#shifter jaskier

[everything-but-the-not-natural]

@catscraftsandcommentary @0dde11eth @help-help-i-need-an-adult @fandom-junk-drawer

How cat shifter!Jaskier met Uber eats driver Geralt

[jaskierswolf]

A Blue Day

Part of my Shifter!Jaskier Verse - This one doesn't stand alone very well.

AO3

CW: Poor mental health, depression, hurt/comfort

_

The search for Yennefer wasn't going well. It hadn't been ever since the Temple of Melitele, but Jaskier had to know more. His entire past, his family, even his own race were a mystery to him, and whilst he'd spent many years thinking he was okay with that... it plagued him now. The idea had been planted in his mind and now it consumed his every thought.

Who was he?

Were there others like him?

But another winter came and went without success. His bond with Geralt had settled, the pair of them getting more and more used to the storm of emotions racing through each other, but that didn't mean it was easy. Jaskier still yearned for something just beyond his grasp, and with every day that passed without a sign of that blasted witch, he felt his energy draining. It wasn't like the feeling he got when he hadn't shifted in a while, but... it was comparable. The fatigue, the constant need for something that he couldn't fulfil... but his skin didn't itch and he didn't feel like his body was on fire. Jaskier just felt... empty, and there was nothing his mate could do or say to help.

Those that said witchers had no emotions were clearly idiots. On days where Jaskier could barely contain his own anxieties, he was easily overwhelmed by just how much Geralt did feel. At his best, Jaskier was good at navigating the bond, far better than Geralt. He could block off the witcher when he needed space, or project his feelings and surroundings to the point where he could almost verbalise words... not quite but it was close and he was sure it was possible. Perhaps if Geralt had been a shifter it would have been easier, or if Jaskier had had a mentor and not had to work every bloody thing out on his own. Right now, Jaskier was not at his best, dear Lillit, he wasn't even half way there. The bond was out of control. He was out of control.

The world was spinning around him in a haze of too much emotion, or not enough. Fuck, it was hard to tell.

It was hard. Everything was just... hard.

So Jaskier shifted to a wolf, his first form outside of human, his most natural, his favourite, and there he stayed. He padded next to Geralt wearily, not really paying attention to the world as they made their way across the Continent for what felt like the hundredth time in the last two years. How was one mage so bloody hard to find? Jaskier had foolishly thought that she would be interested in him, just like she had been when he was a child. He shuddered, pressing his nose into Geralt's hands as violet eyes flashed in his mind.

"We'll find her," Geralt hummed, his fingers delving deeper into Jaskier's fur and scratching behind his ears in a way that usually made Jaskier's leg kick out because it felt so good. Now, it just felt... okay.

It was as if the world had lost all its colour. He couldn't remember the last time he'd picked up his lute to compose, even when he had felt comfortable in human form. It was driving him mad, this cloud that had fallen over him was sucking the joy out of all his favourite things... fuck, even Geralt. When was the last time they'd kissed, made love...

Jaskier huffed a sigh and dropped down on the path, resting his snout on his paws. He could feel his mate's gaze burning down on him, and Geralt's concern was a heavy weight through their bond, but he didn't speak. That was a blessing, even if he could reply, Jaskier wasn't sure he had the words.

Instead, Geralt just sat down next to him, keeping a hand in his fur and then he began to… sing? Jaskier glanced up at his mate with a soft whine, nuzzling into Geralt's side and then resting his snout on Geralt's leg. Slowly, he let his tail beat against the ground to let Geralt know he would be okay. He wasn't yet, but he would be, especially if Geralt stayed by his side. The tune Geralt sang was unfamiliar to him, and the witcher's voice, whilst lovely in its own way, wasn't very skilled, but Jaskier was completely captivated by his mate's performance. His ears pricked up even as Geralt stumbled through the lyrics of what sounded like some old forgotten lullaby. He mouthed gently at Geralt's free hand, the warm earthy scent of the witcher grounding him.

When the song was over, they fell back into silence, watching the sunset behind the trees, and longer still as the stars began to shine in the sky. Geralt pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders, shivering without their usual fireplace. Jaskier barked as he climbed into Geralt's lap, pushing his mate back onto the path as he buried his muzzle into Geralt's hair.

