#maybe valdo marx?

[hannibard]

Not sure what the fuck that means but I'm happy for him!!!!

[fandom-junk-drawer]

The Witcher Headcanon - Accent

Jaskier has a Northern accent that he works really hard to hide. He learned early on that most people, especially among the nobility, considered Northerners to be lower than peasants. A Northern accent was a black mark on the person, labeling them as bumpkins or hill folk.

Jaskier saw how anyone with an accent even remotely close to Northern was ridiculed and bullied both inside and outside of Court. So he spent a lot of time practicing speaking in a Court accent until he perfected it.

By the time he went off to study in Oxenfurt, he had become comfortable with the new accent, and it sounded completely natural. He didn't have to worry about being looked down on, or ridiculed, and he discovered that a lot of people found a Court accent attractive.

But there was always that fear that he was going to slip and some one would find out about his Northern accent. He was terrifed when he started following Geralt, and when he met Yennefer.

Geralt never said anything, but he could hear that Jaskier's accent wasn't natural. There were slight differences in inflection, and pronunciation, and tiny inconsistencies that normal humans would never notice but a Witcher's sensitive ears easily picked up on. Whatever the reason was for the affectation was none of Geralt's business.

The more time Geralt spent with Jaskier, the more he noticed the little slips in this Court accent. He figured out the reason for the fake accent when he started hearing his real accent come through.

Geralt remembered the first time Jaskier's accent had slipped out.

The had made camp after a long day of entertaining at the town festival. Jaskier had been very tired, and he was upset about a few things Valdo Marx had said to him. He'd laughed it off, turning the insults and insinuations into an improv song that had the crowd laughing and cheering him boistrously before sweeping him away to the closest inn for a round of drinks while Valdo stood fuming impotently.

But now that they were alone, he'd allowed himself to feel the hurt, and his accent had taken on a sing-songy quality, and he'd gone hard on his T's for a second when he referred to Valdo Marx as "that b**tart!"

Oh, f**k!

Jaskier internally panicked the second he realized he'd dropped his affected accent. Ok, calm down! Maybe he didn't hear. You know he tunes you out most of the time. Act natural, pretend like everything is normal!

Jaskier continued rummaging through his pack, sneaking a quick glance at Geralt while continuing to insult Valdo as he shook out his bedroll, flapping the blanket aggresssively before laying it out. Geralt seemed oblivious, his attention on gathering deadfall for the fire and digging out the fire pit.

Jaskier allowed himself to breathe a silent sigh of relief. The Witcher hadn't noticed. Thank all the gods!

Geralt was scraping out a little pit for the fire when he heard Jaskier drop his accent for just a second. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the bard freeze for a split second, and Geralt calmly continued with his task as if he hadn't noticed. All the while he was thinking "He has a Northern accent! No wonder he sounds off sometimes!"

From then on, Geralt started really listening, intrigued and wanting to hear more of his real voice. He caught little snatches of it here and there, mostly when Jaskier was drunk, tired, upset, or excited. Or when he thought he was alone, and was composing a song or poem.

Geralt was always careful to never let on that he noticed when that lovely, sing-songy accent slipped out. It was hard, forcing himself to keep that big stupid smile off his face that threatened to come out whenever he heard Jaskier 'go Northern'.

When Yennefer came into the picture, Jaskier was on edge, constantly on guard to keep his Northern accent hidden. She was the last person he wanted to find out about it.

She already hates me. No reason to make her think I'm stupid, too!

He did an excellent job of hiding it, not wanting to give the witch any ammunition in their perpetual war of words. He finally bonded with her, saw her as family like he did Geralt, and he doubled down on keeping his accent a secret.

He could talk to her about anything, show her every side of him, like he could with Geralt, but the accent was one thing he did not want to share. He was terrified that she would look at him differently. That both of them would. He didn't think his heart would survive that.

Yennefer had been fighting for her life the first time she heard Jaskier's Northern accent come out.

Jaskier had caught a fever while performing in one of the towns. He was delirious, and Yennefer had been getting him to drink a potion and he'd just completely dropped his affected accent as he started talking random nonsense to her.

She had paused as she was tucking him back in, staring at him in disbelief as he chattered on.

Yennefer had squealed in lowercase.

"Oh! My! Gods! He's, he's got a-!"

"Northern accent. I know. He's been faking a Court accent-!"

"I know what it is, and it's f***ing cute!"

"Gods you sound like a giddy little maid!"

"Like you can say anything, Geralt, when you're standing there grinning like a boy who's just gotten his first peek at a pair of tits!"

Yennefer and Geralt never let on that they knew, and it bothered them that Jaskier didn't seem to feel like he could trust them. They understood why he was hiding it, though, so they satisfied themselves with enjoying the rare times when it slipped out.

It was not heavy, like many Northerners' accents were. Jaskier's accent was lighter, more delicate, but it did tend to get heavier when he was in an emotional state.

They did their best to pretend they didn't notice the little lapses, but they couldn't help but smile when it happened. And Jaskier eventually figured out that they both knew--had known for a while.

Yennefer had run into them in town, and they were having dinner in their room at the inn. Jaskier had been chattering on about how one of his sets had gone, and he'd gotten a little too excited. Yennefer's eyes had gone soft and...and sparkly, and she'd glanced at Geralt, whose face was lit up with the sunniest smile which he was desperately trying to hide behind his tankard of ale.

OhHhH f**K, tHeY'd hEaRd iT!!!! He froze, going stock still. Any minute now, they were going to start lauging at him.

Geralt just smiled and took another drink while Yennefer just kept looking at him with that, that adoring look. That was when he knew.

"When?" Jaskier had asked, mortified after he realized.

Geralt had swallowed his ale with a thoughtful 'Hm' and replied. "A few days after you started following me around. Your accent sounded off, but I wasn't sure why. Figured it out after you started b*tching about Valdo Marx one night."

Jaskier mentally kicked himself. Of course a Witcher would have been able to tell!

"And you?", he asked Yennefer

"That time you had that bad fever. You babbled on in the most intriguing accent about everything under the heavens. We got to listen to it for two whole days!"

Jaskier hid his face in his hands, dinner forgotten as he slid down in his chair with an embarrassed groan.

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"Because we knew why you were hiding it, Lark", Yennefer said, "I've been in Court. I know how the nobility are."

"You don't have to hide it anymore. Not around us," Geralt said.

"You...you don't think I sound...stupid?"

Yennefer tapped him on the head with her empty plate as she walked by, "No, you little b*llend! It's sing-songy and cute, and you sound adorable!"

It took him some time, but he was finally able to let himself relax and stop using the adopted accent with Yennefer and Geralt.

He would forget sometimes, because he was a performer, and an act could be hard to put aside. Especially if it had helped you survive for so many years.

It would sometimes take an hour or two after a long day of performing for the public for Geralt and Yennefer's 'Sing-Songy Twit' to relax enought to drop the Court accent and be himself. And when he did, one of them would always say warmly "There you are, Jaskier!"

[dreamofbecoming]

au where geralt never figures out jaskier wasn’t the one with the wishes (maybe his second wish is more subtle and he just figures the guy had a stroke or whatever) until months later he runs into a bard calling himself valdo marx and he’s so surprised he just points and says “but you should be dead!” and the djinn, who at this point has been following this stoic taciturn dipshit around for months waiting desperately for him to express a desire for literally anything at all, it’ll take anything at this point just want something it’s begging you, goes THAT COUNTS BITCH NO TAKE BACKS and marx drops dead on the spot. geralt has to leave town. he never tells jaskier.

[flowercrown-bard]

ahhhh Accidentally admitting that the other is really pretty, leading to both of them getting very flustered with Geraskier 🥰

Jaskier was not, nor would he ever be, jealous of a horse. Because that would be quite ridiculous, right? Silly, really. And no one in their right mind would ever attribute either of those things to him.

He was a very serious man. Definitely.

So no. He was not jealous of Roach. Even if Geralt had spent a good portion of the past hour doting on her, talking softly to her, brushing her down and sneaking her treats. All while he had been ignoring Jaskier's attempts at conversation. Granted, those attempts had included ranting about Valdo Marx, going off about the merrits of certain rhyme schemes and planning his outfit for the next ball he wanted to attend.

So maybe those hadn't been the most engaging topics for Geralt. Still. He could have at least given Jaskier one of those exasperated yet fond looks that Jaskier had grown so fond of. If he was being honest, those looks were the main reason why he talked endlessly about topics he knew were of no interest to Geralt.

But today Geralt had the audacity to ignore Jaskier completely in favour of Roach.

"You're the best," Geralt told Roach, as he combed her mane with his fingers. "Loyal and brave."

Jaskier's eyelid twitched.

"And now your coat is all clean again too. Your the prettiest horse in all the Continent again -"

"Yes, yes, we all get it!" Jaskier threw his hands up. "She's the perfect companion for you. Just as loyal and brave and pretty as you are. No need to rub it under my nose that she's a better companion than me."

Geralt looked at him, stunned. He stopped patting Roach and turned fully towards him.

"What?"

"Oh, come on. You've been going on about how great she is. Clearly, you're trying to tell me -"

"You think I'm pretty?" Geralt asked quietly and oh. Ohhh no. Oh fuck.

Jaskier felt himself flush.

"Uh... Well, I mean..." He stammered and trailed off into an awkward smile. "Nevermind." Abrubtly, he turned away and pretended to be very busy tuning his lute. "Just. Continue doting on her. Don't let me distract you. Just - ignore me."

He glanced at Geralt, mostly to see if his brilliant and subtle deflection had worked and - oh.

There it was. That look of fond exasperation.

Jaskier's heart skipped a beat. He watched with bated breath as a shy smile spread over Geralt's lips. Ever so reluctantly, Geralt turned his attention back to Roach.

As he picked up where he had left off and patted her on the neck, he said just loud enough that Jaskier could hear, "You know Roach, you and Jaskier really are the best companions I could ask for. You're both so loyal, brave and pretty."

[a-kind-of-merry-war]

hi merry! i have kind of a silly question; so I watched s1 of the Witcher when it first came out, read All The Fic, then dropped off it for other things. is it worth watching s2 and s3..... just so i can read the fics??

Oof anon that's a good question!!

So... man, I really didn't enjoy S2 that much. Felt like a lot of the character stuff got dropped in favour of. Something?? And then I personally have only watched some of the first half of S3, and none of the second half. I just... lost the drive.

There were definitely a couple things I liked in S3, though...

ANYWAY.

Ive not actually read any witcher fic in a while so I may not be the best person to ask lmao. Valdo Marx exists in canon now (and he's a dick), Jaskier is Officially Bi and has a short lived fling with a prince, plot... happens.

It's been a while, can you tell 😅

I personally prefer my fic to exist in the endless forever between plot points, so often the actual plot of the show doesn't really matter. But your mileage may vary!

