#opera singer jaskier

[thelostgirl21]

Me (based on having heard Hugh sing "Waterloo"):

"Well, yeah! Hugh seems to have a very good singing voice! But I don't understand why Joey would be intimidated by - "

"Oh. Nevermind!"

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

And Do I Dream Again?

We’re throwing it WAY back to the early 2000′s with this one, guys. One of my first hyperfixations crossed over with my latest; poetic, really. I also dug into my Weird Memories archive and remembered that we used to make banners for our fics back in the fanfic.net days (I’m old as hell and I’ve been doing this for a long time). So...without further ado, the first story in my A Very Bouncey Halloween series:

Jaskier perched on the velvet-padded stool in front of his dressing room mirror and ran a brush through his soft brown hair. He hoped to remove the curls it had been pulled into for the performance and return it to its normal fluffy mess; unfortunately that wasn’t entirely possible, the pomade his costumer had applied was too thick. 

Once his chestnut locks were as silky smooth as they were going to get, Jaskier placed the silver brush back on the tabletop and sighed. The Phantom had left him another plain red rose with a plain black ribbon around the stem. No note. No name. Just Madame Yennefer’s quiet, “He was pleased with you.” 

A whisper in passing.

Valdo interrupted the young starlet’s thoughts when he poked his head in the door and smiled brightly. Jaskier pulled his delicate white dressing gown closer around his shoulders and chest, hiding whatever skin he could despite its laciness. An ingénue’s aesthetic did not always lend itself well to preserving one’s modesty, ironically enough.

“You did wonderfully tonight, my sweet,” the Viscount purred from his place in the doorway.

“Thank you.”

“Could I have the honor of escorting you to a late dinner?”

Jaskier was about to turn him down outright when he struck upon a very particular thought. If his Angel of Music was as possessive as Jaskier hoped, surely he’d step forward and show his face to deter the Viscount. If the Phantom thought his claim on the pretty opera prodigy was being threatened then perhaps he’d make an appearance. The scheming young starlet smiled softly and let his excited Angel-related blush do the work for him in regards to Valdo Marx, “That would be lovely, Viscount Valdo.”

The mustachioed cavalier beamed. “I’ll have my footmen bring the carriage around.”

And then he disappeared back out the door.

Jaskier turned towards his mirror, still clutching the robe around his shoulders tightly to keep it closed. He wished desperately that he hadn’t changed out of his costume before the Viscount arrived at his door. Valdo had all the appearance of a gentleman, and he’d been kind enough when they were both children, but something about the way he’d looked at Jaskier in such a state of undress, like he was hungry… 

The prodigy shivered and ran his hands up and down his upper arms for both comfort and warmth. The corset around his middle felt unusually tight as he stood to get dressed in his street-clothes. If he was to meet with the creepy young Viscount for dinner then he’d need to be dressed.

Before he could move an inch, however, a cold wind swept through the dressing room and doused the candles. Jaskier gasped and let his hands fall to his sides. Had his plan really worked so well? Had his Angel decided to step out of the darkness and finally show him the face behind the roses?

The deep, familiar rumble of his tutor’s baritone seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, filling the pitch dark room with sound: “Insolent boy, this slave of fashion, basking in your glory! Insolent fool, your brave young suitor; sharing in my triumph!”

The possessive note in his Angel’s voice sent a shiver down Jaskier’s spine and he replied quickly, already halfway under the Phantom’s dizzying spell: “Angel, I hear you! Speak, I listen; stay by my side and guide me. My soul was weak and I wished…” - the boy shook his head to clear the thought away - “Forgive me. Enter at last, Master.”

“Flattering child,” the Angel chuckled darkly. “You shall know me soon and see why I hide my face in shadow. You shall understand at last why I have not let you lay such innocent eyes upon me in all these years.”

“Yes,” Jaskier breathed, stepping forward into the embrace of darkness. From behind the two-way mirror on the wall, Geralt gasped softly. He felt his heartbeat double in speed. The longing on his flower’s face was exquisite. It lit a flame in the composer that could not be dampened by the mists of any Paris catacomb. The boy cast his eyes around the dark room, searching for his tutor, “I want to see your face, my Angel. Don’t tease me any longer with your pretty words. I’m tired of spending my nights alone, Phantom.”

Geralt was going to fall to his knees and cry if the boy said another word, so he interrupted: “Look at your face in the mirror.”

Jaskier turned to the full-length mirror on the wall and saw a light shimmering faintly from behind the glass. He reached out involuntarily and his eyes went wide with confusion. There was definitely a figure there...a tall, broad-shouldered man standing just beyond the wavy glass wall. He was holding out his hand in Jaskier’s direction. The singer’s ghostly, lace-clad reflection stared back at him with hazy vision, enthralled entirely by his Angel’s presence.

“Angel of Music, hide no longer!” Jaskier begged, stepping forward again. “Let me see you, please!” 

“Come to your Angel of Music,” the figure in the glass beckoned, waving him forward with that broad, outstretched hand. Further into the room. Into the dark.

Jaskier placed one delicately slippered foot in front of the other, crossing the carpet in a slow but determined line. He tried to keep his legs from tangling with his dressing gown as he moved, slipping it open a bit to reveal his mostly-bare legs. Geralt bit his lip at the sight of all that skin, too much and too little at the same time. Gods, how he wanted to touch the younger man. Hold him. Please him endlessly. 

Jaskier’s eyes never wavered from the figure in the mirror. His Angel had finally come for him and he wasn’t about to waste the chance to see his tutor up close. To feel his Angel’s hands against him. He reached out towards the glass and the white silk of his robe slipped easily from his shoulder, baring a swathe of pale skin. 

Geralt hadn’t been aware, until that very moment, that someone could feel both predatory and terrified at the same moment. He wanted to take Jaskier away and hide him beneath the Opera house forever where nobody could ever touch him again; but oh, how sinful would it be to keep his talented student sequestered from the sun. He didn’t want to be rejected. He didn’t want the boy to see his face, his hideously scarred face and strange white hair, and turn from him in terror. He wouldn’t be able to live through that. 

And then…

“Jaskier!” 

Fuck. That stupid little Viscount was going to ruin everything Geralt had worked for! Had waited for! Had prayed and begged and yearned for!

But the starlet didn’t turn around. 

The posh young fool pounded against the strong mahogany of Jaskier’s dressing room door, screaming his head off to get the opera star’s attention but Jaskier’s bright blue eyes stayed trained on the composer’s outstretched hand. His gaze was glassy and out-of-focus. 

Hypnotised by chance, Geralt mused. I probably should have expected that, given the circumstances and the usual nature of our meetings.

It had been months since the Phantom of the opera last had to hypnotize his prized pupil; and it was only to keep him from getting too close to his lair.

Now his darling little flower, the boy whose voice he’d trained from good to gorgeous, was standing willingly before him. His face was void of anything but devotion. His eyes were misty and his lips were parted oh-so-sweetly as he stood before his Angel, utterly enthralled. The decadent white lace of his dressing gown had fallen from one of his shoulders, baring not only his entire left collarbone but the long, statuesque expanse of his neck as well. Geralt took his flower’s pale, rose-petal soft hand in his larger, more calloused one and whispered, “Will you come with your Angel of Music?”

Jaskier nodded and breathed out a soft, pleading: “Yes. Take me, Angel.”

Geralt pulled the younger man’s robe back over his shoulder to return him to a state of oddly indecent modesty before grabbing up the torch and turning his back on the dressing room entirely. Jaskier followed behind as they walked, the gentle whispering swish of his robe’s lacy train a constant reminder of his presence. You are taking Persephone down to the Underworld, a little voice at the corner of Geralt’s mind whispered. You are pulling your flower away from the light of the sun. 

He shook away his guilt and squeezed the starlet’s hand. Jaskier squeezed back instantly, firmly, and any doubt left in the composer’s mind flew clean away. He wants me back, the older man realized. He came with me into the Underworld. 

They rounded the final curving corner of the low, quickly-dampening stone hall and came upon Roach. The trusty mare was waiting as patiently as ever where Geralt had left her bridle fastened to the wall and she perked up her ears when her master approached. The opera ghost lifted his muse up into Roach’s saddle and nervously met Jaskier’s blue eyes with his malformed gold ones, “Sing once again with me our strange duet.”

“Your power over me grows stronger yet,” Jaskier replied easily, finishing the rhyme of a song Geralt had once composed for him. His hand reached down to cup the side of the Phantom’s face that wasn’t hidden by the white plaster mask. Geralt flinched away but Jaskier paid the movement no mind, continuing to caress him wherever he could reach. “Oh, my sweet Angel.”

The composer turned away, leading Roach down the echoing hallway as quickly as possible. He tried not to glance back at his flower too often, afraid of having his intentions misunderstood by the drowsy-looking boy but oh - the way Jaskier looked sitting astride the horse with his stockings still fastened above his knees and his underthings only barely reaching to meet them. The way his dressing gown, all thin white silk and fine lace details, cascaded down around his hips and spilled over Roach… “Fuck.”

“My Angel?” he inquired. He sounded half asleep and Geralt bit his lip in shame. It wasn’t right to look at someone like that without their permission, first. He’d apologize later. 

“Nothing, my little flower. Would you sing for me?”

They’d reached the shore of the underground creek that cut through Paris. It wasn’t the sewer but it wasn’t exactly nice either. Geralt swung Jaskier down from Roach and into the boat, settling him back against a pile of velvet pillows gathered (stolen) just for this occasion. He wanted his love to be comfortable. He wanted the boy to return once his tutor gave him back to the outside world.

Because Jaskier could not be kept away from the sun. From the stage. From the adoration of the Paris elite.

No, Jaskier was destined to succeed. 

Jaskier sang through the final notes of the aria he’d performed earlier at the Gala, daring to push his voice further and pitch the notes higher than was written. It sounded heavenly as it rang and bounced off the curved brick walls of the tunnel system. Geralt knew his home would never sound this lovely again and he marveled in it for a moment. 

“Sing for me!”

Jaskier went ever higher, his face turning pink with the effort of sustaining the song. He gasped for breath between notes. 

“Sing, my flower! Sing for me!” Geralt demanded, rowing the tiny boat closer to his odd little home. Jaskier was so caught up in pleasing his Angel, his tutor, his Master, that he didn’t pay attention to how constricting his corset was or how little air he’d actually been taking in. 

The desperate opera singer finished out the final two notes of his aria as strongly and loudly as the rest before he slumped, unconscious, to the floor of the boat. 

The phantom dropped to his knees, abandoning the oar completely. He gathered the younger man into his arms and laughed in shock. His fingers paused at Jaskier’s neck to feel his pulse. He was alive. He would be fine. He’d been so eager to impress that he had run himself out of air. 

“The little fool,” Geralt chuckled, settling him against the pillows again to resume rowing. “I’m fucked.”

---

Jaskier’s eyes blinked open slowly, surveying the unfamiliar bed he’d found himself in. “Angel?” he called nervously. There was no reply, but in the distance he could hear an organ playing quietly. Jaskier stood and stepped gracefully from the bed, summoning up all his greatest charms to impress his teacher. 

When he crossed the floor and ducked into the antechamber he gasped; the Phantom wasn’t hideous at all. He wasn’t a hunchback like Triss had suggested. He wasn’t deformed like Firman claimed. His Angel’s hair was long and white, swept halfway up and away from his face while the other half hung to sweep against his shoulders. Jaskier knew already that his eyes were deep honey-gold and slit like a cat’s; they had haunted his dreams before. 

He had seen them in Box Five before. Watching him sing. 

“Angel!”

“Jaskier!”

The music stopped as his darling Phantom rushed to reach his side, arms outstretched to steady him if necessary. Jaskier thrilled at the attentiveness of his soon-to-be-lover (he hoped) and let himself fall bodily against the Phantom’s chest. His head fit perfectly against the older man’s broad shoulder and he sighed contentedly as he settled into place. “I thought you’d never show me your face.”

“I still haven’t.”

“Let me see,” the brunette pleaded, reaching for the edge of the mask where it sat on Geralt’s face. The composer turned away and grasped Jaskier firmly by the wrist. His grip sat just on the edge of painful and Jaskier bore it bravely. If he had to prove himself than by gods he most certainly would. “I want to see you, Phantom. I want to know your name and your face, truly.”