"Jask," the witcher sighed, his fingers stroking through the fur along Jaskier's spine.

Another bark rang out in the night, and then Jaskier licked at Geralt's face and neck, the scar that marked the witcher as his and his alone. Their hunt for Yennefer might not be over, and Jaskier would have to live another day in the never ending darkness, but he had Geralt. Even if Yennefer had no answers for him, he would always have Geralt.

That was enough for him. It might not always feel like it, but Geralt was enough.

[westmoor]

the fox

(the hare -»)

(1.4k, shifter jaskier, plotless and geraskier adjacent, no particular warnings except for excessive language)

The world is so much louder when it’s dark.

So it is for everyone, Jaskier tells himself, and curls up tighter in his bed, swaddling in a barrier of softness and warmth to keep it at bay.

But they press ever closer, the sounds. Rustles and mumbles and whispers seeping in between the blankets, crawling along his skin and leaving goosebumps in their wake.

Most nights he ignores them, eyes forced shut and clutching a pillow until he falls asleep, restless and dreaming. 

He doesn’t know why, or how, or when any of it started.

But he knows the scurry of mice from the rustle of wind, can pick a rabbit’s tracks through the bushes, sees the great horned owls where they perch high upon their branches, hooting loud and yearning while their large and luminous eyes sweep this way and that.

And some nights they become too much to ignore. They take hold of his mind and light a fire in his veins, and he wants nothing more than to answer them, to fill his lungs with whiffs of larkspur and thyme and test his speed against the wandering moon, until the stars grow weary and a chorus of songbirds herald the dawn.

On those nights he steals from his bed and his blankets, leaving his cloak and his shoes behind. And he rushes out into the great big nothing, past walls meant to hold him and men meant to guard him, through hedgerows and bramble on quick black paws, nose skimming the grass. 

--

He keeps it quiet, just to himself. If they notice him gone they call it sneaking about, like young boys do, and he does, only not as a boy. 

If he dared, he’d tell his mother. Tell her about the family of mockingbirds nesting in the lilacs, about the gap in the hayloft wall where the stablemaster’s mouser has hidden her kittens, or the fields of berries growing sweet beyond their garden gates. 

He tells no one.

The streets of Oxenfurt are a treasure trove of secrets, all laid out in a perfect cobblestone maze for him to hunt and uncover. 

Along with fellow students he shimmies out of windows and scales ivy-clad trestles, learns of hidden alcoves in libraries and which side streets lead to the dodgiest downtown drinkeries, breaks into the law professor’s office to steal sips of his finest liqueur, filling the bottles with water to cover up the loss. He learns the ways of love through heartbreak and finds his voice through song and verse, grinding his wit against the sharpest minds on the Continent.

But what his peers know is just a painted facade, gaudy and vivid but built for display. The city is a whole new world when seen from below. He skitters past its brocade drapes and  whole-hearted and quick-witted, no quest too daring or escape too narrow. 

Later, when cobbled streets are replaced by dirt roads and trampled paths under his feet, when he is further from home than he has ever been before with nothing to him but a lute and a name, he tucks his legs close to the soft fur of his underbelly and covers his snout with the bush of his tail and sleeps soundly. 

--

He has never met another. He’d like to, he thinks. If only for someone with whom to sit in the audience to a curlews’ ecstatic performance, composing her song to the bullfrogs’ steadfast percussion, joining in concert with moorhens’ trills among lily-pads and reeds. To know the thrill of the hare’s escape or musky divots in tall grass and glens where the mighty elk has dwelled, without false claims of metaphor and allegory.

Donning his fur coat to run the woods four-legged, now quick, now clever, he is no less himself than when he strides down paved roads, lute in hand. This is not a voice made for singing, jaws too narrow and teeth too sharp to make the shapes of words or vowels. Yet when he tilts his head at the sky and fills the night with the call of his kin, it’s completely and utterly his own.

It’s a blessing, he knows. How dreadfully boring it must be to live an entire life on just one page, and never turn it.

But everyone he meets on his path smells distinctly human, or dwarvish, or half-elf, and he starts to believe there are none like him. The truth of his nature stays lodged in his chest, curled tight somewhere under his breath. Whether it’s true fear born from bearing witness to the cruelty of men, or if it’s the fickle instincts of the wild, he doesn’t know. 

