witcher takes, so does death. The shard hums against Jaskier’s chest, and he realizes that the witcher is lost.

The brooch is fastened to Geralt’s sword, the same kind of burden as Jaskier’s lute, and all at once, Jaskier knows why Renfri can’t settle.

It’s because Geralt can’t let go.

So begins Jaskier’s journey along Geralt’s side.

Geralt doesn’t know what Jaskier is, and Jaskier is not telling him. Sometimes being a guide means showing the way. Sometimes, it is by holding the lantern as they fumble their way forward.

The witcher doesn’t speak much, all sharp edges and raised hackles. All Jaskier can do is hold on, and hold back. Renfri’s spirit spills forth sometimes, her mask shaking with rage, and with it, Geralt’s sword.

Jaskier tries to soothe them, tries to make their road easier, but it hurts. Not only because of the insults, no, those he learned to handle long ago. It hurts, because he can see Geralt trying so hard not to let go, to not forgive. The first time Geralt calls Jaskier his friend, the witcher freezes, and scowls. The next day he is gone.

When they meet again, Geralt begs for forgiveness, and Jaskier gives it easily. In the fading light, they share a meal and a laugh, and the darkness around Geralt doesn’t seem as thick anymore. When next they meet trouble, a ghoul surprising them by an abandoned cottage, Geralt steps between Jaskier and danger.

No matter how much the witcher complains of the bard, he always, always steps in to protect him, and something in Jaskier is changing.

Their roads do part, as often as it brings them together. Jaskier knows it is just not duty that brings Jaskier’s feet towards the witcher. There is something there, something in the way they talk by the fire, that makes Jaskier think Geralt understands.

If Jaskier just dared to tell him how lonely he is, how broken, maybe the witcher would stay, even after the Shrike mask has found its resting place.

But Jaskier is not brave.

It is cruel, he knows, to let Renfri be trapped in the in between.

But if Geralt lets go, what reason does he have to stay?

And once more, Jaskier would walk the path alone.

A year in, Geralt almost finds out.

He finds Jaskier in a summer field, silver sword in hand, ready to take on the noon wraith that has been living there.

In her stead is Jaskier, shards of blue shimmering in the air, and a circlet of flowers covered in a thin layer of dust.

Jaskier is on his knees, uncaring of his expensive clothes getting stained with dirt and grass, and he smiles gently at the sky as she is moving on. Geralt stares down at him, and for a long moment there is nothing.

“What are you doing here?” Geralt asks eventually, when Jaskier doesn’t find the words. “It’s not safe.”

Indeed not, Jaskier thinks, as he is being helped up and ushered back to the inn.

The wraith never shows up, and Jaskier only feels a little guilt over Geralt not getting paid.

It takes a while, but Jaskier makes a decision. It is time to tell Geralt the truth.

But it doesn’t go as planned.

In a world where wraiths and ghouls and spirits are real, somehow a dragon seems like one thing too many. A fairy tale, a remnant of a distant past.

Geralt goes anyway, a promise of relief luring him deeper into his own misery.

A wish, a hope, a promise of love makes Geralt take step after step upwards, and Jaskier follows. He too carries a wish, a hope and a promise, but really, it is love that makes him continue.

Jaskier forgets that he is a spirit guide, he almost forgets that he is supposed to be a friend, blinded by the hope that maybe he will get to keep Geralt after all.

But the darkness that walks with Geralt grows, from the moment Borch falls, and grows again when he looks over his shoulder at Jaskier, and steps into someone else’s tent.

It all splinters and fractures when Geralt is cruel one time too many. Jaskier should have seen it, should have listened, should have held the lantern to guide him out of the darkness.

But Geralt doesn’t want it, doesn’t want Jaskier, doesn’t want rest or forgiveness or hope or love anymore.

He explodes outwards, the darkness a physical thing, and pierces Jaskier as deeply as his words.

Geralt leaves, and Jaskier stays.

Stays, because the only way that Geralt can be free now is if Jaskier can hold on, and if he can break the darkness that now is connected to him too.

The darkness grows tendrils and poison the ground, the shadows step out from under the trees and turn into memories. The pines and the firs grow gnarly and dark, the rocks crack and become sharp, and Jaskier stays.

The shard is deeply embedded in his shoulder, and he holds on. With his fingers, he can touch it, dark and red and cool like ice. It should be warm, he thinks, isn’t anger warm?

A memory steps in front of him, cold and cruel. It speaks with Geralt’s voice, it turns its back, and it leaves.

Another takes its place, an unknown mage attempting to take his life.

And another, and another, and another.

Jaskier doesn’t know how long he is there, the darkness grows stronger, ever stronger.

Only when Jaskier realizes Renfri’s mask is missing does he figure out what the darkness is. Only when he finds her dagger in his hand does he see.

Only when Geralt stares at him with open grief, sword to his neck, does Jaskier understand what his end will be.

Jaskier should have asked for the brooch earlier.

Should not have carried her anger and resentment with him.

Should have found a way to set her spirit to rest.

Renfri moves his arm, makes him speak under the mask he wears, her mask, history repeating itself. The dagger clangs against Geralt’s sword, and at its hilt, he sees it.

Only by hurting Geralt again can this be set right.

In a moment of clarity, Jaskier snatches the brooch, and summons her.

It is not fair, the shadows are whispering with fear and hate and pain and resentment and misery. Her spirit is living on his, but it has to be done.

If Geralt can win, she will be subdued. If Renfri wins, she might find peace.

This is what a Guide must do.

“Jaskier!” Geralt calls, when his knees hit the hard ground, when his vision grows dark.

When Jaskier wakes up, the world is blurry. In the clearing where their camp used to be, lies a body.

Fear grips him, tight and all consuming. Jaskier scrabbles to his knees, crawls across the distance to see the witcher lie there. Geralt, blood smeared across his cheek and hands.

By his side, the dagger and the brooch.

“I tried to make him choose,” Renfri says from behind him. When Jaskier turns to look, she stands empty handed and still, looking at Geralt. “I tried, but once again, he refused.”

The mask is on top of her head, blood along her throat.

“He didn’t want you to die, but he didn’t want to kill me. Not losing isn’t winning.”

Geralt lies so still, his skin pale.

“This is my fault,” Jaskier says quietly. “I didn’t do right by you.”

“You didn’t,” Renfri agrees, and Jaskier takes Geralt’s hand in his, closing his eyes. “But you tried. Will you sing of me?”

“If you want me to. If I can make myself leave.”

“Why wouldn’t you?” Renfri asks.

Jaskier takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly.

“Because you two were the only two I could ever call friends. Because I let you both down because of my selfishness. Because I will make sure both of you get your rest.”

Jaskier stands, his legs are a bit shaky and his balance is off, but he manages. For Geralt, for his witcher, for his friend, he carves a wolf mask.

Renfri watches him work, watches his hands shake, his fingers bleed as he fumbles.

