[westmoor]

an amalgamation of means to no end

And above the lilies weep (folklore insp, death tw) one // two // ao3

In the blue  (*gestures vaguely*!jasker, violence tw) // i dreamed a dream - of sand on the shore - we see what we seem - the ocean still roars // ao3 

shapeshifter!jaskier // the fox - the hare - the hart

horror writer jaskier (modern AU) on ao3 

drabbles

follow the sun (geraskier) // sparrow, hound and dragon (yennefer) // sacrifice // the witch elm (yennefer, jaskier)

snippets & ficlets

Geraskier(ish) // Canon era // through a field of poppies (mcd) // geralt isn’t sure when his perspective shifts // the sounds of jaskier falling asleep // something prowling their periphery // love is for simple folk // wild geese (headed home) // all hallows // light of morning // of men and horses // kaer morhen quartet // the Wifey Records // a whole song about horses // oxenfurt in winter // liminal space // spiders // shooting stars Other/Modern AUs // winter spice // every night he takes the last train out of town // happy new year // Red Cross au

Undefined pairings/Gen fics under the cut!

🟣🟡 resignation // post-mountain 🟣🟡 by shit luck and circumstance // humor 🟡⚫ jaskier sends vesemir a book // found family adjacent 🟡🔴 a friend in need (jaskier’s pov) // comfort fic 🟡🔴 none go hungry // winter in kaer morhen 🟣🔵 burn it all down // alcohol m 🟡🟣 rooted deep // au-ish gestures vaguely!jaskier

🟡 jaskier // 🟣 yennefer // 🔴 eskel // 🔵 lambert // ⚫ vesemir

[westmoor]

He feels the wet of it first. A stickiness at his neck, shoulder, skin of his side. A muslin-thin film of warmth against devastating cold.

“He lives,” it breathes, short and guttural - a voice he’d once thought as a new-moon winter night, starless and cold, but washed with a coat of white - relief?

Jaskier chokes for a moment. Blood or bile, he doesn’t know, his spine twisting like a snake in the throes of darkness. Roughshorn cloth wipes at his mouth. He screams - thinks he’s screaming. Too much, unrelenting, and he can feel it emptying his lungs, tearing at him.

[westmoor]

Another voice, though he can’t make the tones form words, weighs itself overtop of his mindless thrash for survival. Tugging, scraping at his spine, settling like a hand atop his shoulder. Baring still yet mooring him down.

Pain returns with a vengeance, a spiral of what-ifs then-maybes and don’t-looks before the burn settles at his throat, tearing worse than the lungs in bleeding, jagged edges.

He knows Geralt’s voice, would know it anywhere, and now he turns to the solid mooring of the witcher’s hand, slipping in the pool that has already formed beneath his body on the stone slab.

[westmoor]

Next he knows he is pillowed, contrast steep to the gritting jaws grinding at mile’s distance, moments away, hushed voices at his feet.

“He’s a bard,” it insists, barring floods of realization as only Geralt’s troubled brow can.

“He is your bard,” the starless voice counters, and what he once thought harsh is nothing compared to the stone at his back, reality at his neck, his blood still seeping unto cold, dead ground. 

The sound of defeat might’ve been his, how it clung to his mortality the way he once had, in a skew-built tavern in a valley of flowers.

[westmoor]

He feels the wet of it first. A stickiness at his neck, shoulder, skin of his side. A muslin-thin film of warmth against devastating cold.

“He lives,” it breathes, short and guttural - a voice he’d once thought as a new-moon winter night, starless and cold, but washed with a coat of white - relief?

Jaskier chokes for a moment. Blood or bile, he doesn’t know, his spine twisting like a snake in the throes of darkness. Roughshorn cloth wipes at his mouth. He screams - thinks he’s screaming. Too much, unrelenting, and he can feel it emptying his lungs, tearing at him.

[westmoor]

Another voice, though he can’t make the tones form words, weighs itself overtop of his mindless thrash for survival. Tugging, scraping at his spine, settling like a hand atop his shoulder. Baring still yet mooring him down.

Pain returns with a vengeance, a spiral of what-ifs then-maybes and don’t-looks before the burn settles at his throat, tearing worse than the lungs in bleeding, jagged edges.

He knows Geralt’s voice, would know it anywhere, and now he turns to the solid mooring of the witcher’s hand, slipping in the pool that has already formed beneath his body on the stone slab.

[westmoor]

Next he knows he is pillowed, contrast steep to the gritting jaws grinding at mile’s distance, moments away, hushed voices at his feet.

“He’s a bard,” it insists, barring floods of realization as only Geralt’s troubled brow can.

