#but. just. bards in the witcher in general

[fandom-junk-drawer]

The Witcher Headcanon - Witcher Senses: Hearing

As a Witcher, Geralt has enhanced hearing. He can hear sound pitches that normal humans don't even know exist. The enhanced sense helps to keep him alive on the Path .

Having enhanced hearing comes in handy on the Path, but sometimes, it can be quite a curse. On one hand, you have superhuman hearing and can hear everything, but on the other hand, you have superhuman hearing and can hear everything.

When he starts traveling with Jaskier, he has to get used to all the noises another living thing makes. He's used to the sounds Roach makes as she lives her horsey life, but Jaskier brings a new set of sounds he has to grow accustomed to.

Geralt can tell how his bard is feeling by listening to the sounds he makes. He can hear if he is ill by how he breathes and how his heart beats. He can tell if the stew Jaskier ate last night is going to come out one end or the other by the rumbles in his guts.

Many times, those sounds he can hear are very annoying.

Geralt lays awake many nights, the sound of Jaskier's breathing annoying the absolute f**k out of him. He feels like he understands women better

"I can't stand the sound of his breathing", and "I hate the way he breathes!", suddenly sound like very valid reasons for murder.

And Jaskier only thinks he's being quiet when, in the wee hours of the night, he decides to visit with Mrs. Rosy Palm.

Geralt discovers that silence can be very loud indeed and he can hear him from the other side of the campsite, but he does his best to pretend to be asleep so as to not make things awkward. Sometimes he makes a few sleepy sounding grunts and gets up to pretend he needs to take a p*ss or sh*t, and heads off into the woods for a bit.

Not all the sounds Jaskier makes are annoying. Some of them are pleasant. The sound of his voice as he sings quietly to himself, or laughs, or talks about everything and anything. The sound of his bickering with Yennefer. Really just the sound of his voice in general, especially when he drops his adopted Court accent and allows his Northen accent to come out.

Those are comforting sounds; sounds that make him happy.

And of course, there are sounds that just cause a visceral reaction. There aren't many things that bother a Witcher, but Jaskier accidentally discovers one of the few sounds that does.

One evening, Jaskier decides to try to find out just how good Geralt's hearing is, and badgered Geralt with all sorts of questions about it.

Geralt puts up with the questions, some of which were absurd. Sometimes, he wonders if Jaskier is just f***ing with him, trying to see how far he can wind him up.

Jaskier ignores the death glare Geralt is giving him and sits by the fire, admiring the new comb he'd bought that afternoon.

"Can you hear a bear sh*tting in the woods?"

"Can you hear the sound of one hand clapping?"

"Oh, OH! Can you hear if people are f***ing in one of the other rooms when we stay at an inn?"

Geralt casually grumbles, "No, but I can hear you f***ing your d*mn hand in your bedroll when you think I'm asleep."

Jaskier flinches, embarrassed, but covers it with a dramatic, scandalized gasp,"HoW rUdE! cAn'T a MaN gEt aNy PrIvAcY?" He frowns at Geralt when the Witcher responds with a derisive "hm" and an eye roll.

Jaskier, embarrassed and annoyed, idly runs his fingernail down the teeth of the comb, and...

...Geralt gags violently.

"Geralt, are you alright?" Jaskier asks as Geralt swallows thickly, a surprised and confused look on his face.

Jaskier instantly forms a theory.

Ooh, let's test it out!

He glances at Geralt one more time, then back at the comb, and drags his fingernail down the teeth.

Geralt made a retching sound, and a smile split Jaskier's face.

"Jaskier, don't you dar-EeUUrRggHh!"

"JaskiEeEauUrrRgGhh!"

"Stop doing tHaRRgHhKH!"

"HeuORgHKKK!"

"FaWWWUGHKing staHhuaRk!"

"BbleeEEUaRgkH!"

Jaskier is laughing and grinning as he keeps making the godsawful sound, until Geralt lunges at him and begins chasing him around the campsite.

Jaskier is dodging and running as Geralt chases him, their progress punctuated by the toothy sound of the comb, followed by gagging.

Roach watches in bemusement as her two imbeciles continue their nonsense, until Jaskier, now too busy laughing at Geralt to look where he's going, runs into a tree.

Geralt jumps on him, hisses at him, and snatches up the wretched comb, before hurling it as hard as he can into the woods.

The rest of the evening passes in sulky silence from Geralt. He feels a little bit bad for throwing the comb, and does apologize.

Jaskier just waves the incident off. He isn't too worried about the comb because he'd bought two. He refrains (with great effort) from using this newfound knowledge for evil. At least until he gets to Kaer Morhen that winter.

Lambert is the first to fall victim. He's being an ar**hole, as usual, and Jaskier, being the petty little sh*t he is, waits until his back is turned, then retaliates.

Get combed motherf**ker!

Eskel didn't do anything wrong, he just happened to unfortunately be within earshot when Jaskier took out Lambert.

Eskel had no clue where that awful sound had come from, but he d*mn near prolapsed his esophagus when it made him gag.

The other witchers were merely victims of bardic boredom.

They were all having dinner in uncharacteristic silence. Jaskier's attempts at conversation and entertainment had been met with disapproving glares and grumbles.

Oh, ok, you gloomy b**tarts, I see how it's going to be

Jaskier casually reached into his pocket and took out the comb

The quiet sound cut through the silence like the peal of a bell.

The Hall erupted in sputtering, spat drinks, and a symphony of gagging.

Jaskier is cackling madly as Witchers all over the Great Hall rise and start coming for him, cussing and snarling.

Jaskier runs for the door, pauses, and *comb sounds*

Witchers: *doubling over, falling to their knees, gagging, puking*

Jaskier had to hide in Yennefer's room until the Witchers were no longer considering outright murder.

[intrepidacious]

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[thelostgirl21]

Okay, I felt like this post (by @panur & @underthebluerain) deserved some visuals, so people could really understand and truly appreciate just how dramatic the difference in body sizes and shapes between these two gorgeous, absolutely lovely men, is!

And just how skilled the costume design team is, on the show, when it comes to giving the illusion that a character is much smaller (in Jaskier's case) or much larger (in Radovid's case), than their actors actually are.

There was an incredible post, a while back, that really explained how those wizards work their magic!

And it's utterly fascinating!!! Seriously, if you haven't read all of that yet, I highly suggest you go and take a look!

But yeah, when you look at the way their clothes have been designed this season, there's definitely been some attempt to make Jaskier look generally smaller than Joey Batey really is, while making Radovid look generally bigger than Hugh Skinner really is, too.

A few examples (with my extremely humble interpretation / things that have grabbed my eye when I look at their costumes. Please bear in mind that I am but an humble fan with no experience in costume design, so there's probably tons of stuff I've missed, and/or I might have misinterpreted some of those designers' intent):

Then, of course, there's Radovid's cloak that just... triples his size or something!

So, when you look at them side by side with their clothes on (even without the cloak), there really doesn't seem to be such a huge difference in body size and shape between the two.

Why are they so pretty though?

Like yeah, you do get the sense that Radovid might be a bit leaner, and that he has a longer torso, perhaps, but it's not THAT dramatic of a difference...

As soon as you get them out of their costumes, however...

On that last gif, you can really see that Joey's roughly the same height as Henry Cavill, and get the sense that he'd probably fit really well in a Witcher's armor, too!

Technically, their heights are listed as: - Henry Cavill: 1,85cm (6 ft 7/8 in) - Hugh Skinner: 1,83cm (6 ft) - Joey Batey 1,82cm (5 ft 11 5/8 in)

So, Joey's like 1 1/8" smaller than Henry and 3/8" smaller than Hugh.

Since I'm ½" taller than my own partner and virtually never realize it, I doubt they'd notice that 3/8" difference between them.

But yeah, one of the really funny "side effects" of costume designers being so good at their job is when you somehow manage to forget about it while watching the show and then this happens:

and your brain needs a moment to re-calibrate its settings because you're like "Right! Buff bard! Right... 6 feet tall really strong looking damsel in distress that keeps complaining Geralt could break him like a twig, when it would be something closer to splitting a log!"

Makes you wonder if people in Jaskier's family are just... naturally muscular or something (lots of fast-twitch muscle fibers?!)?

Because, while Joey is apparently into climbing, kick boxing, swimming, fencing, medieval sword fighting, etc.

Jaskier complained about needing to walk down the path of a mountain on his own, because his fancy boots kept sliding.

He does a lot of traveling and walking, sure... But that doesn't really help you develop your upper body / pectorals / arms, etc. in such a way!

Unless he just... likes the way those muscles aesthetically look on him?

You know, I really wouldn't put it past him, now that I think about it...

Over the years, Jaskier has just developed his very own calisthenics workout routine to build and maintain his looks, but feels the need to hide it.

Because "body fitness" is not exactly a popular discipline on the Continent at that time.

People tend to train to learn how to fight, or develop muscle mass while working the land or their craft, not because "they like the way those muscles look on them when taking their clothes off!"

So, Jaskier wears clothes that hide his actual body shape, since he's afraid that, if people saw and noticed how built he really is, then they'd just assume he knows how to fight and defend himself, when he doesn't.

People might stop shoving him out of harm's way, pulling him behind them to stand between him and the danger, coming to his rescue, etc.

And, since Jaskier's whole ongoing survival sort of depends on people spontaneously stepping in to save his sorry arse, well...

In the bedroom, however, the added bit of upper body strength and endurance does wonder when you want to be able to fuck someone against a wall while keeping their feet off the ground (for example).

Being able to lift and carry more than your own weight definitely has its advantages...

As Radovid has no doubt found out...

And, if the prince turned out to be a bit lighter and easier to carry around than Jaskier was initially expecting him to be, you definitely won't hear him complaining, either!

