#Hat jask

[hatchonnyjash]

could you dm long haired jash so we can discuss plans

Sure!

[reckless-glitch]

hey! did you have that date with that woman? I remember you were panicking a little because you hadn't dated a woman in awhile just wondering how it went 💚

so remember this

that was her the morning of the date

i uh

i cancelled lmfao

i've got a date tuesday though! with a very nice enby (their word not mine I know a lot of nonbinary people don't care for it) who hasn't once called me something weird or gone on a two hour long monologue about fucking me

[nekrosmos]

Happy birthday nekro :3

VSHNHVOUSHNV THANK YOU SO MUCH JASK, THIS IS AWESOME ??? The fact that he's lighting up a candle with his cigarette. Oh my god. The little hat. His hair. His little face :3c This is way too kind, thank you so much !!! <3

[27dragons]

Countdown to 2025: Dec 28

Mechanics AU / Witcher - Geraskifer / Penguin

Geralt finished up with Mrs. Hodges’ routine maintenance and patted the ancient old jalopy with a sense of something like fondness. He’d been changing this car’s oil and rotating its tires for twenty years, now, and it hadn’t exactly been a new car the first time.

He signed off the order and wiped his hands with a rag before carrying the folder back up to the customer counter. He fully expected to see Jaskier ignoring his duties to lean on the counter and flirt with Mrs. Hodges, but somewhat to his surprise, Jaskier wasn’t at the counter at all. Mrs. Hodges was sitting on the slightly dilapidated couch in the waiting area, flipping through a magazine that wasn’t that much younger than she was.

“Almost done,” he told her. “Just have to find Jaskier to ring you up.”

“Take your time, dear,” she said placidly. “I want to finish reading this article on the best ways to wear bell bottoms.”

Geralt dropped the folder on the service desk, then ducked down the hall to the manager’s office. Yenn was in there, doing something arcane on the shop computer that translated Geralt’s work into money for the shop. Geralt liked working much better these days, with his partners taking over the distasteful tasks of bookkeeping and talking to customers for him. “Where’s Jask?”

Yennefer glanced up at him, then looked back at the computer screen. “I haven’t seen him. Maybe he’s in the bathroom?”

“If he took his lunch break without telling us again,” Geralt growled, and didn’t finish the sentence. He ducked back out of the office and two steps further down the hall to the break room. It was empty, and the door to the bathroom was standing open, so Jaskier wasn’t in there, either.

Geralt snarled and pushed through the door that led to the open lot in the back of the shop, where they kept the vehicles that were waiting on parts. “Jaskier!”

“You bellowed?” Jaskier’s voice floated down.

Geralt blinked and looked up. Jaskier was peering over the edge of the roof at him. “Are you on the roof?”

“Well spotted,” Jaskier said, rich voice ripe with sarcasm.

“What are you doing on the roof?” Geralt asked.

“Christmas decorations!” Jaskier held up a wad of multicolored lights in one hand, and in the other--

Geralt frowned. “That’s a penguin,” he said.

“Two for two!” Jaskier held the penguin at arm’s length, turning it so he could admire the bright Santa-style hat on its head.

“No.”

“No? No what?”

“No, you cannot put that on our roof.”

“Geralt, we need to decorate! Customers love it when shops decorate!”

“You can decorate. Just not with that.”

Jaskier looked at him for a long moment, face unreadable, then looked back at the penguin. “But it’s really cute.”

“No.”

The door opened to reveal Yennefer. “What are you two doing?” she asked pleasantly, so they’d know they were both in trouble.

“I was decorating,” Jaskier said. “But Geralt has some kind of a grudge against penguins.”

“I do not,” Geralt said. “They just don’t belong with the Christmas decorations.”

“Why the hell--” Jaskier broke off as Yenn held up a hand to stop him. Geralt sighed in relief.

“Why the fuck not?” she asked.

So much for relief. “Santa lives at the North Pole,” Geralt said slowly, being very careful not to raise his voice.

“Everyone knows that,” Jaskier agreed.

Geralt’s teeth gritted. “There are no penguins at the North Pole.”

Yennefer and Jaskier exchanged a glance. “Are you sure?”

“Very.”

“Hang on a minute.” Jaskier set down the penguin, dropped the lights, and pulled his phone from his pocket, thumbs flying. He was still for a moment, reading. “Huh. You’re right.”

“Yes.”

He didn’t even have to look. He could feel Jaskier’s pout developing.

Yennefer looked like she was developing a headache. “Okay, let’s figure this out. Doesn’t Christmas come to the South Pole, too?”

Geralt scowled. “I suppose.”

“Jaskier, do you have one of those dumb North Pole signs as part of your display?”

“No.”

“What about polar bears?”

“I do have one of those,” Jaskier confessed.

“Okay, get rid of either the bear or the penguin. You can pick, it’s either the North Pole or the South. And while you think about it, go ring up Mrs. Hodges before she keels over with her bill unpaid.”

Jaskier looked like he might protest, but then he looked at Geralt and nodded. “Okay, I’ll... I’ll do that.”

“And you.” She pointed at Geralt, and he raised an eyebrow at her. “Stop bitching and go bend over an engine sexily or something.”

It beat sleeping on the couch.

[medicated-for-public-safety]

So I finally made a One Piece OC that I actually got around to drawing, lol. Meet Jask of the Straw Hat Pirates! I've been trying to get used to drawing chubby and fat characters, and I'm pretty proud of how this one turned out...even if I got lazy and used the same pose for both pre and post time skip lmao.