“You were never enough for him,” Renfri says when Jaskier cries bitter tears of loss. “You could never carry his burden for him.”

The shard in Jaskier’s shoulder pulse and stings.

“I know what you are doing, and I will not carry you any longer, Renfri. It is scary to let go, I know. There is more to you than anger and loss.”

“I could have been so much more,” Renfri says bitterly, voice wavering. “I should have been. It’s not fair. They took it all from me.”

“They did. I’m sorry.” Jaskier says, thumbing at the mask he is holding. The wood is rough under his thumb, the shape cruder than he wants it to be.

There is an emptiness where his heart should be.

He wonders if it is with Renfri, or with Geralt.

The sun is slowly setting, the skies are painted with vivid orange and pink.

“Will he find rest, you think?” Renfri asks, not looking at the witcher.

“I will stay here until he does.” Jaskier says. “Until you both do.”

“Then I killed you both.” Renfri says, and stands up. Jaskier watches her go to the cliff’s edge, putting her mask on. When she turns, the sun is at her back, she smiles.

“I always wanted to see the ocean.” She says.

Then she falls.

Her dagger and the brooch lies by the witcher, and it is all that is left of the princess than never was.

Jaskier kneels at Geralt’s side.

The years they spent together, the laughs they shared, the fights, the pain.

“I should have told you,” Jaskier cries, finally. “I didn’t want you to be alone. I didn’t want to be alone. I’m sorry, I am so sorry.”

Sobs tear out of his throat, anger and grief and pain leaks out of his eyes, of his heart, and he leans over the witcher, fingers curling in the dirt.

“I loved you,” Jaskier whispers, “I loved you, and I never told you.”

Jaskier waits for what he knows will happen. He waits for his shard to start trembling, for Geralt’s spirit to make itself known.

Something does happen, but it is nothing like he ever saw before.

The night sky flickers with light, but it isn’t stars. Geralt’s body shimmers, first blue, then gold, the wooden mask covering his face.

“Jaskier,” Geralt’s voice says, and Jaskier aches.

“I’m here.”

“Why are you sad?” Geralt asks, and Jaskier smiles through his tears.

“Because I will miss you. Because I am sorry.”

“Are you hurt?”

“Nothing can hurt me when you are here,” Jaskier says gently, watching the shimmer, feeling the vibrations against his chest when the shard reacts.

“Then I will stay with you,” Geralt says, and Jaskier frowns, but when he opens his mouth to ask, he is blinded by the light, the gold and the blue glowing so strong he has to close his eyes.

When Jaskier opens his eyes, Geralt’s mask is gone, and his eyes are open. Jaskier throws himself forward, touching his cheek with fear and confusion. This is not supposed to happen, this is not how it is supposed to go!

But Geralt’s cheek is warm, and when Jaskier touches him, their eyes meet.

“Geralt?”

The witcher doesn’t respond, but looks around in confusion, until his eyes reach Jaskier’s shoulder.

The shard of darkness still sits there, and Geralt lifts a hand to it without touching.

“Is this why you didn’t leave?” The witcher asks, and Jaskier grabs his hand and presses it to his chest. “You were gone for months.”

“I hoped to free you from her, the guilt and the pain you carried. Thought I could fight it. I didn’t realize she possessed us both.”

“Renfri.”

“Yes.”

“She gave me a choice,” Geralt says, looking away. “And I-...”

Jaskier squeezes his hand, and their eyes meet again.

“You don’t have to say. But what happened? How are you alive?”

“I couldn’t leave you. You stayed because of me, you hurt because of me. No more. I’ll protect you.”

When he says that, the shard from the spirit staff starts glowing, reaching towards Geralt.

“Protect me?” Jaskier asks, releasing Geralt’s hand so he can touch the shard.

When he does, they both shudder, something clicking into place.

“Yes,” Geralt says, once again meeting Jaskier’s eyes. “I’ll protect you.”

Getting down from the mountain is surprisingly easy.

The air is easier now, after Renfri left. Her brooch and her dagger are wrapped in cloth at the bottom of Jaskier’s bag. He’ll take them to the ocean, he thinks, and throw them into the water.

All the way, Geralt is looking around them, staring at the tiny forest spirits along the rocks and trees, the shadows looking back.

“Is this what you always see?” Geralt asks, keeping his swords within easy reach.

Jaskier smiles, adjusting the grip on his bag.

“You get used to it. Most of them are friendly, if you treat them well.”

The darkness Geralt was carrying is smaller now, much smaller. Jaskier knows it is still there, because it is with him also. But most of all, there is something new.

It would seem Geralt made a choice after all, a choice to stay, a choice to protect. Since he became a Guardian, he shares The Sight.

Above there is a cry of a bird, and Jaskier pretends it is a shrike. It could be.

“I found you to put her to rest, you know.” Jaskier says suddenly, needing to have it said at long last. “I needed her brooch to summon her, to end it.”

Geralt says nothing, just trails behind him in tense silence.

“I thought you would leave me after you let her go, if you knew.”

Geralt clenches his jaw and stops walking, and Jaskier stops with him.

“I left you anyway. Over and over again. Why did you keep finding me?”

Jaskier gives a sad smile.

“You never made loving you easy, but that is what it was. Is. It’s selfish of me, and even if it hurt, you were the one who actually cared. It was… nice.”

There is silence for a long moment, and Geralt stares at the shard in Jaskier’s shoulder, now visible to him.

“It was nice.” Geralt agrees after a while.

“Maybe we can have that again…?”

“Better. This time we will make it better.”

It takes time. Time to figure out how being a Guardian fits in with being a friend, and a witcher. Very little changes to begin with, except for the honesty.

This time, when a spirit lashes out, Geralt is there to help. Jaskier guides his hand, and then the spirit’s heart.

When Jaskier hangs the mask on the fence behind the barn, Geralt stands guard behind him. He etches in a name in the wood, and a rune for forgiveness.

Even before the rune is done, the mask dissolves into dust, and a blue shimmer follows it up, up, up into the wind and away to the somewhere that comes after.

This time, when winter falls, Geralt asks if Jaskier wishes to join him in the Blue Mountains, to where the witchers rest for the winter.

He declines, and their roads part for the season.

Winter has never felt so long, and so cold, but Jaskier has a job to do. He sings of the Lover Swans, he sings of the Shrike, and he sings of the Woman of the Ravens.

When Guide and Guardian find each other once more, it is like coming home.

“There is one more thing I never told you,” Jaskier says one night at an inn, a room and the night between them. “I would have stayed, if it meant your freedom. I never want to be a burden to you.”

The silence between them is familiar, comfortable, despite Jaskier’s confession.

“I still would have found you.” Geralt responds, and Jaskier’s heart aches anew. “The path is brighter by your side. I’m sorry I made you think that way.”

Jaskier falls asleep with a smile on his lips.

Geralt was one step too far away, and the spirit’s claws cut into Jaskier’s back.

With a roar, Geralt stood between them, his sword glowing with blue and gold as he parries the next hit, and the next.