Although, I must admit that part of me also likes the idea that they might have been able to accurately "size each other up", so to speak.

Radovid's just there looking at all the lines and proportions on Jaskier's pants and shirt, while figuring out where his shoulders and arms actually stop underneath; being both fascinated by the actual size of Jaskier's body, and the choice of clothing design that's making him look much smaller than he appears to be (if his calculations are, indeed, correct)...

While Jaskier's just looking at all those layers covering Radovid, while attempting to get a rough estimate of the total naked weight underneath, and for how long he could keep him lifted... Hypothetically... For science...

But even there, there's a huge difference between knowing those clothes are playing with your perceptions and briefly getting a mental glimpse of what you think might be closer to the truth... And actually gazing upon or getting your hands all over said truth!

Because sincerely, no amount of me trying to look at this while attempting to make abstraction of the whole illusion created by the clothing design:

is successfully going to be able to make me see this:

Hence why I tend to forget about it, and need a moment to re-calibrate almost every single time Jaskier winds up getting shirtless!

Seriously, just look at the bottom gif of him shirtless, then at the top where he's got his clothes on a few times, one after the other, and try to tell me that you're able to visualize where all of that body at the bottom is managing to fit in there at the top!

It's like part of it literally went missing!

So, even if Radovid had managed to guess that Jaskier was a lot buffer than his choice of clothing was letting on, and vice versa, I'm thinking they'd still have been in for quite a bit of a surprise when they actually got each other's clothes removed!

Therefore, that headcanon would still work, regardless of Jaskier and Radovid having guessed that each of them used their clothes to make themselves appear less threatening, or more imposing than they really are.

[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.

[yeraskier]

five times everyone questions jaskier's sanity, and the time jaskier realizes he was (sort of) right all along. [inspired by yesterday's events... you know the one]

also on ao3

Geralt looks… different. Very different. Like his entire fucking face has changed different. 

He looked just like himself at supper last night, but now it’s morning, and suddenly, he looks nothing like himself. It doesn’t even make any sense. Jaskier briefly considers that maybe he had a bit too much ale the night before, but he’s drunk more than he did last night and this has never been the result.

Geralt definitely looks different. Very different. Like a whole new face different. He looks a bit taller, too, which is completely unfair.

Jaskier eyes him suspiciously, and he’s probably completely losing it, but even the man’s Adam’s apple looks different when he swallows. Gods.

He doesn’t realize he’s reached out until the tip of his index finger makes contact with Geralt’s cheek. The witcher freezes, spoon stopping midway to his mouth before he slowly turns his head.

Jaskier pokes his cheek again, and then his jaw, and then his nose.

“What happened to your face?” He asks, sliding in closer to inspect. He pokes one of Geralt’s cheekbones, twice. Three times, for good measure.

“Do that again,” Geralt growls in a way that tells the bard he most definitely should not do that again.

Jaskier drops his hand.

—

“Has anyone else noticed that something's wrong with Geralt's face?”

Ciri lifts her head from the book she’s been scribbling in as Yennefer eyes him skeptically through the mirror she’s facing.

“What are you on about now, Jaskier?”

“Geralt. His face. It’s different,” he says, stepping further into the room. “And so is his physique.”

Yennefer arches a perfectly done brow at him.

“Not that I’ve been paying, or have ever paid any attention to his physique or anything,” he amends quickly, “because I don’t…”

Ciri’s snicker covers up a muttered, “right,” which Jaskier pretends to not notice.

Yennefer sighs as she turns to face him, “Geralt is fine. He looks the same as he did yesterday, and the day before, and last week, and the week before. He looks the same as he’s looked for decades. It comes with being a witcher.”

“But—”

“Geralt is fine,” she says with a level of finality that lets Jaskier know he is not winning this argument, “and you’re an imbecile.”

—

Jaskier’s not going crazy, okay? No matter what anyone says (fuck you very much, Lambert!) he is not going crazy.

The man still walks like Geralt, and talks like Geralt, and acts like Geralt, and knows things that only Geralt would know (like the fact that Jaskier has also needed chamomile rubbed on his bum… more than once), so it must be Geralt, except for the fact that looks nothing like Geralt.

“Do you really not see a difference?”

Ciri groans from beside him, clearly irritated at her reading being disturbed. Oh well, she’ll have plenty of other chances to read during their little hiatus. “No, Jaskier, I do not see a difference.”

The bard sighs as he watches Geralt, or whoever the fuck that is, from across the library. It’s all he’s been able to do for the last three days, which, well… isn’t new since watching Geralt has become one of his favorite past times over the last decade or so, but that’s how Jaskier knows he isn’t going crazy. Something is different.

Jaskier has spent hours on hours taking in the man’s defined jaw, and his expressive brows, and his pouty lips. He’s spent so much time trying to depict the specific shade of yellow in Geralt’s eyes, and the curl pattern of his hair, and how long it takes his stubble to grow back after it’s been shaved. He’s spent far too long picking up on every little detail to be told that nothing about the man has changed, because so much has changed. 

“How could you not see the difference? Everything about him is different! I mean look at the shape of his face!” Jaskier exclaims, waving his hand wildly in Geralt’s general direction. “And look at his nose! Gods, look at that nose!”

Ciri blinks at him once. Then, again. She doesn’t blink for three beats and then, she blinks again.

“Look!”

She does look this time, and she even squints. Jaskier waits, watching her, mentally begging for that realization to dawn over her.

Her lips do a thing where they press together and push upward, almost like a frown. “I think you’re right,” she tells him.

Jaskier’s eyes widen, posture straightening in alert.

“His skin looks much more vibrant, I think that new soap Yen got him is working.”

His eyes narrow into slits, and Ciri turns to him with a cheeky grin.

“Very nice, Ciri,” he drawls, “very nice.”

Jaskier huffs as he slumps back in his seat, turning his attention back to Geralt.

She’s right, though, his skin does look more vibrant.

—

“Triss, you’ve got to believe me,” Jaskier whines.

“I’ll believe it when I see it, Jaskier,” she says, “but I just saw Geralt, and he looked fine, same as he’s looked the last ten times I’ve seen him since I got here.” She continues her journey down the hall, and Jaskier is truly surprised by how fast the woman walks. 

“But he isn’t! He isn’t himself, Triss, I swear, and I’m the only one who realizes!”

Triss comes to such an abrupt stop that Jaskier almost crashes into her. When she turns around, her head rolls, along with her eyes. She looks as exasperated as Jaskier feels.

“Suppose Geralt’s face somehow did change, how would that have happened, Jaskier? Explain that to me.”

“Well, I don’t know how exactly, but it must have been the work of a mage. Or maybe one of his potions!”

Triss levels him with a flat look. “A potion? Really? Right, because witchers are running around making potions that can help them shapeshift.”

And when it’s put like that, Jaskier realizes how insane he sounds. “That doesn’t rule out the possibility of a mage!”

“You guys have been in Kaer Morhen for weeks now. Just you, Ciri, Yen, a bunch of witchers, and now, me. And last I checked, Yennefer warded this place so well Melitele herself could strike this area right now and everyone here would remain untouched.” She’s talking with her hands, something she does when she’s at her wit's end, something she does when she’s refraining from turning the person she’s talking to into a toad. “That, alongside the protections that were already set up, means that the possibility that any mage could waltz in here uninvited, or even come close enough to this place, to cast some face-changing curse on Geralt is absolutely zero.” 

“Yes, but—”

“You need rest, Jaskier. You’re starting to sound diabolical.”

With that, she turns on her heels and leaves him in the hallway.

—

“So… you and Geralt have known each other for quite some time now, huh?”

Vesemir looks unimpressed.

It’s an expression he’s becoming quite familiar with.

Jaskier flashes his most charming smile, “have you by any chance noticed any changes in his appearance?”

Dead silence. Great.

“Anything at all?” He presses on hopefully.

The witcher’s expression goes from unimpressed to murderous.

Jaskier has never bolted from a room so fast in his entire life.

—

Jaskier knows this isn’t really the smartest plan he’s ever had, it’s probably in the top five of the dumbest, actually.

He doesn’t know what he has to gain from watching Geralt sleep, but it’s better than just sitting back and waiting for answers to come to him. And alright, he’ll be the first to admit that it’s kind of (really!) fucking creepy, but Jaskier has to get to the bottom of this. So, watching Geralt sleep has to hold some kind of answer.

Many years of sleeping alongside the witcher have taught him how to maneuver without waking the man up, he’s grateful for that now in a way that he’s never been before.

Despite what many may believe, Geralt’s quite the peaceful sleeper. He barely moves, he breathes softly, his face remains soft and pliant— he sleeps like… well, an angel. Even with this brand-new face, all of these little things still exist.

There’s always a certain level of alertness, though, something Jaskier realized early on, but that seems to be nearly nonexistent tonight. It must be Kaer Morhen. Geralt’s at peace here. It’s probably one of the few places, if not the only place, where he truly feels safe. The thought makes Jaskier’s heart melt.

For the second time this week, he finds himself reaching out almost involuntarily. The back of his fingers run along the side of Geralt’s face, and the witcher releases a hardly audible sigh. Jaskier smiles, allowing his fingers to wander a bit, lightly tracing the lines of Geralt’s face, both sharp and smooth.

Geralt’s nose twitches, and Jaskier taps a finger to it. Definitely number one on the list of the dumbest things he’s ever done.

The witcher startles awake, sitting up so fast he nearly headbutts Jaskier. He probably would’ve had the man not fallen off the bed, and flat onto his ass onto the cold, hard ground.

“Ow,” Jaskier groans.

“Jaskier?” And oh, fuck, that sleep-worn voice always did things to him, and right now is not the best time for any of those things to be happening.

Geralt’s eyes zero in on him, and Jaskier offers a weak smile and a wave.

“What the fuck are you doing, Jaskier?”