Name: Coyote Jask Pirate Nickname: Bloody Jaws Jask Birthday: 7/7 Age: 18 (Pre Time skip), 20 (Post Time skip) Height: 157 cm Likes: Fried eel, stuffed animals, jewelry, biting Devil Fruit: Musha Musha no Mi (Chomp Chomp Fruit) The Musha Musha no Mi allows it’s user to ‘chomp’ things, both with their mouth and various parts of their body whenever they are brought together in a ‘biting’ motion. When Jask first joins the Straw hats, she can only ‘chomp’ with her mouth and her hands. After the two years training on an island of seemingly insurmountable obstacles keeping her from escaping said island, she is able to ‘chomp’ with her index finger and thumb for smaller targets, as well as her legs and arms and feet if she brings them together with the intent to ‘chomp’. As her powers get stronger over time and finally awaken, she begins to be able to form temporary mouths all over her body for more powerful ‘chomp’ attacks. Her ‘chomps’ can ‘bite’ through anything except seastone, which nullifies the power of the Devil Fruit. The other downsides to her powers are that she lost her original normal teeth that were replaced by sharp and almost shark-like teeth, as well as how she can taste whatever she ‘chomps’ and how her gums will begin to bleed when she overuses her powers. Haki: Observation Haki and Armament Haki

Personality: Jask is a fiery young woman who is fiercely loyal and almost always up for a laugh. She gets flustered whenever being called ‘cute’, ‘beautiful’, and ‘sweet’, and vehemently denies being so. She also won’t accept a number of romantically inclined pet names. She’s pretty subconscious about being overweight and doesn���t see many of her positive aspects outside of how well of a fighter she is. Jask enjoys making people laugh with her particular brand of blunt and sometimes inappropriate humor, especially if they are upset, and she puts others mental and emotional well-being before her own; especially her crew mates. She suffers from depression and CPTSD, but tries not to let that stop her from living her life.

History: Jask grew up with a loving mother and a narcissistic grandmother fighting over her. Her grandmother constantly tried to turn Jask against her mother, while Jask’s mother fought to keep custody of her daughter. The two often had screaming matches that left Jask curled up in a different room while covering her ears and having an anxiety attack. Jask’s mother often sent Jask and her little brother with her brother’s family at an early age, which left Jask vulnerable. She ended up being abused by her brother’s grandmother’s boyfriend at the tender age of five, resulting in her becoming even more shut in as she kept the secret and guilt of this from everyone but her grandmother. When her grandmother found out, however, she twisted the story around to have Jask’s stepfather wrongly arrested and forced her mother to move them to a different island to get away from the marines until the step-father’s name was cleared.

Jask gained some semblance of normalcy after that, and forgot about her woes as she returned to being a normal child and making friends.

However, when they moved back to her home island when she was eleven, she met her childhood abuser again and everything came back to her in a rush of adrenaline—including the fear.

Her childhood abuser took his time to worm his way back into the family before, one day, he cornered Jask while she was out gathering firewood alone. He’d been followed, however, and when Jask’s mother found the man embracing her clearly terrified child, she realized what he was doing and killed him right then and there. Unfortunately, due to this, Jask’s mother had to leave the island before the marines caught and executed her.

She tucked her children in one last time, kissed them each goodnight, and disappeared into the night with the final words: “I love you. Never forget that.”

While Jask’s mother disappeared, she left something behind for her daughter.

Jask awoke to a small chest on her bedside table. There was a weird looking fruit inside, as well as a note that simply read, “Eat this. When the time comes, find me in the Grand Line”. Jask wasn’t sure what to do with the fruit, and ended up keeping it for a few days, even hiding it from her little brother and step father. As it was one of the last things her mother gave her, it was precious.

But her mother had wanted her to eat it. The note said so.

So, seated in her room by herself, Jask bit into the mysterious fruit. It was bitter, and tasted nasty, but she pushed through and ate the entire fruit. Not sure what to do now, Jask cringed when she felt a pain in her mouth. The pain grew worse, causing her to cry out and blood spilled from her lips and her teeth began to fall out, one by one. By the time her brother ran into her room, Jask had a whole new set of sharp, pointed teeth.

It was Jask’s stepfather that had to explain to her that what she had eaten was known as a Devil Fruit. Jask’s mother had inherited the fruit from her father (Jask’s grandfather that she’d never had the chance to meet), and it was called the Mushi Mushi no Mi. She was now a Chomp Chomp person; not that he knew what that meant.

Jask couldn't figure it out either...at least until she accidentally ‘chomped’ a hole in her bedroom ceiling while playing with her new teeth one night.

From that point on, Jask tested her new powers in secret from the adults; especially her controlling grandmother that was trying to get custody of her once more.

Sometimes her little brother would help her train, and she helped him learn to fight as well as they grew older. Year by year, they gradually got stronger by themselves until a merchant vessel showed up in their town. The ship was looking for new crew members.

Jask, now eighteen and free to do as she pleased despite her grandmother vehemently telling her not to go, signed up for the crew in hopes that they would bring her to the Grand Line. She quickly became the bosun, or boatswain’s, apprentice.

Unfortunately, her new crew didn’t keep her for long.

They abandoned her on an island after she was imprisoned for accidentally using her devil fruit powers. Just when all hope seemed lost, a certain crew of miscreants appeared.

Fun facts: Jask doesn’t actually eat that much, and has trouble eating more than one meal a day. When left to her own devices, she usually only eats a sandwich or a noodle salad since they are easy to make. This has changed since joining the Straw Hats, as Sanji noticed this problem and has reminded Jask to eat more than once a day by making and bringing her snacks.

Jask is the Straw Hat crew’s bosun.

Jask’s reason for going out to sea is to find her mother.

Jask’s little brother joined the Marines for the same reason, not that she knows this as she hasn’t seen him since she left her home island.

Jask sleeps with and carries a purple bat stuffed animal with her at all times, keeping it safely tucked into a pack on her back. It’s her emotional support plush and his name is Echo. She’s had to patch a hole in his ear after a run-in with some marines post-time skip.

Jask likes jewelry a lot, mainly necklaces and rings, though she doesn’t wear much since she doesn’t want to risk losing or damaging valuable luxury items like that. Still, she wears one necklace and, after the time skip, a second necklace with a shark tooth and an anklet with a single bead on it.

Jask tends to bite people when she gets angry to the point that she draws blood. She’s had this habit since she was a child.

She also bites the people she’s fond of, usually on the arms or shoulders. These affection bites never draw blood.