“You’ll… I don’t want you to leave yet,” Geralt whispered brokenly. Jaskier’s heart ached for this man, the man who had taught him to sing so beautifully. Surely the only thing beneath the mask could be more beauty?

“I’m not scared of you,” he reassured. “I love you, my Angel. Can’t you tell? I’ve been waiting for you for years, now.”

“You were merely a boy, then.”

“You aren’t much older than I am,” Jaskier huffed. “What, six years? Maybe seven?”

“Closer to ten.”

“And if I hadn’t been orphaned so terribly young then I would have been married at fourteen,” Jaskier reminded his tutor, whose face had turned pink beneath his covering. “I was a noble’s son, my dear. Please let me see you.”

Geralt sighed and removed the mask, baring the scar that marred one half of his otherwise very attractive face. Jaskier’s fingertip traced feather-light across the surface of his wrinkled skin. He didn’t flinch this time.

“Beautiful,” the boy muttered. “You’re so beautiful, my love.”

“My love,” Geralt sobbed, burying his face in the younger man’s neck. “My name is Geralt.”

“Geralt,” the prodigy whispered softly, like a prayer. “My sweet, perfect Geralt. You have shone so brightly in the darkness of my life, darling Geralt. You must know that I love you deeply and dearly.”

“As I love you,” the Phantom admitted. This had been more than he’d ever hoped for. Tolerance he was prepared for. Tolerance he understood. Reciprocity? Acceptance? He was terrified and thrilled and giddy.

“You are brighter than all the stars in the sky,” Jaskier beamed, pressing his lips to the opera ghost’s. Geralt kissed back, pressing their bodies together from hips to shoulders. Feeling him.

“You are my little flower,” Geralt stated, pressing another soft kiss to the boy’s forehead. 

“Come,” the starlet insisted, pulling away and tugging at his hand. “If I am to be your virgin sacrifice in the pits of this Parisian Hell then I intend to enjoy it thoroughly.”

The Phantom laughed and followed his darling into the bedchamber. 

[astaticworld]

okay yes jaskier is a bard he sings fun little ditties but consider: jaskier who received classical music training at oxenfurt. his hands play a pianoforte with all the ease of a lute. geralt has to stop him singing arias in the woods because it keeps attracting negative attention (sometimes he lets jaskier sing just a bit too long, though, because it’s a small pleasure in the drudgery of their lives). jaskier who can charm a tavern crowd with raunchy lyrics and saucy winks absolutely knocking the wind out of courtiers with his operatic solos. just. The Dichotomy

[positivityjediprince]

Every time I mess up when I sing I feel an even stronger with when Jaskier said he was scared of his muse leaving him and losing the one thing he was born to do

[davidtennantpussytulpa]

haha no cake playlist dont show me more songs that musicality wise do not fit jaskier but i must put on a playlist for him bc of the lyrics youre so sexyyyy

[ghostinthelibrarywrites]

Tiny Shorts and Other Inspiring Things

Prompt: Bedtime stories and lullabies

Pairing: Geralt/Jaskier/Yennefer

Rating: M

Warnings: none

Summary: Jaskier is fairly certain that his beautiful, intimidating neighbors had a squalling infant just to get back at him for all the late-night guitar playing. But when he plays a lullaby to lull the baby to sleep on a whim, it leads to an unexpected friendship with Geralt and Yennefer.

A belated prompt fill for @whataboutthebard! Can be found below or on AO3.

***

Jaskier does not think he’s that terrible of a neighbor. Yes, there have been a few times he’s lost track of time while songwriting and gotten complaints about playing the guitar at three in the morning. And there was that time his cat, Buttercup, got loose and tried to eat his neighbor’s parrot (both cat and parrot were fine, so he’s not sure what all the yelling was about.) And yes, he did wander into the wrong apartment while drunk that one time and give poor Mrs. Nenneke a fright, but really, who doesn’t lock their apartment door in this day and age? But he cleans the lint out of the dryer when he does laundry and parks his car inside the lines and hasn’t vacuumed once since he moved in, which has to be a relief for the people downstairs.

So he doesn’t think he’s done anything to deserve this.

The infant next door’s wailing has been unceasing for hours. Jaskier stares at the spiderweb on the ceiling, thinking that the child has a promising career as an opera singer. The lung capacity is excellent. He would be impressed, if this hadn’t been going on every night for over a week now.

Sleep does not seem like it will be happening tonight, so he reaches for his phone.

Priscilla answers with her usual perky demeanor. “It’s 2 fucking AM, Jaskier.”

“I can’t sleep.”

“So you wanted to make sure I couldn’t sleep either?”

“This is going to sound crazy—”

“Fucking hells.”

“—But I think my neighbors had a baby just to get revenge on me.”

“The hot ones who hate you?”

Jaskier harrumphs. “They don’t hate me. They just… haven’t gotten a chance to know me well enough to like me yet.”

Okay, the Wolfes might hate him. The first time he met them, it was when the husband, Geralt, banged on Jaskier’s door while he was moving in to tell him that his U-Haul was blocking Geralt’s truck in. The second time was when the wife, Yennefer, banged on Jaskier’s door at three AM because he’d lost track of time while composing. The third time was when Jaskier and Priscilla were hired to play at a wedding that just happened to be for one of Geralt’s brothers. He ended the night by trying to hit on both Geralt and Yennefer, which did not go over well. Not his proudest moment, but has he mentioned that they’re really hot? He’s seen them around the building plenty of times since then, but they never seem interested in chatting.

“Jaskier,” Priscilla says. “People don’t have babies for petty revenge outside of soap operas.”

“There’s nothing petty about this revenge, Pris. I haven’t slept in a week. The bags under my eyes are going to gain sentience soon.”

“Complain to your landlord, then.”

“I’m not going to complain about a baby. I’m not a monster.”

“Then sing it a lullaby or something. I’m going back to sleep.”

In the background, Jaskier hears a familiar male voice say something.

“Priscilla, is that Valdo?” Jaskier demands. “Are you boning my archnemesis?”

“We can’t be archnemeses when there’s no competition, Pankratz,” Valdo Marx, the swine, calls.

“Oh, you—”

Priscilla hangs up on him.

Jaskier tosses aside his phone and stares up at the ceiling for a long moment, listening to the baby wail. This cannot go on. He works the lunch shift tomorrow at the coffee shop; he has to be a functioning human being.

With a groan, he hauls himself out of bed and goes to grab his guitar. He stands next to his bed, facing the wall that separates his bedroom from the screaming baby's. "Here goes nothing," he mutters and begins to sing.

The song is his newest masterpiece, lovingly titled the Tiny Shorts Song. It may or may not have been inspired by seeing Geralt Wolfe father jogging in delightfully tiny shorts on multiple occasions and it’s certainly not infant-appropriate, but it’s not like the baby can understand what se’s saying. He doesn’t expect it to do anything but have his neighbors angrily banging on his door again. But to his surprise, the baby quiets before the song has even ended.

After he’s done playing, he listens for any sounds of a distressed infant on the other side of the wall. When all he hears is silence, he puts his guitar away and settles back down to sleep. He's asleep as soon as his had hits the pillow.

***

Jaskier is woken at the crack of dawn— well, 7 AM, but too close to the crack of dawn for comfort— by a sharp rap on the door.

“I’m not here,” he calls, because no one who’s awake at this hour is someone he wants to talk to.

There’s another knock on the door. With a groan, Jaskier pulls himself to his feet and goes to find out who’s visiting. When he sees Yennefer Wolfe standing in the hallway, he promptly wishes that he wasn’t wearing his rubber duckie boxer shorts. He’s not sure what Yennefer does, but it seems to involve lots of beautifully tailored pantsuits and arriving home well after dinnertime most nights. He imagines she’s some kind of high-powered businesswoman or runs a crime syndicate.

“Yennefer.” Jaskier leans against the doorframe with all the dignity of a man with rubber ducks printed across his butt. “What can I do for you this fine morning?”

“Last night,” she says briskly. “You sang Ciri to sleep.”

Jaskier imagines that Ciri is the name of the tiny goblin with the lungs of an opera singer. “I did. Sorry for the guitar playing, but I’m surprised you could hear anything over the wailing of the baby.”

“That was the first time she’s slept through the night since we brought her home last week.”

“Oh.” Jaskier really isn’t sure where she’s going with this. “Good, great. So glad I could help.”

“You’re a musician.”

“Yes?” Buttercup, coming out of nowhere, tries to make a run for it. Jaskier scoops him up, thwarting his bid for the freedom of the big, bad hallway.

“Are you any good?”

Buttercup is a shockingly athletic cat, given his size, and Jaskier struggles to keep him in his arms. “You saw me perform at your brother-in-law’s wedding. What do you think?”

She nods. “You were decent.”

Not exactly the glowing praise he was hoping for, but he’ll take it. "Thank you?"

“Geralt and I were wondering if you would come over and sing Ciri to sleep tonight.”

“Ah.” The thing is that Jaskier doesn’t exactly mind kids. He just… doesn’t have a lot of experience with them. His sister’s kids are cute enough, but they live in Skellige, so Jaskier hardly ever sees them. All of his friends are happily childfree. “I’d be happy to prerecord something for you.”

“We’ve tried playing her music.” Yennefer’s voice is edged with impatience. “It doesn’t seem to have the same effect as you playing music out loud. No accounting for taste.”

Jaskier sniffs with as much dignity as he can for someone currently being defeated by a tabby car. “She clearly gets her taste from your husband.”

“I doubt it,” Yennefer says. “Look, we’re not inviting you over because we want your company—”

“Please, stop with the flattery. I’m blushing.”

“—But I haven’t slept in a fucking week and neither has Geralt. We’ll feed you dinner. We’ll pay you, if you want money. Just spend five minutes singing to our kid.”

Yennefer almost sounds like she’s begging. It’s strange to see. Jaskier sighs. He’s not a complete asshole, so he doesn’t really have much of a choice. “What time should I be over?”

***

Dinner is exactly as awkward as Jaskier imagined it was going to be. The kitchen in the Wolfes’ two-bedroom is hardly bigger than the one in Jaskier’s studio and the four of them are crammed so close around a table clearly meant for two that Jaskier’s knees keep bumping against Geralt’s under the table. The dinner itself is a standard chicken and rice casserole, its saving grace being that Jaskier didn’t need to take it out of the freezer and microwave it.

“This is excellent,” Jaskier says, because he’s pretty sure that’s what you’re supposed to say when being served food in polite company. “Really, really good.”

“It’s instant rice, rotisserie chicken, and cream of mushroom soup. Anyone could make it.” Yennefer isn’t looking at him, instead focused on getting a spoonful of mushy peas in baby Ciri’s mouth.

Jaskier definitely couldn’t, but he refrains from commenting. Instead, he says, “Nice place you’ve got here.” Another thing he’s pretty sure people are supposed to say in polite company, if the dreadful dinner parties he was forced to attend with his parent’s country club friends as a kid were any indication. “It’s not what I was expecting.”

“What were you expecting?” Yennefer asks archly.

“Uh.” The truth is, based on the suits Yennefer wears and the car she drives, he was expecting lots of sleek white furniture that no one is allowed to sit on and tasteful modern art. Instead, the apartment is cozy, with overstuffed mismatched furniture and lots of framed pictures of Geralt and Yennefer with their friends and family.

“It’s homey,” Jaskier says, because it’s the truth, though the words sound lame when he says them outloud.

Yennefer doesn’t reply, so Jaskier turns his attention to the baby. Ciri doesn’t look much like either of her parents, ashen haired and green eyed as opposed to her father’s white hair and hazel eyes and her mother’s raven hair and violet eyes. She’s a cute kid, making nonsensical baby noises around mouthfuls of mushy peas. When she looks at Jaskier, he makes a face at her and she spits out a bunch of peas in amusement.

“I get that a lot,” Jaskier tells her. She spits out more peas, though he’s not sure if that’s in response to him or because she doesn’t like the peas. He can’t blame her if it’s the latter.

He looks up and finds Geralt watching him with a guarded expression, like he’s not quite sure what to make of Jaskier. Jaskier also gets that a lot. He smiles in what he means to be a friendly and engaging manner, but the other man looks away, focusing on his wife and daughter. Jaskier gets the feeling that Geralt didn’t know Yennefer’s plan to invite him over for dinner, judging by his bewildered expression when he arrived home to find Jaskier knocking on their door. Nor does he seem too pleased about it.