“Trying to figure out what happened to your face,” he responds, and it comes off as more of a question than an answer

Even in the dark, Jaskier can feel Geralt glaring at him. Then, the witcher lights up the candles beside his bed, and Jaskier can see Geralt glaring at him.

“This again?”

“Yes, this again.” Jaskier hisses defensively, dusting his buttocks off as he rises to his feet. “There is something incredibly wrong with your face, and no one else sees it, but I do.”

“Jaskier—”

“No! I’m being serious right now, Geralt. Your face has changed, alright? It’s completely changed, and I don’t know why I’m the only one who has realized but—”

“Wait—”

“I’m starting to feel kind of crazy over here, and I—”

“I think I know what’s going on. Yen—”

“...don’t understand how everyone else can just—”

“Jaskier, you’re not listening.” Geralt’s standing, now, and he’s all up in Jaskier’s space the same way Jaskier was in his mere minutes ago. And he’s shirtless, which is very, very distracting.

But not distracting enough, Jaskier is on a mission here, Godsdamnit. 

“No, you’re not listening. Your fucking face—”

“My face is fine. Yennefer—”

“Your face is not fine, Geralt. I mean, it’s not like you look like a gremlin or anything, but—”

“Yen, she—”

“You’re still beautiful—”

“Yennefer is fucking with you, Jaskier.”

“I don’t think any curse could ever make you less beautiful—” Wait.

“Wait.” That was Geralt’s voice, as if he’d read Jaskier’s mind.

“Yennefer’s fucking with me?!” Jaskier exclaims at the same time Geralt says, almost breathlessly, “you think I’m beautiful?”

“Huh?” The bard answers dumbly, “what? Yes, of course, I think you’re beautiful. Woo-hoo, this isn’t news to anyone. Now, what do you mean Yennefer’s fucking with me?”

Geralt doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t do anything. He just stares. He stares for so long that Jaskier starts thinking that maybe Geralt’s the one fucking with him.

“Hello?” Jaskier snaps a few times. “Continent to Geralt?”

The witcher seems to blink out of it and huffs a laugh.

“Remember last week when you replaced the soap Yennefer uses for her hair with an ink of sorts?”

Yes, Jaskier does remember. Vividly. It’s one of the best pranks he’s pulled on the sorceress since they started their little game. “And it turned her hair red.”

Geralt hums in confirmation, “well, you know Yennefer. She said she’d do something about it. I didn’t know what, but… seems like it was this. She casted a beholder spell on you.”

“A what?”

“It’s a spell that makes whoever it’s put upon see whatever the caster wants them to see. In this case, it was… my face.”

Jaskier gasps. “That witch.” She’s a genius. Evil, but a fucking genius. “Do you know how long until it wears off?”

“How long did it take Yen to get her hair back to black?”

“Five, maybe six days.”

“That’s probably your answer.”

Jaskier groans. Knowing Yennefer, it’s probably double that. “Gods.”

Geralt hums, thoughtfully. And then, “so…”

Jaskier doesn’t know where this is headed, but he doesn’t like it.

“About you thinking I’m beautiful…”

He gulps. Right. “I said that, did I?”

The witcher takes a step forward, and it was a big step, and there wasn’t that much space in between them, to begin with, so that single step has them toe-to-toe. “You did.”

“Well, everyone thinks you’re beautiful,” Jaskier grins, nudging him as he tries to play it off. 

Geralt tips his head to the side with a slight furrow in his brows, “not everyone.”

“Everyone who isn’t an idiot, I mean,” says the bard, “or a jealous prick, or a prejudiced waste of space. You’re beautiful, it’s hard to look at you and not see that. Most people see that, it’s not just me, ask anyone in this keep. I may not have had anyone on my side about your face looking different, but they all agree about your face being beautiful trust m—”

“Jaskier.”

“Yes?”

“You’re doing that thing you do when you get nervous.” Geralt smirks when he says it, the prick.

“What thing?”

“The rambling thing.”

“I’m always rambling,” Jaskier tells him, “and I know this because you’re always telling me to shut up.”

“No, you’re always talking,” Geralt corrects, “and when you talk, it’s controlled. Whereas when you ramble, it’s hardly coherent because you’re going a mile a minute. You only do that when you’re nervous.”

Fuck.

Geralt leans in closer, lips stretching even further, “am I making you nervous, Jaskier?”

Fuck.

“I—”

Gods, they’re so close. They’re so close, and they’re only getting closer because Geralt is still leaning in like he’s going to—

“Stop.”

They’re not close anymore. Geralt is suddenly several feet away from him. He no longer looks smug, he looks confused, and… small.

“I know where that was headed,” Jaskier begins, licking at his lips and realizing how dry they’d gotten from Geralt trying (and succeeding!) to seduce him, “and trust me when I say I am on board, like all the way on board.”

Geralt cocks a brow, as if to say, then why aren’t we already naked?

“But, I want my first kiss with you to be with you.” At the witcher looking confused again, he continues, “I know it’s you, but I want you to look like yourself.”

The witcher sighs. “I don’t think I’ve ever been irritated by Yennefer more than I am at this moment.”

“I feel your irritation, believe me,” says Jaskier, “and I promise once this wears off I’m all yours, but in the meantime… we can still sleep together in a completely clothes-on kind of way.”

Geralt smiles.

And that’s how the two end up spending the rest of the night cuddling while plotting how Jaskier’s going to get Yennefer back.

—

The spell wears off a day later, and by the time Jaskier emerges from Geralt’s room the following day, he forgets what he was getting Yennefer back for in the first place.

He ends up baking her a chocolate cake as a thank you, with the words THANK YOU, THE SEX WAS GREAT on it.

The look of mortification when she sees it is priceless. Unintended, but priceless.

As it turns out, the best revenge is a bit of kindness.

[thebibliosphere]

Did you have any thoughts on the prophecy in the last few minutes of blood origin? The editing seemed to imply that Jaskier had something to do with it which has caused some grumbling from people who want more book accuracy.

The people who want more book accuracy have been grumbling about things deviating from the books since the games came out :p

Honestly, everyone would be a lot happier if they just realized we're traversing down parallel timelines that look similar but have their own stories to tell. We're essentially watching Wither fanfic with a Netflix budget. Would that more fandoms have such coinage.

Anyway, yeah, I do have some thoughts about it.

Spoilers under the cut!

So just to recap the last few lines of the prophecy, "the Lark's seed shall carry forth the first note of a song that ends all times, and one of her blood shall sing the last."

You get the general gist that Lark/Eile's bloodline is being referenced, and Jaskier gets to break the fourth wall a bit by quite obliviously going, "wait, what, who?"

The elven woman then commands him to "sing the song of the seven, Sandpiper, so the oppressed may find hope and strength and make ready for the great change to come," ensuring that Jaskier's voice is tied to how things end no matter what.

But let's jump back a bit and break things down some more.

Focusing on "the first note that ends all times," I believe that's meant to be a reference to Ciri's power. We've seen what happens when she screams; imagine what some training and time with Yennefer will achieve. Girl is going to end the universe as we know it. Again.

But wait, who is the "and one of her blood shall sing the last?"

Why, it's our dear bard, of course!

This implies that Jaskier is related to Ciri in some way, which I don't find all that implausible, no matter how much some people are grumbling about it. He's a Viscount, after all. And royal and noble bloodlines are so thickly interwoven in this universe that all their family trees look like wreaths if you squint. Sometimes you don't even need to squint. (and that is book accurate.) It's entirely plausible that Jaskier and Ciri are thirteenth cousins twice removed on their divorced great aunt's side. Or somebody had an affair. That's just as likely.

If anyone is still skeptical about this theory, Jaskier's nickname, Sandpiper, is also a type of bird, tying him back to Lark again. Lark is the bird that sang at the start of the world as we know it; the Sandpiper will sing as it ends.

It's quite heavy-handed, and I'll be surprised if the show doesn't run full tilt with it. It'd also let them handwave away why they forgot to age up Jaskier in season one. Surprise, elf blood!

Now, I know why people are mad about it because the person in the book who is telling the end of the story is meant to be Ciri.

But this is not the book series. This is the Witcher Netflix series, and they're giving the narrative burden to Jaskier, which IMO makes more sense given his tendency to break the fourth wall and that it's his voice we hear at the end of every season finale, singing through the end credits.

He is quite literally going to be the last song we hear as the series ends. It makes narrative sense to pass the burden of retelling the story on to him.

Anyway, thanks for coming to my Witcher TedTalk.

I'm going to be so mad if the showrunners don't do any of this and pull some complete batshit fuckery out of their arses as a twist.

[inexplicifics]

26 for the domestic ask meme, if it strikes your fancy? <3

“Geralt,” Jaskier says gently. “Buy it.”

Geralt grimaces and turns away from the jam-seller’s stall. “It’s too expensive.”

“My purse is currently very full,” Jaskier points out. He’s just come from a month-long engagement at a count’s manor, entertaining a series of house-parties, and though he had cuckolded the count, repeatedly and with great gusto, the count had actively encouraged the affair, and had therefore not had Jaskier turned out without his due earnings when the festivities were over.

“Your purse,” Geralt says pointedly. Jaskier knows the witcher’s purse is rather leaner, on account of the local alderman being somewhat less generous than his liege lord.

“And what’s mine is yours, and has been for years now, darling,” Jaskier says. “Besides. You know if you don’t use it, I will, and I’m doubtless going to buy far too much wine and then you’ll be irritated at making Roach carry it, or I’ll be far too tempted to buy that doublet in the window back there - yes, the green and yellow one with lavender trim. Isn’t it striking?”

“It ought to be struck,” Geralt says, giving the magnificent doublet a look of extraordinary disgust. Or, well, to anyone else it would doubtless appear to be no more than a slight twitch of the lip, but Jaskier knows it’s pure disgust, and that’s what matters.

