#Dick Hunter On Organ With The Four Rhythm

[tfc2211]

The David Bell Group / Dick Hunter On Organ With The Four Rhythm – Instrumental Pops No. 5 (1969)

[thedemonofcat]

Dude this isnt wven a request or anything I just need to be a freak about geraskier

But Jaskier really is just the damsel in distress, Geralt saving him time and time again is just romantic as fuck when he's not being a total DICK

At that moment, Jaskier began mentally cataloging the many, many times people had either kidnapped, cursed, or attempted to murder him. He’d gotten quite good at this little game.

“Alright, let’s tally it up,” he said, raising a hand and starting to count on his fingers. “First, there was the duchess who tried to drown me in rosewater. Sounds romantic, doesn’t it? It wasn’t. The petals clogged everything.”

“One,” Geralt muttered.

“Then those bounty hunters in Oxenfurt who mistook me for a spy. I told them, no self-respecting spy wears this much velvet. They didn’t listen.”

“Two.”

“Oh! That coven of bargain-bin witches who tried to make me their familiar. Turned me into a tabby cat for three days. Still coughing up the memory of those hairballs.”

“Three.”

Geralt sighed heavily.

“Don’t interrupt, I’m on a rhythm,” Jaskier said, picking up speed. “Four: locked in a tower after a baron’s daughter claimed I’d ‘enchanted’ her with song. Honestly, as if my charm were anything but organic.”

“Five: the cursed lute. Never trust a dwarven merchant peddling ‘haunted heirlooms of heartbreak’—especially under a full moon. My fingers danced nonstop for a week.”

Geralt blinked. “Your fingers danced?”

“Yes. Without me. It was traumatic and deeply undignified.” He gave his hand a wary glance and wiggled his fingers experimentally.

“Six: a vampire mistook me for a particularly theatrical blood bag. Called me ‘too sweet.’ I’ve chosen to take that as a compliment.”

“Seven: troll wedding. I was the bride. Don’t ask.”

Geralt didn’t.

“Eight: insulted a royal poet. He cursed me to speak only in rhyming couplets. Three weeks of lyrical misery. Nearly strangled myself with a ribbon.”

He paused, tapping his chin. “Nine… There’s one more… Ah! Right! The mob in Novigrad that chased me out for ‘corrupting the youth.’ I was merely teaching the lute. And a few harmless drinking songs. And possibly a bit of romantic rebellion.”

He turned to Geralt, flashing a grin. “And that, dear witcher, was just this year.”