If anyone has any opinions please weigh in! Or maybe we can point Anon towards some way of quickly catching up 🤔

[nullio]

I'm actually really interested in how they'll handle the ""reveal"" of Jaskier being bisexual

I don't mean that as in, I expect a show-stopping and emotional coming-out scene but, just the act of establishing his queerness

I feel like there are vaguely 2 different ways of doing it, and even then there are a bunch of small things they can make different but

Route 1.) Jask will be conveniently bisexual the whole time. they'll act like his being into both men and women was already an established thing, despite the fact that it really was not a reality until very recently (recently, as in recently in the real world)

I have a few mixed emotions abt this route, but ultimately I wouldn't hate it if they went with this (low key it fits with the writing by the seat of our pants vibe the show already has, sorry Lauren)

Route 2.) Jask discovers his bisexuality throughout the season, most likely by developing a male crush and doing some soul-searching.

lovely! heartwarming! And keeping up with the established cannon. Yes, Jasskier is very smooth with the ladies but now he can be smooth with the men as well. I also think it would be very cool to see an older character (jaskier is like 40 right?) discover these new things abt himself, it's never too late for more self-discoveries. go get that dick bestie

I also wonder if they go with "Route 2" if it'll be a slow burn deal with longing looks, confused feelings, and lots of hypothetical internal discussion

or if Radovid will take one look at this fuzzy, emotionally tormented poet going through a midlife crisis and be like "so...wanna kiss? kiss maybe? kiss with tongue?? wanna fuck on this dining table, bard?"

and jaskier just 0-0 "yeah."

omg secret third route, Route 1.5.) Valdo Marx will very publicly and very dramatically reveal his and Jaskiers old lustful gay relationship from their college years while publically shaming Jask for being a bad bf like,

"really panckratz,,, you call yourself a tender and generous lover??? well you never acted that way... WITH ME"

*queue credits*

[restless-witch]

nothing in the world is mine, but my love, mine

hey hey I did a one-shot for once, I've posted it on Ao3 here but I know some of y'all like to read fic on tumblr so it's below the cut

Comments and likes always appreciated <3

He clocks the bard as either noble or a romantic the moment he sees the gloves on his hands. They're subtle, as far as the custom goes, a dark olive colored kidskin with a simple flower button wrapped around his wrist and covering only his thumb. The Witcher always wears gloves of a kind, Jaskier determines after a few weeks on the path together, though out of utility. a quick soulmates AU where soulmates have matching marks on the sides of their hands // title shamelessly stolen from Mitski's "My Love Mine All Mine"

Rated: T for swearing

Fandom: The WItcher TV

Pairing: Geraskier (Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier), background Yennralt (Yennefer of Vengerber/Geralt of Rivia)

Language: English

He clocks the bard as either noble or a romantic the moment he sees the gloves on his hands. They're subtle, as far as the custom goes, a dark olive colored kidskin with a simple flower button wrapped around his wrist and covering only his thumb. 

It's not satisfying when the bards confirms both to be true on their way to investigate the devil but when they're being kicked by Toruviel, he thinks that if the bard was a full gloved wearing hack then they'd both be dead.

Which also isn't satisfying.

.

The Witcher always wears gloves of a kind, Jaskier determines after a few weeks on the Path together, though out of utility.

Apparently the most dressed down the witcher ever gets is a pair of fingerless gloves worn even to sleep. Something about improving his grip and tendon injuries- Geralt tenses up when he can sense Jaskier wants to ask if witchers even have marks. Jaskier can feel how fragile their friendship is. He doesn't press the issue.

He hopes that puts a mark in his favor.

.

By the end of the season, Geralt determines the bard has no less than seven pairs of gloves- yet only two of them are permitted to actually get dirtied. Two suede pairs to match the colors of his "lover's eyes" (unoriginally brown and blue), three pairs for wearing in town, and a scant two pairs for all his bathing, cooking, and laundry.

It's utterly ridiculous.

Before they part at Ban Glan for the winter, he tells the bard to get more sensible gloves before spring on the Path.

He's at Ard Carraig before he realizes he planned for the bard to join him again.

.

When he returns to Oxenfurt, the two pairs of gloves he has for washing are nearly worn to shreds- he throws them down on the table at the Wishful Warbler with a grin when Shani asks about his travels. He's going on real adventures with his-maybe-friend-Geralt and getting dirty and everything. He spends the winter as a research assistant to Professor Berlyn and learning to make stacks of washing gloves.

His friends, who largely only own a pair or two or have entirely dispensed with the custom, are overrun with gloves of varying quality. Priscilla generously accepts a stack whose thumbs must all be split open to accommodate even her dainty digit.

He manages to barter for a pair of amber saffron dyed kidskin gloves- painstakingly transcribing Metz's treatises on celestial calendars small enough for Valdo Marx to use them as crib notes.

It's worth it.

It's a true lark to set them along with his brown and blue gloves and he whistles when they meet up in the spring and he waggles them in Geralt's face and thinks Geralt is about to strangle him- before the ludacris stack of washing gloves topples out of his bag onto the witcher's lap and he can't help but bark a laugh into Jaskier's delighted face.

.

He knows the bard is, at least, serious about walking the Path when he drops the stack of gloves on Geralt's lap. It's a bit of a child's attempt at adulthood, he admits to himself because he knows it would crush the bard to know twenty years of life does not make a man.

Still, it dampens his concerns of noble nonsense a bit to see where the calluses from needlework have made his fingertips even more knobby alongside the ones from his lute. For all the work Jaskier puts into his hands- carefully filing down his calluses and nails when they crack and rubbing ointments in before he beds down- Geralt can see it's a dedication to practicality and not vanity.

The bard is unconcerned by the healing scars where broken strings have cut into the flesh or the uneven tan marks across the backs of his hands where the different gloves have sat.

.

Jaskier wonders, just a teensy bit, if Geralt's glove wearing excuse isn't a little... weak.

Always needing his full grip strength?

It's a lighthearted solstice evening where he's helping Geralt in the bath when the witcher turns his head to the side, immediately stands up and storms over to the next room (nearly cock out and everything if Jaskier hadn't thought to throw the bath sheet at him) and throws an unwanted suitor off the serving girl.

There's suds dripping out of Geralt's hair all over the floor that he knows he'll wipe up later with the very gloves he's wearing now and Jaskier thinks he is maybe falling in love, for real this time.

.

A handful of times, he catches the bard cooing over marks in taverns. He wonders if it's a bit- some flirtation over how a lass or lad with such lovely signs could possibly take up with a scoundrel like him. 

It's not the most rakish bit he could suspect of the bard- though he notices the bard never takes off his gloves in return. He wears them even in the cities and hamlets where the custom is less common or replaced with simple patches of dyed skin.

It makes him seem damn right virginal to keep them on all the time. 

Perhaps the bard's mark is something obscene- it's not unheard of. If that were true though, he suspects the bard would leverage it into some pickup line about his prowess in bed. 

Perhaps the bard has no marks- a person blessedly free of obligation or destiny. 

He thinks it would be a kinder fate for Jaskier to be free of those kinds of concerns.

.

Jaskier knows his fastidiousness with wearing gloves is a little unusual for the current fashion but he commits to the bit. 

He thinks it's more romantic to have them revealed and thinks his are especially gorgeous; a simple sun on his right hand and a moon on his left, a small comet arcing over each and a few lines he thinks are wind or perhaps clouds. He's seen more ornate or filigreed marks- even the occasional mark with a splash of color- but his marks are so curiously endearing. 

When he links his bare hands together he sees a miniature of the universe and hopes that one day, he may hold his soulmate's marks against his own and feel the world between their hands.

He'll admit he's kept the privilege of the reveal to himself; but he'll be a little selfish if it means he can know to watch their delight when he reveals a world in his hands- a world to share.

He's not sure where his soulmate will fit in this life he's made in Oxenfurt and on the Path, but he never could have predicted the love that's already sprung up in his life already.

.

It's a very late night, or a very very early morning, when Geralt asks Yennefer about her marks- the marks erased when she became a mage.

"Never had one," she says, teasingly tracing the edge of his gloves, "I never needed fate to find love."

In the dark, between a sigh and a moan, his gloves are cast away.

When the sun has properly risen and midday creeps closer, she holds hands between her own.

"Rather provincial, aren't they?" She brings the tender pale flesh of his palm to her mouth and bites playfully, "I'd expect nothing less of a Rivian."

"Not quite a Rivian," he says and gently wriggles his fingers against her jaw, smiling as she can't help laugh and let the marks out of her teeth, "are they to your liking?"

Her answer comes as a carafe of apple juice.

.

It's a hard day: starting with Geralt stumbling through a portal smelling of lilac and gooseberries and ending with Jaskier dragging a nearly-drowned Geralt out of a waterhag's shack.

Two baths were called- a rare luxury in a rickety town- for Jaskier knew a shared bath would end up with at least one of them more disgusting at the end. Geralt is, Melitele be praised, uninjured besides a black eye that blooms stark against the lingering potion-pale pallor he'd had earlier.

The two strip and Jaskier climbs into his bath: Geralt casts a look at the door and cocks his head and throws his pus-soaked gloves straight into the chamberpot.

They soak, side by side,  and chatter tiredly and Jaskier thinks nothing of it when Geralt offers to perk up his water and he sees the moon and comet and dappled lines on Geralt's right hand as he casts Igni into the bath.

The smell of lilac and gooseberries and fucking are starting to sweat out of Geralt's hair and the memories of the wedding feast cut through him, unbidden, and Jaskier should have won another master's degree in performance for the way he blames the jump in his heart on the scalding water.

The curling misery he later blames on the thought of ridding the swamp stench from his boots.

.

Jaskier learns to knit gloves sometime around when Geralt forces himself to admit the bard is past boyhood. It's a rather domestic skill for Jaskier to learn in adulthood, though he claims they're easier to make and repair on the Path: which isn't a lie exactly and the bard does earn them a few coins fiddling with the needles in town and selling the gloves.

The knitted gloves seem to be his preference now- less prone to tearing as they wear and able to go longer without laundering. It's the threads of anxiety beneath it that give Geralt pause, he's been presuming Jaskier was unmarked entirely and wore the gloves for attention, but the longer he guards the little span of flesh the more Geralt thinks a tragedy must lie beneath the scraps of fabric.

Perhaps the person he shared his marks with had rejected him- though Geralt thought that unlikely given how firmly Jaskier had attached himself to Geralt's side despite him trying to outrun the bard for a year. Whoever shared his marks didn't stand a chance against Jaskier's persistence. Against his smile.

Perhaps the person he shared his marks with was already dead. Geralt didn't believe in the machinations of destiny or soulmarks, but that too twisted at him. Jaskier was a scoundrel, yes, but didn't deserve that so early in life. At the very least, it would explain why the bard wasn't concerned to muck with his fate by sharing his time with a witcher.

At the very least, he counts their time together as a blessing now, even if it's stolen from another.

.

Jaskier thinks it's finally time to come clean about his marks- their marks really. Not all marks are about just two people, he knows that, and Yennefer isn't the worst person to share a life with. 

Honestly, he already does- Geralt's adverse to destiny but Yennefer would be sensible working out some kind of custody schedule if they didn't want to invite him in. He shares his life with Geralt, which is more than many soulmates get. He's not even sure he wants more of their lives shared, but the longer he keeps the marks hidden- the more the omission feels like a lie. 

The more he knows he's lying to Geralt.

He figures it's an even shot Geralt that he'll never see him again or he'll be invited to winter at the Kaer.

It turns out he didn't even need the marks to drive Geralt away, being himself was enough. 

"See you around Geralt."

.

A week after the dust settles and the Deathless Mother has been banished from their plane, Geralt notices Jaskier's gloves stretch from wrist to fingertip and when Jaskier is pulled into what is rapidly becoming Yennefer's lab, he can hear a sympathetic pained groan from Yennefer as Jaskier's fingers are rebroken.

.

Geralt knocked against the open door of Jaskier's room: Jaskier kicked another log into the fire-

Geralt should have thought of that.

"Come in," Jaskier said and settled back into the chair before his diary. Geralt saw a page with very few words and many drops of ink smeared across it.

Geralt took the poker and rearranged the wood of the fire to burn more evenly, "Yenn says you haven't been caring for your burns," he coaxed the fire into a more even burn and pressed it further back into the hearth.

There was a long silence, "I can't open the jar," Jaskier admitted.

"You know anyone here would help you, Jask-" he dragged a hand through his hair, had he really fucked it up that badly?

Jaskier's silence said what it needed to.