He wouldn’t actually buy the doublet. The yellow is a shade which is quite wrong for his skin. But he has no qualms about using it to tease Geralt into being nice to himself for once. “There, you see? You ought to save me from myself, and your eyes from having to behold its glorious extravagance.”

“By buying myself jam.”

“Precisely.” Jaskier beams. “And then you will have jam, and I will not have that doublet!”

Really, coaxing Geralt to do nice things for himself is a better use for his rhetoric training than Jaskier ever expected to find out in the world.

“Hm,” Geralt says, eyeing Jaskier dubiously. Jaskier grins brightly back at him. “I saw a pair of absolutely tremendous trousers, too,” he says helpfully. “They’ve got ribbons!”

Geralt glowers at him very impressively and turns back to the jam-seller, who has been watching the whole exchange with obvious interest. “The strawberry,” he grits out. “One jar.”

“Two!” Jaskier says, draping an arm around Geralt’s shoulders. “One is hardly going to put enough of a dent in my purse, darling.”

Geralt eyes him dubiously. “One. And one pot of the raspberry,” he says.

Raspberry is Jaskier’s favorite, and for some inexplicable reason Geralt loathes it. Jaskier’s witcher is so damn sweet sometimes; Jaskier doesn’t know how the whole world can fail to see it. He’ll fix that, he swears. He’s made them see his White Wolf is more than a Butcher; by the time he’s done, Geralt will be beloved, or Jaskier isn’t a master bard. Which, of course, he very much is.

The jam-seller hands over two wax-sealed pots with a cheerful smile, and Jaskier watches Geralt put them very carefully in his pack, and thinks that he isn’t going to regret leaving the doublet behind at all.

[zoeysdamn]

||The Witcher tarot | The Fool | Jaskier||

[Other cards of the Witcher tarot can be found here and on my Instagram art account]

[DO NOT REPOST OR REUSE WITHOUT LEGAL AND EXPLICIT AUTHORIZATION]

First piece of my new project of making a Witcher-inspired major arcanas

I’ve decided to draw everyone’s favourite bard as The Fool for the first card. This card is considered the protagonist of sorts of the major arcana; so at first I thought I’d draw Ciri, but thinking about it, the keywords generally associated with it matched Jaskier more. Plus, Jaskier is writing down his memoirs and Geralt’s adventures in the books, and even in The Witcher 3, he’s the narrator, so it just made sense.  For Jaskier’s design, I think I restarted the sketch like 6 times. I wanted to do a mix between the canon description in the books and the third game’s design. A blend of his long hair in the books, but I kinda liked him as a brunette. I wanted to give him a really pretty and sophisticated minstrel look, inspired by his outfit in TW3. I added some traditional Polish embroidery patterns on his sleeves and dandelion patterns on the background, as a reminder of his artist name in the books. 

Hope I'll finish it quickly and post more cards soon!

[dapandapod]

oh my god, I need this in my life ;____; Pairing is dealer's choice.

36. unconsciously searching out each other’s hand while sleeping

Look. I kinda missed the mark here, in a sense, as did I miss the timely window to write/reply.... xD anyway here it is? some Geraskier, a healthy dose of pining, and a lot of semi-platonic cuddling! Thank you Ebs my love for beta-reading! And I hope you like it, Kuri-darlin! Please enjoy <3 On Ao3 here!

It starts, as it often does between the two of them, with a deep bottle of spirit and a great idea. Usually, it’s one of Jaskier’s, but this time neither of them will claim the responsibility.

Skinnydipping is a much better plan in summer temperatures, rather than in late spring. Cold water from the icy mountains is still trickling down in rivers and finding itself in the lake they are now rushing out of, bare as the day they were born.

Jaskier isn’t shrieking, he never is, he is just flexing his vocal chords. Geralt is telling him that he is indeed shrieking, and that he should stop before it gets shrill enough to call the local dogs over.

Punching Geralt’s chest is very different when he is not wearing any clothes, skin cool and slippery, and Jaskier loses himself for a moment.

This is where it all begins, in a sense.

They are both rather lost, directionless in the free way of the traveling pair they are, but still trying to make out what path is theirs, and if what they will find at the end of the road will please them.

Geralt grasps Jaskier’s hand, and holds it to his chest. If asked, he will say he is clearly making sure Jaskier won’t be able to punch him again, but if you ask Jaskier, the only thing he will remember is firm fingers around his wrist, chest hair rough against his knuckles.

When Jaskier does not immediately protest, just stares at their hands with wide eyes, Geralt declares the bard too drunk, and he pulls Jaskier with him towards land by the hand.

Getting dressed one handed is… even more complicated while drunk, but the witcher does not let go of the bard, and leads him all the way to their rooms. They technically have their own rooms, but somehow they both end up in Jaskier’s room, only half way into the bed.

Later, Geralt remembers waking up with Jaskier’s fingers laced through his, and turns to look at his face lax in sleep, pressed against the mattress.

It happens again, of course it does. This time they are between inns, with winter and his bad timing stealing one last cold night before spring broke through properly.

They have found alright shelter, compromising the comfort of the open forest floor for keeping warm, snuck in the crack of a rock formation.

The fire is doing wonders, and despite the smoke stinging their eyes, Jaskier is looking decidedly snuggly with the fire behind him outlining his figure.

Their bedrolls are side by side, and Jaskier has grabbed onto Geralt’s hand, marveling over… well, marveling in general actually.

This time there is no alcohol between them, just a sense of peace and amusement, and Geralt watches Jaskier trace each digit, using both hands to look this way and that.

His knuckles are getting a great deal of attention, as is his thumb and palm. While he does it, Jaskier tells a story about his mother and a fortune teller that probably was a sham, but there once was this palm reader he met in Novigrad, and did you know that the placing or lack of calluses really tells a lot about you as a person?

Geralt listens with a smile, and snarks at the obvious holes in the storytelling when Jaskier is making too much up again, and, between one heartbeat and the next, Jaskier’s eyes droop shut.

He is still holding onto Geralt’s hand, one cradling the side of his hand and his pinky, the other holding onto his thumb. Even as specks of snow trickle down from above, and the wind howls, the fire crackles merrily, and Jaskier is holding his hand in his sleep.

Geralt doesn’t take his hand back, and in the morning they have inched closer, and Jaskier is holding Geralt’s hand against himself like you would a teddy bear.

Not long after the summer solstice, they make a close acquaintance with death. Her foul breath brushes the bard’s cheek as a Necker’s claw dug into his flesh.

Lucky for all of them, Jaskier is wearing a leather coat, and instead of being fatal, it just ends up being very fucking painful.

Blood is not a good look on bards, at least not their own, Geralt decides when Jaskier sits eerily quiet after being patched and bundled up in a barn that they’ve got to borrow for the night, with the promise not to bleed on the hay.

That night, Geralt reaches for Jaskier’s hand, holding it as he presses himself up against the bard’s back, listening to his even breaths and rapid heartbeat, infinitely grateful he made it in time to save him.

As with anything, spend enough time doing something and a habit is formed.

It isn’t every time, nor is it a conscious thought, but if there is but an arm's length between them, they will either end up half way out of their bedrolls and meet in the middle, fingers lacing together, or when they’re sitting idly next to each other for whatever reason, their fingers will seek each other out, sometimes barely touching, and other times overlapping.

It stops being a conscious choice, it is something just done. Jaskier eagerly grabbing his hand as he tells exciting news and then forgets to let go, or Geralt wanting to keep track of him, or to support him, or when in a crowd.

It’s natural, an anchor when they are in danger of getting lost.

They part, and they reunite later that summer, and that fall Geralt grabs Jaskier’s hands to rub them warm, to breathe on them to help him regain temperature.

He knows you shouldn’t breathe on them, knows how a breath actually can make them colder, but Geralt may or may not be accidentally brushing his lips to Jaskier’s knuckles, and Jaskier is pretending not to notice, pretending he doesn’t have fine rabbit gloves tucked in his backpack, gifted by the very witcher right in front of him.

Things change, and also they don’t.

Dragons and witches and a child of the elder blood marks each change in their own way. Jaskier finds himself waking up, holding his own hand in his cold room in Kaer Morhen, and Geralt’s hand reaches across the empty bed for the bard’s even before he registers not to.

Another bottle of spirits, this time a stolen Nilfgaardian booze smelling absolutely terrible with the aftertaste of dirt, and another bright idea later, and Jaskier and Geralt once again find themselves sprawled halfway across Jaskier’s bed.

Geralt had to pull him up the stairs by the hand to keep their balance, or so they told themselves. The White gull Geralt ended up downing tastes terrible on the second day he notes, shifting and pulling the warmth by his side closer.

Jaskier grunts in his ear and knees his thigh, but only when he tightens his hold around hot, sweaty fingers does Geralt realize what he’d been missing. Jaskier is tangled against him, arm trapped under himself in an angle that will promise complaints the moment he wakes up. It is warm, and it is comfortable, and Geralt is slowly coming to terms with what pleases him.

Relearning how to share a bed is much easier when you have an anchor, a focal point, or it would have been if Geralt wasn’t startled awake by Jaskier almost falling out of bed. They resettle, Jaskier now firmly between the witcher and the wall, and the back of Geralt’s hand pressed against his lips as sleep reclaims him.

It doesn’t matter if they are awake or not, they reach for each other like a weed craves the sun, like roots seeking dirt, like vines growing where they find purchase.

The day Geralt wakes up and finally finds courage, he kisses Jaskier’s palm, and Jaskier kisses his lips.

[magdelanesingerin]

Out in Redania

Almost from the moment they meet, Jaskier proves to be a boy man with no shame and no filter. He talks about sex loudly and often: sex he’s had, sex he wants to have, sex he’s only dreamt about. He strolls along beside Roach, long legs jauntily swinging, gesturing broadly and describing his many conquests in a combination of extravagant praise and raunchy detail that makes Geralt blink hard and shake his head the first few times he hears it. 