Gradually, like the miniature vessels of tree bark and leaves he’d set to sail on the duck pond as a child, he finds himself drifting downstream, unmoored and rudderless.

Until the day he finds a Witcher in Posada.

It’s the smell that snares him, but once he pinpoints its source, he can’t look away. Even then it takes a moment to figure it out, too enraptured at first by peeling back the scent of human and road dust and smoke to find the tug underneath. That of animal and hunt and prowl, that of the great grey beasts that sing with their brethren in distant ragged mountains. 

The man has the eyes of a predator, and Jaskier falls to his gaze like a fox to the hounds. 

Geralt is not like him, but he is the least unlike him that Jaskier has ever met, and that alone is enough to start pulling back the tide of silence that has pooled in his lungs. 

Beneath an iron hull of huffs and scowls and grumbles there is a grudging sort of leniency, however, and something else - something that makes Geralt flinch away like pressure to a festering wound. 

In every story Jaskier has heard, the Witcher travels alone. 

But he doesn’t urge his mare to trot too fast to follow. And when the cold draws close in the wake of the setting sun and the hollow ache in his stomach competes with that in his legs, there is warmth to be found by a smoldering fire, bread and roasted meat split between roughened hands.

Jaskier knows he is trailing after him like a puppy, knows he is pushing and pushing and pushing but he must. He needs this. And he has to make time, make sure he gets to stay long enough to find words, good ones, for how it is that he can close his eyes in one head and open them in another. Answers for questions he gave up asking long ago. 

With each burst and proposition that spills from his lips on their way through the valley, all a breath short of keep me, please keep me, confessions boil higher in his chest until they simmer just under his tongue. It takes all of his will to keep them from pouring, filling the silence with shallow chatter, desperate to stay their flow until his respite from loneliness can grant Geralt’s, too.

It doesn’t come to that.

Geralt sees his form as a cage, he learns, and himself as the beast trapped within. Where strangeness has given Jaskier an endless realm to chase and cherish, Geralt has only known suffering.

And if Geralt is monstrous, then what is Jaskier? A coward? A thief? Another fickle creature, neither animal nor man? Would he loathe him like he loathes himself? Or would he pity him, look at his duality and see a sickness?

He is many things, Geralt, beyond both wolf and man and Witcher, but he is not cruel. He would be kind, more likely than not, might even offer a hand in breaking the curse or condition that splits his soul between two bodies.

Jaskier couldn’t bear it.

The burning on his tongue quells with time. Soon, all secrets drain back down his throat unspoken. But alone is not akin to lonely, he decides, and Destiny may yet show her hand. 

Unmoored, but no longer adrift, he lets the dead weight of hope drag him under. 

And when the night grows loud in his mind, calling his name with a faint breeze through the hemlocks - when he slips from their camp and his makeshift bed to run the fields on little blackened feet, he makes it quiet, quick and clever.

--

Tag list: @llamasdumpsterfire @stinastar​ @elliestormfound​ @justjess94​ @fontegagrilledcheese​ @dani-dandelino​ @honeysuckletook​ @underwaterattribute @ahhhhhhdonna @biitumen @cinary @saphiramalbec @lilbanili @sulkyshengshou

[between-two-fandoms]

Shifter Jaskier Headcannons

After the mountain scene Jaskier ends up being so emotionally distraught he transforms into a cat on instinct. He's a furry little baby, but if you fuck with him you're screwed.

Geralt fucked with him.

For the first few nights Jaskier growls at Geralt and only let's him near when he's got food. Sometimes Jaskier will "accidentally" almost bite off Geralt's fingers. When Jaskiers feeling particularly feral he'll gouge long scratches into Geralt's arm. Enough to hurt the witcher, but not enough to scar or keep him from hunting.

Geralt adjusts to the bard turning into a cat pretty well after the initial shift. He provides Cat Jaskier with food and water and Cat Jaskier seems to have Roach's immediate approval.

Jaskier's pettiness boils down to light growls and scratches on Geralt's arms and legs. Jaskier eventually lets Geralt pet him.

They run into other witchers on the way to Kaer Morhen and Geralt hates the fact that Cat Jaskier seems to approve of both of his brothers without hesitation. Cat Jaskier tends to perch on Eskel's shoulder, who constantly showers him with live and affection.