"I'm sorry I didn't make that clear, Jaskier," he said and saw Jaskier's gaze drop lower, to the page in front of him, "may I help you now?"

"I would like it if you opened the jar," Jaskier said, "I don't want to trouble you any further. And thank you for the fire-"

"It's not trouble, I should-" Geralt huffed a sigh, "I should have thought of it sooner. Thought of you sooner- please, let me help you." 

Geralt could have heard a pin drop on the opposite side of Kaer Morhen as he waited for Jaskier to say something- anything.

He opened the jar of ointment and held on to it, even when Jaskier put a trembling hand out to grasp it, waiting for Jaskier to permit him to tend to the burns. Jaskier gave him a worn look.

Jaskier carefully took his gloves off- his fingers still wracked with the persistent tremors that made the single button at the wrists take an achingly long time to unfasten.

"The draughts help," Jaskier said softly, "but they will take time to subside."

They do not speak of the lute calluses that have started to thin and peel off entirely.

The gloves came off Jaskier's hand- revealing two palms and thumbs soiled by burns. There, amongst the gnarled scars, laid the burst remains of a sun and a moon.

Metz's treatise on the formation of the celestial spheres says the bursting of a sun creates a black hole: swallowing whole planets into its gravitational pull.

Geralt thought, perhaps, he should have considered his own marks when he wondered of Jaskier's for how often their hands touched.

"Don't-" Jaskier started, he took a deep breath and looked at the marks and not at Geralt, "please just the ointment, Geralt," he held out a hand again to take the pot from Geralt.

Geralt took the little pot of ointment, preciously carried in his saddlebags from Cidaris to Gulet to Kaer Morhen, and tugged off his own gloves as well. He carefully scooped out some of the ointment, the smell of dusk campion faint and familiar, and he warmed it between his palms.

He gently dragged his palms over Jaskier's before nimbly working the oil and medicine into his skin, taking care to rub into the creases between his fingers and the bumps of his remaining cuticles. 

Yennefer says the draughts will help the nerves return and the ointment will smooth the burns.

Geralt was careful to be methodical and detached as he covered the marks with beeswax and the scent of campion. He cannot help but imagine the pain that forced Jaskier's sun and moon to bubble and split so wide; the layered burns that distort the comets into slashes of lightning.

He cannot help but wonder why Jaskier didn't leave him to rot.

He cannot help but wonder why soul marks are counted as a blessing when his sun and moon remain clear and smooth while Jaskier's have ruptured into glowing black holes. He must not be an expert, there must be a gap in his knowledge, for he'd once counted Jaskier's dismissal as a blessing.

"Easy there, Geralt," Jaskier said kindly, "there's no reason for all that."

Of course Jaskier could interpret the bite of Geralt's lip and the furrowing of his brow.

Geralt held Jaskier's hands between his own, their suns and moons nearly meeting where the burns didn't warp them, "I'd given up on seeing this," Jaskier said fondly, "our own little world in our hands." He traced Geralt's comet down to the bowl of the moon, "Thank you Geralt, you did a very good job."

"I'm sorry," Geralt managed, "I didn't know."

"I didn't really want you to, would you have received it well?" Jaskier said pointedly, then his voice softened, "it was bad enough I wormed my way beside you- this- Geralt,” he gently squeezed their hands, “This is more than I dreamed of.”

"You should want more," Geralt said, "You should ask for more. I'm sorry-"

"I've said the same of you," Jaskier laughed softly, a rare sound of late, "I've said the same of you many times. Perhaps we can work on this together."

[echo-bleu]

A little cut scene from the epilogue of wolves and voices (it distracted from the story without bringing anything but it’s fun nonetheless).

If you’re reading the fic, go read chapter 3 first!

“How are the finances?” Jaskier asks, gesturing at Cora to follow him to his office.

It’s the only one on the ground floor, in deference to his leg – and his status as Editor-in-Chief. He hooks his cane onto the hat stand by the door and limps behind the desk, wincing. It’s going to rain soon, and his leg is aching fiercely.

“Our expenses are about to overcome the subscriptions again,” Cora says, shuffling through the files on the desk to find the right one. “We need more money.”

Jaskier gives the papers she hands him a cursory look. “That’s what it always comes down to. We need subventions from the city, or some sponsors.”

“Can’t you get help from the witchers? They give you money for the… other work.”

“Not through my contacts, that would defeat the principle of a free press,” Jaskier says. “What we need is a printers’ guild. You should reach out to the Daily Ox, and maybe even the Tribune.”

Cora grimaces. “The folks at the Tribune are… distasteful.”

“Yes, Valdo Marx is a piece of shit,” Jaskier snorts, “but that’s also the point of a free press. We can’t exclude them. Besides, my sources says there might be a change in management coming soon.”

“Really?”

Jaskier nods and leans back in his seat. “Marx got arrested for fraud, apparently. He was released, but he was given a hefty fine. I have a feeling the Tribune’s board of directors aren’t going to keep him on as chief editor for long. Maybe it will prompt a change of direction.”

The Tribune has been printing the most disgusting anti-elves bullshit ever since Marx, Literature Professor and former court bard of Cidaris, took its head. That Marx also happens to have been Jaskier’s nemesis and rival when they were both student does not factor in his aversion toward the man – not at all. It’s just that he’s a terrible excuse of a human being.

To see him brought low by the new administration is a piece of drama Jaskier is happily feasting on.

[pippinoftheshire]

I HAVE to know more about Cafe Kaer Morhen ajdghakagsjsl

I live to serve, @justabigoldnerd <3

----

January 17th

“Will you go to a party with me?” asks Jaskier. He’s leaning on the counter, watching Geralt cleaning up for the day. “It’s not a massive one- it’s just up the road, in the Tavern.”

“No,” says Geralt.

January 27th

“Don’t you ever dream of the world?” Jaskier asks as he taps his fingers along to the sound of the rain. “About getting out of here and doing something? … something incredible?”

“No,” says Geralt, mouth quirking into a crooked smile as he passes Jaskier a mug of coffee. “I prefer to be somewhere familiar. Small.”

“And full of friends!” Jaskier cheers, flinging himself at the taller man and scrambling up onto his back. “Admit it! You like having me around!”

“What the fuck, Jaskier,” grunts Geralt, staggering a little under his weight. Jaskier can hear the smile creeping into his voice. He clings on when Geralt shakes himself like a wet dog, a giggle bursting out of his lips as he hangs on with all his might.

“I’m part octopus, you know,” he tells Geralt sweetly, hiding a smug smile in that white hair.

Geralt sighs good-naturedly. “Of course you are…”

February 5th

“It’s the last month of winter!” Jaskier cheers as he bounds into the café one chilly morning, a paisley scarf wrapped firmly about his throat up to his chin. “It feel like years since I’ve seen the sun. Oooh! We should plan a party! Celebrate the return of summer! I’m sure Essi would let us have it at the tavern, maybe we could-“

“Hello to you too,” says Geralt dryly. “Remember to breathe.”

Jaskier huffs. “Rude.”

He is slightly out of breath, though, but he is certainly not going to tell Geralt that.

February 15th

“Geraaaalt,” whines Jaskier as he flopps into a seat at the counter. “I need something containing lethal amounts of caffeine.”

Geralt shoots him a concerned look from the sandwich iron. “What’s wrong?”

“The bane of my fucking existence managed to get into the lists at the music festival…” grouses Jaskier sourly. He spins a spare coin on the wood of the counter, scowling. “Now I’m going to have to look into his smug face and fucking smile at him all evening, ugh.”

Geralt huffs a laugh, before providing Jaskier with a mug of what he’s pretty sure is a triple-shot espresso, creamy with a dash of milk. “Who is this man?”

“Valdo Marx. He’s an old nemesis from collage…” Jaskier’s brain supplies him with a wonderful idea, and he shoots upright like a fireplace poker. “Oh! You could come with me to the festival! Then I really could ignore him!”

“No,” says Geralt. “I’m not your buffer.”

“Oh, pleeeeease, Geralt?” Jaskier rounds his eyes in hope. “I’ll owe you. Big time.”

“No.”

Jaskier sulks.

[ilikebigants]

Started thinking and... What if Valdo Marx isn't an actual person? What if it's an inside joke that got out of hand? Or just a Title that Jaskier gives to anyone who he doesn't like or slightly inconveniences him? OR maybe it's a fake name he made up so he can have an arch nemesis and thus gain reputation points.

My point is, it'd be so much funnier for Valdo Marx to be a catch-all name for anyone Jaskier decides isn't worth to remember by name because that'd mean that the djinn wish would have done nothing one way or the other.

[fictionkinfessions]

Okay, if we're going to talk about music, I must say something, considering several of my songs have been published in this world. I pretty much stand by all of them except Burn Butcher Burn, though I don't exactly think it was unfair from my perspective at the time. I do want to say specifically about The Golden One, the twist wasn't that the guy was a dragon. At least not when I wrote it. Also screw that guy who went all "oh it's bad because I figured out the twist", 1, no you didn't, 2, that doesn't mean it's bad, 3, if you do actually figure out the twist before it happens, that's how it's supposed to be because that makes it fun, you low-brow, pseudointellectual hack. You probably enjoy Valdo Marx's "music", the repetitive, derivative, meaningless noise that it is. Oh, and 4, if you couldn't predict it, you'd probably be upset because it "came out of nowhere". So maybe, just maybe, think before you speak next time. It still gets me worked up just thinking about that.

As for other songs... Well, Enchanted Flowers was older than me by many centuries, obviously. I know I learned a bunch of songs and wrote many as well, I tend to keep a playlist of bard songs from all kinds of media because hey, that's the genre I played, I think there was something like Ragnar the Red but obviously not exactly that because that one is very Skyrim. But like, similar tune and content, a jaunty little song about an arrogant dick being silenced for good by a woman warrior who he underestimated. I enjoyed it, I still played it well into the time when I was primarily playing my own songs because people actually enjoyed songs about the White Wolf.

-Jaskier

x

[hannibard]

"I'm choking from the taste (but I can't help but swallow)"

Chapter 3: Bad idea

Summary: Jaskier gets caught up in missing Geralt hours and it causes him to make an impulsive decision.

Click here to read on ao3

After that fateful night where Radovid decided to stop playing nice, everything changed. Jaskier was moved from the king’s quarters to his own little room not too far away- which was a blessing and a curse simultaneously as it gave the bard some much needed privacy, but also signified to the staff that his importance had severely decreased, making them gradually neglect their duties in regard to him.

The upkeep of his recently acquired room was left to Jaskier more often than not, which he wasn’t very good at since he’d grown up as a noble and then spent the rest of his life as a travelling minstrel without a permanent residence- save for his small apartment at Oxenfurt Academy, which wasn’t really his, just a living space that was lent to him as part of the remuneration for his occasional position as a professor. The lavish meals that used to be delivered to him three times a day had also started to become scarce. Thank Melitele Jaskier had made friends with the kitchen staff, or he would be borderline starving.

Another sign that the bard had fallen from the king’s favor was the fact that Radovid called for him with far less frequency, maybe twice a week- which wasn’t little, but it was a clear deviation from their previous routine- and Jaskier was usually kicked out after their (rough, a lot rougher than before) coupling ended.

Thankfully, he was still allowed to play his role as court bard. The show must go on, Radovid had said after Jaskier inquired about it, but sadly the position didn’t belong exclusively to him anymore and other bards visited every so often to perform. The first one of them being *gag* Valdo Fucking Marx. Jaskier wasn’t sure if Radovid had invited him on purpose after hearing about their long-standing rivalry or not but he was pissed nonetheless.

