What pleases me

Geralt first meeting Jaskier!

Witchers are rarely someone people run towards. Normally away. Geralt is sailing in the icy south, doing whatever it is Witchers do. It’s McFucking cold and empty, not another human for ages. Beautiful, but brutal.

Then he sees something breach the water. It’s a seal - a gigantic, strangely-proportioned seal from anything he’s seen before, spotted and sleek and powerful with fearsome teeth - and it’s being chased by orca. The leopard seal’s sole natural predator.

He expects to witness an animal hunt, but the seal books it for his boat and dives in, flattening him. Before Geralt can draw his sword, he finds himself with a lapful of a drenched, terrified, exhausted man, spotted sealskin loose around his shoulders, clinging to Geralt and pleading to let him stay in the boat until the orca lose interest now their prey has “vanished.”

"Oh, whoa," the selkie exclaimed, leaning closer to Geralt. "That was a close one. It would be terrible—dreadful—to be eaten by an orca. Absolute jerks, by the way."

"So I've heard," Geralt replied, uncertain how to proceed. His gaze flicked pointedly toward the very naked selkie. "You should cover yourself."

"Oh, right. You humans and your strange obsession with clothes." The selkie gathered his pelt around his shoulders, fashioning it into a rough cloak. "I'm Jaskier, by the way."

"Geralt," the witcher said. "And I'm not human."

Jaskier laughed.

"You, witcher, are certainly more human than I am."

His eyes drifted toward the ocean. Unfortunately, the orca was still circling offshore.

"And since it doesn't look like I'll be going anywhere anytime soon..."

"I can row you back to shore," Geralt offered.

Jaskier clapped his hands together, delighted.

Geralt hated himself.

No—that wasn’t quite true. What he hated was the other him, the one who had stepped out of another world as though the Continent had split its ribs open and spilled him through.

The stranger looked enough like a witcher to twist something ugly in Geralt’s chest. White hair. Yellow eyes. The same hard mouth carved by too many winters and too many graves. Only this Geralt wore a broad scar over one eye.

And worse still, they thought alike.

The same silences. The same careful watchfulness. The same habit of lingering near doorways instead of sitting properly in chairs.

Geralt could see it every time the other man glanced toward danger before anyone else noticed it. Could hear it in the clipped answers, the dry muttered remarks.

They were mirrors tilted slightly out of place.

Except this Geralt was kind to Jaskier.

Not politely tolerant. Not long-suffering. Not the weary affection Geralt himself hid behind grunts and sharp words.

No. This Geralt smiled at him.

And Jaskier smiled back.

It happened so easily it made Geralt feel sick.

The other witcher leaned against the table while Jaskier talked, listening as though every ridiculous story mattered. He laughed at Jaskier’s terrible jokes. Brushed fingers against his shoulder when passing behind him. Small things. Effortless things.

Jaskier glowed beneath the attention.

His laughter rang warm through the room, bright as firelight on gold, and every sound of it lodged itself beneath Geralt’s ribs like a knife.

Because Geralt wanted to do that.

Wanted to make Jaskier grin until his eyes crinkled at the corners. Wanted to draw that helpless laughter from him. Wanted Jaskier to look at him with that softness instead of at the scarred stranger wearing his face.

Like, he's old as shit. What he remembers of people courting went out of fashion a while ago.

“Geralt, did you write me a letter?” Jaskier asked, holding up a piece of paper.

“It was the proper thing to do,” Geralt answered.

“Yes, if we were apart,” Jaskier replied, his eyes darting around the paper again to make sure he was reading it correctly. “But this is just asking me about my day. You can do that in person.”

“It would give you a bad reputation if people saw that,” Geralt replied.

“My reputation is very much in check.” Jaskier counters back. “And what people, the only other living thing near the campsite is Roach.”

Under a spell, Jaskier is forced to sing for days without stopping. All for the Mage's entertainment.

Meet Jaskier former mermen and recent human. Jaskier made a deal with a sea witch to trade his fins for feet.

Now, Geralt knows these deals usually tend to fall into the witches' favour rather than the merfolk's favour.

So Geralt is basically left babysitting the newly human Jaskier as he tries to convince him to go back to the ocean, where he would be much safer

But then… the mountain, when Geralt deliberately used jaskiers curse against him, casting him from Geralts side, and all the way back to lettenhove, into the hands of his family…

Jaskier has stopped struggling and fighting by now, his eyes dead and heart shattered. One night, he made his way to the bridge over the waterfall. He stood on the railing, and decided this would be his last act of free will.

But, then, Geralt appears to stop him…

Someone must love you without any strings. That was the way to break his curse of obedience.

But Jaskier knew now that this was impossible. With the curse, he was the perfect doll; without it, he was nothing.

So Jaskier stood atop that waterfall.

“Jaskier, stop!” Geralt yelled.

The bard became frozen in place. “Really, Geralt, you can’t let me have this one thing,” Jaskier replied.

“If that one thing is for your death,” Geralt said, “then no, I can’t let you have it.”

Jaskier let out a bitter laugh. “Well, come on then, order me off the legend. Come command me to be your punching bag again. Or better yet, how about I come suck you off, I am the witcher whore you know.”

“No your not,” Geralt said, taking a step closer. “Your Jaskier, and I promised you a long time ago that I wouldn’t give you any orders.”

“People break promise” Jaskier answered.

“They do, I did,” Geralt said, “and I’ll always be sorry about that. After this, if you never want to see me again, that’s fine, but I think you’ll want to hear what I have to say.”

“What would that be?” Jaskier asked skeptical.

Geralt took a deep breath. “Julian Alfred Pankratz, you will no longer have to obey.”