“So.” Jaskier wracks his brain for a topic of conversation. “You’re a park ranger, Geralt?”

“Hm.” Geralt nods.

“And how is that?”

“It’s a job.”

“Yes, but it must be nice, getting to spend all that time surrounded by the beauty of nature.” Jaskier himself finds little beauty in being eaten alive by bugs and needing to shit in the woods, but he knows other people are fans of that kind of thing.

“Spend most of my time stopping tourists from starting fires.” Geralt shrugs.

Yennefer snorts. “Poor Geralt took the job because he thought it would get him away from people. He didn’t count on the tourists.”

“It would be a great job without the people,” Geralt agrees.

“I hear that,” Jaskier says, even though he loves people, even at their messiest and most annoying. The thought of being alone in the woods all day is enough to make him shudder. “And what about you, Yennefer?”

“I’m a lawyer.” She scoops another spoonful of peas into Ciri’s mouth.

Jaskier waits, but she offers up no further information. “Fascinating. As you know, I’m a musician.”

“We’ve heard,” Geralt grumbles, which earns another snort from Yennefer.

Jaskier ignores his jab. “And I work at a coffee shop part-time, because being a musician doesn’t pay the bills.”

“You have an Oxenfurt bumper sticker on your car,” Yennefer says. “Or at least, I assume it’s your car, since it’s always the worst parked one in the parking lot.”

Jaskier starts to protest, but thinks better of it. “Yes, that’s my car.”

“So you went to one of the best schools on the Continent and now you’re a barista?”

“Yenn,” Geralt says warningly.

Jaskier takes a long sip of his beer and wishes it was something stronger. “Have you ever met a man named Edward Pankratz, because that sounds a lot like something that he would say. If you’re going to remind me that I’m nearly thirty and should have my life together by now, you can hold your tongue. I hear it all the time.”

To her credit, Yennefer looks shamefaced.

“I did try to get my MFA, but academia didn’t really suit me.” Jaskier shrugs. “The starving artist thing isn’t as glamorous as they make it look on TV, but it isn’t all bad. And my band’s going to make it someday.”

“Well.” Yennefer reaches out to stroke her daughter’s blonde hair out of her face. “If you can impress Ciri, I suppose you can impress anyone.”

Jaskier forces a smile, letting the awkwardness of the moment ebb away. He’s just here to eat some free food and sing a baby to sleep. He doesn't need to make friends with his beautiful neighbors.

***

Impressing Ciri turns out to be easier said than done. The little girl is standing up in her crib, watching Jaskier with wide green eyes as he sings. He’s been at it for nearly an hour, and she shows no sign of being about to settle down to sleep. Jaskier has sung her all his favorite songs, and even a couple of covers of children’s songs he found online, but nothing seems to be doing the trick. At least she’s not crying. Yet.

“Sing the song that you sang last night,” Yennefer says from the doorway, where she and Geralt are watching the concert.

“Uh.” Jaskier laughs nervously. “That song isn’t exactly child-appropriate.”

“She’s a baby.” He’s not looking at her, but he can hear the eye roll in her voice. “She’s not going to understand.”

Jaskier can’t exactly tell her that he wrote the song as an ode to the way her husband’s thighs look in the tiny shorts he runs in every morning. “It’s pretty rough. I just came up with it the other day. Haven’t really refined it.”

“It clearly worked. Just sing it, Jaskier.”

Jaskier takes a deep breath and turns back to the baby, who watches him with innocent green eyes. “Don’t judge me,” he tells her and starts to sing.

“Tiny shorts, do do do do do…”

He has to sing it three times before Ciri settles down to sleep, curling up her little body in the crib. Jaskier finishes with one final, “Take them off, do do do do do,” and turns to see that it’s only Yennefer standing in the doorway now, wearing a look on her face like she’s trying her hardest not to laugh.

As soon as he steps into the hallway and closes the door behind him, she says, “You never struck me as a runner, Jaskier,” in a sweet voice that tells him that she knew exactly what he was singing about.

Jaskier clears his throat, feeling rather like a penguin that just found itself facing down a polar bear. “I’m not. Just… appreciate fashion in all its forms.”

“I can see that.”

“Did Geralt leave?” Jaskier looks around desperately. He’s decided that Geralt is significantly less scary than his wife.

“He turns in early most nights,” Yennefer says. “He runs in the mornings, you know.”

“Oh, does he?” Jaskier asks, sounding a little strangled to his own ears. “Good for him.”

“It might be a bit cold tomorrow for shorts, though.”

“That’s autumn in Redania for you.”

She smiles a thin-lipped smile. “Goodnight, Jaskier. Thanks for the lullaby.”

“Anytime. Thanks for dinner!” Jaskier flees before he can do anything else to humiliate himself.

***

Jaskier doesn’t expect singing to Ciri to become a regular thing, since neither Geralt nor Yennefer seemed to particularly enjoy his company, so he’s surprised when he leaves work the next day to find a text from Yennefer asking if he likes seafood.

How did you get my number? he texts back.

Our landlord, is her reply.

Is he supposed to give out my number?

He’s afraid of me. He knows I keep a list of things Geralt and I could sue him for.

Could you talk to him about fixing the AC in my bedroom?

Do you like fish or not, Jaskier?

Fish is fine. See you at 6?

See you at 6.

***

And much to Jaskier’s bewilderment, it keeps happening. Jaskier doesn’t go over to sing to Ciri every night, since he has gigs or goes out with friends frequently, but he has dinner with the Wolfes and sings Ciri to sleep at least three or four times a week. They remain as enigmatic as ever, though Yennefer loses the air of a woman contemplating ripping Jaskier’s balls off for the run of it and Geralt stops looking at him like he’s a bomb about to blow. Ciri even grows to appreciate Jaskier’s music beyond the Tiny Shorts Song, which is a relief to all of them.

About a month after the first time Jaskier went over to Geralt and Yennefer’s for dinner, he’s tangled up with the very attractive redheaded bartender he met at tonight’s gig when he hears the piercing wail of an infant through the walls. Jaskier stiffens. Ciri has been crying herself to sleep less and less these days, even on nights where Jaskier doesn’t come over. He tries to lose himself in the task at hand— bringing the bartender to her third orgasm— but the cries just keep coming, relentless and wailing.

Jaskier lifts his head from in between the redhead’s thighs. “I’ll be right back.”

She blinks down at him, bewildered. “Um, okay?”

“It’s my neighbors’ baby,” he tells her. “She’s a fussy sleeper, so I sing to her most nights. Sounds like they’re having a tough night. I’m just going to pop over there and sing a couple of lullabies.”

“Now?”

“I’ll be back before you know I’m gone!” Jaskier presses a kiss to her knee and jumps to his feet, pulling on his trousers and t-shirt. “Just stay right there or help yourself to whatever you want in the fridge. There’s leftover Ofieri food. I’ll be right back.”

Something tells him that the redhead won’t still be there when he gets back and that he probably won’t be getting invited to sing at the bar where she works again, but that’s a problem for later.

He knocks on the Wolfes’ door. A moment later, Yennefer answers, holding a wailing Ciri in her arms. When she sees him, her annoyed expression melts into one of relief. “She won’t stop crying,” she says miserably.

“I gathered that.” Jaskier steps inside. He pats Ciri on the head, hoping it will help. It doesn’t.

Yennefer’s annoyed expression returns in full force. “She’s not a dog, Jaskier.”

“Well, I know that. But everyone likes pats once in a while. Where’s Geralt?”

“Working a night shift,” Yennefer says. “He’s usually the one who holds her until she falls asleep on nights where you’re not here.”

“Does he get home soon?”

“In four hours or so.” Yennefer shoves Ciri into Jaskier’s arms, causing him to have to quickly reposition his guitar case. “Here, take her. I need some chamomile tea.”

She stalks away, leaving Jaskier and Ciri staring at each other. Ciri has stopped wailing, though fat tears are still rolling from her big green eyes.

“Well, hello,” Jaskier says.

Ciri howls in his face in a frankly ear-splitting fashion.

“Well, I think I know what your superpower is,” Jaskier tells her, carrying her into her room. “A scream that can make eyeballs bleed out of the head. That’ll be handy once you get to high school.”

She continues wailing as he puts her down in her crib.

“Yeah, I know, buddy,” Jaskier says, taking his guitar out of its case. “Sometimes, I’d like to just keep screaming until someone comes and sings me a song too.”

Ciri hauls herself up by the side of her crib so she can scream some more at a different angle.

“Now, I welcome constructive criticism on this one, because it’s new,” Jaskier says. “Though I ask that you keep it constructive. Spitting up on my guitar again is not helpful.”

He begins to play. It’s a bouncy, upbeat tune not unlike the Tiny Shorts Song, though the subject matter is much more child appropriate. “This lullaby is just for you / Cuz it’s all I can do...”

He sings the song, switches to the Tiny Shorts Song, and then back to his new song. He’s halfway through his new song when Ciri finally settles down to sleep, her little fist jammed into her mouth. Jaskier finishes the last notes of the songs, then puts his guitar case away and turns to find Yennefer standing in the doorway, two mugs in hand. She hands Jaskier one.

“I really should get back,” Jaskier whispers.

“I just saw your date get into a cab.”

“Ah.” Jaskier winces. “Well, that’s not surprising.”

Yennefer snorts. “Want something stronger than chamomile tea?”

“Yes, please.”

Yennefer leads him to the kitchen and opens up a bottle of wine. “I keep waiting for Ciri to settle down and get used to being here,” she says. “But I suppose she misses her parents.”

Jaskier looks at her askance. “Aren’t you her parents?”

“Her birth parents.” At Jaskier’s bewildered look, Yennefer asks, “Jaskier, did you really think I gave birth to an eight month old last month?”

“Oh, is that how old Ciri is?”

She laughs incredulously. “You thought she was a newborn? She stands up and eats solid food!”

“I know very little about child development.”

“Did it escape your notice that I was never pregnant?”

“Some pregnant people don’t show all that much!”

“For fuck’s sake,” she says, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Remind me to never leave you alone with Ciri.”

“You need to be reminded of that?”

“Fair point.” Abruptly, she sobers. “Ciri’s birth parents were friends of ours, Pavetta and Duny. Pavetta’s mother is a piece of work, so they asked us to be guardians in case something ever happened to them. And we agreed, because no one really expects their thirty-two year old friends to die in a boating accident.”

Jaskier grimaces. “Fuck, I’m sorry."

“We never planned on being parents.” Yennefer takes a large sip of wine. “And I’m afraid we’re fucking it up terribly.”

“You’re not.”

“Jaskier, please don’t take this the wrong way, but you can’t tell a newborn from an eight month old. I don’t know if you can make that judgement.”

If Jaskier’s brain weren’t muddled from exhaustion, he would never dream of reaching across the table and taking her hand, but he does. Her hand feels shockingly small in his. “You love her. And you’re going to keep loving her, no matter what. She could keep you awake screaming every night until she’s eighteen and she’s still going to be your kid. My parents were awesome on paper. Came to every school concert, paid for the best education money could buy. But as soon as I turned out not to be the person they expected me to be, it was like I stopped existing to them.”

"Well, it it makes you feel better, I never seemed to exist to my parents," Yennefer says. "And Geralt's mother just up and left one day, no explanation. Left him all alone in their house for days until a neighbor noticed."

“Hey.” Jaskier raises his glass in a toast. “Only took us a month, but we finally found something we have in common.”

She huffs a laugh and clinks glasses with him. “What I’m trying to say is that Geralt and I really have no idea what we’re doing. We have very little to model our parenting skills on.”

“Hey, we’ll figure it out.” Jaskier shrugs.

She gives him an odd look, but just keeps drinking her wine.

It’s only much, much later, when Jaskier is back in his empty bed, tipsy and tragically wide awake, that he realizes that he said we.

Whoops.

***

After that night, he’s pretty sure that he and Yennefer are friends. She still scares him a little bit, but her scariness is almost comforting once he knows that he’s in her good graces, because he’s pretty sure that she’s the kind of person who would commit murder for someone once she decides they’re her friend.

As for Geralt… well, Jaskier isn’t sure how Yennefer’s husband feels about him. He still seems oddly nervous around Jaskier, which is strange, since Jaskier has it on good authority that he’s about as intimidating as a chihuahua. He’s not unfriendly, not exactly, but he doesn’t talk much, outside of asking Jaskier if he wants second helpings and occasionally expressing an opinion on one of his lullabies.