“I don’t know how you managed to keep the king’s favor for so long Javier, but your luck has run out. Seems like he’s losing interest in you.” Valdo said to him with a taunting sneer when they inevitably crossed paths.

If only, Jaskier thought with a resigned shake of his head and didn’t even bother to correct the other bard about his name. 

Because of those sudden breaks, and with the added bonus of most of Jaskier’s nights post-performance being free, he had a lot more time to enjoy the banquets and indulge in the wine and ale that was offered to the guests in abundance. The amount he consumed increased steadily each day but he was past the point of caring.

His relationship with alcohol was a complex one. Like the majority of people, Jaskier often drank as a way to let loose and have fun, to just plainly sate his thirst or as a coping mechanism after going through hard times- when he was not yet ready to sort through his feelings and express them through poetry or song. Τhe most notable instance in recent history being after he was abandoned at the top of a mountain by the person he cared most about in the world. Geralt may have apologized (in a rather lackluster attempt) but the damage was already done.

Over 20 years he spent loyally following the witcher and yet he was discarded so easily, as if he meant nothing. Their friendship- even though the witcher still refused to call it that - had been going for over ten years when the djinn incident happened, and all this while the witcher snapped at him and tried to leave him behind at every turn, keeping clear boundaries and only allowing minimum physical contact.

Jaskier thought that was because Geralt just wasn’t used to kindness and companionship, but after seeing the way he was immediately taken with Yennefer, the bard had to face the bitter truth that he himself was the problem.

The bard was perfectly aware as to how he was often perceived by others, being either too much or too little, only tolerable in small doses and easily tossed aside. He’d just been stupid enough to assume Geralt was different…

He spent months post-mountain in an intoxicated haze before the war worsened and he decided to use his popularity to help smuggle elves away from certain death. He felt like he owed it to them, partly because of Toss a Coin - which didn’t paint them in the best light - but also as an apology for what his kind was doing to them. Through it all he continued to drink, albeit with less vigor, not wanting to chance anything going wrong with his plans and putting everyone who trusted and depended on him in danger.

After the Voleth Meir incident, where he spent most of the night being useless and hiding underneath a table while drunk as witchers around him lost their lives, he decided to put an end to his addiction. It took a lot of time and effort, but he pulled through because he couldn’t be of any use to Geralt otherwise.

Some might call his loyalty foolish, but if the witcher ever needed him, Jaskier would damn well do anything in his power to help him. Even if that meant staying behind and taking care of various matters while Geralt played happy family with his child surprise and the woman that he had decided to tie himself to after knowing for a day.

Soon after his arrival to Redania Jaskier broke his sobriety streak, finding no point in maintaining it anymore, and it got a lot worse after his and Radovid’s ‘falling out’. Life was just so much easier to deal with that way…

--------

Jaskier was making his way back to the palace’s living quarters from the banquet hall, having given a truly excellent performance if he’d say so himself, one that left everyone present in a jovial mood, handing him drink after drink after drink... In few words, Jaskier was well and truly wasted.

He could barely see from the dizziness, and the faint candle lights that were placed sparsely throughout the hallway for aesthetic purposes weren’t much help, so the bard’s subsequent stumbling and falling flat on his face was unavoidable, really. Jaskier’s reflexes, not so great to begin with, had been made even worse due to the large amounts of alcohol in his system and he barely had time to shield his head with his hands before he made contact with the (thankfully) carpeted floor.

He stayed in that position for a while, cursing his shitty luck. This had been one of his best days since he arrived here and now his mood was once again ruined. The pleasant buzz in his head was already slowly disappearing and soon he’d have to face reality once again.

After wallowing in misery for a good five minutes, Jaskier planted his palms to the ground and tried to lift himself up in what could be considered the world's worst push-up, before his trembling arms gave out and he ended up back where he started.

All the muscle I gained after the mountain is almost gone, he thought bitterly. With a loud groan, the bard used the rest of his strength to flip himself to his back. All that time and effort wasted.

That position was a lot more comfortable, and at least he didn’t have to deal with a mouthful of floor any longer, so it was a win in Jaskier’s book.

As he stared at the ceiling, he noticed how the flickering light from the candles reflected against the unlit chandelier, the crystals forming small rainbows that danced around them. It had been so long since Jaskier had seen an actual rainbow.

He could almost imagine Geralt standing above him and rolling his eyes fondly as he waited for Jaskier to take his outstretched hand and help himself up, like they’d done so many times in the past. Jaskier reached his hand up tentatively but there was nothing in the empty space for him to grab. He pursed his lips to stop them from trembling as he felt a tear slide down his cheek.

He closed his eyes. Geralt wasn’t here. Jaskier would never see him again, and out of everything he'd been through so far, no pain could compare against the one caused by this knowledge. Gone were the days where they travelled side by side, huddled together for warmth, relaxed around a campfire under the stars, bickered…

The witcher finally got his blessing.

This was the second time the bard had to mourn Geralt while he was, hopefully, still alive. The witcher was, predictably, doing a good job of hiding his traces because no rumors circulated about him or Ciri at court, and while Jaskier was desperate to know if they were ok, he hoped that no news meant good news.

Jaskier was about to lower his still extended arm and go back to ignoring the gaping hole in his chest in when it was suddenly enveloped in someone’s grip. The bard opened his eyes, startled, to see Blade looking down at him with a smirk.

“How much longer are you planning to stay here? It’s been almost 20 minutes and I would’ve preferred to be in bed by now.”

Jaskier glared up at them and wiped his face with his sleeve. “Bed? And here I thought you spent the nights crouched outside my door like a clingy pet that'd been kicked out.”

Blade rolled their eyes and swiftly pulled Jaskier to his feet. The bard swayed and his knees were about to give out again when Blade wrapped an arm around his torso.

“Oof, you’re heavier than you look bardling.” They grunted.

Jaskier bit his lip harshly to distract his mind from the resurfacing memories of Yennefer who used to call him that and squawked in offense. “Are you calling me fat?! Ohohoho no, this will not stand, uh- Mister? Miss? Argh whatever, you don’t deserve to be called by a respectful term anyways, but you get the point!

Blade chuckled and leveled him with a look. “By this I assume you mean you, because you're the only thing having trouble standing currently.”

Before Jaskier could find a retort, they half-dragged him along in the direction of his room. The movement made the bard’s stomach roll, but the dizziness had mostly cleared due to the fall. They reached his bedroom soon after and Blade deposited the bard to lean against the door. The guard nodded toward it. “Go on then. And be sure to dream about ways to get back at me.”

Jaskier punched their chest weakly and yawned. “Eh, this should be enough.” He said and made to turn around but paused in his tracks. He turned back towards Blade. It was one of the rare cases where their hood was missing. Jaskier had never seen their bare face from this close before so he took his time studying it.

Their auburn hair had taken an even more reddish hue as a result of the candlelight, creating a stark contrast between it and their tan skin, that was made darker due to the shadows. Their facial features were delicate yet sharp and long eyelashes framed their round hazel eyes. Barely visible was a thin scar making its way vertically at the left side of their mouth that inevitably drew Jaskier’s gaze to their lips.

It had been so long since he’d done anything with anyone that wasn’t forced Radovid, and he was desperate to gain any semblance of control by reclaiming that part of himself. And Blade was right there, in all their beauty, looking back at him through half-lidded eyes that were doing a bad job hiding thinly-veiled desire…

So Jaskier did the only logical thing in this situation and grabbed the guard’s collar to pull them in for a rough kiss, teeth clanging. Blade responded immediately, grabbing the bards waist to press their bodies together and Jaskier took that chance to grind his hips against the other’s. Blade groaned against his lips and moved to mouth at the bard’s throat. Everything was moving so fast, the overwhelming sensations finally managing to quiet Jaskier’s raging mind and, at least superficially, fill the emptiness in his heart.

The bard blindly searched for the door handle with his free hand, eager to reach his bed so they could continue further, when he heard the sound of someone clearing their throat. Both him and Blade froze for a second before pulling apart abruptly.

Standing a few meters away, with his arms crossed and wearing a deceptively calm expression, was none other than the king of Redania.

[fandom-junk-drawer]

The Witcher Headcanon (Modern AU) - Upset - Part 1

(Whump fic disguised as a headcanon)

Jaskier was typically outgoing, charming, and had an amazing sense of humor. He was good-natured and wasn't one to get upset easily. Except when it came to Valdo Marx. That a**hole was a completely different story!

But Jaskier did get angry, or sad, or got his feelings hurt, like any normal person. And while he did get upset, he was also quick to forgive his friends. He may not forgive himself as quickly or easily, but would always forgive the people closest to his heart.

He had even forgiven Geralt for abandoning him on the mountain, but Geralt wasn't so sure Jaskier was going to forgive him for this...

Geralt and Jaskier had just pulled into the driveway when Jaskier had been called away for band business. He'd jumped out of Van Roach, broken the world's speed record for showering, thrown on clean clothes, and headed over to their little studio.

Geralt had been left to unpack everything from their recent roadtrip: two weeks on the Path, hunting monsters in Temeria. He was tired, but he had to get the van cleaned out and restocked for the next trip. He gave it a good vacuuming, took out all the empty food containers and packaging, and tossed all the empty cans and bottles.

He shampooed the carpet and seat where Jaskier had spilled his drink after Geralt hit the brakes quite suddenly, on purpose, after Jaskier kept forgetting to put his seatbelt on, and wouldn't stop putting his feet up on the dashboard. Jaskier had folded in half with a surprised shriek, and Geralt had to stop to pull his a** out of the footwell.

Geralt restocked the medical supply cabinet, then bundled all the bedding up and shoved it into the washing machine. Was it overloaded? Most likely. Was Yen going to be mad? Not if she didn't find out. Geralt left the machine to do its job and f**ked off to go do something else until it was time to dry everything.

After half an hour of sitting in front of the tv, he heard the washing machine stop, so he peeled himself off the couch and went to shove everything in the dryer. He was pulling the blankets and sheets out when he saw it...

Geralt experienced a mental pause while his brain devoted most of its function into verifying that what his eyes were seeing was really true.

Then came the wave of panic as he carefully pulled the blanket out of the washer. Ohsh*tohsh*t! It had gotten mixed in with the other bedding, and he hadn't noticed! Sh*t! Oh gods! Were the tattered spot worse, or had they always looked like that? Ohhhhhhhhhh.....

Yennefer was out in her herb garden when she heard Geralt swear loudly and emphatically, "FFFFAAAAAAAHHHHKKKKKHHHH!!!!". She ran inside immediately, and heard him swear again in the laundry room.

She flung door open, voice raised in righteous fury, "You better not have overloaded the washing manchine again, Geralt!", and froze on the spot when she saw Geralt standing there, holding a blanket.

Yennefer gasped, experiencing the same panic as Geralt when she recognized the familiar, but now much cleaner looking ratty blanket. That wasn't just any blanket. It was Jaskier's blankie. And Geralt had just washed it! Their eyes locked, and a single thought passed between them,

oH sH*T!

They both knew the significance of what had just happened. They were f**ked. There was no way to fix this. Geralt's brain made a valiant effort though, and coughed up an absurd, but simple solution.

"Yen, quick, magic it back to the way it was!"

"What?!"

"Just...I don't know, put the...the 'yuck' back on it!"

"You want me to just magic decades of drool, dirt, sweat, and gods know what else back on to it? What the f**k, Geralt?"

"Ok, ok, then at least put the stink back on it so it will smell like it did before I accidentally washed it!"

"I can't, you nimrod! I don't know what it smells like!"

Geralt gave the blanket an experimental sniff. That one corner still smelled funky to him. Maybe it was going to be okay.

Yennefer burst his bubble. "He's not a Witcher! He doesn't have your sense of smell!" She took a sniff herself. All she could smell was lavender and linen. "And I don't either!"