“He is your bard,” the starless-night voice counters, and what he once thought harsh is nothing compared to the stone at his back, reality at his neck, his blood still seeping unto cold, dead ground. 

The sound of defeat might’ve been his, how it clung to his mortality the way he once had, in a skew-built tavern in a valley of flowers.

[westmoor]

He feels the wet of it first. A stickiness at his neck, shoulder, skin of his side. A muslin-thin film of warmth against devastating cold.

“He lives,” it breathes, short and guttural - a voice he’d once thought as a new-moon winter night, starless and cold, but washed with a coat of white - relief?

Jaskier chokes for a moment. Blood or bile, he doesn’t know, his spine twisting like a snake in the throes of darkness. Roughshorn cloth wipes at his mouth. He screams - thinks he’s screaming. Too much, unrelenting, and he can feel it emptying his lungs, tearing at him.

[westmoor]

Another voice, though he can’t make the tones form words, weighs itself overtop of his mindless thrash for survival. Tugging, scraping at his spine, settling like a hand atop his shoulder. Baring still yet mooring him down.

Pain returns with a vengeance, a spiral of what-ifs then-maybes and don’t-looks before the burn settles at his throat, tearing worse than the lungs in bleeding, jagged edges.

He knows Geralt’s voice, would know it anywhere, and now he turns to the solid mooring of the witcher’s hand, slipping in the pool that has already formed beneath his body on the stone slab.

[westmoor]

He feels the wet of it first. A stickiness at his neck, shoulder, skin of his side. A muslin-thin film of warmth against devastating cold.

“He lives,” it breathes, short and guttural - a voice he’d once thought as a new-moon winter night, starless and cold, but washed with a coat of white - relief?

Jaskier chokes for a moment. Blood or bile, he doesn’t know, his spine twisting like a snake in the throes of darkness. Roughshorn cloth wipes at his mouth. He screams - thinks he’s screaming. Too much, unrelenting, and he can feel it emptying his lungs, tearing at him.

[thewitchersdaily]

ANNA SHAFFER For 12 Storeez / via Instagram

[fruitblush]

[fruitblush]

[candied-cae]

Hold up-

How am I just now really understanding these lines?!

“The leader who rose against the lioness”

The wording makes it sound like it's an endorsement.

"The bard's songs claimed that you were the King of the Elves"

And this! In the episode S1E2, we heard Jaskier call Filavandrel the king of elves and such, but it's never mentioned in Toss a Coin. So this is a line from a different song.

“At the edge of the world” is a direct quote from Toss a Coin, so we can assume the other lines are quotes as well...

Which means, that scene wasn't just to show Yennefer and Fringilla talking to him, it was also to provide a hint that when Jaskier wasn't singing about Geralt or his love interests... He was using his songs for political activism.

He (probably) publicly sang a song, for the elves, about their Uprising, in favor of the cause. He supported them, and might’ve not only been singing them to the elves, and could've also tried to rally people to their cause by singing to other races and showing them what the elves were fighting for.

Because if the song was merely to report what was happening, it might’ve been worded more like “the rebellion against the crown, the foolish false king, a rioter, insurgent, heretic” but no. Those aren't the words he used. It’s hopeful and it's more like an appraisal to Filavandrel's work for his people.

Jaskier probably saw the damage that Toss a Coin contributed to (reminder that he was roughly 18 when he wrote it) and decided to go get educated and wrote better songs when he understood more of what was really happening.

Brb- gonna go cry at Jaskier's growth after he escaped the human's propaganda, went out and got woke about Elven racial and sociopolitical issues, tried to sing songs to help (the only thing he'd ever felt like he'd been able to do), and then when he was fed up with feeling helpless he became the Sandpiper, to actually do something to try and save as many of them as he could.

[horsedadgeralt]

It's stupid, really. It's nothing more than a dumb joke, an attempt to keep the conversation going — "What do you call a horse that likes to stay up late? A night mare!"

And yet Jaskier sees how the corners of Geralt's mouth curl upwards just for a moment before he composes himself and puts on the same stoic expression he always wears.

Challenge accepted.

"Geralt?"

"Yes, Jaskier?"

"What does it mean when you find a horse shoe on the ground?"

The Witcher rolls his eyes.

"Good luck. But that's just a superst—"

"No, it means some poor horse is walking around in socks."

Geralt is shooting daggers at him, but Jaskier can see that the walls are crumbling.

Thank the gods he never forgets a joke.

"Why couldn't the pony sing?"

"Jaskier, please."