When the wooden layers of the spirit’s armor is flayed open, Jaskier strikes true.

The spirit falls to her knees, a young teen with dirt streaks across her cheek and bruises on her arms.

With Geralt’s hand on his shoulder, Jaskier reaches for her, thumbs away her tears.

“I forgive you,” Jaskier says quietly and smiles at her, even as he feels blood dripping along his ribs. “You just wanted to protect them.”

“They were so many,” she cries, hands shivering as she grips Jaskier’s wrist, hard. “I couldn’t do anything, I-”

“You protected your sister. She survived, thanks to you.”

When Geralt has tied off the bandages and is helping Jaskier put his shirt back on, there is something new in the air between them. When the witcher guides Jaskier’s hand through the sleeve, he doesn’t let go, stroking his thumb over Jaskier’s knuckles.

“You never give up on them,” he says with a frown. “Even when they hurt you, you don’t give up.”

Jaskier tilts his head in question and squeezes Geralt’s hand back.

“Of course not. They lash out because they are Lost, scared and in pain. What kind of Guide would I be, if I left them?”

“But you care. You care about each and every one of them.”

Jaskier doesn’t know what to say, even less so when Geralt’s hand finds his cheek.

“You found me. I hurt you, but you never gave up. You always cared.” Geralt whispers, and the shard of darkness in Jaskier’s shoulder throb.

“For you, I cared a little more than I should,” Jaskier whispers, and then Geralt’s lips are on his, and oh.

The kiss is gentle, dry, and their lips part with a small sound.

“Jaskier,” Geralt breathes, and Jaskier leans in again, needing, craving another kiss.

Sometimes being a guide means showing the way. Sometimes, it is by holding the lantern as they fumble their way forward.

That night, Geralt guides Jaskier into his arms, mindful of the wound on his back. They hold each other so close that Jaskier loses himself in it, shuddering breaths and heart full to the verge of breaking. Geralt kisses Jaskier once more, and Jaskier aches.

“I never told you,” Jaskier whispers against his witcher’s lips. “I never told you how much I love you.”

so

im playing a game, Kena bridge of spirits, literally just started, but this thought gripped me and I am making it your probem.

so (now on Ao3)

Jaskier is a spirit guide, his focus is his instrument. His job is to let spirits heal and move on, and Geralt is a spirit, but Geralt doesn’t know. The grief he carries from Blaviken festers in him, and he is unable to let go of the past, and Jaskier senses it. (also this is not meant to be mcd lol but Geralt is a spirit now). So Jaskier follows him, in Geralt's words, pesters him, forces him to work through his past, and Jaskier deals with what the festering manifests around them.

On the mountain, geralt lashes out, and jaskier is stuck up there to clean up the mess of the mountain, who is now grown dangerous, because of Geralt's outburst. When Geralt finally gets his head out of his ass, he realizes Jaskier never came down, and he has to go back up there and confront his past.

And maybe, like in Frozen, a shard of Geralt's pain hit Jaskier, and he is weakened. Until that shard is gone, he is unable to entirely cleanse the mountain and safely leave. And so, he becomes one with the rot, one with the pain. For Geralt to free Jaskier, he has to get up the mountain, that is now filled with shadows of both of their pasts; the abuse and the loss and the hurt and the loneliness they both carry.

When Geralt finally gets to Jaskier, he sees the bard is deeply entangled with it, the pulse of his pain is leaking into the ground, and Geralt sees the shadow of himself lash out, to fracture his hurt. His medallion is vibrating, he has never seen anything like this, but he has to fight through it, and make Jaskier wake up from whatever this is.

And Jaskier does wake, just enough to see Geralt succumb to his own shadows.

Geralt doesn't know really what jaskier is, just know that weird things happen around him,

so when Jaskier lifts his necklace, a crystal shaped like a tuning fork, and the air shimmers blue, and Geralt’s medallion vibrates, all goes black.

Eventually, Geralt awakens, and Jaskier is standing a safe distance away, with little spirits swarmed around his feet, clinging to his shoulders, and he is smiling at them.

Geralt has to acknowledge what Jaskier's task was, and what Jaskier risked, for him.

Eventually, Geralt awakens, not as a guide, but as a guardian, because now, because of the shard that jaskier carries, his shard, he can see what jaskier sees.

He sees the spirits, he sees the pain, and he finally sees himself.

They set out to find a little girl in Cintra, who is hurt and grief and pain, and so strong she can shake the foundation of the world.

[certifiedskywalker]

Artistic Reimagining - Geralt of Rivia

You and Jaskier have been traveling about the Continent together for...well, forever it feels like. Just when it seems you’ve written a song about everything, you make the acquaintance of a Witcher and inspiration strikes! Though, Geralt seems to regard your artistic voice with indifference, borderline disdain. You’re starting to take his comments personally.

“I like that, it’s just jaunty enough, I think.”

“That’s not how it happened.”

You glanced up at Geralt who, perched on Roach’s back, seemed as tall as the cliff faces around you. His amber eyes were squinted in your and Jaskier’s direction, watching as he often did. Always so alert. Though you surmised it was a habit that came with the Witcher title. But the aversion in his furrowed brow and frown? That was all Geralt.

“Where’s your newfound respect?” He asked, forcing your focus back to his words.

“Respect doesn’t make history,” Jaskier countered before he began to sing again. Geralt stayed still, fists tightening around Roach’s reins as your fellow bard sang away.

“It’s poetic,” you added when you saw the Witcher’s jaw clench. “An artistic reimagining.”

“It’s a lie,” he huffed, “life isn’t poetic.”

“That’s why we make music. We make things...more palatable. Your life of violence isn’t suited for everyone.” You pointed to your cut lip and added, “I know people that would run for the hills with a wound like this. But our songs will mark you in history for your chivalry...”

Geralt grunted, clearly unmoved by your speech. Despite all you and Jaskier tried to do for the Witcher, he was determined to discourage your efforts. You had long since grown tired of his unamused ‘hmming’ and blank, quiet watching. Through gritted teeth you spat out a stinging end to your miniature diatribe.

“...your chivalry, which is yet another artistic reimagining.”

Before he could make another hum of displeasure, you left Geralt in the sandy dust and followed after Jaskier. He reached the chorus in your new ballad as you neared him and, as you fell into step beside him, you glanced over your shoulder. Geralt was still….still, his head moving to take in the sight of the canyon you were walking through. For a moment, you felt that maybe your speech had reached through the iced-over love in his heart.

Then you saw his shoulders sink with a sigh and the deep line of a frown on his lips form as he pressed on Roach’s flanks to push the horse forwards. You wore your own frown as you pulled your eyes to the path ahead. As you walked, you listened to Jaskier as he sang about a more poetic Geralt that slew Elves and caught coins. Never would you admit it, but it was that fictionalized Witcher in the ballad that you found yourself dreaming of in the dark of night.