"D*mn, it's a little...uh...ragged too!" Yennefer groaned, looking at the bits where some of the old, slapped on patches had frayed and pulled away from the other bits of fabric. There were stringy bits, and small areas where the old batting was showing through.

Geralt felt his heart sink with dread. The blankie was mostly in one piece, just a little 'battle worn', but it was still obviously damaged and would need repair.

Oh, f**k, we're...f**ked!"

They were very much f**ked because that was when Jaskier walked in. He knew something was wrong. He could sense dread and urgency through Yennefer's mental link as soon as he walked into the house.

Jaskier opened the laundry room door and froze. He saw Geralt holding his blankie. Saw the open door of the washing machine. Saw the ragged look of his blankie. Smelled laundry soap. And put one and one together.

"You...you...washed it..." he said, his voice small and flat. Geralt and Yennefer both flinched. Jaskier slowly reached out and took the damp blanket from Geralt's hands. He started trembling then, and Geralt could smell the distress coming off him. It was making him sick to his stomach.

Jaskier ran his hand over one frayed patch where the stitching had given way, his thougths racing as he tried to both process what had happened, and simultaneously come up with a way to fix it.

"Jask, I-!" Geralt began to try to explain, reaching over to lay a comforting hand on Jaskier's shoulder.

Jaskier jerked away from him, "No!" he barked, his voice rough and tight. He was shaking now.

"No..." he whimpered, his voice sounding small and broken. Yennefer gasped when, out of pure distress, he started banging his fist on his head and repeating "No" over and over.

Geralt grabbed his wrist, "Hey! Stop it!"

Jaskier twisted and jerked, then tensed up as he felt a familiar pain flare in his chest. "F**k you!" he cried, suddenly angry. "F**k you, Geralt! F**k you!"

"Geralt, his chest-!" Yennefer said quickly, feeling the pain through their link.

Geralt immediately released his grip.

Jaskier stumbled as Geralt let go. He took a step back and bumped up against the counter, sliding down to sit on the floor. He felt light-headed.

"Breathe, Jaskier..." Yennefer said, her voice full of concern. She crouched beside him and lightly slapped at his cheek until he blinked and took a breath.

Yennefer tried to press her hand to his chest, to feel if those ribs had separated from his sternum again, but he turned away from her slightly.

"Let me see, Nightengale. Please?" She asked quietly.

Jaskier shook his head and hugged his damp blanket to his chest, sniffling and trying to get a hold of himself. "Get out." he said quietly after a minute.

"Jaskier," Yennefer said gently, pulling on his hand when he started fisting his hair. "Let's get your blankie in the dryer, okay?"

He didn't look at her, just stared at the floor numbly, holding his wet blanket, eyes glistening with tears.

"Jask?" Geralt rumbled softly.

"Just f**k off, both of you. Please."

Geralt looked at Yennefer, who nodded. They quietly left the room...

[kuwdora]

Coin Operated Boy is now complete! Only took me an extra 2 months to finish because my life got turned inside out. Puppet Jaskier has had a no good, terrible, very bad day. But now he has a good one with Shani on stage! And receives the long awaited help to become human again. This whumpy serious crack of my heart. ❤️

Chapter 4 features Shani and Jaskier performing at the Oxenfurt medical student comedy show. Herein lies bad jokes, increasingly gross humor, and more!

"Knock-knock,” Jaskier said. A few people called back who’s there in varying levels of drunkenness.

“Who’s there?” Shani asked.

“A medical student who has been up all night studying for their test on kidney stones,” Jaskier said.

Shani cleared her throat. “A medical student up all night studying for their test on kidney stones…who?”

The girls in the front giggled and several of the students at the bar also clapped.

Jaskier shrugged at the audience. “I might as well start drinking now because tests on kidney stones are the hardest to pass.”

The majority of the tavern groaned in unison, but there was enough scattered applause and drunken giggles that Jaskier could work with. Shani also groaned.

“If you’re so much better at knock-knock jokes, why don’t you tell me one?” Jaskier asked, waving a little hand indignantly.

“Knock-knock,” Shani said firmly, projecting her voice. The tremble was barely there anymore. That was a good sign.

“Who’s there?” Jaskier and the audience asked together.

“A necromancer,” Shani said.

“A necromancer who?”

“A necromancer you can pay to raise your failing grade,” Shani said.

Some students laughed, others groaned. A mixed reaction was better than silence.

“Speaking of which… what do you get when you cross a medical student and necromancer?” Jaskier asked the audience.

A student burped riotously and Shani waited half a minute for the jeering giggles and cross-chatter died down enough for the punchline.

“A cross between a medical student and a necromancer? That’s just a doctor whose license has expired,” Shani said.

The students laughed and clapped. Shani continued to fidget on the barstool, but the applause seemed to bolster her confidence because she also laughed–a genuine one that would have made Jaskier grin if his face wasn’t made of wood. He let himself ride the wave of cheer.

“I once knew a healer who dabbled in the necromantic arts,” Jaskier said. He scratched his puppet chin thoughtfully and gazed around the tavern. “He was the cousin of Valdo Marx, actually. Don’t tell anyone, but it turns out Valdo died in 1252 from an untreated case of syphilis and his cousin used his dark magic whammy on him.” Jaskier mimed the typical mage gestures for emphasis.

And sure enough a few more students leaned forward in their chairs, listening raptly.

“This cousin brought ol’ Valdo right back from the dead. You didn’t hear it from me, but the only thing keeping that deflated excuse of a bard on his feet is that string of pubic hair trying to escape his lip. His cousin had infused the mustache with enough Chaos to keep him upright. Tear it off and Valdo will crumble like a concertina right there.” Jaskier mimed crashing onto the stage where he would enjoy Valdo’s public and humiliating death.

The tavern roared with jeers and laughter, and several people pounded their drinks on the table.

Okay, maybe Jaskier went off script a little too much but gods, the laughter made Jaskier feel almost normal again.

Why didn’t anyone laugh at his jokes when he said basically the same joke when he was a man?

fic on ao3

[bambirex]

It's A Game We Play: Chapter 4

Pairings: Geraskier, Yennskier, Radskier

Characters: Jaskier, Geralt of Rivia, Yennefer of Vengerberg, Radovid, original female characters, Essi Daven, Priscilla, Ciri of Cintra, Valdo Marx

Additional tags: inspired by Mamma Mia! (movies,), crack, alpha/beta/omega dynamics, omega jaskier, alpha geralt, alpha yennefer, beta radovid, awkwardness, jaskier is a good parent, protective jaskier, weddings, found family, post mpreg, fluff and humor, alternate universe- modern setting, jaskier is having the worst time of his life, valdo is here to make everything worse, confusion, banter

Rating: teen and up audiences

Full word count: 10,713 words

Chapter word count: 3,324 words

Chapters: 4/?

Summary: Jaskier's daughter is about to marry the love of her life, and she decides she wants both her parents at her wedding. Only problem is that Jaskier has slept with a little too many people in his youth, so the identity of the other parent is a mystery. That does not stop the bride-to-be from inviting three potential daddy candidates and unleashing absolute chaos in the process.

*

Otherwise known as Jaskier's terrible horrible no good past decisions leading to terrible horrible no good outcomes. Also known as the Mamma Mia! AU nobody asked for, but I wrote it anyway.

Chapter summary: Running into familiar, unwanted faces and meeting weirdly eager strangers.

Author's notes: Chapter title speaks for itself, since this question will pop up during this chapter many times. I liked the suggestions in my comment section about Geralt, Yennefer and Radovid knowing each other so much, that I decided to work that in, thanks for the idea!!!! I am also bringing you all a beloved beloathed character, and Amaryllis's big meeting with the "daddies" as well.

Read on Ao3

*

If someone told Yennefer just a week prior that she would literally drop everything and get herself an emergency sabbatical from the bistro, and she would force herself through a nearly four hours long ferry ride, all because she received a mysterious letter from someone she's slept with twenty years ago, she would've called them a fucking moron.

Yet, there she was, staring at the waves licking the side of the ferry as they made their way over the sea. Yennefer put her elbows on the railing with a deep sigh. She closed her eyes as she breathed in the salty air. Twenty years ago, she was traveling across the sea just like she was doing it now, full of youthful energy and hope. She had none of that now. She was just anxious as all hell, because seriously, what could Jaskier possibly want from her? How was she even supposed to react when she saw him standing on the docks, waiting for her? How was she supposed to greet him, what should she ask? How was she supposed to cope with the fact that she had to face someone like that from her past?

"Yennefer?"

As Yennefer turned around fast, the wind blew all of her hair into her face. She cursed and sputtered as she tried her best to remove it from her mouth and eyes.

When she finally came face to face with the person who called out for her, Yennefer suddenly felt the urge to throw herself off the ferry and into the water.

“Geralt,” she hissed, her eyes widening, “what the fuck are you doing here?”

Geralt cleared his throat awkwardly, a habit that he seemed to never have abandoned since Yennefer last saw him. Her and Geralt had dated about ten years ago, and for a while, Yennefer was convinced that maybe he could be the one. She was wrong, like she always was, about every person she dated. Geralt wasn’t a bad person, not by any means, and Yennefer did love him. But maybe two Alphas were just never meant to work out; their too similar personalities soon led to constant fighting, which lead to a not very nice breakup, during which Yennefer told Geralt he was a ball-less coward who really needed to get off his high horse, and Geralt called Yennefer a control freak with anger issues.

And now, to make this already weird and frustrating situation ever worse, here he was, staring at Yennefer with that constipated look on his face.

“It’s nice to see you too, Yen,” Geralt grumbled, arms crossed over his chest. Yennefer scoffed.

“Don’t call me that.”

“I was hoping we could have a civil conversation, but clearly, I was wrong. I just wanted to say hello.”

“Okay, you did. Goodbye.”

“Yennefer,” Geralt sighed, “let’s not be childish, okay?”

Yennefer gripped the railing again to stop herself from committing a crime that would’ve earned her a life sentence.

“Oh, yeah, says the man who’s allergic to commitment, and drops everyone like a hot potato the second things turn serious!”

“Yeah, because you handled everything so maturely,” Geralt growled, “you were only looking for flaws in everything, of course you found them!”

“Did you come here to antagonize me?” Yennefer spat. “You should have just ignored me.”

Geralt deflated at that, somewhat. There was a small, barely-there smile at the corner of his lips. Yennefer hated to admit, but it was still stupidly attractive.

“You’re right, I’m sorry,” Geralt said, his voice much softer. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Same. So, what are you doing here, Geralt?”

Before Geralt could answer, a teenage girl rushed over to them, knocking into Geralt so hard it looked painful. Her ashen blonde hair was mussed from the wind, and her grin was mischievous.

“Dad,” she called out with a giggle, and Yennefer’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline. Dad!?

“I’m gonna drive a Bentley!”

“What?” Geralt turned to her with utter confusion. Yennefer was pretty sure she was going to pass out and into the sea.

“I never said that you could drive it!” Came a voice from behind the cackling girl. “I just said that you could see it if we reached land!”

A tall man with long, reddish-blond hair approached them with a huff. He looked utterly miserable, which might have had something to do with the seagull shit that covered the shoulder of his clearly expensive silk shirt. He looked familiar. Yennefer narrowed her eyes as she stared at him, trying to figure out where she knew him from.

Geralt blinked at the man with a similarly confused expression. “I’m sorry, do you know my daughter that you’re offering her a car show, or should I call the police?”

“Did you just accuse me of… rude!” The man huffed. “She walked up to me and asked me if the Bentley was mine! I wasn’t gonna send her away!”