Whenever the depression gets to be too much, Jask can often be found hiding in small, cramped spaces below deck.

The tattoos that Jask showed up with after the time skip were given to her by the tribe she stayed with during the two years. Each band represents a trial she passed during her time with the tribe as she prepared to take on the thick ring of supposedly impassable mountains surrounding the island and keeping the tribe isolated there.

[kingsleytealeef]

seeing all the art of beau and caleb catching the eyes and suddenly hit with the memory of how, without hesitation or shame, caleb got buck ass nude in front of the homies. my man, my dude, this is why you're the bicycle of the fandom you funky little bi disaster and we love you for it.

[quiet-moth]

So hear me out

Witcher!Jaskier

With a hat

(Bonus points for Lambert stealing Vesemir’s hat like in Witcher 3 saying “this is a job for Vesemir~”

💖

Lambert and Jaskier? Alcohol? Hats? What could go wrong! (AU)

[underpreparedbard]

I’ve been dying to tell you anything you wanna hear cause that’s just who I am this week

[justhereforeskel]

You know he'd wear the hat after make up sex, trademark Geralt smirk and all 😏

[roughentumble]

modern au where Geralt constantly gets volunteered by the rest of the PTA to play Santa for the kids

then he gets back to the apartment he shares with Jaskier, who keeps teasing him about the Santa outfit and sits on his lap, and one thing leads to another and that's the story of how Jaskier gets fucked by Geralt in a Santa coat

GSGDKDBDMDNKD

ho ho ho and a merry xmas fucking

[hatchonnyjash]

hiii -longhairedchonnyjash

hello !!!

[infinityonhighvevo]

wap

i have heard wap before. and with my whole chest lemme just say: slut rights.

song rec: purple hat by sofi tukker

(send a song, get a song!)

[yetanotherknitter]

#i am fucking CACKLING at how well they're set up for this to work out pERFECTLY #like jaskier is from a class in which politely snide is the way to say you hate someone #and he just straight up crosses the line a few times into blatant rudeness #whereas yen is like 'yes there is a pecking order so we snipe at each other to remind each other of our places #and then obvi we're besties and would kill someone else duh' #i'm fucking howling imagining them meeting someone else #and it's some stuck up rich guy so yen wants to present a united front#and is just like 'this is my dear friend lord pankratz' #and jask is just 'A. don't use my fucking legal name that's weird #B. your WHAT?' #i'm CACKLING also imagining him running into another sorceress who's heard yen talk about him in passing #and is just like 'ah you're yen's friend' #and he is fucking OFFENDED #NO HE MOST CERTAINLY IS NOT #THEY ARE MORTAL ENEMIES #SHE IS A VILE SNAKE OF A WOMAN #A HORROR #A DEMON #A- #meanwhile the sorceress (also from aretuza) is just smiling like 'aw so cute. they're definitely besties' #jaskier through tears like four interactions later: please. please. i am NOT that witch's best friend. please. #OH MAN HE WOULD BE FUCKING PISSED AT THE IRONY #HE'S SPENT MOTHERFUCKING DECADES JUST TRYING TO GET GERALT TO ACKNOWLEDGE THEM AS ACQUAINTANCES #AND THIS ENTIRE FUCKING TIME APPARENTLY HIS REPUTATION AS YEN'S BEST FRIEND HAS BEEN SPREADING #WHAT THE FUCK

it has been? months??? years????? I have had a dramatic break up and begrudging reconciliation with the Netflix Witcher and I still! can't! stop! thinking about that moment in s2 when yen hears jaskier playing in the distance and just. relaxes.

specifically I can't stop thinking about it in the context of that OTHER moment in s2 where yennefer reunites with her friends at aretuza and they spend the first few minutes being Very Mean before clinging to each other in abject relief they're all alive and y'all I think yennefer thinks she and jaskier are friends

like, they've known each other for decades and they meet up every so often to trade snide remarks and drink and maybe commiserate over geralt being *gestures at all of geralt* and that's basically friendship right? at least, according to her shitty childhood and all the socialization she got at the trauma factory of aretuza they're practically besties

[write-ur-wrongs]

No Time to Die

Request: Could I get maybe reader singing no time to die by Billie Eilish when they think they are alone? And Geralt is impressed with their voice, especially when they hit they high note during the climax?“

Word count: 2727 words _____________________________________________

“Bard! Give us a song!” the bearded man shouted while emphatically waving his tankard of ale, blissfully unaware that with each broad move more ale sloshed out and onto the inn’s already sticky floors. The room erupted in another drunken howl of enthusiasm, raucous voices fighting for the bard’s attention.

“Don’t be shy now, poet! Give us ‘Burn butcher’!” hollered the bearded man’s companion, banging his own tankard on their table.

Jaskier, who was leaning back in his chair and balancing on its back legs, was doing his best to wave off the requests with grace but found himself doing little more than egging them on.

“Jask, what the fuck! Give the people what they want,” you laughed into your drink, kicking the bard’s chair back down on all fours, “or else we might have to get Geralt out there to fend them off.”

“No, no, no,” Jaskier said, shaking his head lightly and speaking under his breath, “that’s, uh, not going to happen. How about a round of Toss a Coin?” he shouted to the room over his shoulder before muttering to himself, “or one of my hundreds of other songs maybe?”

The crowd was not to be denied though, and hollered their displeasure at the suggestion.  

“Seriously Jaskier, what’s your problem?” you said, looking to Geralt for validation that your friend was being uncharacteristically shy, but he was avoiding your gaze too.

You leaned back in your chair and took a slow sip of your beer while you considered the two men across from you. Jaskier, who’d normally be parading around the pub like a king with this type of attention, was cowering under his hat and refusing to look at Geralt.

Geralt, whose lack of interest in the bard’s performances wasn’t unusual, was being especially statuesque. His jaw was clenched so tight it looked like he was going to bite right through his teeth and a bead of sweat lined his forehead.