Geralt is…well, ’experienced’ would be the kind word. ‘Old’ would be a more blunt choice. Both are accurate. He’s seen and done a lot of things with a lot of people, and it’s hard to shock a witcher, generally. None of the sex acts the bard lovingly and exhaustively describes are really shocking in and of themselves (except perhaps in their frequency and in how many seem to feature married women). 

It’s the way that Jaskier talks about the women he beds that surprises Geralt. Nothing demeaning, or coarse as one might expect from a young man who loves to talk about fucking and has something to prove. No, he talks about each and every one as though he fell at least halfway in love with her, as though each woman was a glorious work of art that he was privileged to enjoy.  

And it isn’t just an act that he put on as part of his cheerful romantic persona, he’s completely genuine about it . Baffling.

He truly turns the full force of his attention toward each and every lover: engaged, attentive, and admiring. Geralt is all too often the object of Jaskier’s overwhelming focus and care when he returns from a hunt injured, so he can only imagine what it must feel like when the bard is actually doing something he enjoys rather than sewing wounds or wiping rancid blood and filth off a reluctant, battered witcher. 

And, of course, he has imagined it. He has eyes and the bard may be annoying, but he’s also annoyingly beautiful.

At first, he rolls his eyes and ignores any hint of his own interest in the fresh-faced boy who trails along after him like an enthusiastic puppy by scowling, growling and avoiding physical contact as often as possible for his own sake as much as for Jaskier’s. The bard is 18 and of age, and he’s certainly bedded whores of 18. This shouldn’t be a problem, but the boy is so cheerfully inept and keeping him alive is somehow so fully Geralt’s problem that it’s impossible to miss that he is, essentially, a child . He’s very pretty to look at, but it’s hard to be attracted to someone who you might as well be babysitting.

After several summers traveling together, though, Geralt looks at him one day and realizes that the naive, excitable boy is gone, replaced by a reasonably competent, sometimes shockingly shrewd, self-possessed, though admittedly, still excitable man. A very good looking man, suddenly broad and leanly muscled from a life on the road, with shining blue eyes and a smile that could stop a man’s heart if wielded irresponsibly. 

Immediately after the realization, Geralt has a bit of a crisis about it and finds some reason for them to part ways quite abruptly for several weeks. 

Because Geralt is also painfully aware of how one-sided his attraction is. Sure, Jaskier is weirdly kind to him and seems to be perpetually horny, but there hasn’t been a hint of interest in return. It’s easy to shove aside his own lust and ignore it without hurt; Jaskier only beds women. 

Until he doesn’t.

continue on ao3

[teatitty]

Okay so I'm generously calling this the Dandy Guardian AU until I think of a better name but essentially this is the rundown [had to put this under a cut because it got long WHOOPS]:

In the book version of events, Dandelion isn't present when Geralt is in Cintra and calls the Law of Surprise, but he does know about what happened. I can't recall if we ever see that convo in text or if it's just background knowledge but that's not important right now

When the Fall of Cintra happens, Dandelion already has his ear to the ground, the walls and the crowds to follow Nilfgaard's movements - Oxenfurt's bards are the best bet anyone has for gathering information about the invading armies because they are spread so wide around the continent and have so many connections

Dandelion's first thought is not to send word to Oxenfurt about Cintra's fall. His first thought is Geralt, and his blasted Child Surprise. He starts tracking his way to Cintra, hoping that he might be able to cross paths with Geralt in the surrounding territories to assure himself that his friend didn't get caught in the middle of that Fall

Meanwhile, Ciri knows she has to find a Witcher by the name of Geralt. She knows he is her destiny. She has no fucking idea where to start looking for him, but she's on the run from Nilfgaard, terrified and anxious and stressed, and in her bag, to her surprise, she finds a well worn copy of a hidden book of Dandelion's poems, all of which are to do with Geralt's adventures. Mousesack had given it to her in secret when she was six, and it had been one of her favourites ever since

She quite forgot she had it in her bag

Cirilla has no idea where to find Geralt. But Dandelion might. Dandelion, she thinks, is her best bet to track her own destiny

And of the two of them, Dandelion isn't a very hard man to find. His bright plumage and singing laughter leaves an easy trail of rumours and tracks to follow. Curiously, whenever she asks about where she might find him, people don't tend to question her. They look at her with sympathy - and sometimes pity - and ask if she has anyone else she can rely on

"No," says Ciri, sombre and trembling. "I only have him."

It's not a lie, exactly, and she's gotten quite good at hiding her aristocratic accent. They point her to when they last heard of his presence. They ask if she needs any help. She thanks them for it, because she is still polite, if angry and confused and oh-so-very lost, but she declines any further company

She goes on.

Every night, she opens up that little book of poems, and tries to imagine what the man described in them is like. It's the closest thing she has to knowing Geralt the Person rather than Geralt the Cursed Witcher

Cirilla is three weeks' worth of travel out from Cintra's borders when she finds Dandelion. It's a little more accurate to say she's dragged over to him - apparently, a blonde, freckle faced child asking about such a famous bard is a quick titter of gossip in the grapevine, and she quickly discovers why it is that nobody ever asked her why she wanted him, and always looked with sympathy or pity at her plight:

Dandelion's hair is blonde. Hers is paler than his own, but he is blonde, like her, and his eyes are bright and clear. His face, though worn and tired, is fair and freckled just like hers, and he is just as surprised as she is when she finds herself shoved in front of him and announced to be his "illegitimate daughter"

"Whoever you got unlucky enough to knock up," says the other minstrel who guided her, "the poor lass seems all alone now. From what I heard, you're the only thing she's got left in the world."

Whatever the minstrel says next is lost to her - for a few aching moments, Dandelion looks panicked. And then something shifts. His face softens. "You look dead on your feet, darling," he says. "Come on, lets get you upstairs and clean you up a bit."

Cirilla doesn't trust strangers. Oddly, Dandelion doesn't feel like one. Perhaps because she has spent so many nights reading his work. Or maybe it's because he's a friend of her destiny. Either way, she quietly follows him up to his room, and when the door is closed, he says, "You don't know where Geralt is, do you?"

Ciri does not.

Her lip trembles. Her shoulders shake. When she finally heaves a sob, Dandelion does not crowd her. But his hands are gentle when he moves her cloak from her shoulders. His voice is soft as he brushes her hair and hums a quiet song

Dandelion never met Pavetta in person. But he once saw her in a painting, and he's seen plenty of Calanthe's likeness over the years besides. Ciri looks a spitting image of them both. Privately, he's impressed at how well she could hide her accent. But she is still just a child, and Dandelion has much more experience with putting on such a performance. He's worn many a different mask with many a different voice over the years, and he had heard traces of her native Cintran beneath the roughness of her croak

Cirilla is alone. But she is also alive, and Dandelion knows, with a confidence born of years by Geralt's side, that his Witcher would never let himself die before finding this girl safe

When the morning comes, he begins to take her North

[samstree]

there is a place where I don’t feel alone

In which Jaskier is Geralt's human-shaped furnace. (General, 4k ☆ also on AO3)

Fire and ice, Jaskier muses. It’s too cliché for his poetry, but there are no better analogies when they press against each other under the covers, a cold witcher warmed by a human bard.

Jaskier is content being Geralt’s human-shaped furnace. He learned a long time ago that witchers’ fast metabolism means they are prone to running cold. He also learned, at the same time, of Geralt’s tendency of ignoring his body’s demands. He’s happy that, after all the years of being together, his witcher is comfortable asking for help, though never with words. It’s in the way Geralt brushes their hands together when his fingers are numb, or subtly reaches out for a cuddle when the night chill settles in.

The potions make it worse. When a hunt ends and the black veins recede from Geralt’s eyes, the adrenaline drop often leaves him shivering. Warmth helps, so Jaskier prepares a bath and hot tea if they are lucky enough to stay at an inn. If all they have is a camp under the sky, he can only hold Geralt close and rub his arms and back, hoping his body provides enough heat for his witcher.

Geralt gets clingy when it happens, though he’d never admit it. Hiding in the crook of Jaskier’s neck, all he can do is cling. The world overwhelms his senses, the coldness harsh on his skin, and he never lets go first.

Jaskier cannot deny him in times like these, doesn’t want to deny him. He takes Geralt in his arms every time, blowing warm air on his cold hands, murmuring soft, reassuring words. He stays as long as needed, and then he stays even longer.

He needs to make the world less harsh for his witcher, even just a little bit.

And Jaskier’s tendency to run hot is neither here nor there. It’s only a slight inconvenience, one that can be overcome easily. He doesn’t mind waking up at night from being too warm, only to find Geralt has added a blanket to their bed. It only requires some adjusting, keeping the extra blanket on Geralt’s side.

He also doesn’t mind Geralt’s cuddling habits. During the mild seasons, he will even tell Geralt to sleep on the other side of the bed, but the distance between them always closes a few hours later. Jaskier is more endeared than bothered, really, and he can simply extract himself and fall back asleep soon after.

It’s an easy enough system. They are different people, polar opposites, as many might say. It takes a lot of practice to fit their lives together, but a few decades are more than enough time.

It’s easy, to be together, to let fire and ice coexist.

It gets less easy as time catches up to Jaskier.

His hair goes grey, and the laugh lines around his eyes deepen. His body starts fighting him from within. It begins with the rushes of hotness at night. He would wake up at night from nothing, with a dry throat and sweat soaked through his back. The healer says it’s common for his age, and the hot flashes will only get worse before it gets better. It becomes increasingly difficult to sleep in the same bed as another person, especially when that person is prone to sprawling on top of him like an oversized cuddle bear.