“It’s a nice car,” the girl chirped, seemingly uncaring of the adults’ impending brawl. “Can I get a driving license, Dad? I’ve driven your car before, I’d do good!”

“I’m sorry,” Yennefer interrupted them, “Geralt? She’s you daughter?”

Geralt gave her a wounded look. “Yennefer… she’s Ciri. My daughter.”

Yennefer opened her mouth then quickly shut it again before she said something that wasn’t meant to be heard by a child. Geralt used to insist he could never have a family of his own. That he would be a shit dad, and children were too much hassle. He clearly found Yennefer’s desire for kids weird and unnecessary. And here he was, with a kid- a kid that was clearly a teenager. Holy shit, he had a kid while he dated her, he must have had a partner he cheated on with Yennefer, then. He made her into a homewrecker. Yennefer was going to kill someone today.

Ciri nodded towards her with a grin. “Nice to meet you! I like your dress!”

“Thanks…”

“Wait,” the blond guy turned towards Yennefer, “I know you!”

Oh, no. Now that Yennefer took one more look at him, it became obvious where she met him. It was the evening she officially ruined her career as a chef, and she was pretty much exiled to cook at a cheap bistro. She had to cater at some expensive business party, and she was so nervous around all the stuck-up suits, that she messed up the meal, big time. And that guy was there, his stubble was a little thinner and his eyes were a lot less stern back then, but Yennefer recognized him. He was the first to spit out her stew, which then drew attention to the mistake she’s made.

“You put sugar in the stew instead of salt,” the guy said, “it tasted like cake smothered in grease.”

“It wasn’t as bad as you all claimed!” Yennefer snapped. “But your spoiled ass had to make such a frenzy about it! You’re the reason I’m still cooking at a shithole bistro!”

“Oh, thank the stars, that’s better for everyone.”

“Wait,” Geralt said, cutting off the mighty string of curses Yennefer was about to throw. “I know you, too. You have that company. And a tarantula.”

“Huh?” The man turned to Geralt. His eyes widened. “Oh, wait, I remember you too! We met at the vet. Your foal tried to eat my shirt and it also jumped out of your hands and started wreaking havoc in the waiting room!”

“And you were so convinced that your tarantula was more important than my sick horse that you ran in before me! It probably wasn’t even sick, you just didn’t know how to take care of an animal properly.”

“You leave Franz Joseph out of this!” The man yelled, pointing a finger at Geralt’s chest. “He was very sick!”

“Who’s Franz Joseph?” Ciri whispered to Yennefer. Yennefer shook her head, which was quickly growing dizzy.

“Okay, alright,” Geralt sighed deeply. “Your pet has nothing to do with your own arrogance. How’s, uh, Franz Joseph, by the way?”

“He’s dead.”

“Shit. Sorry about that.”

“Alright, will anyone tell me what the fuck is going on?” Yennefer huffed. “Geralt, have you had a kid all along? While you were dating me? Was that why you said you could never have one with me?”

“Maybe not in front of Ciri,” Geralt tried. Ciri narrowed her eyes at him.

“You two dated?”

Geralt released a long-suffering, deep sigh. “Yeah. Some time ago. Yennefer, I adopted Ciri four years ago. She is my daughter, but we haven’t met while we were together. Okay?”

“Okay, and why are you headed to Thanedd?”

“Why are you?”

“I… I got a letter from someone, it’s an emergency, or whatever, I had to drop everything at home, I’m really fed up already, and you are not helping!”

“What,” Geralt’s voice wavered slightly, “a letter? You too?”

“A hand-written letter?” The other guy chimed in, his face turning pale. “From someone on Thanedd? About… a life and death situation?”

“Yes?”

“Who wrote to you,” Geralt asked, his eyes widening with panic, which made Yennefer’s nerves even worse. Yennefer grabbed the railing again, this time to not faint.

“An old love… I mean, someone I knew. Is this an interrogation?”

“You started it,” rich guy reminded her. “And this someone, who sent you a letter… he’s not called Jaskier, by chance?”

“How do you know him,” Geralt growled dangerously as he turned towards the other man. They were about the same height, but he still seemed to tower over him. Yennefer could feel the angry Alpha pheromones oozing off him. It made her feel even more snappish, not to mention that possessive flare upon hearing someone else knowing Jaskier. Her Jaskier.

“Control yourself,” the man warned him, “your child is standing right there next to you.”

“Don’t bring me into this!” Ciri huffed, crossing her arms over her chest in a way that was so similar to Geralt’s. “I have zero idea what’s going on, I’m just enjoying the free show.”

“Why would Jaskier write to you,” Geralt continued, lowering his voice slightly. “Who are you to him…?”

“Radovid,” the guy helped him out with a sigh. His eyes narrowed to slits. “And how do you know him?”

“He wrote to all of us!?” Yennefer asked in horror. “What… why the fuck would he do that?”

They all stared at each other. Geralt chewed on his lip, his brows furrowed in distress. Radovid stared at his feet, stiff like a statue. Ciri looked from one to the other, both confused and clearly entertained by the mess she ended up in the middle of.

Yennefer turned back towards the sea and groaned. It wasn’t enough that she had to worry about what Jaskier needed of her after all this time, now she had to face the fact that her ex, and a random guy was also here, and they all got the same letter, apparently.

She really should have thrown that letter away.

--

Probably everyone thought Amaryllis was insane, what with the way she was pacing up and down on the docks, muttering to herself to calm her nerves. She couldn’t possibly know if her plan worked at all. There was a chance their address changed, and none of them received her letter, or if they did, they could have just ignored it. After all, twenty years have passed since then, what were the odds they would leave their homes so abruptly to come see Jaskier?

Amaryllis could only hope that her Papa left a mark on them deep enough that they would want to find out what he (well, Amaryllis) wanted. She knew her father was a remarkable and loveable guy, but she didn’t know how the other three were. She could only go off on the descriptions in the diary, hence why she was nervous if she would recognize them at all.

By the time the ferry arrived, Amaryllis was a hair’s breadth away from passing out. She watched the cars roll down, then the people walk off, her heart beating at an abnormal speed all the while. What was the chance she would get a heart attack right now? She pressed her fingers against her neck to feel her pulse. Oh, God, she was going to explode from anxiety.

Amaryllis craned her neck to see over the crowd that milled around the docks, trying to find faces similar to the descriptions. She really did hope no one went through a drastic style change that made them look entirely different.

The crowd cleared a little, and Amaryllis noticed a shiny white car- a Bentley.

He is literally blonde Prince Charming, not on a white horse, but in a white Bentley.

Amaryllis’s breath hitched in her throat as she approached the car slowly, her palms growing clammy with sweat. What were the chances the car was the same, that it was Radovid’s?

Once she reached the car, she was greeted with a girl somewhat younger than her, who grinned at her brightly.

“Nice car, isn’t it?” She asked proudly. “It’s mine!”

“No, it isn’t… whatever. Let the kids have fun.”

Amaryllis turned towards the voice. She gasped at the sight of a tall, lean man, with blond hair, dressed in expensive clothes there were only somewhat dulled by the smear that suspiciously looked like bird poop. It had to be him.

“Radovid,” Amaryllis breathed out. The man’s eyes widened comically.

“Do we know each other?”

“It’s you…”

“I’m sorry, how do you…?”

Amaryllis wobbled on her feet when a broad, white-haired man stood next to the teenage girl who declared Radovid’s car her own.

“Geralt…?”

“What? How do you know my name?”

“Okay, I genuinely don’t know what’s going on, but…”

Amaryllis turned towards the female voice, and yes, indeed, there was Yennefer. She couldn’t believe her luck.

“Yennefer,” she whispered, causing the woman to stare at her like she just massacred her entire family.

“Do you know my name too?” The young girl laughed. Amaryllis sent her an apologetic smile.

“Alright, this is strange,” Geralt noted, “how do you know us?”

“I… huh. Lord. This is weird, I know. Bear with me, okay?” Amaryllis bit her lip, trying to hold back an excited squeal. “My name is Amaryllis Pankratz.”

“Pankratz!?” They all yelled in unison. Amaryllis grinned. They remembered her Papa.

“Yes. I’m Jaskier’s daughter.”

She had never seen faces turn so white all at once. Geralt practically wasn’t even breathing. Radovid closed his eyes. Yennefer’s jaw literally dropped. The teenage girl grinned in delight.

“Jaskier has a daughter,” Yennefer whispered. She looked Amaryllis up and down, recognition lighting up in her eyes. “Shit. You look just like him. I should have known.”

“Yeah, do you know how many times I got the ‘oh, did Jaskier went back in time and turned into a girl’ joke?” Amaryllis chuckled. She swallowed in embarrassment when no one laughed. “Erm…so, yeah, Jaskier is my father. And I know you guys all know him, and I know you don’t know me, but… ugh, this is difficult! We gotta get to know each other a little better before my wedding.”

“Before the what?” Geralt asked. Amaryllis chuckled nervously.

“Yeah, so I’m getting married and I kinda need one of you to be at the wedding, but first I need to figure out which one of you should be there, because I think one of you is… shit!”

Amaryllis turned pale when she spotted Jaskier in the distance. He was luckily not facing them as he was walking towards the market, but she couldn’t risk him seeing his old lovers there before Amaryllis had a chance to talk to them.

“Trust me,” she practically begged the bewildered group, “and follow me, okay?”

Before any of them could protest, Amaryllis practically shoved them all towards the cars, away from Jaskier. The teenage girl went with them, and while Amaryllis wasn’t sure who she was, she kind of liked her already.

They would all have plenty of time to get to know each other, if everything went well.

--

Jaskier was contemplating which watermelon to pick when he felt a hand brush his side gently. He jumped, dropping both melons on the ground. They smashed on the asphalt, coating his new shoes in juice.

“Thanks for this,” Jaskier groaned as he stared at the mess on the ground, “I will not be paying for these, but you will!”

He looked up to see who touched him. The breath caught in his throat, and his head started swimming right away. He wobbled on his feet for a second, before he let out a mighty “what the fuck are you doing here, you ghoul!?”

“Oh, Jaskier,” came the snarky laugh in response, “you did not change one bit.”

What terrible sin Jaskier must have committed against the gods that they brought Valdo Marx, the bane of his existence, his formal rival, his archnemesis, the curse of his life, to the peaceful little island he lived on!?

“What are you doing here,” Jaskier huffed, hands on his hips, “I thought you were in jail for being a sex offender or something.”

“You wish,” Valdo grinned. He raked his eyes over Jaskier with an appreciative hum. “Look at you. You look lovely, still. Gained some weight, but that’s par for the course after having a child, isn’t it?”

“It takes me approximately one second to grab one more melon and bash your head in with it,” Jaskier warned him. Valdo laughed heartily.

“Oh, come on, now, Jaskier, don’t be so hostile! It looks good on you. You look gorgeous, was what I was trying to say, and yet, here you are, threatening me with assault.”

“Stop with the fake compliments,” Jaskier spat, “what the hell are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be playing shit music with your band of disgraced theater kids?”

“Another thing that didn’t change: your deaf ears. We’re playing plenty, don’t worry. That’s actually why I’m here.”

“What?”

“Oh, haven’t you heard?” Valdo grinned mischievously. “A certain Mrs. Cooper is best friends with our manager. And he offered her a lovely band, ours, to play at her daughter’s wedding.”

“No,” was all Jaskier was able to say when he realized Valdo was talking about the mother of Amaryllis’s fiancée. Valdo laughed again, enjoying the horrified look on Jaskier’s face.

“Congratulations! I’ve heard Sara is marrying your daughter! Can’t wait to meet the lovely brides.”

“You. Are. Not. Playing. At. My. Daughter’s. Wedding!” Jaskier growled, emphasizing every single word. Valdo tutted at him condescendingly.