Lol lmk if u want more let me know!

[witchersjaskier]

i can’t choose what big kitty i want jaskier to be bc they all seem to fit him in some way, is he a lion?? tiger?? leopard?? jaguar?? something else??? anyways i love big kitty jaskier because he’s a feral boy who will smother geralt with his big kitty cuddles and theyre both soft, but kitty jaskier will also kill for geralt and i love that, please let me have all the big kitty jaskiers because your ideas are AMAZING and i hang onto every word sjdjdn (ahh this is @jaskicr btw!!)

Geralt smiles softly when he sees his bard sprawled on the ground, sunning. In the light. Geralt can see the faint spots under his black coat and Jaskier just looks very soft and basically asking for pets.

He sits down next to him and Jaskier moves his head to lay it on Geralt’s lap, making a small chirp. The Witcher smiles faintly, running a scarred hand through his fur, rubbing between his ears. Jaskier is warmed by the sun and soft, his coat almost shining in the sunshine.

“Comfortable?” he asks dryly, aiming for sarcastic but coming out rather soft.

Jaskier opens one blue eye and slowly blinks at him, looking as content as he can be.

He really is beautiful in his form, his blue eyes standing out against his black coat, his body compact and packed with muscle under soft fur. Geralt loves all of Jaskier’s form but there’s something extremely vulnerable and soft in his bard showing him his belly like that, almost liquid with contentment.

They’re not in a hurry to get anywhere, so Geralt slowly inches lower, until Jaskier can drape himself over him, all warm and pliant, almost nuzzling against his throat. If he were anyone else, Geralt would tense, feeling that powerful jaw right against his vulnerable throat, but that’s Jaskier. He will never hurt him.

They lay like that for a long time, just napping in the sun. Jaskier can’t purr, he’s not a housecat but he can make that soothing rumble-like growl that always makes Geralt relax. Both of their hearing is amazing so they have nothing to worry about.

It took the Witcher some time to learn how to relax like that but 200 pounds of pure muscle is quite convincing. Jaskier likes to laze about, sunning and relaxing, napping whenever he can. Geralt knows it’s more of an instinct for him and since finding out the truth, he’s much more understanding.

Besides, they can travel at night easily, as his bard is pretty nocturnal and Geralt can just lead Roach through the night.

It’s always an experience, to see a shadow moving between the trees, sometimes catching lowing blue eyes or a whisper of fur against his leg. As a cat, Jaskier is extremely graceful and very fond of trees.

That’s why they avoid drier climates, sticking to forests more often than not. Geralt wants to give his bard as much as he can.

Seeing him like this is a direct contrast to how he looks during a fight, powerful jaws snapping bandit’s necks without issue. Jaskier is a cheerful and kind human but as a cat, his personality sharpens and his instincts come out to play. It’s glorious to witness.

“You’re thinking sappy things,” Jaskier mumbles against his neck, shifting without Geralt noticing.

Geralt just shrugs, pulling the bard into a lazy kiss, humming when his tongue touches sharp fangs. They’ve been together for over a decade and he’s mellowed out a bit. He feels quite secure in their relationship.

“Your fault,” he whispers back.

Jaskier just chuckles, presses one last kiss against his jaw and smoothly shifts back, his tail thumping against the ground.

Life is good like that.

[jaskierswolf]

If anyone has any shifter!Jask prompts throw em at me! I miss my soft boys 🥺

Shifter AU here (I’m happy to fit in ideas out of order so don’t worry too much, but know that Jask can shift into any animal)

[jaskierswolf]

I have a few prompts ready to go... would y'all prefer somfte geraskier, shifter!Jask verse angsty feels, or... masc enby Eskel/Dandelion?

[westmoor]

the fox » the hare » the hart » the wolf

Jaskier doesn’t know why, or how, or when any of it started.

But he knows the scurry of mice from the rustle of wind, can pick a rabbit’s tracks through the bushes, sees the great horned owls where they perch high upon their branches, hooting loud and yearning while their large and luminous eyes sweep this way and that.

And on some nights he steals from his bed and his blankets, leaving his cloak and his shoes behind. And he rushes out into the great big nothing, past walls meant to hold him and men meant to guard him, through hedgerows and bramble on quick black paws, nose skimming the grass.

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