You looked from one to another a couple times, taking in Jaskier’s deep blush and Geralt’s long face. But it wasn’t until the crowd at the bar started slurring lyrics that you finally put two and two together.

All those lonely miles that you ride Now you'll walk with no one by your side Did you ever even care With your swords and your stupid hair? Now watch me laugh as I burn all the memories of you

“Wait…” you gasped, leaning onto your elbows so that you could whisper-yell over to your friends, who seemed to be shrinking back into their seats the more the crowd sang. “Jaskier! Was this a breakup song? For him?!”

“Y/N…” Geralt begged, holding a hand over his face in shame.

“I can’t believe this? How have I never made this connection?” you rambled, laughing to yourself incredulously. “Wait, Jask – we sing this all the time, how is it only weird now? Fuck I sing this all the time. It’s catchy as hell.”

“Geralt’s not normally… here. When we sing this one.” Jaskier admitted, sucking on his teeth uncomfortably.

“I can’t believe this…” you mused, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of bread as you skimmed through your memories trying to figure out how you’d never caught onto this pattern, or how you’d managed to spend almost a year with the two of them without ever picking up on this dynamic. “Hang on, does this mean you broke his heart too?” you asked, giving Geralt a quick kick under the table so that he’d meet your gaze.

“Too?” Jaskier squawked, shrugging his sheepishness off as if it was a heavy fur coat. “You knew Geralt before we three met?”

“Yeah –”

“BARD! Give us a song PLEASE!” the bearded man interrupted with another shout from his table across the room.

“He’s coming!” Geralt roared uncomfortably, desperate to avoid this conversation.

“In a minute!” you shouted simultaneously, equally desperate for the opposite.

Either placated or humbled by your aggressive replies, the man and his group grumbled incoherently amongst themselves before starting up on a known shanty.

“As I was saying,” you started up again, switching seats so that you were sitting next to Jaskier. “I met Geralt a few years back. He was coming through my town on his way to take down a wraith that was terrorizing the nearby mine. I had a silver dagger and offered my help, he accepted, we got close, he stole my dagger, I went after him because it was a fucking heirloom, Geralt,” you paused to give the now cowering witcher a pointed look. “Anyways, to make a long story short, I assisted him in battle, we both sustained injuries but prevailed nonetheless.”

“You are both very proficient,” Jaskier interjected, thoroughly enjoying the way this turned into a shameless opportunity to dig on Geralt.

“Well, yes,” you agreed quickly with a sly smile. “Anyways, after the fight we fall asleep and swear we’d go back into town in the morning to collect the reward together, but I wake up in the mine’s ruins alone and without my grandmother’s silver dagger.” You punctuated the trip down memory lane with a tight close-lipped smile at Geralt who, to your great satisfaction, looked miserable beyond belief.

“Geralt, you son of a bitch!” Jaskier scoffed, tsking in mock contempt. “Once a heartbreaker, always a heartbreaker it seems. You abandon me on a mountain and leave poor Y/N in a mine?! The gall.”

“He’s a fucking ass,” you agreed, clinking your tankard with Jaskier’s before polishing off your drink, “and yet we stick with him.”

“Well, Y/N, he is handsome. And scary! That’s helpful.”

“So true, Jaskier,” you continued, revelling in Geralt’s well-deserved discomfort.

“Y/N, Jaskier, please,” Geralt begged, forcing himself to meet both your gazes, “I’ve said I’m sorry.”

“And we believe you, you old brute,” you assured him, weaving a softer tone into your teasing and reaching over the table to give his hand a squeeze, “but you’ve recruited two poets as companions, and pain is a powerful tool in the hands of an artist.”

“Two poets?” Jaskier asked with a hint of scandal, “Y/N, did you write a little something after Geralt broke your heart?”

“Tell you what, why don’t you get up there and entertain the masses, and maybe I’ll sing it for you later?” you said, shaking your head at his excitement.

“A song? Ohh-ohoho! That better be a promise!” he said with a flourish, grabbing his lute from the back of his chair. He shot you a quick wink and waggled his eyebrows at Geralt before roaring the crowd back up in time for another round of Burn Butcher.  

You watched Jaskier saunter off into his adoring crowd fondly before turning your gaze back onto poor Geralt. One look at his hunched frame and his pitiful scowl and you couldn’t help but laugh.

“Buck up, sweets,” you teasingly cooed, giving his leg another light kick under the table. “It’s seriously okay, all is forgiven.”

In response, Geralt only leaned forward onto his elbows and fixed you with the biggest, most painfully sincere puppy eyes.

“Ger, stop!” you moaned, rolling your eyes.

“Y/N,” he cringed, visibly wincing, “I hate when you call me that.”

“I know, that’s what makes it fun.”

Groaning loudly with an eyeroll of his own, it was Geralt’s turn to kick you under the table. He shot you an exasperated look before allowing it to melt comfortably into a fond smile.

“There he is,” you beamed, giving his forearm an affectionate squeeze before getting up to grab your empty mugs. “I’ll get us a refill, looks like Jaskier is going to be held up for a while.”

“Thanks, Y/N,” he said, giving your elbow a pinch as you stood to walk away, “seriously, thank you.”

“Alright, keep your sword sheathed.”

“Fucking hell, you’re worse than the bard,” he laughed dryly, throwing his head back.

“Ha!” you barked, walking backwards toward the bar so you could hold his eyes for a moment longer, shooting him a wink of your own and laughing victoriously as he gave you a bemused smile.

At the bar, you took a few moments to watch Jaskier as he dazzled the crowd, sneaking quick glances over your shoulder to look back at Geralt. Sometimes, you found it hard to believe that your little trio worked. Two foolish optimists and the man who broke their hearts; you couldn’t paint a more ridiculous picture. Yet you couldn’t help but feel protective over the bard and, inexplicably, over the witcher too.

Yeah, he fucked you up, but he did come back. And he’s since stayed.