“It just takes him time to get used to new people,” Yennefer tells Jaskier when he flat out asks her if her husband hates him. Since Jaskier has been singing to Ciri for well over a month now, he figures that he shouldn’t count as new anymore, but Geralt seems to think otherwise.

So he’s surprised when he’s working at the coffee shop one day and Geralt comes in, pushing Ciri in a stroller and flanked by two other men. One, a strapping redhead, Jaskier recognizes as Lambert, whose wedding Jaskier and Priscilla performed at the summer before. The other, a burly, dark-haired man, looks vaguely familiar; Jaskier is fairly certain he’s Eskel, Geralt’s other brother. Eskel has an arm thrown around Geralt’s shoulders and Geralt is smiling. Lambert rolls his eyes at something and Eskel barks with laughter.

“Hello, Geralt,” Jaskier says brightly as they approach the counter.

When Geralt notices him, he gets a strange look on his face. “You work here.”

Not exactly the warm greeting Jaskier would like, but he’ll take it. “No, but they let me dress up in the apron and stand behind the counter once in a while for fun.”

“Can you make coffee?” Lambert asks.

“I haven’t the foggiest,” Jaskier says cheerfully. “We’ll all find that out together.”

Geralt huffs a laugh, lips turning up at the corners. “Jaskier, you’ve met my little brother, Lambert. And this is my older brother, Eskel.”

“A pleasure.” Jaskier nods to Eskel.

“So, you’re Jaskier,” Eskel says. “I remember you from Lamb’s wedding.”

“All good memories, I hope.”

“You and your friend were great.” Eskel turns to Geralt. “You didn’t tell us that Ciri’s personal lullabies were coming from one of the musicians from Lambert’s wedding.”

“Didn’t seem relevant.” Geralt shrugs.

“Of course it didn’t,” Lambert says. “Anything that doesn’t have to do with horses isn’t relevant.”

Geralt doesn’t appear even moderately remorseful, just places his order with the vaguely long-suffering air of a man who’s spent the day being heckled by his brothers. When the brothers have ordered their coffees and food, Jaskier peers down over the counter at Ciri.

“And what would you like, little miss?” he asks. At her babbled response he says, “A triple espresso? Excellent choice, madam. Room for cream?”

Geralt reaches down to tousle his daughter’s hair. “She’ll take an apple juice and a muffin if you have it.”

“For my favorite customer? I’ll manage to scrounge something up.” Jaskier goes to make the brothers’ orders. He looks up a couple of times to see either Eskel or Lambert shooting him glances, though he doesn’t think either of them are checking him out. Lambert is a happily married man and Yennefer has mentioned that Eskel is dating her best friend, Triss. Whatever the three of them are talking about, it’s left Geralt exasperated; he has his head tilted back and is staring at the ceiling.

Jaskier would normally have them come up to the counter to get their food, but there’s no one in line and he’s feeling particularly customer-service oriented at the moment, so he brings their drinks and sandwiches to them, putting Ciri’s apple juice and muffin down in front of her with a flourish.

“So, what brings you gentlemen here today?” he asks.

“Well, we wanted coffee,” Lambert deadpans.

Eskel cuffs his little brother on the back of the head. “We couldn’t decide on where to go for lunch today and Yenn suggested this place.”

Huh. Jaskier wonders why she didn’t mention to Geralt that he works here then. She’s stopped by a couple of times, though she complains that the coffee too weak. “Well, Yennefer is a woman of excellent taste.”

“Can’t be.” Lambert jerks his chin at Geralt. “She’s been with this asshole for a decade.”

“Fourteen years.” Geralt doesn’t rise to the bait; he seems used to his little brother’s antics.

“Oh, I think that’s evidence of her good taste.” Jaskier shoots Geralt a grin and is gratified when pink touches his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

“We already gave you a tip,” Lambert says. “You don’t have to sweet talk him.”

“Lambert,” Geralt growls.

Jaskier laughs. “It’s not sweet talk if it’s true, my friend. Now, let me know if you all need anything else.”

He probably shouldn’t put an extra swing in his hips as he walks away, but he’s always been shameless like that.

When a text comes from an unknown number a few hours later, he knows who it is as soon as he reads, Sorry about my brothers.

Smiling to himself, Jaskier answers, You don’t need to apologize for them. They were hilarious.

Won’t tell them you said that. They’ll be insufferable.

Smirking, Jaskier asks, How was the coffee?

Could have been stronger. Sandwich was good though.

Melitele’s sake, you and Yennefer both! I’ll brew it with battery acid next time.

It takes nearly ten minutes for a reply to come in. Might be an improvement.

Jaskier has to slap a hand over his mouth to stifle his laugh. I’ll pass your feedback onto management.

He never gets an answer, but he still has a smile on his face for the rest of the night.

***

Two days later, Yennefer texts Jaskier to tell him that she’ll be working late that night and it will just be him and Geralt for dinner.

I can come over tomorrow, he replies.

Ciri never sleeps well when it’s just one of us home, Yennefer says. Geralt’s going to need you. And he’s making lasagna.

Fuck, Jaskier does love lasagna.

Another text comes in from Yennefer. Ask him about his horse.

Wait, an actual horse?

No, his childhood imaginary friend.

REALLY?

Yes, she’s an actual horse, Jaskier.

Jaskier makes a face at his phone, even though he knows Yennefer can’t see it. You’re not funny.

Geralt will see you at 6.

***

The first thing Jaskier says when Geralt opens the door that night is, “So, I hear you have a horse.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow. “Did Yennefer give you a list of things to talk to me about?”

“She did. If the horse doesn’t get you talking, I’m supposed to ask about the time Lambert blew up a tool shed.”

“Hm, that’s not a very good story,” Geralt says as Jaskier follows him inside. “The horse is more interesting.”

“What’s her name?”

“Roach.”

“Wow, that’s… quite a name.”

“It’s a good name. She likes it.”

“Of course she does. I’m sure it suits her well.”

Geralt has already put out plates of lasagna and Ciri is sitting in her high chair, finger painting with marinara sauce. Jaskier ruffles her hair and pulls a face at her, much to her amusement. “I didn’t peg you for a horse person,” he tells Geralt as they sit down.

“Why not?” Geralt asks.

“You just…” Jaskier pauses, trying to think of a way to phrase this that won’t make it sound offensive. “You strike me as a guy who would be into cars and motorcycles, not horses.”

“A car or a motorcycle can’t love you back,” Geralt says, which wasn’t what Jaskier was expecting and is weirdly sweet. A lot about Geralt is weirdly sweet, he realizes.

“Well, you’re not wrong.” Jaskier takes an enormous bite of lasagna. “Tell me about her.”

So Geralt does, telling Jaskier all about how he rescued Roach from a shitty owner, slowly getting her to trust him enough to let him ride her, training her. It sounds like a long, arduous project and Jaskier is touched at the thought of big, gruff Geralt taking years to retrain a skittish, neglected horse. He imagines that most people would have given up within months. But there’s none of Geralt’s usual taciturn nature as he talks about his horse. He even takes his phone out to show Jaskier pictures.

“When did you start riding?” Jaskier asks.

“When I was in high school.” Geralt scrolls to yet another photo of Roach eating grass. “Had anger problems when I first went to live with my foster father. He’d send me out into the stables to muck stalls whenever I needed to cool down.”

Jaskier remembers what Yennefer said about her and Geralt’s difficult childhoods. “So Eskel and Lambert…”

“Eskel is Vesemir’s biological son,” Geralt says. “And he adopted Lambert a few years before me.”

“Vesemir must be a good man.”

Geralt’s lips curl into a soft smile. “He is. He adores Ciri.”

“Well, who wouldn’t?”

Ciri flicks some marinara sauce in agreement.

There’s the sound of the key in the lock and Geralt and Ciri both perk up like golden retrievers sensing the approach of a beloved human. If Jaskier also perks up, they don’t seem to notice. Yennefer sweeps in, looking as perfect as always, though the shadows under her eyes are a little more pronounced than usual and her hair is starting to fall out of her sensible twist. She bends to press a kiss to Ciri’s forehead and then Geralt’s lips.

“Have you told him about the horse?” she asks.

“Oh, I know all about Roach,” Jaskier tells her. “I’ve seen pictures and everything. Don’t know about Lambert and the tool shed yet though.”

“Well, the night’s still young.” She smiles wanly.

“There’s plenty of lasagna left,” Geralt says, reaching up to brush a stray hair from her forehead. “Wasn’t expecting you home so soon.”

“My back was killing me, so I told Tissaia that she would have to handle things for the rest of the night.” Yennefer straightens up, wincing. “I may go take a bath and eat later.”

“I can bring a plate to you in a few minutes.”

“Thank you.” Her hand lingers on his shoulder before she leaves the kitchen.

“Guess the life of a corporate lawyer’s never dull?” Jaskier asks as Geralt stands up to make her a plate of food.

“Yenn’s not a corporate lawyer,” Geralt says.

“Oh?” Jaskier blinks. “Huh, I guess I just assumed, what with the fancy pantsuits and the fancy car.”

“She tries to look the part, because she says it makes judges take her more seriously,” Geralt says. “But Yennefer works for a non-profit. Most of her cases are going after companies who aren’t RDA compliant.”

“RDA?”

“Redanian Disability Act. They mostly do pro bono work, so it's nowhere close to corporate pay."

“Huh.” All these months, Jaskier has been picturing Yennefer presiding over sleek boardrooms and barking orders to cowed assistants. To learn that she works all these late nights to help people and not corporations shouldn’t be as much of a surprise as it is. Though he supposes that explains why Geralt and Yennefer live in this shitty building and now a penthouse in Gildorf.

“I’ll be back,” Geralt says and heads down the hallway with Yennefer’s plate of food, leaving Jaskier to contemplate all the things he doesn’t know about his neighbors.

***

It’s a Wednesday night when Jaskier realizes that he’s in love with the Wolfes. He’s sitting at the kitchen table, strumming a new lullaby on his guitar, while Geralt bounces Ciri on his hip in time to the music and Yennefer watches them with a fond expression. Geralt has mashed carrots splattering the front of his t-shirt, but he’s so wrapped up in his daughter that he doesn’t even seem to notice. His eyes meet Yennefer’s and they exchange the looks of two people who have known each other for years and love each other completely.

Jaskier wants them to look at him like that, he realizes with such a start that he bungles a chord on his guitar. Neither seem to notice; they’re too busy looking at each other.

He calls Priscilla as soon as he gets back to his apartment. “I’m in love with my neighbors,” he tells her.

Priscilla sighs, a small, sad sound. “Well, obviously, Jask.”

Jaskier closes his eyes and sinks down onto the floor. Buttercup comes trotting up to him, headbutting him in greeting. “What am I going to do?”

“Stop going over there? Otherwise, this is going to end in tears.”

Jaskier thinks of Ciri’s smile, of the way she clapped her hands in time to his music earlier while her father bounced her on his hip. “I don’t know if I can do that”

“Then stock up on ice cream and vodka for when this does end in tears.”

Jaskier knows she’s right. But he also knows that he’s not going to be able to walk away. He’s never been good at that.

***

In the weeks that follow, Jaskier watches Geralt and Yennefer interact. He watches the way Geralt looks sideways at Yennefer when he’s made a dry joke and is waiting to see if she’ll react. He watches the way Yennefer seems to melt whenever Geralt cradles their daughter in his arms. He watches the hands brushed across backs as they pass each other in the kitchen and the lingering kisses on cheeks and secret smiles over dinner.

He finds himself writing a lot of very bad love songs, and a few very good love songs. He sings the latter to Ciri one night, heart swelling in his chest and she lies peacefully in her crib, watching him with those sleepy green eyes. She’s asleep before the song’s even finished.

“New song?” Yennefer asks him when he slips out of the bedroom.

Jaskier nods. “Have to keep things fresh for my biggest fan.”

“It’s pretty.” Her lips curl into a smirk. “You’ve come a long way from the Tiny Shorts Song.”

“Don’t hate on Tiny Shorts Song. It’s underappreciated in its genius.”

The subject of Tiny Shorts Song pokes his head out of the master bedroom. “She asleep already?”

Yennefer nods. “Dropped off like a light.”

“Impressive,” Geralt says. “She’s hardly crying at all anymore at night. Probably won’t need a lullaby to fall asleep soon.”