Insomnia follows naturally, with his sleep disrupted often. The worry makes it worse. Jaskier thought he was used to sending Geralt away on hunts for days and nights on end, but it’s harder to keep check of the anxiety when his mind is tired and irritated. He’d lie awake on their bed and imagine all the ways a simple hunt could go wrong. Even when he manages to sleep, it’s restless and full of nightmares of blood and vacant golden eyes.

His body is getting old, and with it, his heart.

Still, Geralt comes back to him. He always does. The first light of dawn brings his witcher back with morning dew glistening in silver hair, his hands reaching out for touch. Jaskier ignores the hot lava-like state of his upper body as Geralt rests gently on his chest, grounded by the feeling of skin against skin, by the rhythm of his breathing.

Jaskier’s heart feels too tender in his chest, too weathered for a human bard who’s spent most of his life on the road. He wonders how long he can keep doing this.

But then, a shiver runs down Geralt’s body, and Jaskier forgets all about his self-pity.

The path leads them to a mountain, of all places.

The air feels thinner, adding to the heaviness on Jaskier’s breastbone. They find an inn, where word of a mysterious beast up in the mountain finds Geralt while he drinks. The creature sounds more mythical than real. Geralt hesitates to take the contract at first, but is unable to say no in the end. He’s never been able to, anyway.

Jaskier’s stomach churns with the sense of déjà vu. He throws himself into the performance as Geralt prepares for the hunt. The audience is captivated soon, and before he knows it, he has been encouraged by the crowd into a rendition of Her Sweet Kiss. He’s nearly staggering as the song fades, breath shuddering with worry and past heartache.

Geralt is all packed up and waiting by the door when Jaskier finishes his set. He follows his witcher to the street, and is surprised by the tight hug that envelopes him. Jaskier is flushed hot from performing, his cheeks red and heart racing, but Geralt’s armors are cold in the mountain wind. He returns the hug, lingering longer than usual.

Geralt sees through him, worry mirrored in those golden eyes. Jaskier has felt like an open book around him for years, every shift in his mood caught carefully, but his witcher stays patient. He simply kisses Jaskier on the cheek, looking like he wants to say something. Nothing comes out in the end, and Geralt wordlessly turns away.

And Jaskier waits.

It’s just an ordinary contract, he tells himself, but somewhere in the back of his mind, panic surges out of control. It’s the memory of the last time they were in a place like this, with the wind in his hair and bitterness on his tongue. The fire burns bright in the room, but his heart is away on that mountain with his love.

Geralt returns when the moon is high, eyes still black from the potions and face deathly pale. A deep gash runs down his shoulder, bleeding sluggishly.

“Basilisks,” he murmurs, “two of them. Caught me off guard.”

With that, Geralt’s knees buckle and he collapses right into Jaskier’s arms.

The blood stains both of their clothes with crimson red. Jaskier holds up most of Geralt’s weight and helps him sit down. The process of cleaning, bathing, and bandaging his witcher is a familiar one, his muscle memory working on its own, but Jaskier finds a tremor in his hands. He tries and fails to hold himself steady, and swallows the lump of fear in his throat.

“Hey,” he coaxes Geralt to sit on their bed. “Here, just sit. It’s alright. I’m almost done.”

“Jaskier…” Geralt looks faint, head dropping to Jaskier’s shoulder even before the last bit of the bandage is tied up. A pained groan rumbles out of his chest. “Cold…”

“Shh, don’t worry. Let’s warm you up. I’m here, dearest. I’m right here.”

Jaskier tucks in the bandage neatly before reaching for the blankets on the bed. He lowers Geralt onto the pillow before checking on the fireplace, and adds a few pieces of wood, keeping it burning brighter than is needed for the current weather. With a tired sigh, he finally slips between the sheets, and tucks the blankets around Geralt.

Eyes closed, Geralt’s brow knits together painfully, his muscles trembling. He’s barely awake when Jaskier settles around him, placing Geralt’s hands on the small of his back, where the cold fingers can regain some blood flow. It’s not a comfortable position. With Geralt’s injured shoulder, Jaskier has to lie on his back and support most of the witcher’s weight. He’s trapped like this, the heat gathering under the blanket.

He’s burning, almost, with a whole person sprawled on top of him. Sweat gathers on his skin, clammy and uncomfortable against the shirt.

Geralt drifts off quickly enough, catching some much-needed rest. His breaths come out in gentle puffs against Jaskier’s neck, gradually evening out.

“Stay asleep, love, please,” Jaskier mutters with relief, all the while making the slightest attempt at extracting himself, but immediately, the barest movement makes Geralt jerk in sleep. A whimper escapes his throat, too small and sad for Jaskier’s heart to handle. The arms around his waist tighten almost childishly. Jaskier huffs at the ridiculous sight of the two of them, tangled together like one. “Alright. Hush. I won’t leave, then.”

It must be the bad dreams, caused by the pain and the oversensitivity. Geralt is at his most vulnerable when his mind is muddled, and Jaskier cannot bring himself to deny any comfort he can provide.

“There.” He kisses Geralt’s forehead, accepting his fate. Being wrapped up in a cocoon of heat is a small thing to endure when his witcher is hurt.

He threads his fingers through long silver hair, and counts the moments in the quietness of the night.

Jaskier doesn’t notice falling asleep, but the familiar press of Geralt’s weight lulls him into a fitful rest nonetheless.

Blood stains his dreams, as does the overpowering sense of helplessness. It’s like a roaring flame, threatening to consume, or a ring of fire closing in, squeezing the air out of his lungs. A hot flash comes out of nowhere, radiating from the center of his back, burning every nerve from within.

Distantly, he can hear sounds of distress from his own throat. Sweat soaks through his back, his hair, but there is nowhere to run.

Suddenly, the heat disappears, all restraints gone. Jaskier drifts in and out of sleep, breathing out deeply. He shuffles, pushing away the covers on his upper body, and feels cool air hit his skin. With that, another dream pulls him under easily.

When Jaskier blinks awake after what feels like hours, his head is slow and groggy. His arms are empty and the blankets are nowhere near him. A cool breeze washes over his body like a gentle caress.

He gasps at the absence of Geralt. All sleep is chased out by a surge of panic. Jaskier reaches out for his witcher, ready to call for his name.

“Easy.” A hoarse voice rumbles above him. “I’m right here.”

Jaskier looks up to find Geralt sitting against the headboard, the pillow cushioned behind his back.

“Oh.” Jaskier heaves out a sigh, pressing his forehead against Geralt’s thigh, closing his eyes for a moment.

Another gust of wind washes over his back, loosening his muscles, and Jaskier realizes the source of it. The window next to their bed is wide open, letting in breaths of fresh air. The moon is hanging low. Soon the morning light will shimmer by the horizon. The fireplace is burning to an ember, damped by a mound of ash.

Geralt combs through the hair at Jaskier’s nape, so gently it makes Jaskier’s bones hum. His hand is still colder than Jaskier would like, so he takes it, pressing a small kiss in his palm.

“Are you alright? How do you feel now?” Jaskier blinks, observing his witcher in the low light of the bedside candle. “Feeling cold? Your hands are cold. Why did you open the window? And the fire, do you want me to light it again?”

Geralt is still too pale, the effect of the blood loss, but his spirit seems high. A half-smile warms his golden eyes when he meets Jaskier’s gaze.

“Leave the fire, Jask. That’s silly. You were overheating. Did you not notice?” he says. “You shouldn’t have kept the room so warm.”

Jaskier sits up on the bed so they are shoulder to shoulder. It is nice now, the temperature. He unties his shirt a little bit more to cool off.

“I didn’t want you to be cold.”

“I can cope.”

Jaskier pouts. “I don’t want you to cope.”

“And I don’t want you to have a heatstroke.” A frown knits between Geralt’s eyes. “You were sweating all over. Was it another hot flash?”

Jaskier looks down, absently tugging at the blanket so it covers more of Geralt’s torso.

“I’m fine,” he insists stubbornly. “It’s only one of those nights. It happens, these days. I should be used to it.”

“Hmm.”

The cicadas hum outside the window, signaling the upcoming hot days. Geralt’s eyes place a gentle weight, patient and not demanding.

“It’s just…” Jaskier cuts himself off before starting again, trying to push down the fear in his stomach. “You were in a bad way when you came back. It caught me off guard, is all, and I didn’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

Geralt sags a little, catching Jaskier’s hand and threading their fingers together. “I really scared you this time, didn’t I?”

Jaskier doesn’t think he needs to answer. Nothing can be hidden from his face, not from Geralt, who knows every secret in his soul.

“Hey, come here.” Geralt’s voice softens to a whisper with understanding. He squeezes Jaskier’s hand, tugging him close so his head rests on the witcher’s uninjured shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault.”

“It was only a hunt. I’ve had much worse.”

Something within Jaskier shudders. “Yes, I’m well aware of the occupational hazard for witchers. That’s the problem. I don’t know how I dealt with it all this time. The terror of it all…” He huffs, self-deprecatingly. “It must be the age. I’m getting old. Too old for the foolish bravado of youth. I feel like my heart is getting weaker these days. Like it could break more easily, somehow.”

A kiss lands on top of Jaskier’s head.

“You are still brave. Foolishly so,” Geralt says, reverently, proudly.

“Never wanted to be brave. Just useful, so I can take care of you.”

Jaskier turns around, so blue meets gold. Despite the lines at his temple, despite the grey hair, he knows his eyes are still the same. He still looks at Geralt the same way as all those years ago, when he was young and stupidly idealistic. They are full of love for the man in front of him. Always full of love for Geralt.

And Geralt is looking at him the same way.

“You don’t have to be useful. Not if it means you need to push yourself too hard.” A hint of guilt tugs at his lips. “I don’t want to break your heart. Never did.”