You thanked the bartender warmly after they pulled you from your reverie, setting three empty mugs and a full pitcher before you. You placed the necessary coin on the counter and started the delicate balancing act of carrying everything back to your table. However, before you could even lift anything off the sticky counter, you felt Geralt’s arms snake past you to grab the pitcher and mugs out from under you.

“You didn’t really think I’d let you carry all this yourself, did you?” he said, his breath ghosting over your shoulder as he maneuvered the crowded bar around you.

“A hero among us,” you sighed in a dramatic, dreamy tone. “Thanks.”

“Mmhm,” he hummed in acknowledgement, a smile playing at his lips. “Lead the way?”

Rather than answering him, you turned on your heels and started pushing your way back to the table. A faint blush creeping up your neck stubbornly as you felt his gaze burn the back of your head.

Back at the table, you spent the next couple of hours chatting lightly and without care. Your current lifestyle didn’t grant you many opportunities to let your guard down, so times like these were definitely cherished.

As the night went on and the crowd thinned out, Jaskier found his way back to your table. The three of you talked on until the pubs owner finally came over to let you know they were closing up the kitchen. You were all pleasantly buzzed and not quite ready to call it, so Geralt volunteered to get you another pitcher.

As Geralt chatted with the owner at the bar, Jaskier took the opportunity to remind you of the promise you made earlier that night.

“No Jask, come on. It took me all night to get him back to his jovial self,” you sighed, shaking your head lightly.

“Please? Geralt is never truly jovial, and you promised!”

“Another time, yeah? When the wounds aren’t so fresh?”

“Y/N, it’s been ages. If the wounds were any staler the stench would kill us. Please? Just a verse? Only the chorus?”

“You’re incorrigible,” you sighed, already considering conceding to his relentless requests.

“Okay, what if you just give me the chords? Let me play it on the lute and imagine the artistry of your lyrics.”

You groaned and moaned, mulling it over as you weighed your options. You knew Jaskier would never shut up now that he had something to beg for. Watching Geralt at the bar, you considered how focused he looked in what the pub’s owner was saying and figured you had at least a couple minutes until he politely extracted himself from the discussion.

With a sigh, you looked back over at Jaskier with surrender in your eyes. His enthusiasm and excitement almost had you feigning sudden exhaustion so that you could escape to your room and avoid this whole affair, but he looked so impressed with the chords and melody you gave him that you couldn’t help but keep on. Whoever said flattery would get you nowhere had clearly never been subject to Jaskier’s charm.

As he plucked his lute to your melody, you slowly let the lyrics, and the memories attached, take you over.

I should've known I'd leave alone Just goes to show That the blood you bleed Is just the blood you owe

We were a pair But I saw you there Too much to bear You were my life But life is far away from fair

Fool me once, fool me twice Are you death or paradise? Now you'll never see me cry There's just no time to die

You started the song timidly, playing it safe vocally and keeping your voice at an almost whisper-sing. However, with Jaskier’s exceptional playing accompanying you, you felt yourself get lost in the song, eventually finding yourself near-belting the lines you’d written so long ago.

Back at the bar, Geralt was watching you with his mouth agape and his heart in his throat. Your voice was beautiful, almost haunting. He almost couldn’t believe it. He’d heard you sing plenty of times before; both with Jaskier and by yourself, but this was different. He’d never heard you belt like this, never seen you so lost in the song you were singing. Watching you, the way your chest rose and fell, your eyes closed, your head tilting back as you delivered notes even Jaskier would envy. As you reached the crescendo of the song, Geralt felt goosebumps rise across his arms, trying and failing to keep himself from physical reacting to your performance.

“They’ve got an incredible voice, eh?” the inn owner commented, as they placed the final pitcher of the night in front of Geralt.

The witcher though, could only manage a strangled grunt of acknowledgement. Yes, your voice was unlike anything he’d ever had the pleasure of hearing, but the lyrics cut deep. Each beautifully sung note was an ode to one of his greatest mistakes. A melodious tribute to his deepest shame. Listening to you sing was incredible, but it fucking hurt.

Merely nodding his acknowledgement and thanks, Geralt paid the keeper before making his way back towards your table, just in time for you to sing the last line. You were busy gushing over Jaskier’s impeccable playing as Geralt placed the full pitcher gently on the table.

“That was…” he tried, pausing to swallow the knot in his throat, “beautiful, Y/N. Really.”

“Seriously, Y/N, Geralt must have really done a number on you,” Jaskier spoke energetically, completely unaware of the uncomfortable look you just shared with Geralt. “I mean, with me he gave me Toss a Coin – iconic, and obviously Burn Butcher – a little polarising but the people seem to like it. But this? No time to die? Y/N this is evocative, haunting, breathtaking!”

Blushing furiously, you tried your hardest to keep your eyes on your freshly poured drink. Unfortunately, you were weak and couldn’t help but sneak a peek at Geralt. This, obviously, proved to be a major mistake because he was blushing just as furiously as you were. How were you supposed to stay cool when his big, sad, flustered eyes were looking at you like that?

“Okay, okay, Jaskier,” you mumbled, risking another quick glance at Geralt, “that’s enough.”

“Don’t be modest, Y/N” Jaskier insisted, taking a final swig of his drink.

“I-I’m not! I’m being,” you hesitated, cursing the blush burning at your neck, “sensitive, to Geralt!”

“Suuure, alright,” the bard laughed dryly, tapping the table lightly as he got up. “Well, I’m off to bed. Geralt – try not to break this one’s heart again, okay? I’m not looking for competition.”

“Shut up, Jaskier,” Geralt huffed, anxiously tapping at his mug of ale.

“’night Jask,” you said, rolling your eyes at him quickly before shooting him a soft smile.

Once alone, you and Geralt shared a moment palpable discomfort before you both burst into a fit of awkward laughter. You tried to break the tension but Geralt spoke up at the same time, prompting another bout of laughter out of the two of you.

“I-I know I’ve said it before but, I really am sorry,” Geralt said after silence fell between the two of you.

“I know,” you breathed, grabbing his hand and holding his gaze, “and I really did forgive you.”