What made those wonderings all the worse was the fact that the true Witcher, Geralt, your inspiration, was always a mere few paces away. Whether you were staying the night in a grimey inn or were laid across from him with a campfire between you, as you were later that night, Geralt was always nearby. Always a reminder of what, of who, you couldn't have. Being held hostage by the steep rock faces of the canyon did not help to ease that turmoil. Even over the crackling embers, you could hear Geralt shift in his sleep.

The sound echoed too much of reality and made falling to the fantasy of your dreamy Witcher far too difficult. From where you laid, you glanced to your right, away from the dwindling campfire, over to Jaskier. His lips were parted and soft snores filed out of his mouth only forcing rest farther from you. With a sigh, you looked up to the starry sky.

In it, you found the same quiet, and seemingly indifferent, company Geralt provided. You longed for more warmth; though you would never admit that out loud. The songs you wrote were devoid of romance for that purpose. You did not dare give away any hint of your feelings. Doing so would feel worse than death, you imagined.

And imagine you did. Your mind wandered and you stayed, terribly awake, staring up at the sky for a few minutes more before you got up. With your companions asleep, you were careful with your steps as you made off towards a nearby strip of woods. You hoped that a midnight stroll along the treeline would tire you out or, at least, dull the whirlwind whistling of your thoughts as they raced by.

Yet, you found yourself venturing further into the bush to better escape them. Ferns of all sorts nipped at your legs while a small symphony of nocturnal birds led you deeper. Their singing distracted you enough, but not quite enough to dull your every thought of Geralt, as he consumed so many.

And definitely not enough to ignore how a sudden mass of fog seemed to surround you. Hazy and light, the low clouds sent a shiver down your spine. How eery, you thought before you asked yourself: how could this be worked into a ballad? Perhaps there was a poor fair maiden, lost and alone, who wandered the woods in search of home.

But you were no fair maiden, and that would be considered dishonest if Geralt had any say. You scoffed at the thought. How you hated his influence over you. Every comment he made, every disapproving stare, Gods! However, it wasn’t anger for the Witcher himself that swelled in your chest. No, it was anger for yourself, for falling for a man so, seemingly, cold.

Your body, unable to hold all that disdain within itself, made your foot stomp against the obscured earth as you trekked through the fog. Heaviness nestled in your heart like a root of some toxic plant and you forced yourself to stop, take a breath. The walk through the woods wasn’t helping to clear your head, not anymore. You needed to lay down, push the thoughts aside with the promise of sleep.

Though, when you took the next few seconds to glance around, you saw only fog. “But I am lost,” you murmured bitterly, “and I am alone.”

It was then you heard the crackling of twigs. A white-hot flash of panic flooded your entire being. Where had it come from? Somewhere in the fog! Above? To the side?

Fear sent you into a frenzy of wide-eyed glances between trees and through the mist. You saw nothing but heard something. Something large, you imagined, something viler than the elves of the morning. Something with sharper teeth and a thirst for blood.

Just as you felt the darkness of doom creep over your shoulders, a glimmer in the fog caught your eyes. Almost as if a firefly found itself lost in the haze, a dull flicker of light spread through the mass of mist. The romantic in you hoped that it was a mystical muse lighting your way back to camp. A more primal part of you begged you to step towards your only possible source of illumination.

The Geralt in you, his voice nearly ever-present, scolded you. Turn around and run, that’s what it told you. For the first time, you were compelled to listen.

Quickly, you spun around on your heel and tried to ignore the continuous rustling of fauna behind you. You started forwards, back the way you came, just as the sounds of whatever hidden something grew louder. With each step you took, your apprehension grew, as did the volume of the growling, glowing creature that stalked after you. Your gut twisted with wild nerves, stirring you into the closest thing to a sprint as you could muster.

Lungs heaving, you darted through the trees in a desperate attempt to escape. Astray in the searing panic that was running for your life, you sent frantic, wild-eyed glances over your shoulder. What chased after you was a spindly figure that almost seemed to glow from its chest, shedding a dim light on the forest floor before it. Soulless eyes were sunken in a wrinkled face that was framed by a pair of pointed ears.

You didn’t have a clue what it was, only that its grimace made it less friend and more a dangerous foe.

You didn’t have a clue what it was, until a gruff voice shouted out, “Fogler!”

The yell made you jump, set your footfalls off-center, and primed you to fall flat on your face. Roots entangled your foot, anchoring you firmly and suddenly to the dirt. Stones and sharper twigs bit at every inch of skin you had exposed. You winced at the pain until the scurrying and nasty gurgling of the creature, the Fogler, pulled you back to the threat of death. Then numbed by fear, you turned and saw it.

Claws, long and dark, reached for you. In a feeble attempt of defense, you raised your hands and cried out.

Rather than a strike, thick wetness hit your open palms. Slowly, you lowered your arms and looked at where the Fogler had been moments before. The creature was still there, though it was laid back and a dagger was buried in its chest.

“Are you alright?” Asked the same gravelly, and terribly familiar, voice from before. With wide eyes, you glanced up and were met with Geralt’s amber eyes. He looked down at you, as he always did, with his hand extended towards you, fingers waiting for your own.

“You...You?”

“Were you expecting a valiant knight?” He asked, gently shaking his hand for you to take it. “C’mon.”

You shook your head and stood on your own, despite the aching in your legs. Geralt’s sudden appearance shook you from the panic that claimed you a mere moment ago. “Did you follow me? Were you following me?!”

“You went for a walk in the woods, in the dark, like an idiot. So, yes, I followed you.” Geralt replied, his hand falling to his side and gesturing towards the slain creature behind you. "It's a good thing I did."

"A good thing?!” “Yes,” Geralt replied coolly. Even in the limited light, you could make out his stone-cold features. There was no give in him. No deeper twinge that whispered of concern he held for you. But the way his eyes were fixed on you made you feel so watched, so wonderfully, frighteningly seen. How infuriating he was!

"Gods! All you ever do is watch and grumble and groan! You're,” you threw your hands up in the air and looked up as if the right words hung there. You found nothing. “You're-"

"What? What am I, Y/N?"

At the softer tone of his question, you felt compelled to meet Geralt’s gaze. His expression was still blank, waiting, and his posture was, as always, heavy. Shoulders were drawn back slightly, as if ready to hurl another dagger into the heart of a new threat. The way he carried himself made the quiet, honest curiosity in his voice all the more strained.

"Immovable,” you admitted in a breath, “a tower whose shadow I can’t escape."

Geralt’s lips quirked upwards then, one of those fleeting smiles that you saw him wear all too rarely. Despite his expression, there was a sadness in his voice as he said, “sounds poetic."

It was then, caught in a ray of moonlight, that you saw a Witcher more akin to the one that had your heart. Geralt’s gentle side shone through in the darkest hour. What sweet torture it was to see him at last, to have him so close, but unable to touch.

As if he read that thought, Geralt’s gaze dropped from yours and you felt a chill run down your spine. He was always out of reach. You had Folger blood on your hands anyway.