It isn’t meant to be cruel. Of course it isn’t; Geralt’s not a cruel man. But Jaskier feels the words like a punch to the gut. Of course Ciri won’t need to be sung to sleep anymore. She’s growing up; Yennefer sent Jaskier a video of her taking her first tottering steps just the other day. Soon, she won’t need Jaskier’s lullabies and then Geralt and Yennefer will probably start looking for a bigger place and then the three of them will move out of Jaskier’s life as quickly and seamlessly as they entered it. Maybe Ciri will get the lullabies he wrote for her stuck in her head someday and not remember where they came from, but most likely, he’ll just be forgotten.

“They grow up fast,” he says brightly, realizing he’s been silent for an awkward amount of time. “Anyway, I should be going. I open at the coffee shop tomorrow and you both know how I am about mornings. See you around!”

And he hurries out before either of them can say a word, because he knows he won’t be able to keep up the cheery facade for long, not when he can feel his heart cracking in his chest.

The next day, he texts Yennefer to tell her he won’t be able to come over for dinner for a few days. Band stuff, he tells her.

Don’t worry about it, she replies. It will be a good test to see if Ciri can fall asleep on her own.

Jaskier sends back a smiley face, glad that she can’t see the look on his face.

Every night, he listens for the sounds of Ciri crying, half-hoping for an excuse to grab his guitar and pop next door. But Ciri is quiet, probably sleeping soundly in her crib while Jaskier lies awake on the other side of their thin adjoining wall.

***

“Jaskier, I say this as someone who loves you wholly and unconditionally,” Priscilla tells him two weeks later after a decidedly lackluster show.

Valdo finishes the thought for her, because they’re a couple now, something that would have bothered Jaskier a lot more a month or two ago, back when he had the energy to care about such things. “But all your songs lately have been maudlin nonsense and you’re driving audiences away like a bad case of flatulence.”

Priscilla winces. “Well, I wasn’t going to put it quite like that.”

“People love heartbreak,” Jaskier reminds her.

“When it’s sexy and tragic, not vaguely pathetic and needs a shave.” She pats his hand.

Jaskier snatches his hand away with a harrumph. “Just for that, I’m not going to be in your wedding party.”

“Darling, you’ll be lucky if you’re invited to the wedding,” Valdo drawls, earning him an elbow to the side from his girlfriend.

Jaskier orders another vodka cranberry.

***

He wakes up the next morning to a text from Yennefer. Come over for dinner tonight.

Jaskier’s head is pounding (he really shouldn’t have had that fourth vodka cranberry) so he has to read the text a couple of times before the words sink in. Is Ciri ok? he replies.

She’s fine. Can you come over or not?

Jaskier is a weak, lonely man, so he types, I’ll bring dessert.

So long as you don’t bake it yourself.

Jaskier doesn’t dignify that with a response.

***

When Jaskier shows up at Yennefer and Geralt’s place that night at six, it’s with a tray of brownies that he did bake himself, thank you, Yennefer. Geralt is the one who answers the door and Jaskier’s eyes nearly bug out of his head. Geralt must have just finished a workout or something, because he’s wearing a pair of running shorts so tiny, he may as well have forgone the shorts altogether. Jaskier makes a noise somewhere between a groan and a whimper.

“Hey, Jask.” Geralt leans against the doorframe, apparently unaware of the fact that Jaskier is having a stroke right in front of him. “You didn’t bake those, did you?”

Outrage snaps Jaskier out of his lust-ridden haze. “I did, thank you! They’re the best boxed brownies money can buy, I’ve been assured.”

“We’ll see.” Geralt steps back to let him in. “Do you like pierogi?”

“My taste buds work just fine, so yes.”

In the kitchen, they find Yennefer setting out the fixings for pierogi. She’s wearing a little black dress that makes Jaskier swallow hard. For fuck’s sake, are they trying to kill him? “Hello, Jaskier,” she says without looking up.

The way she’s currently leaning over the table is giving him a view that’s going to give him a very embarrassing problem if he’s not careful, so he looks anywhere but at her. “Where’s Ciri?”

“She’s staying with Vesemir this weekend,” Geralt says. “He’s been dying for a chance to spoil her rotten.”

“Oh.” Jaskier puts his brownies down on the counter where they’ll be out of the way. “I read the text message right, didn’t I? You wanted me to come over tonight?”

“Unless you had something better planned?” Yennefer asks, lighting a candle in the center of the table.

“Oh.” Jaskier looks around at the candles, the bottle of very nice wine on the counter, the array of delicious-looking pierogi with all their fixings. This looks an awful lot like a date night and he’s trying very hard not to get the wrong idea. “Well, thanks for inviting me. I’ve missed food that didn’t come out of the freezer.”

“And you,” he doesn’t say. “And Ciri.”

“Of course,” Yennefer says. “Are you going to help yourself, or are you going to stand there, gawking like you’ve never seen a pierogi before?”

The pierogi are not what Jaskier is gawking at, but he’s not about to say that, so he goes to get himself a plate. As he sits down in his usual spot, he says, “Wow, guys. Candles, pierogi, wine. Should I expect flowers next?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Geralt shoot Yennefer a strange look.

“If you wanted flowers, you should have made brownies from scratch,” Yennefer deadpans.

“Oh, come on.” Jaskier throws his hands up in the air. “First, I’m not allowed to bake at all and now I’m being attacked for baking boxed brownies. There’s no winning around here.”

Geralt snorts and shakes his head.

They fall into silence as they eat, which isn’t altogether unusual. Jaskier, who is normally the type of person compelled to fill every silence he comes across, has grown used to the comfortable quiet of the Wolfes’ dinner table. It’s nice, even, knowing them well enough that he doesn’t feel the need to chatter relentlessly. He notices that Geralt and Yennefer keep shooting looks at each other, but he can’t decipher the expression on their faces, so he tries to focus on his food.

Finally, Yennefer puts down her fork. “Listen, Jaskier.”

“Yeah?” Jaskier, who is chasing around a stubborn piece of bacon around his plate, looks up.

“Geralt and I realized that we weren’t entirely clear about some things.” Yennefer gives her husband a pointed look.

Geralt clears his throat, looking uncomfortable. “When I said that Ciri wasn’t going to need a lullaby anymore soon, I wasn’t saying I didn’t want you to come over anymore.”

“I never thought that,” Jaskier says. “I just… it feels silly to keep trespassing on your hospitality if you’re not getting anything out of it.”

Geralt frowns. “You’ve never trespassed. We invited you."

“Because I helped Ciri fall asleep.”

“Jaskier,” Yennefer says slowly. “If we didn’t want you around, we would have found another way to get Ciri to fall asleep. We kept inviting you over because we wanted your company.”

“Thank you?” Jaskier glances between them, confused.

Yennefer stares at Geralt, who clears his throat. “We like having you around,” he mumbles into his plate.

“Well, I would hope so.” Jaskier laughs to cover up his confusion. “Considering you’re wining and dining me.”

Yennefer sighs. “What Geralt was supposed to say is that we’d like to have you around more.”

“Not sure why you asked me to do the talking, Yenn.” Geralt doesn’t look up from his plate.

“Because you’re persuasive when you’re wearing those shorts.” She shoots Jaskier a smug smile. “There’s a reason I asked you to wear them. Jaskier obviously finds them inspiring.”

Jaskier’s jaw drops. They’ve all been operating under the polite fiction that Tiny Shorts Song isn’t about Geralt since that first mortifying night.

“Wait.” Geralt’s head shoots up. “Tiny Shorts Song is about me?”

Yennefer stares at her husband for a long moment, then pours herself a glass of wine. “For the love of fuck. Geralt.” She turns pointedly to her husband. “Jaskier has been attracted to you since he moved in. He’s incredibly obvious about watching you when you go on your run every morning.”

“It’s not just me!” Jaskier squeaks. “The old ladies on the third floor all drink tea and watch him from Mrs. Piotrski’s balcony every morning.”

“Regardless of that,” Yennefer says as Geralt opens his mouth, clearly appalled. “Jaskier, Geralt and I invited you over here because you are by far the most ridiculous, obnoxious man we’ve ever met—”

"That seems like an exaggeration."

She ignores him. “—But somehow, over the last couple of months, you’ve become part of our family. It feels right when you’re here and we’d like to have you around more.”

Jaskier is starting to realize what they’re trying to say, but he must be reading too much into this.

“We want you, Jaskier,” Yennefer says. “Despite our better judgement.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow. “Starting to see why you wanted me to do the talking, Yenn.”

“You’re not joking, are you?” Jaskier means the words to come out breezy, but end up sounding terribly vulnerable. Yennefer could break his heart with a look right now.

Yennefer must see that, because her expression softens. “No, we’re not joking. You’re sweet and funny and you’re good with Ciri. Geralt’s been smitten with you since the first time you came over.”

Geralt scoffs. “I’ve been smitten?”

Yennefer shrugs. “Perhaps we’ve been suffering from the same problem for a while."

“We want you to be part of our lives,” Geralt adds, suddenly serious. “And Ciri’s. However you want to be.”

“Oh.” Jaskier suddenly feels torn between collapsing into hysterical laughter and crying.

There’s a heavy silence. Surprisingly, it’s Geralt that breaks it. “So…”

“Melitele’s fucking tits.” Jaskier takes a long sip of wine. “I wrote a song about how incredible your thighs look in those fucking shorts, Geralt. Every song I’ve written for the past two months has either been a lullaby for your daughter or a love song about one or both of you. I’ve been in hiding for the past two weeks because I realized how crazy I was about the two of you and I knew it was going to kill me if you didn’t feel the same way.”

“Well, I guess we’re all idiots.” Yennefer holds out a hand to Jaskier.

Jaskier takes it and lets her pull him out of his chair. And then the next thing he knows, he’s kissing her. She smells like lilacs and her lips taste like wine. When he reaches up to cup her face in his hands, her skin is soft and warm under his touch. He feels the press of a body against his back and lets out a shocked breath when Geralt's hands land on his hips and his lips press against the side of Jaskier's neck. Jaskier turns his head to meet Geralt's lips with his. He stands there for a long moment, bracketed by their bodies, kissing both of them desperately.

"Maybe the brownies can wait," Yennefer whispers in his ear, making him shiver. "Geralt and I have been waiting to find out what else we can do to make you sing."

And well, there's no way Jaskier can turn down an invitation like that.

***

"The lady at the grocery store was right," Jaskier says a couple of hours later, popping a piece of brownie into his mouth. "The best boxed brownies money can buy."

Yennefer makes a disgusted noise. "I can't believe you're eating in bed. You're going to get crumbs everywhere."

"These sheets are already ruined," Jaskier says, only a little smugly.

Geralt hums an agreement, nuzzling at the back of Jaskier's head. He's shockingly cuddly; he hasn't stopped touching Jaskier since their first kiss in the kitchen. It's absolutely delightful. Jaskier snuggles closer into the strong arms wrapped around his waist and reaches around to give an appreciative pat to one of the thighs bracketing his body. Geralt's thighs are even nicer up close.

"Let me see." Yennefer plucks the last bite of brownie out of Jaskier's fingers, popping it into her mouth. "Oh, okay. That's definitely worth ruining the sheets."

Jaskier waggles his eyebrows at her. "So was everything that came before the brownies."

"Hm." Yennefer frowns. "I'm not sure about that."

"Geralt." Jaskier turns to the other man with a look of exaggerated horror. "Do you hear this slander?"

Geralt smirks, his long white hair in a tangle around his face. "Think it has to be a lie to be slander, Jask."

"Oh, ho! You're both in for it now." Jaskier leans over to kiss Yennefer, pulling Geralt with him.

In the end, all parties involved agree that it was very much worth ruining the sheets.

***

Twelve years later

Ciri has had a song stuck in her head for days now. She doesn't know the words, just a bouncy upbeat tune that she hums to herself while she stands in the kitchen, making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Her dad comes down the steps into the kitchen, rumple-haired and bleary-eyed. "Darling girl, how do you feel about making a sandwich for your poor, jet-lagged father?"

"You got home from your tour three days ago." But Ciri still reaches for the loaf of bread.

"Your dad isn't as young as he used to be, duckling," her mother says, coming into the kitchen.

"Excuse you, Yennefer." Dad puffs himself up like he always does when the others mock him. "I am a whole four years younger than you and Geralt. I am still very much in the prime of my—”

Mama leans over and kisses him, shutting him up.