“Okay,” he whispered, giving your hand a squeeze.

The pair of you sat in comfortable silence as the last of the candles burned to the end of their wicks around you. Your heart sank a little when Geralt pulled his hand out of yours, but then he put his arm around your shoulder and pulled you closer to him.

Closing your eyes, you smiled softly and promised yourself you’d write him another song.

[a-kind-of-merry-war]

To A Mouse

So how about that trailer? Based entirely on the above gif. Why're you kissing that mouse, Jask? Geralt gets cursed. Jaskier gets imprisoned.

3.5k words, warnings for post-mountain angst, the threat of torture and imprisonment/isolation. Contains mutual pining, spells and curses, and season 2 spoilers. Kinda?

~

A witcher is a solitary creature. He does not need help.

Geralt reminds himself this of the umpteenth time as he stalks through the Novigrad Gates, keeping his face low and his dark cloak pulled over his head.

A witcher shouldn’t need help. Yet—

A man with a barrow of root vegetables pushes past him, swearing at him as he does.

—yet here he is.

Geralt has followed Jaskier’s trail through Kaedwen and Aedirn and beyond. He stopped for three days when the frosts thawed at the inn at Hagge where they usually meet every spring; an ultimately useless endeavour that lost him precious time. He headed west, to Lettenhove, then to Oxenfurt, where a smug man with a terrible moustache and a feather in his hat the length of Geralt’s arm told him that dear Julian has headed to Novigrad for the season.

And now he’s in the city, bustling with life, a sudden shock after the comparative stillness of the road. After travelling with Jaskier—then Ciri—he’d somehow forgotten what true silence was like. As soon as he’d felt he’d gotten used to it, he arrived at the gates of the city, and the noise is now deafening.

He needs to find Jaskier. It’s a sour medicine to swallow that leaves him feeling nauseous. After the last time they saw each other—the last time they spoke—he’s sure that Jaskier will refuse him. Why would he ever acquiesce, when Geralt had spoken to him so cruelly on that heath-blasted mountaintop?

However inevitable Jaskier’s rejection—and his rage—will be, Geralt has to know. He has to ask, and he chastises himself like he would a child as he wanders the bustling city. You don’t get if you don’t ask.

A half-formed apology is playing around his mind. Geralt has never been good with words, certainly not as good as Jaskier, and he needs to find the ones that will convince him he’s worth it; that will win his help.

But not just that. Not just his help, like Geralt is bartering his trade, like he’s a Lord demanding Jaskier play him a tune at a banquet.

It’s been nearly two years since he last saw the bard, and it’s taken him nearly half of that time to realise that the leaden weight that’s sunk around his chest is a heavy sort of grief. He misses Jaskier; misses his singing and his humming, misses his ridiculous clothes and unsuitable footwear. He misses how he’d charm landlords into giving them extra food or larger rooms, the way he’d spin lies to convince spendthrift aldermen to pay Geralt what he was owed, not what they wanted to pay.

He misses the way Jaskier’s face cracked into a blinding smile during a particularly good set. He misses the way he mumbled over rhymes when he was trying to work out new lyrics, his tongue sticking from the corner of his mouth as he scribbled them down. He misses the way Jaskier curled around him when they shared a bed or a bedroll, the noises he made in his sleep, the way he never balked, not once, at the prospect of waking up with his limbs tangled around those of a witcher.

He misses his scent, all ink and parchment and oils; chamomile in the evenings, lavender in winter, orange blossom in spring. He misses the sound of his heartbeat. He can still tap out the rhythm of it; he memorised it two decades ago.

Geralt has had a lot of time to think, these past twenty-four months. He’s had a lot of time to think about himself, about the way he thinks, about the emotions he’s tried to bury and push down since he was old enough to know he was feeling them.

Touching them—acknowledging them—is like poking at a tender bruise, or binding a wound. It hurts, but it hurts because he’s alive; because he’s healing.

He’s re-learning himself, starting from scratch, but fuck; he cannot indulge in it too much. Especially not now; not like this. The hot ache in his chest that flares when he thinks of Jaskier is his problem, and his alone. No doubt any feelings Jaskier once had for him—friendly or more than—have been effectively extinguished by Geralt’s own careless words and two years to stew on them.

Jaskier carries grudges, Geralt knows. He’s likely just the latest weight for him to carry, heaved onto his shoulders like it’s nothing at all.

He’ll find Jaskier and apologise and then, only afterwards, will he ask for his help. He’ll beg, if he has to. But Jaskier doesn’t need to know the rest. He doesn’t need to know that the smell of parchment still makes Geralt’s lungs constrict, or that he finds himself mindlessly knocking out the drumbeat rhythm of Jaskier’s pulse—tap-a, tap-a, tap-a—when the road is too quiet and the silence presses down on him.

He pushes those thoughts from his mind. It doesn’t do to dwell, after all, and pressing at the bruise will only make the pain flare worse, healing or not. He can ruminate later, when Jaskier is by his side.

If Jaskier is by his side.

It’s such a fragile thing; and he doesn't even have it yet.

But before all of that—before an apology and grovelling and pleading and pushing aside his pride—he needs to fucking find him. Novigrad is enormous, and he could be anywhere; especially considering how Nilfgaard has spies even this far north. He could be in hiding; his friend at the academy had never specified if he was still even playing music. Maybe the bard—his bard—isn’t a bard any more.

It’s a difficult balance to tread; Geralt can’t simply go around taverns and inns demanding if anyone has seen Jaskier if he is indeed in hiding. He may even be going by a different name, and in any case, the sudden appearance of Geralt of Rivia asking leading questions could land Jaskier in even more danger.

He’ll have to play it slow. He’ll visit the largest taverns and brothels first, asking not for Jaskier but for musicians, following trails and keeping low to the ground. With any luck, he’ll recognise a song—or even the distinctive twang of Filavandrel’s lute—and that will lead him the right way. It’s not a great plan, nor is it a good plan, but it’s all he has. Once he’s centred in the city and used to the sensory bombardment again, he’ll be in a better position to come up with something a little more solid. All he needs is—

There’s a whisper behind him. His head squeezes unpleasantly. There’s an icicle down his back, freezing his nervous system, tingling to his fingertips.