"We should get back to the camp,” you mumbled bitterly.

Geralt hummed in response, a sound you assumed was an agreement. Yet, as you began to walk past him, a hand shot out and gripped your arm. You stopped dead in your tracks and found Geralt’s eyes once more. Something shifted, something gave way.

Wordlessly, Geralt’s hand brushed down your arm until his fingers found your wrist. He pulled one of your ichor-covered hands close to his chest. You wanted to ask what he was doing, what he was planning, but you didn’t dare ruin the moment or interrupt the sensation of his skin against your own. When he pulled out an already grimey handkerchief from a pocket on his dark trousers, any question you held died on your tongue.

“Thank you,” you murmured as Geralt wiped the blood off your hands. His movements slowed as crimson soaked in the fabric, but he did not loosen his grip. You saw the amber of his eyes flick down to your lips before he looked into your eyes again.

"Poetic enough for you?"

There was an edge to his question. Not quite like the refined, cutting edge of Geralt’s favorite sword or the usual harsh honesty his words were laced with. No, it was teasing. It was an edge of humor that you had barely seen Geralt express since you met him.

“So much so that I must be imagining it,” you replied, playing into his tone.

Geralt’s eyes wandered back down to your lips at your response. When he met your gaze again, there was a question heavy in his features, his furrowed brow, and parted mouth. You leaned in closer, hoping he would take the hint, take your silent answer to his silent question. When his grip on your wrist tightened and he pulled you to his chest, you became grateful for the Witcher’s watchfulness, his intuitiveness.

Through you were far more grateful for the surprising softness of his lips, how easily they melded against your own. How you fit together like a dream, like two lines of poetry that flowed lyrically into each other. Your next song felt like that midnight kiss.

[ghostinthelibrarywrites]

I'd love to hear more about Not a Soulmate AU

Not a Soulmate AU is a Geraskier fic where most people are born with soulmarks the color of their soulmate's eyes on their face. Jaskier is one of the very few born without a soulmark, which makes his aspirations of becoming a bard challenging. People don't take him seriously when he sings about love and romance, since the cultural perception is that love between soulmates is the only kind of True Love.

And then he meets Geralt, the first person he's ever met who also doesn't have a soulmark. (Most witchers do have soulmarks; Geralt is an outlier.) The fic is kind of stalled at this point, because I wrote the first 5K words in a rush, got to the point where Jaskier and Geralt meet, and realized that I hadn't actually figured out a plot yet. I know I want Jaskier to kind of desperately imprint on Geralt at first, since he thinks this might be his only chance at True Love, before he grows up a bit and gets to know Geralt as a person, rather than an ideal. I just haven't figured out how they get to that point yet or how long it will take.

Snip under the cut, since it's kind of long.

“Had this composition been handed to me by any other student, I would think I was looking at the work of the greatest bard of the decade.”

The warm little glow of pride in Jaskier’s belly is doused as surely as the time Valdo woke him by dumping ice water on his head. “What?”

Professor Weiss puts aside the parchment. “Julian, you must understand. People don’t just want a pretty song, they want to feel something when they hear music. Love, lust, anger, sadness. No one will listen to a bard with no soulmark sing about romance and believe a word he’s singing.”

“I can sing about romance.” It’s a child’s protest, Jaskier knows, as useless as when he promised Priscilla that he really did love her, that his lack of soulmark meant nothing compared to what he felt for her.

The old man sighs and shakes his head, pale blue eyes filled with pity. “Perhaps, but the people of the Continent won’t see it that way.“

Jaskier opens his mouth, remembers that he has months to go until graduation, then closes it.

“You still have options,” Professor Weiss says kindly. Honestly, Jaskier would prefer if he were a bastard about it. “Professor Andersen is searching for a new teaching assistant. I’d be happy to recommend you. Many talented songwriters make good coin writing songs for other bards to perform.”

“No.” Jaskier’s hand twitches towards his composition, like he can shield it from the very suggestion. The thought of those words—all the grief and loneliness and longing—being sung by another bard makes him feel nauseous.

“There’s no easy way to say this,” Professor Weiss says. “But no court on the Continent will employ a bard without a soulmark. I’m sure you know better than anyone that those without soulmarks make people… uneasy.”

“Then I won’t sing at a court.” Jaskier feels angry tears prickling the corners of his eyes. “I’ll travel the Continent, sing for the common folk.”

The professor heaves a sigh. “And you’ll consign yourself to a life of hungry, cold nights.”

Jaskier doesn’t want to sit here anymore and listen to this, especially when he can’t help but fear that the old man is right. “Thank you for the advice, professor. If I may go?”

Professor Weiss nods his permission.

Jaskier makes it two steps towards the door before the professor says, “Julian?”

Jaskier turns, swallowing back the bitter taste in his mouth. “Yes, professor?”

“I’ve taught at Oxenfurt for nearly fifty years,” Professor Weiss says. “In that time, I’ve seen six students without soulmarks pass through the bardic college. Their names were Agata Snyder, Simon Ludvic, Kristoph Meyerhoff, Mikhail Johansen, Lydia Kovac, and Gregor Friedrich. Have you heard of any of them?”

Jaskier shakes his head.

“That’s because not a single one of them made it as a bard. Lydia took orders at the Temple of Melitele and Kristoph had a somewhat successful career writing songs for other bards. The others tried their hands at being bards. None made it. Most went out on the road and were never heard from again.”

Jaskier swallows hard. “That won’t be me.”

He can tell from the look on Professor Weiss’ face that the old man doesn’t believe him. “I genuinely hope that’s true, Julian."

Ask me about my WIPs!

[rebrandedbard]

Good morning, I had an idea and I wanted to share (could be a prompt if you want): So, Jaskier definitely, absolutely wants to learn Geralts potions and which to give when. But they aren't labelled at all and you've got to discern by shapes and colours. I firmly believe Jaskier writes a little ditty for that and maybe it spreads or maybe Geralt wakes up after a hunt with vague memories of that song after Jaskier saved him...

Jessi you know exactly what to say to get a fic out of me. Invoke my musicality! Just for you, not one, but two songs Jaskier uses for Geralt's potions!

-

Witcher's Brew

wc - 2476

Geralt wakes up after a hunt gone wrong and finds himself patched up in bed. He waits for Jaskier to arrive and overhears him singing a strange song to himself as he fusses with Geralt's potion supplies.

-

Rabbit stew, warm and fresh from the pot. It was the first thing Geralt could remember upon waking. They’d had rabbit stew at midday, just before the hunt. He almost imagined he could taste it on his dry, cut lip, but the lingering bitter taste of White Raffard’s Decoction chased the last of the memory away. He could not recall taking any potions. In fact, he had trouble remembering what it was he’d been fighting. His head was vague, all the details swirling at the edges in a haze. Someone had been speaking to him, he thought. Was it the chanting of a kitchen maid, timing her baking with a prayer? Or was it a song?

A song.