Ciri groans and rolls her eyes. "If you two are going to be gross, I'm not making anyone else a sandwich."

"Horrible child." Dad makes a face at her.

Ciri rolls her eyes again and goes back to making sandwiches, humming.

"What's that song?" Dad perks up, like he always does whenever Ciri shows any interest in music. She occasionally feels bad that she's completely tone deaf.

"I don't know. It's been stuck in my head for days now, but I don't know the words." She hums a few bars to the best of her ability.

Dad's face breaks into an enormous grin. "The Tiny Shorts Song."

"Oh, for the love of Melitele." Mama pinches the bridge of her nose."Of all the beautiful songs he wrote for you when you were a baby, that would be the one you would remember."

But Dad isn't listening to her, drumming on the countertop as he belts out, "Tiny shorts, do do do do do do!"

Ciri stares at the two of them, open mouthed. "You sang me a song about someone's tiny shorts?"

"Your dad has the emotional maturity of a ten year old boy," Mama says flatly.

The sliding glass door opens and Papa comes inside, sweaty and gross after mowing the lawn. Neither of Ciri's other parents do a very good job of hiding the fact that they're ogling his... shorts.

"Oh no," Ciri says, horrified. "The Tiny Shorts Song is about Papa?"

All three of her parents freeze, wide-eyed.

Papa looks at Dad with a deadpan expression. "What did you do?"

"Me? Why do you assume..." Dad points at Ciri. "She's the one who got it stuck in her head after all these years! Ciri, darling." He turns to her. "Your papa is an incredibly inspiring man. I have written many, many songs about him over the years."

"I know." She hears them on the radio all the time, much to her chagrin.

"The Tiny Shorts Song was just the first of my magnum opus."

"You only find Geralt inspiring?" Mama asks with a teasing smile.

"Oh, darling, you know that's not true." Dad pulls her into a kiss. "I am married to the two most inspiring people in Redania, if not the whole Continent. I could write a thousand albums dedicated to your—”

At that, Ciri decides to take her sandwich upstairs and leave them to their own devices. As she heads up the stairs, stepping over a sleeping Buttercup, she hears Dad and Mama start to sing the Tiny Shorts Song while Papa groans in protest. Shaking her head, Ciri closes her bedroom door behind her. Her parents are ridiculous.

She'll never tell them, but she wouldn't have it any other way.

***

[pillage-and-lute]

Jaskier frowned as he plucked his lute strings.

“I’m sharp--”

“by a half,” Geralt finished.

“How on earth would you know?”

Geralt shrugged. “Witchers have good hearing.”

“So?”

“So I’ve heard you play often, heard you talk about notes and chords often.”

Jaskier narrowed his eyes at Geralt. “Shut your eyes.”

Geralt obeyed.

Jaskier played a chord.

“That string’s still a half sharp,” Geralt said. “That’s your G chord.”

Jaskier sputtered and Geralt opened his eyes to watch him fuss.

“You,” Jaskier said. “Unbelievable. You! YOU! Your witchery...stuff gave you perfect pitch, and you don’t even like music!”

Geralt smiled slightly as he sharpened his sword. Wait ‘til Jaskier learned that witcher-powered lungs and vocal chords meant any witcher alive was a natural born singer. 

Eskel’s baritone once brought an opera singer to tears.

[just-j-really]

Geraskier fic idea that’s been burning a hole in my brain all day:

Actor Jaskier/theater ghost Geralt. You know the superstition that if you whistle in a theater, you might accidentally summon the ghost of a stagehand?

Imagine, if you will, struggling actor/singer Jaskier who’s just got a part in a play in this absolutely ancient theater. One night, he’s the only one onstage for... reasons, and he knows the superstitions as well as anyone but it’s very dark and he’s very nervous, so he starts whistling to calm himself down.

And then something crashes backstage and he decided he doesn’t need to be here right now, actually. He leaves, but not before he glimpses a pair of glowing yellow eyes in the wings.

He mentions that to his director- “I think a cat? or something? may have got in?” and she offers him a semi-tongue-in-cheek “It was probably just the ghost” but says she’ll look into it. 

Jaskier’s completely fascinated by the possibility of a ghost- he begs everyone who’s worked in the building longer than he has for details, starts looking into the history of the building to see where the story comes from, etc. He’d love to write a song about it (there’s something romantic and song-worthy about Theater Ghosts) but the inspiration’s just not coming.

He does start talking with the ghost whenever spooky things happen- *Lights flicker* Jaskier: Ugh, cut it out! I just need to grab this prop and then I’ll be out of your hair, I promise.

And occasionally just chatting to the air (”Good morning ghost! Did you have a good night? Rattle some pipes? Make mysterious howling noises?”)

But that’s mostly just for the fun of it.

A couple weeks later, he’s alone backstage again, and just for the hell of it, he starts pointedly whistling.

This time, though, a gorgeous man materializes in front of him and snaps, “What the fuck do you want?“

Jaskier (who did not expect this at all but isn’t about to let a good opportunity go to waste), immediately responds: “You’re the ghost! The white wolf! Can I write a song about you?”

(My only concept for the rest of this is “Reverse Phantom of the Opera,” in which a charming young ingenue seduces a ghost into being his muse)

[lesdemonium]

zoe’s geraskier ficlets

** = modern au E = explicit

“Things You Said” prompts

Things you said when you thought I was asleep **

Things you were afraid to say

Things you said in our vows **

Things you said in the spur of the moment

Things you said when you were drunk

Things you said when I was crying

Things you said with clenched fists **

Things you said when you asked me to marry you **

Things you said in the dark **

Specific AU prompts

prostitute/client AU **E

waking up with amnesia AU

passive aggressive florist AU **

meeting at a festival AU **

cult AU

roaring 20s AU

royalty AU

“Why does my neighbor have to be an aspiring opera singer?” AU **

Prompt Mashup

baby fic + marriage of convenience **

Sentence Starters

“Are we on a date right now?” **

Kiss Fics

soft drunk kisses

top of head kisses & routine kisses where the other person presents their cheek/forehead for the hello/goodbye kiss without even looking up from what they’re doing  **

breaking the kiss to say something, staying so close that you’re murmuring into each other’s mouths

following the kiss with a series of kisses down the neck

one small kiss, pulling away for an instant, then devouring each other

Lazy morning kisses before they’ve even opened their eyes, still mumbling half-coherently, not wanting to wake up

top of head kisses

Goodbye Kisses? Soft and a bit desperate, trying to make the moment last longer and simultaneously hoping that it's over already and the person has come back to you again?

moving around while kissing, stumbling over things, pushing each other back against the wall/onto the bed & kissing so desperately that their whole body curves into the other person’s

How bout not knowing if/when they'll see each other again because of (misc danger), but there's no time - a hasty goodbye kiss?

Other

confident!geralt confessing his love to jaskier

Romtober Fics

[ao3feed-geralt-jaskier]

by Bouncey

Jaskier is all alone in the Prima Donna's suite of rooms, bored out of his mind in the middle of the night.

Perhaps his lover, the mysterious Phantom, will be able to entertain him until dawn.

Words: 2027, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Series: Part 2 of Phantom of the Opera AU

Fandoms: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia

Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Phantom of the Opera Fusion, Phantom Geralt, Opera Singer Jaskier, Smut, Fluff and Smut, Established Relationship, Way Less of An Age Gap Than the Original, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Anal Sex

[inber]

Play Out - Jaskier x Reader OS

A lovely Witcherling contacted me and lit this fire in my brain with their spark; they are an opera singer and told me that ‘voice’ rivalry is totally a thing and I was like heck yeehaw and this is the result. This is for you, lovely! I mean, it’s for all of us. God I love me a hatefuck. I only have one taglist because HOLY SHIT I’m lazy, so I’m sorry if you’re tagged and you’re not about Jaskier; skip this one. Not my gif!

Summary: You steal Jaskier’s gig, and he’s unimpressed about it. In fact, he seems unimpressed with you entirely. Pairings: Jaskier x Reader, Geralt is here and he thinks you’re both stupid. Warnings: Rudeness. Socially and physically. Angry sex. MxF. Smutty smut. Word Count: 4567 eyyy sequential Tags: @persephonehemingway​ @xmother-mortemx​ @alwayshave-faith​ @alliyjane​ @stretchkingblog97​ @p3nny4urth0ught5​ @geeksareunique​ @didi0666​ @tigers-pat​ @asgardianangelo​ @thefangirlsblog​ @agniavateira​ @superkamigurudende​ @i-am-sarah​ @punkrogers-jerkbarnes​ @deansbbysblog​ @mary-ann84​ @khaleesi-provenance​ @locht3ssmonster​ @thatonesebstanfan​ @afterthenightprevails​ @saint-hardy​ @ayamenimthiriel​ @goldensilvan​ @hina-chans-stuff​ @salaveenas-personal-blog​ @elsassnowflake​ @msmimimerton​ @delightfully-anonymous​ @uncoolcloudyhead​ @buggy-blogs​ @magic-and-the-macabre​ @chook007​ - if you’d like to be added to my list, send me an ask please!

Masterlist is here. If you’d like to donate for my time, you can do so here if you’d like. Thanks for reading!

Jaskier is sulking. Geralt is finding it a refreshing change of pace, because the bard is brooding into his wine, his boyish features furrowed with a frown. If this keeps up, the Witcher thinks, then he’ll have time to think about the complexities of the upcoming route in peace, and–

“I can’t believe they wanted me to open for her!” Jaskier explodes, and Geralt sighs so softly that it’s almost imperceptible. “Do they not know who I am? What I’ve done for music? How I’ve ached and bled – I’ve literally bled, Geralt – for my work! What’s she done? Turned up with a harp – a harp, Geralt – and probably, I don’t know, flashed her bosom at the tavern-keep. If she’s even pretty, that is. You can’t be pretty and talented.”

The Witcher makes a quiet grunt.

“Except for me. And you, I guess. Except you’re more… regally handsome. And I’m… hmm. Youthfully dashing. Yes.” He’s become absorbed in that thought, now, and Geralt lifts his ale to his lips. It sloshes when Jaskier pounds the table with a fist, and the Witcher closes his eyes, trying to locate the remnants of his tattered patience. “I just don’t understand!”

“Maybe she’s talented and you should shut up and listen for once.” Geralt growls, and Jaskier places a hand upon his breast, the offence blazing in his vivid blue eyes.

“More talented than me?!”

“How should I know?” The Witcher barks, drinking of his disturbed ale, “I’ll never get to hear her if you don’t close your damnable mouth.”

Jaskier huffs, and slumps over his wine, toying with the cup. “I shouldn’t have to open for anyone.” He mutters, and is summarily ignored.

You’re nervous. Of course you’ve played many a small inn, and a few larger taverns, but this audience is massive as compared to other crowds you’ve faced. It’s a silly thing for a solo performer to admit, but sometimes you get stage fright. Waiting to be announced as the next act can feel like waiting for an executioner to call your name.

There’s also something of a disappointment; the tavern-keep told you that Jaskier – known in some circles as the bard Dandelion – might be playing before you. However, he’s sat in a corner table with the unmissable Geralt of Rivia, his back to the stage, occasionally gesticulating. There’s another bard of lesser repute warming the crowd, although he’s doing a rather poor job; everyone is talking over him, and you’re fairly sure at one point he rhymed ‘orange’ with ‘borange’.

This is going to be a hard gig, you think, clutching your faithful lap-harp.

“Our thanks to…” The tavern-keep squints at the poor bard, who mutters, and the man speaks again, “Talden of Kagen!” He applauds, and some of the crowd follows suit, although it sounds rather disinterested and short. “Next, for your entertainment…”

You stand as he introduces you, deepening your breath to try and find some calm, taking the stage with what you hope are slow, graceful steps. Much of the people begin to mutter amongst themselves; women are less popular as entertainment if they are clothed, and you see many backs already turning. You’re used to that.

Smiling at the tavern-keep, you take a seat, and settle your harp. You pluck a few strings, take a sip of the wine beside you, and launch boldly into your first song.

The whole place goes silent as a tomb under a midnight moon. Your voice, rich and soulful and precise, tells the tale you’ve written; a princess cursed to find unlikely love with a monster, who she meets in secret. It’s a song about misunderstanding, about perceptions of beauty, about hope and rebellion. It’s slow but powerful, and the last notes of the chorus linger in the air like expensive pipe-smoke, curling in twists to vanish into the rafters above.