Fuck.

Everything goes black.

~

“A good try, witcher.”

Geralt’s skin is on fire. He’s on his back, lying against something cold and hard, but he can’t open his eyes.

“Good, but not good enough. Walking into Novigrad so unprepared—such pride! Such foolishness. What did you think would happen?”

Something is wrong in a squirming, bone-deep way. Pain suddenly flares through Geralt’s limbs, across his face, down his back. His body constricts in on itself, but he’s tied down and there are chains around his wrists and ankles and he’s trapped, he’s trapped and he can’t even struggle—

“I saw what you did to the others. The ones who caught you, or nearly caught you. I will not be taking that risk.”

The medallion is bouncing wildly against Geralt’s chest. His amour, which had been tightly buckled over his shoulders and sides, feels like it no longer fits. His skin feels tight and dry, like old fruit, like aged leather. His hands form fists at his side and his toes curl in his boots and there is nothing he can do to stop it.

He tries to yell out but his voice is gone, and all the noise he can make is a choking, pitchy gasp.

There’s a laugh from somewhere far away; from right next to his ear.

“Struggle all you want, witcher. It won’t work.”

The disembodied voice is too loud, now. It fills the room, echoing. Geralt’s hearing has always been good, but now it's pin-prick sharp.

Footsteps. Breathing. A heartbeat. The soft shff of fabric.

Geralt can’t move. His arms are stiff, his swords are gone, his signs are useless. With more effort than he knows he has left, he opens his eyes.

He sees a hand. He acts instinctively, barely even thinking.

He bites.

The voice—the mage—swears.

For a moment Geralt is flying, stomach lurching, ears ringing. The floor comes up to meet him, or he meets it.

He lands on his feet, and he runs.

~

Jaskier watches the shaft of dust-speckled light move across the floor of his cell. When it reaches the third crack in the second floorboard from the left, that means the morning is nearly halfway over. When it reaches the dent in the fourth from the right, it means someone will soon be on their way to feed him—or not, depending on the mood of his jailors today.

He’s lost count of how long he’s been here. He’d attempted to keep track for the first six days, scoring a mark onto the wall below the barred window with each sunrise. He’d forgotten one day, couldn’t be bothered the next, and the system had gotten away from him; he’d been stuck on six days since.

“Day seven,” he says each morning when the sun is bright enough to illuminate the cell and wake him from his spot curled upon the floor. “That’s barely even a week.”

The pair of mice who share his cell—skittering here and there, showing off the freedom he wishes he had—do not respond. He makes the same joke every day, and they simply sniff at him, apparently unamused.

Today is day seven—just like yesterday, just like tomorrow. The sunlight reaches the crack in the second floorboard from the left, and nothing happens. He leans back against the wall, staring forwards. He watches a mote of dust sparkle in the light, then fade.

This boredom is deliberate, he suspects. When the masked spies had pulled him from the stage midway through a performance, gagged him, bound him, and dragged him to this cell he’d assumed he’d be dead within two days. Gossip about what the soldiers and spies of Nilfgaard do to their prisoners had reached him months ago, and he’d anticipated torture and blood and pain.

But it hadn’t come. He’d been thrown into the tiny room and left him there. He hasn’t been forgotten—they still bring him food occasionally, if not every day—so he’s been forced to conclude that the seclusion is deliberate.

They’re toying with him. Lulling him into a false sense of security. Making him wait for his own demise, knowing exactly what’s coming to him. It makes each day precious, but each day is the same as the last, and now they've stopped having meaning altogether. It’s nothing more than a cruel, prolonged joke.

Leave him—let him go mad with boredom—let him come to sit with his own death, grieve for himself… and then bring out the thumbscrews.

He sighs, shutting his eyes. Maybe the thumbscrews are preferable to this perpetual waiting, existing but not existing.

They do feed him, today. It’s nothing more than a crust of hard bread, thrown through the door without a word, but he’s grateful for it regardless. Tomorrow he may not be so lucky; they rarely remember him two days in a row.

He stays in the same spot until the cell goes dark. If he looks out of the window, he can likely see the moon. He doesn’t. He moves slowly to the spot in the corner, where once there was a thick pile of straw, and curls in on himself.

He falls asleep. Tomorrow will be day seven, and it will be just like today.

~

“—and he said ‘if I had one blessing’—” Jaskier pauses with a frown. “Yes,” he says, “I know you’ve heard it before, but I’m telling the story and it’s an important one so you’re hearing it again. Yes. Yes I know—”

He sighs, running a hand through his tangled hair and staring down at the two mice perched on the upturned bucket in front of him.

“Oh,” he says, shaking his head, “now that’s not very fair.”

One of the mice peers at him.

“Yes, I know it’s been two years. I should be over it by now. I know. But you can’t just— after twenty years—” he throws his hands in the air. “Well of course you wouldn’t get it, you’re mice. How long do you live? Two years, tops? You wouldn’t understand what it’s like to spend a lifetime pining after…” he trails off. “Do mice pine? I suppose, if you spent two whole years pining…” he shakes the thought from his head. “No, absurd. Of course not. The point is—” he hesitates. What was his point? Oh yes. “The point is that I am fully within my rights to still be angry about it.”

Jaskier slumps back against the wall. “Anyway,” he continues, after a moment. “And he goes, ‘if I had one blessing’—”

He’s not sure how long he’s been talking to the mice. They’re sweet things, and he’d taken days to lure them both in. The first one had appeared quite by chance, and it had looked as rough as Jaskier felt—all scraggly fur with little scars across its back—and his heart couldn’t take it. He’d watched from a distance, then offered a crumb of food after he’d been fed that afternoon.

Against all odds, the mouse had accepted the offering, and he made... a friend. Of sorts. A second mouse had appeared, no doubt lured in by the prospect of food, and now one or both of them are always sharing his cell.