Geralt sat up with a grunt. “Jaskier,” he called, voice rough and catching in his throat. He looked around the darkness of the room, but he was alone. He scented the air. Jaskier had been near in the last hour or so, his smell not yet faded. It tasted bitter on his tongue, like the decoction: bitter like the musk of fear. The tang of salt hung in the air as well. Tears. But there was more. From the table at his side came an earthy scent and he discovered a bowl of mushrooms upon it. Sewant mushrooms.

That’s right. They’d been in the caves. The vision of the beast rose to the forefront of his mind and he remembered that they’d been fighting not a wyvern as hired, but a slyzard. It had been a deadly miscalculation, for the beast could breathe fire over a great distance. Geralt felt the fresh burns on the back of his neck, smelled the poultice pasted there. He remembered pulling Jaskier behind cover. He’d not had the chance to see whether he’d been burned as well. There had been too much to distract him; he did not even know if he’d slain the beast.

There had been mushrooms in the cave. Someone had to have brought them. Jaskier would be foolish enough to return to the caves, even if the beast still lived. But for mushrooms? Geralt could not imagine why.

“Sewant from the sewer caves, crows’ eyes, fang of beasts; blood from all the nasty things, and myrtle pure as priests.”

Geralt turned to the sound of Jaskier’s singing beyond the door. It cracked open and there the bard stood, arms hidden beneath a mass of white flowers. He had, too, a leather pouch dangling from around his wrist. Unloading his burden upon the table, he flipped through the open bestiary, still singing under his breath. It was not his usual kind of song; it was lifeless, simple rhyme and meter without passion. He did not even glance Geralt’s way as he set to work, grinding ingredients together in a mortar.

“Mistletoe and mutagen, aloe leaf of wolf; green mold, han, and celandine, then in the flame engulf.”

Jaskier poured the concoction into a potion bottle and hurried to the fire. He bent to light it, cursing as the matches failed beneath his shaking hand. He cursed louder, his hand slipping again. His voice began to shake as he continued his chant.

“Remember Raffard’s recipe and count it by this rhyme; be ye neither quick nor slow to measure out the time. Once the brew has bubbled and its color turns to red, let cool and cork then brew again to raise him from—”

Jaskier’s voice caught in his throat as he failed to light the match once more. He gripped the potion bottle in his hand and wiped at his eyes, unable to finish the line. “To raise him—”

“From the dead,” Geralt concluded.

Jaskier whirled around, dropping the bottle upon the floor. It shattered, spilling its contents into the hearth and over his boots. But he didn’t pay it any mind. He ran to Geralt’s side and knelt before the bed. His hands were everywhere at once, prodding gently, examining him.

“Geralt,” he breathed. Then everything came out in one great rush, each new thought interrupting the last. “Oh fuck, I was—! You weren’t moving. You just dropped to the ground the minute your sword—! I had to carry you back, and you only had one vial left. I was so worried I wouldn’t be able to make more before …”

“One vial is enough,” Geralt said. He nodded toward the supplies on the table. “Is that White Raffard’s?” he asked, knowing it could be nothing else.

Jaskier nodded, silent.

“What was that song just now?”

Jaskier bit his lip, looking guilty. “I … didn’t meant to pry,” he murmured. “I promise never to share trade secrets but … I had to know how it was made. It’s one of your most important potions. If you couldn’t make one, and if we were ever in a situation where we couldn’t find a healer, I needed to know that I could save you. So I watched, and I wrote it to remember.”

“You wrote a song to remember how to brew a potion?” Geralt asked. He looked at the ingredients. They were all correct, and well-measured from the look of it. Jaskier had prepared three bottles, two still sat empty on the table. Before them, their ingredients lay in even piles, waiting to be ground in the mortar.

Jaskier took Geralt’s hand in his, pressing his forehead to it. “I can brew Raffard’s, White Honey, and Swallow. I know you need Swallow with Raffard’s, for the toxicity. And … if I ever brewed a faulty potion, I would have the Honey.”

“You know what potions to take,” Geralt said. It was less of a question, more an expression of awe. He’d never taught Jaskier about the potions, merely asking for them as needed if Jaskier were in reach to fetch them. And from that, Jaskier had learned what was needed when.

“I wrote a song for that, too. All of them: what they’re for, the ones to take before a battle, and the ones to take after.”

Geralt blinked.

“All of them?” he asked.

Jaskier looked up. He once more turned his head away in shame. Witchers’ potions were not for men to know, let alone theirs to brew. But he nodded. There was no denying it now.

“Sing it to me.”

The look on Jaskier’s face was nothing short of complete and total astonishment. Geralt never requested songs. “You … right now? You want me to sing the song?” Jaskier faltered.

When Geralt gestured toward the lute, Jaskier smiled.

“It hasn’t got music,” Jaskier said. “It isn’t meant to be sung, really. Not in that way at least.”

“But you could put it to music, I bet.”

Jaskier flushed. There was a bit of praise in there somewhere—an admission of skill. At Geralt’s request, he stood and fetched the lute. “You seem to be doing much better,” he said, sitting at his side on the bed.

“Raffard,” Geralt replied. “Are you in tune?”

Jaskier strummed the lute slowly, emphasizing each open note with pride. “Always am.”

“Sing, then.”

It only took a minute of experimental plucking before Jaskier had a set of chords prepared. He strummed them twice in succession, then began his song:

Before one fights vampiric beasts

Drink Black Blood down to spoil their feasts

And if there’s acid on the rise

First taking Bindweed would be wise

When fighting something swift and cruel

Down Blizzard quick before the duel

And if the brawl takes place at night

Take Cat to see in dimmest light

Geralt watched with open admiration as he listened. Jaskier had learned it all on his own. He’d made a careful study of the potions without any help, and what Geralt heard was thus far correct. There were trainees who’d not kept such simple things in order, even with proper instruction.

When fighting wraiths one cannot spy

De Vries’ Extract evolves the eye

And wolves will howl in perfect tune

When given life by the Full Moon

At the play on wolves, Geralt rolled his eyes. Even so, he was impressed. He’d only encountered two wraiths with Jaskier at his side. He would’ve had to pay very close attention to remember De Vries’ Extract’s purpose.

The bit about the wolves did not escape his notice either. There was a little crook in the corner of Jaskier’s mouth as he sang the words. Of course the potion made for jokes among the witchers of the school of the wolf, but they weren’t the only ones who used them.

But if one’s poisoned first, let’s say

Oriole takes the sting away

And when one bleeds, to stop the aches

A simple Kiss is all it takes

If long the task you must endure

Then take a dose of Maribor

And if one’s signs aren’t up to snuff

Then Petri’s Philter is the stuff

If one cannot avoid a hit

The vengeful Shrike takes care of it

And if you’ve time while under cover

Swallow aids a slow recover

If the battle leaves you tired

Tawny Owl may be required

And while weak one cannot parry

Thunderbolt will make foes wary

When hope is lost and at its end

White Raffard’s revives your friend

And if while brawling stunned you be

Then Willow is the remedy

For power in your every blow

Take Wolf to strike against your foe

And though it makes one wobble blind

With Wolverine their fate is signed

Remember this what else you do

White Gull is base for every brew

And when the potions start to strain

White Honey lets you start again

“You ended with White Honey,” Geralt remarked.