“Oh, don’t be like that! It’s going to be lovely! You can give your daughter away to the sound of my beautiful singing, doesn’t that sound good? You’ll get to watch me bask in the glory while you cry in the background. Just like old times.”

Jaskier let out a scream as he grabbed another watermelon off the stand. Valdo ducked away just in time before his head collided with the large fruit.

“See you around, Jaskier,” Valdo chuckled. The bastard had the audacity to grab his hand and kiss his knuckles, making Jaskier let out a sound that he didn’t realize he was able to make. He rushed away before Jaskier could attempt to murder him one more time.

“You’re gonna pay for all the melons you smashed, I hope you know that!” The clerk yelled at him. Jaskier nodded with a sigh of defeat.

His hands shook as he fished his money out of his wallet. This couldn’t be real. He must have been experiencing a terrible nightmare, and he would wake up soon.

He would have to come up with a plan to make sure Valdo wouldn’t get to make a mess at Amaryllis’s wedding. Jaskier won’t let that happen, that was for sure.

At least things couldn’t get worse in the meantime, he reassured himself as he walked home.

[ghostinthelibrarywrites]

Lock Me Up and Sock Me Up

My third fic for @whataboutthebard, featuring old married couple!Geraskefer, immortal Jaskier (the details of how he's immortal aren't important) and a vaguely post-canon future! You can either read it below or here on AO3.

Prompt: bondage

Pairing: Geralt/Jaskier/Yennefer

Rating: E

Warnings: explicit smut; off-screen kink negotiation

Summary: After being rescued from yet another villainous mage by his lovers, Jaskier is stuck until the magical ropes his captor bound him in fade away on their own. He has some ideas about how he, Yennefer, and Geralt can wile away the time.

***

In Jaskier’s opinion, it takes an unacceptably long time for Geralt and Yennefer to stage a rescue mission.

“I’ve been here for hours!” he wails as Geralt steps over the body of the now-dead mage, silver sword slick with blood. Behind him, magic still crackles on Yennefer’s palms as she scans the room for any other threats. From his position tied to a stone table, naked except for the sigils painted on his forehead and chest, Jaskier didn’t see much of the battle, but what he did see was short and unimpressive. Geralt made quick work of the mage before the bastard could fire off a single spell.

“It was maybe an hour,” Yennefer says dryly, letting the spell die on her fingertips.

“Hours, Yennefer! Do you know how many monologues I had to listen to?”

“The last time you were kidnapped, you complained because they didn’t monologue.”

“Yes, but this monologue was boring and unoriginal.” Jaskier rolls his eyes at the ceiling of the mage’s lair. “He wanted to bring about another Conjunction of the Spheres. That’s like the fifth mage we’ve met who has wanted to bring about another Conjunction. I don’t know what it is with mages and the Conjunction. You think they’d find another villainous plan.”

“I’ll bring it up at the next Lodge meeting,” Yennefer says.

“Thank you, Yennefer. This is why I love you.”

She swipes a hand over the sigil painted on his chest, smearing it into nonsense. “I thought you loved me because I save your pretty ass whenever someone tries to ritually murder you.”

“That certainly helps.”

With a sigh, Geralt inspects Jaskier for any wounds before bending to brush a kiss across his lips. “Are you alright?”

“Not a scratch, thanks to my heroic loves.” Jaskier bats his eyelashes up at his lover, who has a spray of the mage’s blood across his cheek. It shouldn’t be as attractive as it is. “It’s so nice to see someone is full of gratitude to get his bard back.”

Pointedly, Yennefer turns to Geralt. “Do you remember when he used to be properly grateful when we saved his life?”

“Oh, please, like it was a challenge for you.” Jaskier huffs. Perhaps he should be more shaken after being kidnapped, but honestly after all the horrors the three of them have faced—Nilfgaard, Voleth Meir, the Wild Hunt, Stregobor, angry mobs, too many monsters to count, Valdo fucking Marx’s musical performances—one solitary mage puffed up on his own importance was nothing.

Jaskier was frightened, sure, especially when the mage started waving a big ass knife around and talking about the power of an immortal’s blood, but he never truly thought that Yennefer and Geralt wouldn’t save him. They’ve rescued him time and time again from kidnappings, interrogations, near-executions, that hideously unpleasant occasion where he’d been swallowed whole by a zeugl, and plenty of angry spouses. The three of them keep each other safe; they always have.

Gustily, he sighs. “Is someone going to untie me, or am I to languish on this table for the rest of the evening? While I do appreciate the drama of being trussed up like a virgin sacrifice, he couldn’t even be fucked to give me a cushion. My bottom is getting sore, and not in a fun way.”

“We could leave you there,” Yennefer warns, but Geralt is already drawing a knife from his belt and bending down to saw through the rope lashing one of Jaskier’s ankles to the table. The ropes are golden and glow softly in the dimly lit room. Jaskier waits for the ropes to fall away so he can fling himself dramatically into Geralt’s waiting arms and be properly cuddled after his traumatic evening.

But nothing happens. Frowning, Geralt looks up at Yennefer. “Yenn?”

Yennefer goes to stand at his side. She waves her hand and murmurs a word in Elder. When nothing happens, her forehead creases. “Fuck.”

“What’s wrong?” For the first time since they appeared out of the portal, Jaskier feels a frisson of concern.

“I know this spell,” Yennefer says. “Nothing is going to get rid of these ropes. Not magic, not a blade, not fire.”

“Wait, do you mean I’m stuck like this? Forever? Yennefer, the Beauclaire Music Festival is next week. I can’t show up like this!”

“It’s still better than that outfit you wore last year.”

“Yennefer!” Jaskier howls.

“Yenn.” Geralt gives her a reproving look. “Don’t torture him.”

She looks between them in exasperation. “It’s not going to last forever. My guess is the mage spelled them to last for as long as he needed them to. Did he say anything about the ritual?”

“Oh, yes, at length,” Jaskier says. “He was going to slit my throat at midnight.”

Geralt’s jaw twitches.

“Then I imagine they’ll vanish sometime after midnight.” Yennefer glances at Geralt. “What do you say, should we leave him here and head back to Corvo Bianco? It might be nice to have a quiet night for once.”

“You’re dreadful,” Jaskier tells her. “And once I get out of these ropes, I shan’t ever speak to you again.”

“Is that supposed to be a threat, or an early birthday present?”

“As if I would bother getting a woman of your age a birthday present. What does one purchase for a withered husk?”

“Well, that ring I got you for your last birthday looks lovely on your withered husk.”

Geralt sighs, barely audible over the sound of Jaskier's offended squawk. “If we can’t untie him, can you portal the whole table back home?”

“I could.” Yennefer lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “But do we really want me to?”

Jaskier pins Geralt with a wide-eyed, pleading look.

Geralt sighs again. “Yes, we do.”

“You’re no fun.” Yennefer waves her hand and a portal opens up.

“Geralt is a delight,” Jaskier protests. “Unlike certain dreadful witches I could men—”

With another wave of her hand, Yennefer sends Jaskier and the stone table sliding through the portal. It’s a singularly unpleasant way to travel and Jaskier isn’t ashamed of the undignified shriek he lets out. He scowls at Yennefer and Geralt as they follow him through the portal into their bedroom.

“I cannot believe,” he says primly. “That you would mistreat me so when I’m in such a vulnerable state. Look at me, Yennefer. He ruined my fourth favorite doublet. I’m inconsolable.”

“Was it that green one?” Yennefer asks. “You should have said. I would have told Geralt to spare his life.”

“Honestly.” Jaskier tilts his head back in exasperation. “The near-sacrifice was better than enduring this disrespect. Bring me back to the dungeon, please. Let me wallow.”

Yennefer reaches down to cup his cheek with surprising tenderness. “You really are okay?”

Jaskier grins up at her. “Careful, Yennefer. I’m going to start thinking you like me.”

“Well, I have been fucking you for the better part of fifty years and living with you for forty,” she says. “So I don’t entirely detest you.”

“Geralt, get my lute! She’s being so sweet to me that I feel a song coming on.”

“How do you intend to play it?” Geralt asks dryly.

“Huh.” Jaskier frowns at the ceiling. “With my teeth, perhaps?”

Yennefer snorts and bends to kiss Jaskier, briefly enveloping him in the scents of lilac and gooseberries. “That foolish mage should have gagged you. The amateur.”

“Oh, I think we would have gotten there eventually.” Jaskier grins against her lips. “Between you and me, I’m terribly obnoxious.”

“No,” she deadpans. “I had no idea.”

“You would miss my voice if I were gagged forever, admit it.”

“It’s for maybe another two or three hours, bardling. And I’ll admit, there are some things about your mouth I would miss.” She traces her thumb over his lower lip.

Jaskier’s prick gives a sudden twitch of interest. Because he may still be stretched out on a table, bound and helpless, but he’s probably the safest person on the entire Continent right now. The home he shares with Geralt and Yennefer in Toussaint is heavily warded. Even if someone did manage to get past Yennefer’s protection spells, they would be met with a very angry witcher and an equally angry sorceress. They wouldn’t live long enough to realize their mistake.

And he has to admit that there’s something a little thrilling about knowing that he’s entirely at Geralt and Yennefer’s mercy, while also knowing that neither of them would ever let him come to harm. It doesn’t hurt that Geralt still has blood on his face, which is a damn good look on him. Plus, Yennefer has that steely glint in her eye she always gets when someone threatens what’s hers, a glint that Jaskier has always found unbearably arousing.

Geralt’s nostrils flare and he arches an eyebrow. “Now?”

“Oh, don’t you dare judge me,” Jaskier shifts, but there’s nothing he can do to hide his growing erection. “Can you blame me, when you two are standing there, looking all heroic? And Yennefer is being terribly mean to me, and you know how that gets me going.”

Yennefer snorts, though there’s a heat in her own gaze as it travels over Jaskier, stretched out on the table like an offering.

“I’m just saying.” Jaskier looks up at the pair of them beseechingly. “I’m going to be stuck here for hours more. I might get bored. And you know that when I get bored, I get annoying. We can’t have that.”

“You’re right.” Yennefer traces one finger teasingly over Jaskier’s nipple. “I think I have the perfect cure for bored bards.”

***

“This is bard abuse, plain and simple. I am shocked that the two of you would sink to such a level. Shocked!”

On the lovely four-poster bed that the three of them have shared for decades now, Geralt and Yennefer pay Jaskier no mind. They’re otherwise occupied, with Yennefer propped up against the headboard, head thrown back in pleasure, while Geralt kneels between her legs, eating her out with relish. 

Jaskier is treated to the most beautiful view in the whole world: Geralt’s ass sticking in the air, Yennefer’s gorgeous legs wrapped around his shoulders, her breasts heaving as she gasps in pleasure. His cock is so hard, it almost hurts. He’s already watched Geralt fuck Yennefer twice and Yennefer fuck Geralt with the toy that now lies discarded on the ground. The only person not getting fucked is Jaskier and the anticipation is killing him.

“When I said I wanted you to keep me occupied, I thought I would get to participate,” Jaskier whines. “Not sit here like a particularly attractive throw pillow.”

Yennefer laughs breathlessly. “I would say that if you’re nice and quiet, you’d get a turn… oh fuck, Geralt, right there… but I think that ship has sailed, oh—”

Geralt must do something particularly good with his tongue, because her words break off into a moan, her back arching. Jaskier’s cock throbs in sympathy.

“Look at you two,” he says. “Torturing me with your beauty. It’s not fair.”

They really are unspeakably beautiful together. There’s a reason he’s written hundreds of songs about them over the years.