No. Not when your smile is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

"Because he was a little hoarse." He flashes the Witcher a cheeky grin as he tells the punchline, and then—

Geralt lets out a snort, loud and sudden and ugly, and yet it is music to Jaskier's ears.

"A little... a little hoarse..." he says and if it wasn't happening right in front of him, Jaskier could almost believe he's dreaming as he sees Geralt giggle.

His nose crunches up and tiny dimples appear on his cheeks as the Witcher is shaken by tiny laughs, unable to hide them even though his face is buried in his hands.

Jaskier watches in silence and stares. He has never seen the Witcher so relaxed, so carefree and happy, and it takes a while before he has calmed down again, a little smile still on his face as he glances over to the bard.

"'Gonna have to try that one on Lambert." Geralt's eyes twinkle, and Jaskier is basking in their light.

He is going to tell jokes more often from now on.

[queen-breha-organa-archived-dea]

Do you hate Valentine’s Day? Does it make you feel lonely and sad?

Great news bestie, I have the perfect replacement holiday for you:

James “Colonizer Bitch” Cook was murdered in Hawai’i by my ancestors on Feb 14th, 1779, on Kealakekua Bay. This iconic move ended his reign of terror across the Pacific, where he ruined everything and was overall a massive dick. Buy yourself some chocolate and fondly remember how Kānaka Maoli stabbed James to death and burned his corpse. It’s the perfect holiday for all ages ❤️

Rest in pieces James Cook, you haole bitch.

[westmoor]

no thoughts only olympic curling

[westmoor]

some thoughts but still only olympic curling:

lead: coën (often underestimated but often sets the most important stones in a match. sweeper.)

second: lambert (fast-playing hard-hitting takeout king. sweeper. infamous for accidentally cracking rocks doing runbacks. may or may not have some brooms on his conscience too.)

vice/third: eskel (surprisingly gifted at high-precision and high-curl shots, not above a solid takeout though. strategist at heart.)

skip: geralt (obviously. strategic allrounder, calls the shots. even makes lambert listen - most of the time.)

coach: vesemir (tired. will stay on that ice 'til he dies on it though.)

[westmoor]

but also:

jaskier runs commentary, obviously. usually starts singing somwhere around the third end - if he can hold back through the second.

yennefer and geralt were mixed doubles partners for a while. strategically matched but kept bickering on the ice.

yennefer and jaskier had a feud going for years (possibly a little one-sided though one did have at least two hours of talking to fill - per game) but after yen sustains a stress injury, she's invited to guest narrate some of team KM's games. the banter is the stuff of legends.

once recovered, she moves on to be the skip for aretuza.

[westmoor]

no thoughts only olympic curling

[westmoor]

some thoughts but still only olympic curling:

lead: coën (often underestimated but often sets the most important stones in a match. sweeper.)

second: lambert (fast-playing hard-hitting takeout king. sweeper. infamous for accidentally cracking rocks doing runbacks. may or may not have some brooms on his conscience too.)

vice/third: eskel (surprisingly gifted at high-precision and high-curl shots, not above a solid takeout though. strategist at heart.)

skip: geralt (obviously. strategic allrounder, calls the shots. even makes lambert listen - most of the time.)

coach: vesemir (tired. will stay on that ice 'til he dies on it though.)

[bananonbinary]

 tbh i fully believe that healthy kids should be getting in some stupid trouble.

like, a child that’s in trouble all the time, frequently skipping school, getting caught doing crimes? that’s a kid that desperately needs literally any positive attention. that kid needs help. obviously.

but a child that is perfectly well-behaved, never speaks up for themself, is seen and not heard? that’s a child that’s afraid. they also need help.

[westmoor]

no thoughts only olympic curling

[westmoor]

Jaskier doesn’t sing.

No one asks him to. Not in earnest. He doesn’t know what he would if they did.

The effect is surprising in its swiftness - how his breath goes shallow and voice hoarsens.

His knees are the first to start aching, but the rest follows suit and soon enough, every movement is a chore. Decay sets root in his heart and spreads to his limbs with each beat it makes.

There’s a faint taste of blood at the roof of his mouth.

He swallows it back with the contents of whatever bottle finds his hand, and doesn’t sing.

[westmoor]

It was an easy trade. He’d never thought twice about it.

His human life, for a life of song.

It was such a simple thing, easier to do than not. With all the courage of youth now everlasting, it had been more worry than a fear, that he’d open his mouth someday and find nothing.

He knows he played his part. He took the road of his heart and in return, it gave him the songs to walk alongside it.

But now he opens his mouth to the hollow of his chest and finds it empty, and Jaskier doesn’t sing.

[hickeygenderarchive]

east, west - salman rushdie / smoke signals - chris eyre