And when Geralt found him again, years later… he realizes that jaskier became just how he was before he met the bard…

“Three words or less, witcher,” Jaskier said is eyes cold and uncaring.

Geralt looked at the bard, his amazing bard.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt said finally, but then he did something out of character. “And I love you.”

Jaskier blinked; for a second, his walls came down. For the second, Geralt saw his Sweet Jaskier again.

And Jaskier is doing fine, he’s doing great. He’s even stopped crying himself to sleep at night.

Now, one day, Jaskier learns about a serial killer who's been targeting witchers.

Curiosity gets the best of Jaskier, and he decides to start investigating. However, the serial killer also figures that what better way to lure out the white wolf.

Geralt doesn't know what to do with this information. Sure, Geralt's always wanted to invite Jaskier to spend the winter, but doing it by hastily breaking the bard out of prison wasn't really in Geralt's plan.

At some point during their travels, Geralt would watch Jaskier sleep. To make sure the bard was still breathing. Currently, Geralt is watching Jaskier sleep in Kear Morhen.

It helps that Jaskier is really cute when he sleeps.

The othe witcher agree when they come to see what Geralt is doing.

HELLO I'M FINALLY DONE WITH THIS AAAAAAAAAAA heavily inspired by Kevin Zamir Goeke's works, he's done concepts for the witcher as well so it just felt really fitting haha.

The pretty human giggled at Geralt’s attempt to sing. “That was a good try,” he said kindly.

Geralt, the siren, floated in the water, his tail stirring gentle ripples. He wanted to impress the pretty human more than anything, but uncertainty tightened his chest.

“If you want to improve your singing, you have to practice your scales,” Jaskier explained.

“My scales?” Geralt asked, glancing down at himself.

They joke about it among themselves. Say it’s inevitable. You travel with a witcher long enough, you start to smell like one.

What they never tell the bard is the other reason.

That it isn’t just proximity, or shared cloaks, or nights spent too close to the same fire.

It’s because Jaskier is Geralt’s mate.

The argument that follows is sharp and strange, Geralt snapping far quicker than usual, his words lacking their familiar restraint. When it ends with a sudden, stinging slap across Jaskier’s face, the world tilts.

That settles it.

Geralt of Rivia would never.

It doesn’t take Jaskier long to piece together the truth: this isn’t Geralt at all, but a doppler wearing his face. The imitation is good—too good—but the soul beneath it is wrong. The doppler, however, hasn’t realized its mistake. As far as it knows, Jaskier is only confused, offended, still fooled.

So Jaskier plays along.

With careful charm and feigned concern, he begins to steer the doppler toward another town—one where witchers have reportedly been seen. He speaks of contracts, of rumors, of monsters that might require Geralt’s attention.

All the while, Jaskier’s hope burns quiet and stubborn.

He becomes what people say he is.

Call him dumb, and his thoughts slow, stumble, fracture. Call him brave, and he will charge headlong into danger without a second thought. Each word spoken about him reshapes him, chips away at what he was before. Over time, there’s less and less of Jaskier left beneath the labels.

So when they were on the mountain, when Geralt said that if life granted him one blessing, it would be to be rid of Jaskier—

The curse listened.

Jaskier became exactly that: a burden.

All at once, he couldn’t stop the voices in his head. They echoed every unspoken sigh, every impatient glance, every sharp word he’d ever heard. Worthless. Annoying. Useless. A mistake that should have known better than to exist at all.

Instead, he walks straight into a tournament.

Banners snap in the wind, armor gleams in the sun, and the crowds are thick with anticipation. Only when Geralt starts listening does the full absurdity of it sink in: this isn’t a tournament for glory or gold.

It’s a tournament for a hand in marriage.

The hand of one Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove.

Jaskier.

Geralt nearly turns around then and there. In all the years he’s known the bard, Jaskier has never once spoken fondly of marriage—let alone settling down as a respectable nobleman. Jaskier fled responsibility the way most people fled monsters. The very idea of him calmly offering himself up as a prize makes Geralt’s skin prickle.

So Geralt decides to see this nonsense for himself.

When he reaches the tournament grounds, he finds the “Viscount” holding court beneath silken canopies, smiling prettily, laughing at the right moments, waving to the crowd. At first glance, it’s Jaskier—same hair, same familiar face.

But something is wrong.

Geralt knows Jaskier. Knows the tilt of his grin, the spark behind his eyes, the way he fills a space without even trying. This man is a flawless imitation, polished and hollow all at once.

That’s not him.

Whatever is wearing Jaskier’s face, it isn’t the bard Geralt knows.

Which leaves only one option.

Geralt enters the tournament.

Officially, he’s just another contender seeking glory and a noble hand. Unofficially, he’s hunting answers—and whatever has happened to the real Jaskier.

And if he has to win the whole damned thing to uncover the truth?

Instead, the dreams started.

They were strange and vivid, bleeding into his waking hours. No matter where he went, Jaskier kept seeing the same white-haired man during the day—a figure that appeared without warning and vanished just as easily. No one else ever seemed to notice him.

If Jaskier were losing his mind, that would be the worst possible outcome. He could already imagine it: his parents seizing on his “hysteria” as an excuse to keep him locked away in Lettenhove forever, safe, quiet, and utterly miserable.

So Jaskier decided to ignore the strange man only he could see.

This plan would have worked far better if the man would stop trying to talk to him.

Years ago, Geralt had passed through Lettenhove and made a terrible mistake. He’d been cursed—his soul torn from his body and condemned to wander the estate grounds, unseen and unheard. Geralt was certain his body was still somewhere in Lettenhove. If he could find it, perhaps the curse could be broken.

All he needed was help.

Unfortunately for Jaskier, the Viscount-turned-bard happened to be the first living person with the ability to see Geralt’s ghost.