Jaskier lay a hand over the strings of his lute, quieting them. “It lets you start again, does it not? Once you swallow a dose of White Honey, it nullifies the effects of all potions,” he said in his most academic voice. “I thought it would be fitting to end the song there; it certainly helps to remember the purpose.”

“And you know how to brew it.”

“I find it ironic that there’s not a trace of honey in it whatsoever. In fact, far too many of your potions involve the use of vinegar, the very opposite of honey. Would it ruin the potions beyond use if I were to add a bit? A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down, they say.”

Geralt smiled. He waved his hand, gesturing for Jaskier to come closer. He put a hand on his shoulder, whispering in his ear. “I think whatever potions you brew for me in the future will be made sweet enough by that sentiment,” he said. “So don’t fuck up my recipes, bard.”

Jaskier stammered, then laughed and batted Geralt’s face. “You cheeky thing! For a moment, I thought you actually intended to compliment me.”

“Didn’t you hear me the first time?” Geralt asked. “I did.”

“Not a compliment if you insult my cooking right after. Or—well, eh—brewing, as it were.”

“Alchemy.”

“Oh, yes, that’s much more flattering. Assistant Alchemist! I do like the sound of it.”

Geralt chuckled. “You’re my assistant now, are you?”

“But of course,” Jaskier replied, waving a dramatic arm in the air. “Always have been. I only needed a proper title.

“Then tell me, assistant: what became of the slyzard?”

Jaskier grinned and leaned over to grab the leather pouch from the table. He tossed it for show and caught it with one hand before emptying its contents. A collection of sharp, bloody teeth fell onto the sheets, some with bits of pink gum still attached to the yellow base.

“I believe Raffard’s called for fang of beasts in the list of ingredients,” he said. “And there was no other beast nearby to take from. Your sword was still lodged in its back; all I had to do was give it one last thrust through the heart.”

Jaskier winked and produced another bag from his doublet, heavy with coin. “Needed proof anyway,” he said, setting it alongside the teeth. “I needed some distraction while you were out, so I checked off the list: put you on the mend, finish the hunt, get the pay, replenish supplies.”

For a moment, his cocky expression faltered. “I was just finishing up when I got a little …” he trailed, bundling up the teeth once more. “Well, it’s easier to get lost in worrisome thoughts when doing quiet tasks like foraging. But you woke up, and now there’s nothing left to fear. I’ll have a new set of potions ready for you by the time you’re well enough to get out of bed.”

“… You … killed the slyzard?” Geralt said.

“You did most of it. I just gave it the last push. It barely twitched. Honestly, its innards made more of a fuss when I went to bottle them. I think you’ll be well stocked for some time.”

Jaskier killed the slyzard. He stooped to rummaging in its bleeding corpse for the most vile and disgusting of ingredients. For his potions. Which Jaskier brewed. Which he knew how to brew by merely observing, putting it all together in simple songs to remember. And still he’d found time to collect his pay.

“Fuck me,” Geralt said in wonder.

“Maybe once you’re healed,” Jaskier laughed, ears a touch pink.

“Then kiss me,” Geralt amended. He lay his hand over Jaskier’s arm, leaning forward, enraptured. It was a simple revelation and he wondered just how long the idea had been bubbling in the back of his brain. “Kiss me,” he said. “I think I’m in love with you.”

Jaskier blinked twice, his cheeks flushing as he took in the seriousness of Geralt’s tone. “Did … you put too much White Gull in that last batch of Raffard’s?”

Geralt shook his head, his eyes never leaving Jaskier’s. “Will you kiss me?” he asked again.

“I …”

“You killed a slyzard for me.”

“Yes.”

“And you memorized my potions. In case I needed them.”

Jaskier nodded.

“You love me,” Geralt concluded. His heart gave a leap at the notion. Yes. Yes, this was something he never knew he wanted. No, not wanted—this was something he needed. If all that didn’t add up to love, he didn’t know what would. It was such a simple thing, and he was a very simple man in every meaning of the word.

“Love me, Jaskier,” he said. “Love me and kiss me, please.”

But Jaskier already did. And before the final plea could escape Geralt’s lips, Jaskier did.

I’m going to take care of you, Geralt thought. He would take care of Jaskier just as Jaskier had always taken care of him. Good care.

“I do love you,” Geralt corrected.

Jaskier chuckled. “Don’t need to think about it?”

“I don’t think I ever really did.”

[comfyswitcherblanketfort]

Grunge-Metal Geralt

Hi, im fucking trash for the idea of Geralt being the front man for a Five Finger Death Punch type band and my brain wouldn’t shut the fuck up about it. This music genre is my bread and butter and I think Geralt’s repressed but highly emotional ass would fit right in. Yes im using another Hozier song, no i dont wanna hear anything about it. I’m a basic bitch and ive made my peace with it

Warnings: i honestly have no idea, its a little horny, little emotional, but theres no actual character interaction?, its at a concert venue? idk yall.

_________________________

Jaskier was… out of his comfort zone.

It’s not that he didn’t like the grunge-metal music, he just hadn’t listened to much and he was not used to the energy. People were yelling and screaming and the opener hadn’t even come on yet. He didn’t feel unsafe, far from it. Several people had checked to see if he was okay, seeing as he was the only person in the entire arena wearing a sweater that wasn't ripped or faded to hell. It was just a far cry from the shows he was used to. 

He played folky-blues. This was nothing like his shows. 

When the lights went down the crowd was deafening, all moving as one to rush the front of the floor, not giving a single fuck about tickets. 

The openers were exciting, and Jaskier was surprised by some of the concepts and messages behind the music. It wasn’t what he’d expected at all and he found himself searching them up on Spotify to listen later. 

Then came The Witchers. 

Eskel and Lambert made their energetic entrance, followed by Aiden calmly walking to his drums and sitting as if he were walking into a college class. But Geralt was nowhere in sight. The one person Jaskier had actually come to see. 

He’d seen a video clip from a previous concert where they covered one of his songs, and he was praying they’d do it again. It was lovely in a haunting-almost-threatening way, and the expression in Geralt’s posture alone was enthralling. He had to see it live. 

But Geralt was still absent as the band started to build a song. First Aiden with the beat, then Eskel’s bass, then Lambert with a melody on his electric guitar. It built and built and built to a fever pitch, taking the crowd with it. People were already jumping and screeching. Jaskier had to stand on his seat to see the stage clearly. 

Geralt’s voice echoed through the venue, low and closer to a growl than singing, but he was still nowhere to be seen.

Jaskier thought he’d been prepared, but his whole body was covered in goosebumps. He briefly wondered if this was what his friends were feeling when they listened to ASMR.