For a heartbeat, the damn place is still quiet. You try not to let your body tremble, although your hands are gripping the edges of your harp as though it might be an anchor to ground you to the earth. And then the cheering begins.

The rowdy crowd stamp their feet and clap and howl their praise, and you feel yourself grinning, bowing your head in modest thanks, feeling the heat of pride and adrenaline nip at your breast. It’s actually difficult to begin your second song over the cacophony, but the men elbow one another with loud ’shh‘ing in an effort to properly hear you.

“Wow.” Geralt murmurs, in the corner the two have holed up in.

“Really?” Jaskier hisses, although he can’t tear his eyes away from the stage where you are performing, “You’re gonna give that a ’wow’? You’ve never ‘wow'ed at any of my songs, Geralt!” He tips the rest of his wine down his throat, and pours more from the jug. “Her rhymes are… they could use work, and did you hear that chord in the first verse? Totally off-key.”

“You sound like a jealous housewife.”

“I do not–” The bard trails off as you hit a high note with a thrilling trill, and a murmur ripples through the approving people. Every face in the joint is turned to you. He forgets his point as he listens to this, your third song. It’s faster-paced, a fun ballad about a girl who engages in a frisky romp with a stable-hand, forgets her knickers in the aftermath, and is caught in a windstorm on her way home. It’s always popular with men; Jaskier has to fight not to smile. But fight he does.

Even Geralt chuckles at the end, adding two beats of his hands as he claps with the audience, and the bard feels as though he’d be happier if the Witcher had punched him in the face.

“Why don’t you just travel with her, if you love her so much.” He pouts like a child, crossing his arms.

“If she knows the value of silence, maybe I will.” Geralt muses.

After your fourth song is sung, you take a break for wine, meeting those that would come and shake your hand and tip you with coin; it’s only halfway through your set and your pocket is heavy. You’re alive with gratitude and glee, thrilled that the patrons are taken by your tales. You’ve yet to eat a considerable meal, and so you try to kindly refuse the many offers of drink that are extended to you. Nobody wants to listen to a drunk crooner wailing off-key.

The rest of your set is flawless in the eyes of your audience, although you hear your mistakes and mentally catalogue them for inspection later, ever the perfectionist. As the last note of your last ballad – a song about the harshness of winter yielding to spring, told as a tale in which the seasons are personified as sisters – trills in the air, you’re given a standing ovation, and truly humbled, you curtsy as best as you know how. You’re not of noble blood, and it’s perhaps the clumsiest part of your routine, but after that voice, nobody really cares.

You collect your tips, and your evening’s payment, exhilarated; when you partake of drink now, the alcohol does affect you, the rush of performing ebbing from your blood-flow and allowing you to feel intoxication. Emboldened, you flirt back with men, laugh with women who have stories strikingly similar to your stable-hand’s tale, and nibble at food bought for you. You make your way through the crowd, and find yourself close to a man you’ve idolised for a time – and his rather enormous bodyguard, who doesn’t seem as fierce as the stories paint him to be. In fact, he looks contemplative, and you see something gentle in his peculiar eyes.

Jaskier, however, looks drunk.

Downing the remainder of your own cup, you approach the duo, and bow your head. “Well met, Geralt of Rivia, Dandelion–”

“My name is Jaskier.” He admonishes, squinting his beautiful blue eyes at you.

With a frown, you correct yourself. “Forgive me, Jaskier. I’ve heard so many of your songs. I wanted to tell you how deeply I admire your work.”

“Ohhh really?” He sing-songs, and you’re confused by the darkness in his stare. “Is that why you took my place on stage tonight? Admiration? Ow, Geralt–”

He’s clearly been kicked beneath the table. “Forgive him, my lady. What I’m sure he means to say is that you sing beautifully.” Geralt’s voice is the low promise of an avalanche, a gorgeous growl, and you feel the hair on your arms stand on end. The longer you linger there, the more you realise why they call him 'The White Wolf’.

“You are too kind, Geralt of Rivia” You accept, smiling, “I am pleased you enjoyed my work.” Your attention flicks back to Jaskier, who is pouring more wine. “I was unaware that you were to play… well, actually, I thought you were to play before me. I’m saddened that you did not.”

“Darling,” The bard purrs, “I don’t play before anyone. Don’t care how lovely she looks, don’t care how nice her rack—ow! Geralt, that’s my leg.”

The Witcher’s face reads I know, you idiot, and he looks at you with an apology in his cat-gold eyes. You’re uncomfortable and upset, fidgeting, and yet too nervous to simply flee. You hate the idea that you’ve upset Jaskier. “I-I’d no idea you had claim on this stage…”

“He has claim on fuck all.” Geralt rumbles, and you bite your lower lip.

“Well, he makes me wish I’d never come here.” You mutter, gripping your empty wine cup harder.

“I’m sure your father said something similar to your mother on the night of your conception, sweetheart.” Jaskier slurs.

The sound of your slap across his face is incredibly loud in the tavern, the force of it whipping his head; some people turn and chuckle, but you’re boiling with anger now, trembling.

“Good Witcher.” You bob your head in a bow, before storming off, pacing upstairs to your room. You cannot believe what an absolute dick Jaskier is, and the disappointment of it pricks your eyes with hot tears. You hate that you cry when you’re angry. It has been said that you should never meet your heroes, and now you understand why.

Geralt watches you leave, watches Jaskier stroke the side of his face that has a very clear red hand-print on it, and huffs in disgust. “That was uncalled for, bard.”

“You’re uncalled for!” Jaskier retorts, unable to access the part of his brain that allows for wit; he picks up the wine jug, stumbles into the elbow of a working girl dressed in red silks, and takes the both of them upstairs to his own room.

Well, Geralt thinks to himself, nursing the rest of his ale, least it’s quiet now.

—————

It’s months before fate sees fit to cross your paths again.

Your name is spreading, the humour and depth of your ballads second only to the tales of your siren-song voice, and you’re able to afford finer clothes and your own horse to travel. You stick to small inns at first, modestly, but they soon become packed out; in time, you play taverns and song-halls. The fame never gets to your head, though; you know that time changes all things, and that someone more talented will someday take the spotlight. For now, you try and enjoy yourself.

With your cloak-hood up, you enter a smaller establishment to simply have dinner and some wine alone, stabling your horse outside. Once you’ve secured a room, you turn to find somewhere to sit in the populated place, only to lay eyes upon Geralt – ever brooding in a corner, as is his wont. Jaskier doesn’t seem to be with him, and you recall his kindness, so you make your way over.

“Well met, Geralt of Rivia.” You bow your head as he looks up, surprised at the sudden company. “I’m–”

“The songstress with the harp. Yes, I remember.” He doesn’t smile, but there’s something about his mouth that is kind nonetheless.

“Forgive me, I hope I’m not interrupting. There are few places to sit.”

“Help yourself.” He gestures to the seat across from him, and with a thankful smile, you take it, placing your wine down.

“I’ve ordered food. I don’t wish to be rude and eat in front of you – may I order you something too?”

He grunts, quiet, and you don’t know what that means, so you catch the attention of a bar-maid and order him more ale.

“This man needs no introduction from me,” You hear a bar-keep speak behind you, and turn to the stage, “So what am I even doing up here?” He receives a pity laugh from the audience and, self-amused, he continues. “Please, a round of applause for Jaskier!”

As the bard takes the stage to various cheers, you feel your upper lip curling with disdain. Ah, fuck. Whipping your head around, you try to ignore the richness of his voice, and the clever way that he winds innuendo around words. The clear, practiced sound of his fingers on the lute-strings. He has such long fingers, you think, and then wonder where that thought manifested from.

Geralt is watching you over his new tankard, silent, and you begin to eat your dinner, trying not to stab the spatchcock too harshly with your fork. After a time, you meet the Witcher’s precious metal gaze in despair.

“Why does he hate me?” You whisper, and the Witcher hmms again.

“He doesn’t.” Is your reply, with no elaboration. You ponder that, recalling the last time you’d met, and work on your potatoes. Quietly, you offer one of the fat-roasted morsels to Geralt, who accepts it graciously, and you eat to the soundtrack of Jaskier’s song.

It’s such a nice background that you don’t even notice when he’s finished playing, until he’s at your table, hands on his hips. He’s staring at you with the same intensity as he did before, and you bristle, sipping your wine.

“You’re in my seat.” He remarks, and you raise your eyebrows.

“Don’t see your name on it.” You shoot back; Geralt watches the two of you like a tired parent.

Jaskier reaches over to your dinner, scooping up a fingerful of left-over gravy, and paints a 'J’ on the backrest of the wood. “There.” He declares, smug.

“Gross.” You hiss, standing, not wishing to get the mess upon your clothing. Triumphantly, he sits, and you roll your eyes. “You know, I thought–”

“It’s Y/N!” Someone calls, and you whip your head, the movement disturbing your cloak-hood enough for it to fall. So much for incognito. “Play us a song, darlin’!”

“Oh, I’m not here to…” You stammer, holding up your hands.

“No, go on,” Jaskier goads, nudging you, “Get on up there.”

You turn to glare at him, unstrapping your harp from your back. “Fine. Thanks for warming the stage for me.”

Stalking towards the steps that lead to the platform, you smirk as you hear him splutter behind you, and the quiet rumble of Geralt’s laughter.

“I like her.” The Witcher remarks, as you begin to play. He’s watching your performance, but you’re lost in the music as always, pouring your voice and soul into the song.

“I don’t.” Jaskier realises he has gravy on his sleeve, and tries to wipe it off.

“Yes you do.” Geralt notes, drinking more of his ale. He claps when you finish your tune, and you launch into another.

“I do not. She’s all…” He makes a wave of his hand, “You know? Better. I mean, she’s not better than me. But she acts like it. With her… ways.” The bard stares at the half-moon crescent of lipstick you’ve left on your wine cup, and wonders what your lips taste of. The thought makes him blink, hard.

“Her parents are dead.” Geralt mutters, and that catches Jaskier’s attention; all-too well he remembers what he’d said to you before.

“How do you know that?” He hisses lowly, feeling something that might be a stab of guilt tugging at his heart.

“The locket around her neck. Sometimes she toys with it absently, opens and shuts it. There’s a portrait of them in there.”

“So?” Jaskier dismisses, but his voice sounds weaker, “Maybe she’s just a daddy’s girl.”

“Listen.” Geralt directs, nodding at the stage.

The verse of your song is about loss, about suffering a shipwreck and finding yourself the only survivor atop driftwood in the centre of a merciless sea that toys and torments you. It’s about the harshness of salt and the sting of illusions that dance like phantoms on distant horizons. It’s about never quite reaching the shore. Some of the patrons are wiping their eyes, and Jaskier finds his own filling, his poet’s heart touched.

Alas, his idiot brain remains unscathed.

“People lose parents. How was I to know?” Hastily, he rubs his eyes as if he’s simply gotten something caught in them.

“You should apologise.” The Witcher suggests, and it’s the bard’s turn to grunt and lapse into silence.

When you’ve played a few songs and taken tips, you dip in your poor curtsy, and leave the stage. You don’t wish to return to Geralt – not with Jaskier present – and so you take your key from the keeper and go upstairs to your room.

Jaskier watches you ascend the steps, grits his teeth, and curses under his breath. After a few minutes, he rises, and follows. Smugly, the Witcher sinks back into his seat, and enjoys his precious silence again.

—————

The knock at your door is soft, so soft that you think you’ve imagined it. You’re removing your shoes, and only rise to answer when it comes again, barefoot on the hardwood floors. Perhaps a shy chambermaid is checking on you.

“I have everything I–” You begin, and are startled into silence when you see Jaskier standing there. His expression is peculiar, a mix of frustration and – anger? – and you cock your hip, placing a hand there. “Yes?”

“I just wanted to–” He starts, stuttering for the first time since you’ve known him, and you raise your eyebrows, “I needed to tell you…” His lapus-lazuli eyes meet your own, and he sucks in a sharp breath. “…Your curtsy. It’s awful. Were you never taught how?”

You square your shoulders and narrow your eyes, gripping the door handle tighter. “That’s why you came up here? To tell me how to curtsy?” Incredulity drips from your tone.

“Well, if you’re going to thank your audience, you shouldn’t do it so… sloppily.” He tells you, straightening his spine, his annoyance matching your own.

“I hate you.” You hiss, and his upper lip curls.