“Well, that’s the occupational hazard of a poet,” Jaskier teases, wanting to erase the guilt. It has no place between them. “I don’t blame your trade, love. It is who you are. The path, the monsters, the way you scare the hell out of me every other day. I’ve accepted it. Old age be damned. I promised to follow you until the end of my days, and I tend to keep my promises.”

“Jask, I…”

Geralt closes his mouth, and they fall into silence, though it’s a poignant one.

“It’s alright.” Jaskier wants to steer them away from the heaviness of it all. “You should try to rest more. Meditate, perhaps. That wound is not going to heal fast if you don’t—”

“Fuck it, I need to tell you,” Geralt blurs out. “I wanted it to be a surprise, but now… Jaskier, you deserve to know.”

The interruption makes Jaskier blink. Confused, he sits up straighter. “What is it?”

Geralt’s entire posture changes, and suddenly he looks a lot more serious, which is all the more puzzling. He brings Jaskier’s hand to his chest, pulling him closer. All the tiredness from the hunt is gone, replaced by a nameless excitement.

“Jaskier.”

“Yes, Geralt?”

“Don’t worry. It’s good news. At least, it’s good in my head. I think you’ll like it.” When Geralt smiles, a quiet joy lights up his face. It’s Jaskier’s favorite smile of his. It means Geralt is deeply, unreservedly happy, the kind that makes him frightened, even. Like someone could break in and take this happiness from him any moment, so he tries to not show it. “Do you remember that cottage we passed by last summer? The one we saw on the coast in Cidaris?”

The mention of the coastal trip brings back fond memories, making Jaskier’s heart warm.

“Of course. The one on the cliff, with the pretty windows. The old couple lived there for decades,” he says, still not sure where this is going. “What about it?”

Despite the paleness and the dark circles under his eyes, Geralt’s cheek grow pink with a blush.

“Well,” he simply says, “I Bought it.”

Jaskier’s eyes widen.

“What?”

“Technically, Yen bought it for us.” Geralt tilts his head cheekily. “The couple told me they were selling right before we left, so I wrote to Yen. She went to Cidaris and did it, just like that. It’s ours. It’s going to be our house. We can spend as much time there as we want. Every year, every season, if we wish to. If we get restless, the world is still out there, but we’ll have a home to return to. A place to settle down.”

The sound of the world fades away for a moment, replaced by blood rushing into Jaskier’s ears. He notices his mouth is now hanging open, but nothing is coming out. His heart grows like it's too big for his chest.

A house.

Their house. Their home.

“I—”

Jaskier, to his horror, realizes he has been rendered speechless, all the words of a bard stolen by a witcher. He stares at his witcher, his lovely, perfect, thoughtful witcher, who insists on giving him heart palpitation one after another.

“Jaskier?” Geralt softens, a hint of doubt creeping into his voice. “What do you think? Say something. Please.”

Tears blur his vision, and Jaskier chokes out a sob.

“I—”

His voice shudders with emotions, but the sight of Geralt being so unsure of himself is so unacceptable that Jaskier finds the strength to overcome himself. The sob turns into a wet chuckle.

“It’s good, Geralt. It’s the best news I’ve ever heard. You… you bought that cottage for us?” Jaskier lets the tears fall freely. Happiness tastes like salt on his tongue. “I never thought you’d ever want to stay in one place. I mean, you always said—”

“That witchers don’t retire?” Geralt catches the tears with a thumb, wiping away the streaks on Jaskier’s cheeks gently. “What else did I say?”

“That you don’t need anyone.”

“Hmm. Another lie. What else?”

Jaskier sniffles, hiding his wet cheek in Geralt’s palm. “That you don’t want me.”

Another string of tears streams down Jaskier’s face, and Geralt catches each and every one of them. He dabs them away with the edge of his sleeve, so carefully as if Jaskier could break with the barest touch.

Geralt presses a kiss at the corner of Jaskier’s mouth. It’s only a chaste thing to soothe him, but Jaskier kisses back fervently, desperately. The space between them seems too big. With an arm wrapped around Geralt’s back, still careful to avoid the bandage, he pulls them together. Salt melts between their lips.

They break apart, panting in tandem.

“You are all I ever want,” Geralt whispers, a promise carved upon Jaskier’s heart. “Just you, Jaskier. Forget the lies. I want you. I want… this, for us.”

It takes a while for the storm of emotions to calm down. Jaskier rests his forehead against Geralt’s temple, their bodies rocking together like waves lapping against the shore.

A small cottage by the coast, where the seabirds sing in the sky and the sand is cool between his toes. A place for Geralt to rest, for Jaskier to create, and for both of them to simply be.

The future of their life feels like an old, faded memory. They were always going to end up there from the very beginning. The moment they locked eyes in that small tavern in Posada, they were going to end up there.

Jaskier wipes away the last of the tears, spirit lightened.

“Wait.” He pulls away to look at Geralt, eyes still puffy. “Did you say you asked Yennefer to buy a house for you?”

Geralt winces visibly. “I may owe her a few favors again, but I’m sure she’ll be reasonable.”

“Yennefer.” Jaskier gives a look. “Reasonable?”

“Do you still doubt she has a soft spot for you, especially now that you’ve become less durable? The letters were nice enough. She even offered instructions,” Geralt says. “Told me to bring you back to the coast, make a grand gesture of sort. A nice picnic, she said, before breaking the big surprise.”

“See? Even Yen has more regard for my tender heart. Unlike a certain someone, who will put me through one hell of an emotional turmoil in one night.” Jaskier holds his chest dramatically. “It’s not good for an old man’s health!”

The laugh that Geralt lets out is better than any music Jaskier could ever write. It’s the reason for all those songs in the first place.

“I guess we are heading to the coast next.”

“Are we?”

Jaskier can’t help the grin on his face.

“Mm-hmm. For your health, old man,” Geralt teases. “I hear Cidaris is never too warm in the summer. The ocean carries over cold streams, all the way from the north. The wind is always cool. Sleep will come more easily for you.”

“But how will you cope? Won’t it be cold for you?”

Geralt hums, eyes crinkling. “I have you. I’m sure you’ll fuss enough.”

“You are damn right I will!” Jaskier begins his musing. “I’m going to make our home so cozy! Do you remember those rugs we saw at the winter market last year, the ones you said were too impractical for the road? Finally, I can get those, now that we have somewhere permanent to return to. And we shall build a garden for your herbs, and then a library for me. Plants and arts, let’s not forget! Oh, and those velvet robes you like!”

“I never said I liked them.”

Jaskier pokes Geralt on the cheek, a glint of mischief in his eyes.

“You don’t need to. Your face betrays everything. You have this look when you see something you desire but don’t think you deserve—it’s how you used to look at me. I should have known you’d be the first one to suggest settling down. You always were the domestic one. The world just didn’t let you think it could be an option.” he pauses, softening. “Something must have changed your mind.”

The fondness in Geralt’s eyes melts into a golden pool of warmth. “It was someone, actually.”

He leans forward, tucking a strand of hair away from Jaskier’s face, fingers tracing the hair at his temple. A warm blush spreads across Jaskier’s face when he’s observed like this, with his crow’s feet and grey hair on display.

“That someone must be amazing,” Jaskier says, proud of his crow’s feet and grey hair when they are loved like this.

“Hmm. I don’t know. He’s very smug.” Geralt squints. “Less so with age. It wised him up, against all odds.”

They smile into another kiss as the morning sun rises, spilling silvery light into their room.

There are many things to plan in the process of building a new home. They will need to travel to the coast, for one, and then pick out all the furniture. Jaskier will insist on filling their life with soft, warm things for Geralt. Blankets, pillows, teas, and then, freshly collected flowers from their garden. Ciri will need a guest bedroom, for the girl to rest her weary feet when the path gets too much for a witcher-princess. And only the gods know when Yennefer will drop by, with her secret soft spot for domesticity.

There are many things to plan for the future.

But for now, they already have a home right here.

[27dragons]

New Year Countdown: Dec 5

Click through for a Geraskier Mob AU snippet!

Dec 5 - Geraskier - Mob AU - Mittens

Of course Jaskier had known what he was getting into when he’d attached himself to Geralt, the biggest, baddest enforcer that the Witcher Clan had at its hand. But the truth was, if you couldn’t succeed as a musician in Redania, then you weren’t going to succeed anywhere else on the continent. And if you were going to make it in Redania, then you were going to have to ally yourself with one of the several clans that ran Redania’s dark underbelly. The Witchers were far from the worst option. And the Butcher of Blaviken was already such a fascinating character -- when Jaskier had almost literally stumbled over him drinking in a tavern, he’d considered it a gift from the gods and hitched himself to the man, for good or ill.

He hadn’t quite intended to fall in love, but that was both the blessing and the curse of the artist, wasn’t it? One fell in love too easily, and lived almost constantly with a broken heart, relieved only by the rare moment of bliss. It hurt, but it made for such brilliant music. Jaskier had known that even when he’d barely been a boy, just setting out from Oxenfurt with stars in his eyes.

Jaskier knew Geralt wouldn’t ever love him back. Geralt hadn’t said more than a dozen words to him all day as they’d shuffled through the freshly-fallen snow, chasing some rumor that had Vesemir concerned. Jaskier wouldn’t complain aloud -- that would earn him Geralt’s disdain and impatience and irritation, far worse than simply being ignored. But he tucked his hands into his armpits and hoped they’d stop soon, before he turned into an icicle.

“Wait here,” Geralt grunted and went into a shop. Jaskier allowed himself a sigh. Now he wasn’t even generating the heat of walking. He stepped over to a nearby cart that was selling roasted nuts and pushed his hands over the little kettle of coals.

“Ye need gloves, young sir,” the cart’s owner chided.