They make for good, if quiet, company. But that’s fine; he can talk enough for all three of them.

He feels like he’s talked through his entire life, several times over. He probably has. He’s touched on his childhood, his father, his fraught teenage years. He tells them about the Academy, and Valdo fucking Marx, and—eventually—about Posada.

He doesn’t really want to talk about Geralt. That’s why he’s here, after all. Nilfgaard wouldn't want him if it weren’t for his connections to the witcher, and soon enough they’ll be dragging him away and asking him more questions about Geralt than he could possibly answer. Than he will answer.

When he thinks about Geralt, it hurts, but he still wouldn’t tell them what he knows; not that he knows very much.

But when he starts talking about their travels together, he finds it hard to stop. He doesn’t talk through their shared adventures chronologically, but picks up whatever thread comes to him first, jumping between memories. He’s sitting with one of the mice perched on his knee a few days after the story of Posada when he pauses partway through a tale about a drowner infestation near Rinde.

“What?” He says, eyebrows raised. “Oh I—” he peers down at his knee. “You’re very perceptive, for a rodent. Yes,” he sniffs. “I was in love with him. Not that I ever told him, or he ever worked it out.” He listens for a moment. “Am I still? I… I can’t say. I want to say no, but—”

He sighs. This is an awkward conversation to have with a mouse. Despite that, it feels good to say it out loud. He wonders if this is another Nilfgaardian trick—get him to spill his secrets to a pair of mice instead of a torturer. But after so long, he no longer cares. Nilfgaard won’t give a shit about the griffin contract that ended up with Geralt being dumped in a dung heap. They’ll care that he’s in love with the witcher, of course—they can use that against him, he’s sure of it—but that barely feels like a secret any more.

If the Nilfgaardians are somehow using the mice to spy on him, they’re taking their damned time to do anything with the information they’ve gotten. So he carries on talking, his own babbling filling the endless silence till his voice goes hoarse and he finally falls asleep, day after day after day.

It’s still early in the morning of the most recent seventh day. The sunshaft has not even reached the first crack in the second floorboard, and he’s sat chatting to the mice as he so often is. The scruffier one seems keen to stick around; no doubt because it struggles to get food alone and knows that Jaskier is a reliable source. The mouse certainly looks like it’d be immediately eaten by a cat or crushed by a cart if it ventured into the street beyond.

Jaskier lowers his hand, and the scruffy mouse scurries onto his palm, no doubt seeking out crumbs. As a boy, Jaskier had trained dogs and cats and—on one memorable occasion—a pigeon, and taming a mouse has proven to be far easier. He lifts it up, peering at its little beady eyes.

“You are a sweet thing,” he says, “even if you look rough.” He laughs at himself. “You make for fine company, given the circumstances.” The mouse sniffs at his hand. “Quite. And look, you haven't even pissed on me, unlike your ungrateful friend.”

The mouse cleans its little face with its paws.

“Very hygienic,” Jaskier agrees.

It really is a darling creature. Acting unthinkingly, like he would with a kitten or a puppy or Roach, if she would ever let him get close enough, he lifts the mouse higher and presses a soft, light kiss to the back of its head.

There is a sound like wind rushing in the wrong direction. A squeak that melds into a swear. A flash—far brighter than the speckled sunlight coming through the bars—and then the mouse is gone and there’s a sudden weight on his legs that makes him shout and there, sitting in his lap and looking dazed, is Geralt.

He is also, Jaskier cannot help but notice, completely naked.

“What the fuck?”

Geralt blinks at him, his eyes refocusing. “You—” his voice sounds hoarse. He coughs, starts again. “You broke the spell.”

“Someone turned you into a fucking mouse?”

“You broke the spell.”

“Yes, you said that. But you were— Geralt, you were a mouse? What the fuck?”

“You still love me.”

Jaskier falls silent. “I… did I say that? In, ah… in so many words?”

Geralt shrugs, and Jaskier makes a concerted effort to look away from his maddening physique, his body littered with new scars.

“You didn’t have to,” he says, voice still gravelly. “Because you broke the spell. With a kiss.”

“But what does that—” it takes Jaskier a moment to catch up. “Hold on. Hold on. That’s a thing? I thought that was just a fairy story!”

Geralt shrugs again. “All stories come from somewhere.”

“Shit.”

Geralt’s expression drops. He looks hurt. Fuck.

“It’s not— Geralt, it’s not that I don’t—” Jaskier scrambles for words. It was so much easier talking to a mouse. “You don’t love me back!” He pauses, watching Geralt’s expression carefully. “...Right?”

Geralt smiles. He leans forwards, pressing their foreheads together. “Can we… talk about it later?” He says, voice low. “I’m not… I’m trying to be better at this, Jask, but we don’t have time…”

There’s a buoyant light in Jaskier’s chest. “I…” He breathes out, slowly. “Of course. Yes. I, ah—”

“I need your help,” Geralt says, cutting him off. “We need your help.”

Jaskier laughs—he can’t help it—then gestures with his arms, taking in the cell around them, the barred windows, the locked door.

“What a coincidence,” he says. “It looks like I’m in need of your help too.”

Geralt sighs. The familiar noise is like coming home. “Fuck,” he mutters. “So you are.”

“Do you…” Jaskier tilts his head to one side, finally allowing his gaze to drop down. “Do you think you can break us out of this cell, take down between six and two dozen Nilfgaardian soldiers and ensure we both get out of here alive while also being completely and totally and quite entirely... “ he looks down again, unable to stop himself from smirking. “...naked?”

There’s a smug half smile on Geralt’s face. Finally, he stands, and now Jaskier really is forced to keep Geralt’s gaze lest he find himself face-to-face with all of his dreams come true at once.

Geralt stretches his shoulders, twisting his neck with a low groan. He extends a hand, pulling Jaskier to his feet.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Let’s find out.”

[wren-of-the-woods]

The full video can be found here!

JASKIER MEETS JASKIER The Witcher: Blood Origin