Geralt remained hidden for the whole first verse, getting the crowd even more excited than Jaskier thought possible, only for the band to go completely silent for a whole measure. When the crowd's screams reached their absolute loudest, Geralt dropped from on top of one of the jumbotrons, landing on one of the horse-sized speakers before launching into the chorus. 

Oh fuck, he was even more beautiful in person. 

He was… well he was a beast of a man. Jaskier really didn’t have another word for the way his muscles bulged and how lithe and powerful he looked springing from the speaker to join his bandmates on the main stage. His thighs filled out his black, tattered jeans and there were clear faded spots where his muscles strained the fabric too often. The thin black tank he wore did nothing but pretend the man was semi-modest. It was so tight, the only thing left up to the imagination was tan lines and the color of his nipple piercings. 

Jaskier was most entranced by his long, white, wavy hair falling past his shoulders. As the show continued and he started to sweat, a lot, it got curlier and curlier at the root. Jaskier wanted to give him a mask and some curl cream, but only after a, uhm, rough night of getting to know each other. He’d heard rumors about Geralt from hitting arenas not long after they’d left. He was quite sure they’d have a great time.

As he focused on the lyrics more and more, he was more inclined to want to wrap Geralt up in a hug and worship every part of him until he felt whole again. 

Either he’d been shown the shitty side of the genre, or The Witchers were exceptions to the rule of content. Jaskier was almost moved to tears a few different times.

Finally, about an hour into Jaskier mindlessly feasting his eyes on the front man, Geralt leapt onto another speaker and sat down, breathing hard and grinning from ear to ear. 

“You still with us?”

The unholy screech from the crowd left no doubt they were just as excited, if not more so, than when they’d arrived. 

“Good! Good..” he trailed off, chuckling as he lowered the mic to take a breath, “We’re gonna slow it down for a minute,” he leaned forward and held the mic away as Eskel shouted something up at him to which he laughed and flipped him off. 

“As I was saying, we’re gonna yearn for a minute or two and do a cover. Song by Jaskier called ‘Talk’.”

The crowd lost their shit again, various pride flags popping up throughout the stands. 

Geralt chuckled and raised his combat boot, showing off the bi flag colored treads, earning another round of screams. If this is what the grunge-metal scene was like, Jaskier had been missing out his entire life. Sure his fans were sweet and supportive and loving when he’d come out. But this was electric and feral and completely addictive.

Lambert struck the opening chord to Jaskier’s song and the crowd settled to a gentle hum, setting the tone immediately, as if they all knew exactly what was coming. 

Geralt closed his eyes as he tapped his thigh with one finger, keeping time before his rumbling baritone hit Jaskier like a freight train. 

“I’d be the voice that urged Orpheus when her body was found…”

Jaskier could have collapsed right there. He knew he was staring like a lovesick idiot, but hell, everyone around him was too. When the chorus hit and Eskel came in with a heavy bass line he nearly fell off his chair. Geralt’s intensity raised with the addition of the backup but he didn’t move. He stayed seated, swaying slightly, with his eyes closed as he crooned out the words Jaskier had sobbed as he wrote, broken hearted and miserable. 

It was surreal. 

Sure he’d seen other covers. Sure they’d been lovely. But he wanted to listen to this and only this as he fell asleep for the rest of his life. He’d never play it again if he could only hear it one more time. 

After the last verse Lambert launched into a guitar solo while Geralt jumped off the speaker and meandered to the center of the stage to slot his mic back in it’s stand. He gripped it like a lifeline when Lambert held one last note for as long as his instrument would allow and only started singing the last chorus when it was almost silent. 

“I won't deny I've got in my mind now all the things I would do

So I'll try to talk refined for fear that you find out how I'm imaginin' you

I won't deny I've got in my mind now all the things we could do

So I'll try to talk refined for fear that you find out how I'm imaginin' you”

His expression looked hopeless and utterly desperate as he crooned out the last two lines. He let his hair fall to cover his face and Jaskier could just barely hear his panting breath over the sound system as the crowd exploded. Geralt tipped his head back and took two deep breaths before straightening up and getting on with the show but Jaskier was stuck. 

He was vaguely aware of someone taking a picture of him, but he really couldn’t care less. The fact that Geralt moved right on to a song called ‘Burn Motherfucker Burn’ didn’t matter either. 

Jaskier jumped down from his arena seat, whipping out his phone and sending the band a tweet, because apparently that’s what musicians did now?

“Record it. Please. It’s either that or sing me to sleep every night. You choose.”

He stayed for the rest of the show and walked to his car in a haze. Before he backed out of his spot he checked his phone like always and his heart nearly stopped at the two top notifications. 

One public reply: “Both? -G”

And one direct message: “If you’re still here and want to grab a drink, I’m just backstage.” 

[just-j-really]

Currently obsessed with the idea of a Jaskier’s-immortal, it’s-modern-times-now AU where some of Jaskier’s songs have survived to the modern day. They’re not like, widely sung or anything, but people know they exist. Most of them survived as scribbled lyrics but in one or two cases the music survived as well. Those get sung at ren faires by the REALLY dedicated people.

And like, some of them are barely even the same songs anymore- verses got added and changed and lost over the years, somebody added a The Moral of This Story Is verse to “Toss a Coin” like a century after Jaskier wrote it and to the horror of everyone involved, it stuck, the second verse of “Her Sweet Kiss” got lost to time aside from the first line, so everybody knows it’s supposed to be there but nobody knows what it was-

The academic debates surrounding these songs are furious and intense. People kinda know who Jaskier was, in the sense of “we know there was a bard, at about this time, named Jaskier. We know when he was born, he flits in and out of the historical record for close to a century, and we can attribute these seven songs to him.” But then you’ve got the people saying “these songs are autobiographical and we can work out the details of his life from them” vs. camp “he was clearly just making shit up,” you’ve got Shakespeare-style authorship debates (”these other ten songs were also his!” “this song is weird and bad so clearly he didn’t write it!” “this song is weird and bad and that’s probably because it’s the earliest song we have from him!” “Jaskier didn’t write his own music!”), you’ve got some historians who study witchers very politely asking if they can play with the songs for a minute-

So. Many. Theses. Have been written about “Her Sweet Kiss,” with subjects ranging from “how many people is this song about, actually? Two? three? four?” to “who were these people to each other” to “can we pin down specific historical figures for these people” 

Meanwhile Jaskier’s a super obscure indie musician who occasionally tweets things like “The subject of whether or not I am gay is the subject of much scholarly debate. This isn’t just invasive, it’s stupid, if you’ve heard any of my songs you know I’m bi” and has REALLY STRONG OPINIONS on what those obscure, seven-century old ballads are about.

He sings “Her Sweet Kiss” at some open mic night and everybody’s like “Oh, that’s cool, you made up a second verse” while he grumbles under his breath that he made up the first verse, too, but nobody ever gives him credit for it these days