Jaskier shrugged one shoulder to bounce the lute against his back. “Can’t play with gloves,” he told the woman. “A true bard must be ready to play at an instant’s notice!” He gave her his most winning smile, and she laughed and gave him a handful of nuts that were too cracked or singed to sell.

He ate them slowly, savoring the remnants of their warmth, and was just finishing the last when Geralt emerged from the shop. Geralt shoved a small package against Jaskier’s chest and strode off down the street without even waiting to be sure Jaskier had taken it.

Jaskier flashed the vendor another quick smile and scrambled to follow, jogging to catch up before looking down at the package. It was a pair of mittens, good woolen ones lined with sheepskin, with a pocket in the palm for a warmer and a top that folded back to expose the fingers when they were needed. He stared at them for a long moment. “What--”

Geralt glanced back over his shoulder, expression unreadable, even for Jaskier, who’d learned to interpret even the smallest twitch of Geralt’s face. “Your teeth were chattering,” he grunted. “It was annoying.”

He could’ve told Jaskier to leave. But he hadn’t.

And he’d given him mittens that a musician could use. Jaskier hadn’t even had to explain it to him.

He pulled on the mittens and sighed happily at the warmth. Maybe Geralt wasn’t entirely indifferent to him, after all.

[could-be-gayer]

Chaotic Fanfic Recommendation <3

Do you wanna read about a bard with no self preservation skills with a band of emotionally constipated wolf guys? What about platonic relationships that melt you to your absolute core? Screaming at your phone cause God will you please kiss and tell each other your big emotions?

Then I have an amazing fanfic for you, my guy. This "the way in which you talk to me (have me wishing I were gone)" by Livesinbooks. This a story of non-human Jaskier making up with Geralt after you know that and taking him to Kaer Morhen and meeting all the witchers. Then, it builds apon these relationships in stuff a fun way for the characters and the dynamics, my god the dynamics. This is such a fun story that grows and keeps you wanting more. This is about finding love in all its different forms and how to communicate in these relationships. If you have a general understand of The Witcher then you will love this canon divergence. The Geraskier is so yummy, finger licking good yummy. Jaskier is especially is most chaotic and brings everyone down with him and they find out they love his company and want geralt to lock this shit down cause Jaskier is so fluffy and good. With Ciri in this, Jaskier is already making himself #1 dad and Ciri loves it. Then, Yennefer is her badass self. The plot was not put to the side, and it entwines nicely with the characters and helps with the growth of their relationships. It feels like the author loves these characters and wants the best for them, so you. Should. Read. This. Please

Now Bob with the stats:

This fic comes in at 41,950 words with 4 chapters. It has 152 comments with 1,530 kudos. It sits at a nice 284 bookmarks and 16,766 hits

My note on the fic was:

Jaskier, non human being: I will just live my life singing and enjoying nice people

Geralt, a man that hunts non human beings and is not nice: *exists*

Jaskier: look at that the love of my life

Summary and Tags:

Link:

[thatspookyagent]

Being Jaskier's S/O (Bard!Male!Reader) would include...

Warnings: None!

a/n: These headcanons are sadly shorter than most that I write up (probably because I’m not writing and describing a whole relationship from very first meet up to finish lmao) but I hope that y’all enjoy this nonetheless. I am open to writing up more headcanons that are Witcher based in the future. And since Jaskier is lacking in some departments (Male!Reader & Black!Reader wise), I’ve decided to start with him first. Anyways y’all know the drill, if ya liked what ya read, REBLOG IT!

If you want to be tagged in any of my content, don’t be afraid to tell me via my ask box or through messages! Just remember to be clear about what specific kinds of content, characters, and fandoms you want me to tag you in or if you want to be put on my general tag list! I’m always looking to add more people and I’d be more than happy to add you (if you wish)! :3

Being a bard and Jaskier’s boyfriend means ultimately being both his muse and best friend

Would confide in you about his newest songs ideas and you’d always be the first to hear them whenever he performs a sample of it for you

You both first met in a bar, were you held an open challenge to see if anyone could out sing you or earn more applause than you while performing

Since you out played him significantly, he's been entranced by your skills ever since and decided to strike up a relationship with you, friends first but gradually lovers next

Takes your opinions personally and with utmost seriousness since you’re not only his partner but also a bard yourself

Gladly will always be there in order to lend you an ear or piece of advice as you would the same for him

Loves to discuss how different lutes sound and which ones look aesthetically the best with you because you can actually understand his excitement towards sexy lutes

Also you're the only one willing to make a ranking of best and worst materials to make lutes from with him

Speaking of lutes, he names the lute that he was carrying when he first met you after you

Will not let anyone but you use it or even touch it because it’s just that sentimental to him

If you name the lute that you were carrying when you first met Jaskier after him, he’ll probably have a good cry about that one later

And Jaskier will absolutely lose his mind (affectionately) if you carve his initials into your favorite lute

Enjoys talking and swapping stories with you while polishing each other's instruments around a campfire

A campfire is actually where you first confessed your affection for Jaskier, it was within a love song about two male bards just trying making their mark on the world through song alongside a white haired Witcher and his steed

From then on singing and laughing around campfires has been one of your top ways of bonding with the other male

Other ways you’ve expressed your love to Jaskier is by making and singing duets with him

Y’all are actually quite well known for singing together specifically ballads but also really romantic songs that touch just about everyone’s heart deepy

If Jaskier becomes your muse and you open up to him about this, he’ll also confess that you’re his muse as well

The two of you truly haven’t written and sung as many songs as y’all have now until you met one another

You’d also never been invited to perform at a ball before but since you and Jaskier became so popular, both of your voices have now had the honors of gracing many halls of kings and queens alike

It reflects with the amount of coin increasing in your pockets and fancy hand tailored matching outfits that both you and him adorn

If you’re not one for crowds particularly royal crowds, both you and your coin tossing boyfriend frequent many bars while traveling with Geralt, and are known on a more humble and local level than noble and global

The poor and hopeless citizens of many kingdoms, look to both you and Jaskier to entertain them, and distract them from their everyday worries

Either way, you’re both the ultimate bard power couple in any lands that y’all happen to be in

Now when it comes to specifically being a companion of Geralt’s, he enjoys having two bards at his side more than he likes to let on

While yes both and you Jaskier can be rather dramatic (and also noisy) as well as pretty much target practice when it comes to how useful the two of you are in battle, Geralt needs company beyond that of a horse from time to time whether he openly admits this or not

Not to mention you and the babbling brown haired nuisance named Jaskier, help to spread the word of Geralt and his deeds in a good light

Your penchants for being able to talk people’s ears off and distract them, can at times help the Witcher out whenever he’s in a pinch or when brute force isn’t really an option 

Also Geralt can use both of you to look after Roach in various ways especially whenever he’s not around or doesn’t have the time to

You and Jaskier like to run your songs in progress by Roach who always proves to be a tough customer in that regard similar to her Witcher owner

After long days of walking, wailing, and song writing, a much needed rest is in order with your brown haired accomplice

Ways in which you and Jaskier wind down include taking baths together or preparing a bath for the other

Since there’s never really a silent moment between the two of you, reflecting on how both of your days went to each other is a recurring topic of conversation

At times that can drift off into convos about music or musical instruments but moments like this are for you and the other male to check in with and dote on one another

Which means that there’s quite a bit of pampering and more gentle laughter being shared as well as forgetting about all the other people that there are in the world

As far as you and Jaskier are concerned, you’re the main characters, it’s your shared story, and everybody else are just background characters

[fllagellant]

like . Okay sorry the Witcher trees ( yeah sure we can call it that ) thoughts are breaching containment , but like . I still want the two of them to have those talents . I still want Wyll to be a dancer . I still want Giilvas to play instruments .

Sure , ln my mind palace , Ulder has been dead for a while . The generation of Ravengards Wyll was born into is one of the oldest currently in the family , and he still looks young , and it’ s not like he is often discussed at family dinners . So he isn’ t trying to get back into contact with them and no one is inviting him down to the gatherings ( there is also the mizora lore I made up also for why he doesn’ t try to get into contact . Don’ t worry about it .. ) but he still Knows . You know ? He still finds himself drawn to contracts that take him to higher society , sometimes . He’ ll watch over a masquerade ball on the off chance that the fear of some sort of ghoul appearing , and because he .. he doesn’ t miss it . He’ s never attended one before . But he wonders what it would be like as a guest of honour , and not the bodyguard . He’ ll take the jobs that lead him into castles and sprawling estates , just to think about it . If he wasn’ t a Witcher … but , of course , he still does pick up the art of ballroom dancing . He just does . Something he ended up trying to learn , that he ended up getting to do once or twice out in balls and parties with his face hidden … he’ s a natural at it , and can dance for far longer than anyone else ( I still want him to get the record he mentions … little did they know he had a slight advantage … )

And for Giilvas . He already has the callouses to start playing no problem . He is musically gifted , he can pick up instruments easy and can sing good ! But how he first gets into it … okay it is Giilvas he might have just ended a dare with a bard in a tavern and had a “ oh shit ! “ moment but . Idk . He’ s also just drawn to it . I don’ t think you could stop him from making music forever , even with the Witchering .. I know in the normal universe giilvas lore he is his own bard and writes his own songs but I think it would take Witcher Giilvas faaaaar longer to get to that point . But he still picks up instruments as he moves through it all . He hangs around by street performers or near whatever entertainment is at a tavern . He watches mummers performances when he can find the time . He’ d end up with a violin of his own at some point . Let him be free and be a fiddler on his travels .. “ I just do this because I get bored , nothing special “ <- guy who is about to wow you with his performance . And I mean . He works more in cities anyways . He would get used to the preformer culture he would find there .. he’ d end up surrounded by it at Some Point

Okay yeah ramble done can you imagine Wyll trying to teach Giilvas a ballroom dance for me . Bonus points if there is blood . Post contract courtmanship dance ?