Geralt growls, shoulders flexing as his grip on Yennefer’s thighs tightens, and she cries out, her fingers scrabbling at the headboard as she reaches her orgasm. She always looks so surprised when she comes, like the momentary loss of control takes her off guard. The sight of her face going slack with pleasure is one of the hottest things Jaskier has ever seen. He would write a song about it, but she would make a necklace out of his vocal cords.

Yennefer and Geralt lie together for a moment, both breathing hard as Geralt nuzzles at the inside of Yennefer’s thigh.

“Do you think we should pay our bard some attention?” Yennefer asks, voice thick with pleasure, as she cards her fingers through Geralt’s hair.

Jaskier whimpers. He’s only a little ashamed of it.

“Hm.” Geralt looks over his shoulder at Jaskier, his eyes heavy-lidded and his mouth slick from Yennefer’s cunt. “He hasn’t exactly been patient.”

“No.” Her lips twitch. “But he looks awfully pretty over there, wrapped up like a gift, doesn’t he?”

Jaskier gives them his best doe-eyed look.

“Chatty gift,” Geralt says. “We could make him wait another round or two.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Geralt!” Being doe-eyed isn’t getting Jaskier the results he wants. “You’re supposed to be the nice one.”

Geralt chuckles quietly and Yennefer’s face softens. She nudges Geralt’s shoulder with her foot. “Go take care of our bard, before he becomes unbearable.”

“Before?” Geralt cocks an eyebrow at her, but slides off the bed and makes his way across the room with an easy, predatory stride. The hunger in his eyes almost makes Jaskier feel like the virgin sacrifice he keeps joking about being, like Geralt is here to claim the prize that the villagers left him. Somehow, the thought turns Jaskier on even more.

“You know, if I were a gift, I don’t think you’d be able to return me at this point,” Jaskier says, aiming for breezy, but sounding more than a little strangled. “You’ve waited too long.”

“Hm.” Geralt cups Jaskier’s cheek in one broad hand. “Who says I’d want to return you?”

Before Jaskier can formulate a reply—gods, his witcher always chooses the worst times to be disarmingly sweet—Geralt bends to kiss him. He tastes like Yennefer and even Jaskier’s human nose can smell the traces of lilac and gooseberry on him. It’s enough to make Jaskier moan into the kiss.

“Geralt, please,” he whispers against his witcher’s lips.

Geralt can never resist when Jaskier asks nicely. With a soft hum, he kisses his way down Jaskier’s throat and chest, pausing to let his tongue flick over Jaskier’s nipples in a delicious tease. Jaskier arches off the table as teeth scrape over the soft skin of his belly and Geralt chuckles. Breathlessly, Jaskier watches as Geralt swings himself up onto the table, which is just wide enough for him to straddle Jaskier’s thighs. Without preamble, Geralt bends and swallows Jaskier’s cock to the root.

Jaskier gasps as the sensation of glorious heat. Geralt has always been a marvel with his mouth and now is no different. He teases Jaskier to the very edge with his lips and tongue before backing off, sucking at the head of Jaskier’s prick. On the bed, Yennefer is fingering herself, eyes dark with lust as she watches them. Jaskier thinks it’s very unfair that she gets to pleasure herself when he didn’t have the same privilege, but he’s too busy moaning to point that out. When Geralt swallows him down again, cupping his balls in one hand, Jaskier can only tip back his head and shout as the orgasm tears through him.

Geralt releases his cock with a wet pop, looking very smug, and nuzzles at the crease of Jaskier’s thigh. Jaskier would give anything to reach down and stroke his fingers through that long, gorgeous hair.

“Alright, Jask?” Geralt asks.

“Oh, now you ask that? After hours of torture?”

Geralt looks up at him with a raised eyebrow.

Jaskier grins. He never gets tired of Geralt’s exasperated looks. “I’m more than alright, darling. You just owe me at least two more orgasms, after all the waiting I was forced to endure.”

Yennefer brews Jaskier a marvelous tea every morning that helps him keep up with his lovers’ stamina, despite his largely human heritage. Jaskier thinks he’s doing pretty well for a man in his nineties, especially since he still looks barely thirty. Despite having just come, his cock is still half-hard and Jaskier knows it won’t take long for him to be ready to go again.

“I think I can manage that.” Geralt’s eyes take on a wicked gleam. He slides his hands under Jaskier’s ass, lifting him up as much as the ropes will allow. Even though Jaskier knows what’s coming, he still gasps at the first swipe of Geralt’s tongue over the crease of his ass. When Geralt’s tongue swipes again, this time pressing more firmly at the rim of his hole, Jaskier’s hips buck. Geralt growls his approval and begins licking in earnest, his tongue a sweet, teasing kind of pressure.

Jaskier is so caught up, he doesn’t notice Yennefer approaching until she’s next to him, her curtain of hair falling down to tickle his cheek and neck. The fingers she traces over his cheek are damp with her own arousal and Jaskier turns his face to suck them into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the soft pads of her fingertips. She has such soft, delicate hands compared to him and Geralt, which has always struck him as ironic, given that she’s the deadliest of the three of them by far.

She pulls her fingers from his mouth and bends to kiss him, catching his lower lip with her teeth. Her breasts brush his chest and he can feel the peaks of her nipples trailing across his chest hair. He whines into the kiss and she laughs softly, leaning over him so that one of her breasts barely brushes his lips. He tries to capture her nipple in his mouth, but she pulls back, just out of reach.

“Horrible woman,” he croaks. It’s hard to think of anything but Geralt’s tongue, which is still working him open with firm, glorious strokes, and the swell of Yennefer’s gorgeous breasts.

“And here I was, about to reward you for showing a modicum of patience,” Yennefer says softly, letting her breasts dangle above him.

Yennefer is less susceptible to pleading and puppy dog eyes than Geralt, but Jaskier lets his eyes drop pointedly to her cunt. “Tit for tat?” He waggles his eyebrows. “Emphasis on the tit?”

She huffs with exasperation, but her lips curl into a smile. Finally, she bends so that Jaskier can properly suck her nipple into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the stiff peak. He lavishes her breasts with the same attention Geralt is giving his ass, reveling in her soft gasps and moans. She really has the most perfect breasts, truly a marvel of the modern age. He would tell her so, but he’s too busy worshiping them.

Suddenly, she pulls back. Jaskier doesn’t have time to protest before she swings herself up onto the table, her legs straddling his face.

“Oh, fuck,” Jaskier breathes. “Yes, please.”

Yennefer doesn’t need to be told twice; she lowers herself down so that he can lick into her cunt. She takes like herself and like Geralt, surrounding Jaskier with the scents of lilac, gooseberries, and sex. Jaskier is vaguely aware of Geralt’s fingers working at his hole, slicking him up with oil. Yennefer is his entire world right now—the taste of her, the smell of her, the soft skin of her inner thighs. He could spend the rest of his life between these thighs, tied to this table like an offering, and die like a happy man.

When he feels the press of the head of Geralt’s cock against his hole, he gasps against Yennefer’s clit.

“Focus, bardling,” she growls and he licks deeper in apology.

Jaskier is loose and relaxed from Geralt’s ministrations and his lover meets little resistance as he pushes in, filling Jaskier up gloriously. Jaskier fucks Yennefer with his tongue in time with Geralt’s thrusts. He imagines the picture they must make for Geralt, Yennefer’s pretty little ass bouncing up and down as she rides Jaskier’s tongue with the same gusto with which she rode Geralt’s cock only minutes ago. The thought has heat building in his lower belly as his second orgasm approaches.

Yennefer comes, her thighs shaking around Jaskier’s ears, and Geralt groans, his hips snapping harder as he drives himself deeper into Jaskier. When one of Geralt’s warm, calloused hands wraps around Jaskier’s cock, Jaskier’s second orgasm washes over him. He groans into Yennefer’s cunt, still licking her through the aftershocks of her own orgasm. She’s practically dripping with spit and her own slick, but Jaskier doesn’t let up.

After several more long, glorious moments, the snap of Geralt’s hips takes on a desperate edge as he chases his own pleasure. The head of his cock is hitting the perfect spot inside Jaskier and Jaskier can feel his own cock stirring to life again, already ready for a third round. Gods, Yennefer’s tea really is a marvel. Geralt spills inside him with a moan, grinding into him until his cock softens and slips out of Jaskier.

“Yenn,” Jaskier whispers. “I want to fuck you.”

Yennefer doesn’t need to be told twice, sliding down his body. With her hair disheveled and her face flushed, she looks unspeakably beautiful. He’s about to tell her that, but when she sinks down onto his cock in one fluid motion, he loses the ability to form coherent sentences. Through heavy-lidded eyes, he watches her ride him, her head thrown back in pleasure. Geralt kneels behind her, nuzzling at the side of her throat while his large, scarred hands reach around to cup her breasts. Yennefer turns her head to catch his mouth in hers.

Without thinking, Jaskier reaches for them and realizes that he can; the ropes are gone. He sits up to wrap Yennefer up in his arms, peppering her chest and throat with kisses. He lets his hands wander over her and Geralt—their arms, their legs, their chests, their backs, their hair—reveling in the feel of them. Yennefer comes with her mouth on Geralt’s and Jaskier with his face buried in the crook of her neck. He follows a moment later, spilling inside her.

The three of them sit like that for a long moment, wrapped up in each other, breathing hard. “Fuck,” Jaskier finally says.

Yennefer lets out a long breath, sagging back against Geralt. “There’s still an hour left until midnight. That idiot mage couldn’t even tell time right.”

“Alas.” Jaskier laughs breathlessly. “You could have taught him a thing or two about proper villainy.”

“He wasn’t worth the bother.” She lifts one shoulder in a dismissive shrug. “He wasted his time kidnapping you, so clearly his standards weren’t the highest.”

“And what does that say about you, Yennefer?” Jaskier winks broadly at her.

“It means that the longer I know you, the lower my standards get.”

“You shouldn’t talk about Geralt that way, not when he’s so lovely to both of us.” Jaskier grins up at Geralt, who just rolls his eyes at them as he disentangles himself from Yennefer to go fetch them a cloth to clean themselves up with.

Once he’s relatively clean, Jaskier tries to rise to his feet, but his legs are boneless and shaky under him. He doesn’t even have time to lose his balance before Geralt catches him around the waist, scooping him up in a bridal carry and bearing him across the room to the bed.

Jaskier nuzzles contentedly into Geralt’s pecs. He feels floaty and sleepy in the way he always does after a particularly good bout of lovemaking. As he curls up in Geralt’s arms, his back pressed to the witcher’s broad chest, Yennefer puts out the candle and joins them, slipping into bed on Jaskier’s other side and putting her arm around his waist.

“You know, you were both very mean to me tonight,” Jaskier murmurs, brushing a kiss over the shell of her ear. “Very mean.”

“Were we?” Yennefer asks. “Funny, I didn’t hear you complaining there at the end.”

“Well, you know me. I like to suffer in silence.”

Geralt snorts.

Jaskier cuddles back into him. “I’m going to make you both pay tomorrow. Just you wait.”

“Oh?” He can hear the raised eyebrow in Yennefer’s voice. “And how will you do that?”

“I haven’t decided yet. But mark my words, retribution will be swift, merciless, and thorough.”

Geralt hums. “Good thing I have Yenn to protect me.”

“She won’t stand a chance,” Jaskier tells him. “I’m afraid you’re quite doomed, my love.”

“Ah, well,” Yennefer says. “It was a pleasure knowing you, Geralt. Bardling, it was… adequate knowing you.”

“Horrible witch,” Jaskier grumbles and cuddles closer to her, dropping a kiss on her dreadful forehead.

In the morning, he’ll have his to-be-determined revenge. But first, he’ll bask in the feeling of being in their arms, sated and secure.

***

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