“I hate you, too.” He spits back, and for a long moment you face off like that, the tension pulsing between you, the echoes of your emotions grating together like bare flesh on sea-bitten limestone.

In the next instant, you’re in his arms, and he’s kissing you with such intensity that he robs your breath, but you aren’t even aware because you’re kissing him back, scratching your hands through his hair, licking up the heat of his mouth, trading groans as he bites your lip and you suckle his cupid’s bow. He slams the door in his wake with his foot, and your hands grip the collar of his fine jerkin, tearing. Buttons pop off like dried corn over a flame, and your greedy fingers rake down his chest, through the hair, leaving vivid red claw-lines. He moans, nudging you back towards the bed, tugging hard at the corset that cinches your waist until he tires of the exercise and jerks the bask open, bending metal.

You fall back onto the mattress and he’s upon you, unwilling to be away from your lips for long; he kisses you as though you’re the only water he’s ever drunk, the only way to slake his thirst, and you match his ferocity, gasping for breath each time you briefly part. He shoves the skirts of your dress up, plants dirty, open-mouthed kisses at your neckline, bruises your collarbone with a suckling pop of skin. You pant beneath him, feeling his fingers at the ties of your knickers, unlacing them to pull the wettened cotton fabric down your legs. Propping yourself up on your elbows, you watch with half-lidded eyes as he fixates his gaze upon your own – a clear river at springtime – and runs the flat of his tongue in a hard stripe up from your cunt to your clit, tasting you. The whimper that spills from your swollen lips is the only encouragement he needs.

He fits his mouth around the pearl of your clit and runs his tongue-tip in circles, sealing the contact in a suck, as two of his long, calloused fingers enter you, stretching, curving upwards. Your head falls back and you moan, fisting the bedspread; there was definitely a reason you’d thought of his hands before. He finger-fucks you like you’re the most finely crafted instrument in the world, exploring your crying cunt with a musician’s delicacy, finding the chords inside you that make you really sing; he maintains the pressure and consistent attention at your bud as he strokes you, his arm not tiring. When he finds your rhythm and he’s nuzzling the nerves at your mons with the slant of his nose, you’re openly squealing and chanting his name, bucking, a sweaty mess of tremors. “Come for me, you little bitch.” He hisses at your cunt, and you absolutely do.

The pulse of your pussy is fierce, the wash of your juices soaking his mouth and dripping to settle like dew on his chest hair; he moans with you, playing the music of your orgasm out as you crescendo; he keeps you at the peak, mindless and shaking, until you’re so hypersensitive that he withdraws, kissing your inner thighs, your mound, your stomach. When the rush is over, you find yourself aching and needy, wanting more of him. You kick him away with bare feet and he stumbles back, his ass hitting the floor; he grunts with bewilderment, looking furious, 'til you stand and pull your dress from your shoulders, letting it puddle on the ground. You’re an absolute goddess nude before him, and he stares in wonderment; you let him enjoy the sight of you for mere seconds before you’re on him, straddling his lap on the floor, kissing him again.

You taste the salt of yourself on his lips and both of you moan into the filthy embrace, your hands making quick work of his belt and the laces of his breeches that are hindering your exploration of him. His cock is beautiful, fitting his size; it curves slightly towards his body, and you shudder in anticipation, aware of how you can play that delicious angle in your favour. Your lips leave his, as you stroke him; he’s already red and weeping precome, and he lifts his hips into your grasp, lowly groaning. When you sink your puffy fucked-out cunt onto his length in one hard downward thrust, you bite the delicate skin of his neck at the same time, marking him. He howls at the differing sensations; the vice-tight heat of you, and the sharp pain. His hands fly to your hips, gripping.

The way you ride him is merciless, a power-fuck; he raises his hips to meet the roll of yours, nuzzles the bounce of your tits, hisses his delirium in whorls of breath as you take your pleasure from him, and gift him his own in return. He feels amazing, the ridge of his cock rubbing your g-spot again and again as you rut on the floor, and your second climax begins to threaten your walls, a flutter, a tale of an incoming inferno.

He rolls with you, cradling your head with care as he pushes you into the fur of the rugs before the fireplace; he lifts one of your legs up high onto his shoulder, allowing him deeper entrance, and rubs his string-calloused thumb over your engorged clit. You’re wailing, open mouthed, and he’s snarling like some feral beast, fucking you into the rugs so hard that you’ll both have friction burn, but you can’t feel that, you can’t feel anything but excruciating ecstasy as he undoes you again, making you buck in uneven jerks beneath him, the rake of your nails leaving savage marks at his back. “Fuck, fu-uck, you–” You sob, “Fucking bastard, oh fuck!”

With a roar he hunches over you, holding you as close as he possibly can as the tail-end of your orgasm milks his own from him; he comes furiously, his teeth pinched pearly together until some semblance of sense hits him. With a gasp he pulls out, and spends the rest of his load on your belly and breasts, frantically stroking the pleasure from his throbbing cock as he stares at you beneath him, writhing. He is wracked with it, destroyed by it; when he’s drained, he’s still pulsing and shaking, and he’s forced to collapse at your side to catch his breath and recover.

In the aftermath, you bask, letting small fragments of memory return to the lust-haze you’re nesting in. Wincing, he pulls a silk scarf from his breast pocket, and begins to clean your come-marked body with gentle reverence.

“Well, that–” You begin,

“I didn’t mean–” He starts. You both pause, and nervously chuckle.

“I don’t really hate you.” He admits, looking so vulnerable that you are silent, listening. “I… Gods help me, I was so jealous. I’ve never heard a voice like yours. I wanted to make it mine so much that I think I just… rejected you entirely, because…” He places the scarf down, “Why would such a voice want anything to do with mine?”

You reach up to palm his face, gently, and smile. “I don’t hate you, either. I think you’re a jerk, but I don’t hate you.”

He sighs, and settles back down. “Deserved. What I said – what I’ve said – there’s no excuse. I am sorry for treating you so poorly.” When his baby-blues fix upon your eyes, you have no more quarrel; you melt.

“Forgiven.” You whisper, rolling to spoon into his side. “Hmm. Would you… perhaps… like to write a song together, sometime?”

His eyebrows raise in surprise, and he can’t hide the eagerness in his voice, one octave higher than usual. “Really?”

“Of course. Jaskier, I want everything to do with your voice. And the mouth that comes with it.”

The grin he gifts you is boyish and charming, whilst somehow hinting at all kinds of lust and fuckery. He’s a walking juxtaposition. “I’d love that.” Taking your hand, he presses his mouth against your fingertips, one by one. “And I’ll even let you sing first.”

[headtothecoast]

opera singer geralt and pop singer jaskier that is classically trained in opera but who chooses to sing pop music and it’s discovered when he does a carpool karaoke that he can sing opera and he’s amazing and beautiful at it with james corden and yen knows that geralt hates pop music and jaskiers music most of all because it’s so catchy and on every radio station but she shows him the clip and geralt is all hmm... fuck

based on the carpool karaoke with jason derulo

[positivityjediprince]

Get to Know Me - A Tag Game

rules: tag a few people you want to know better; make a new post, don't reblog!

Favourite colour:

I'm a big yellow fan! I'm such a dork I love buttercups and suflowers and daisies and sunshine. I'm sorry, I know that's kinda cringe but yellow is just so :D you know?

Currently reading:

So much fanfic lmao....

But non-fanfic wise I'm on and off reading this book called "Even More Opera Annecdotes" which I live for, it's all like snippets of opera world drama and moments - like Janet Baker sassing Pavarotti. It makes me so happy because even the great professionals are dumb nerds!

Last song:

Apparently Dolly Parton "Why'd you come in here looking like that."

But I'm my dream I was singing/there was playing "He is an English Man" from Gilbert and Sullivan HMS Pinafore.

Last Movie:

Man I had to think hard about this one... Genuinely I think it was this terrible animated film called "The Seventh Dwarf" ...I put it on to traumatise my house mates cause it looked awful ..and it was.

Last Serise:

Last watched its Louis Theroux Forbidden America.

Last finished it's Supernatural Academy (which I do sort of recommend even tho it's stupid it's quite charming - with great rep - and I greatly enjoyed it! The soundscaping is wack af tho cause covid lol)

Sweet, spicy or savoury:

It's gotta be sweet! Especially baked goods! Give me Krapfen and brioche all day everyday!

Coffee or tea:

TEA BABY! Like not to be a stereotype but tea is life, though it has to be non-cafinated versions/herbal because my heart doesn't take caffeine well.

Three ships:

DinLuke is of course my number one and light of my life!!!

Then it's for sure Geraskier! Who I also adore with all my heart.

And third hmm it's probably quite tied it's probably between James Bond/Q (00Q) and Catadora! (embarrassingly my first thought was me and my bf ew what a sap I am)

First ever ship:

This is going to make sense to none of you but Yoyo/Crocky from this Austrian TV show called 'Simsala Grimm' - when I was small I thought they were like married I'm ngl. They're the chaotic bubbly feral himbo and sensible awkward nerdy one (who is very Done TM with the other person's shenanigans) couple - I think that was fundamental to my concept of relationships.

Currently working on:

I'm working on the last two chapter of Heaven knows I've needed someone like you for so long and a REALLY DUMB one shot - both DinLuke ofc!

And also my ever growing drabble drafts!

Favourite piece of clothing:

Probably the show hoodie from the last opera I did at university - it was the first time I got a real lead (and it was a big role) and people believed in me and I realised that I am worth something and that I can become an opera singer - which is big because if been working my butt off to recover my singing from the damage done by my ED. So yeah that means a lot to me even if I don't wear it that much.

Comfort food:

SOUP AND OR GOULASH with sexy Austrian bread.

Favourite time of the year:

Ooooooo summer but the bit of summer where it's the evening and it's still warm and you're outside with your pack and the sun is setting but you know you'll still be out here for a while being silly and having deep convos.

Fave fanfic:

Now THIS is a hard one! I'm gonna cheat a bit cause there's three from different fandoms that spring to mind.

I'm gonna say DinLuke "oh the things we left behind" because it is beyond beautiful and id say it is my number one overall.

Also close is Saoghal Tinn (00Q) which grasped me and never let me go - even if you don't know/ship them I'd recommend it if you like well written and tense zombie apocalypse stuff with gays.

And one I keep going back to for serotonin is Animal Instinct (Geraskier) I adore soft feral Geralt and when he's sad Jaskier won't eat the rats he brought him lives rent free in my head.

Thank you to @thewriterowl and @feralsunspotandtincan for tagging me you cuties!!!

And here we have the tagging dilemma of the DinLuke dorks to double tag or not to double tag!

@veradragonjedi (double tagged bestie I'm sorry!) @mandobogwitch @mando-punk @kriffinjoy @mysticmjolnir ofc no pressure guys!! ❤️❤️

[theglimmerhillbard]

A funny thought. Magnolion and Jaskier talking bard stuff. Jaskier literally went to school and is professionally trained by true masters of the craft.

Magnolion was taught by his fairy family how to play instruments, and he’s collected folk stories and regional stuff during his travels. He doesn’t have any formal training. Nothing. And while he grew up comfortably, and his mother makes quite a bit of money with her dress making, Magnolion was never sent to an actual school.

It’s like the difference between a classically trained opera singer, and a SoundCloud rapper. At least Magnolion is pretty good though.

[margaretencinos]

Jaskier x Geralt phantom of the opera AU... I mean the prodigal singer and his terrifying, mysterious guardian... it’s right there guys

[angst-fairygodmother]

Sing Once Again With Me: Think of Me (The Witcher; A Phantom of the Opera AU)

A/N: Here’s the first real chapter. A word to the wise, anyone who genuinely likes the Phantom and thinks Christine should have ended up with him should probably stop here because I am not pulling any punches. Much like the original story, it’s going to be strangely romantic but its also going to clearly pretty fucked up relationship-wise. Word Count: 870 (I promise these will get longer, and then you’ll be wishing for my short chapters) Content Warnings: None Taglist: @joz-stankovich, @hermeowyn, @sennextheassasinkingoflight​Previous Chapter: Overture Cross-posted to AO3: here

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The showcase would be her greatest moment, a triumphant performance that would solidify her as the single greatest musician and performer that the continent had ever seen. If only these damnable stagehands could get it together. But no, instead they had put the wrong backdrop up; they had nearly dropped it on her; they had had various “accidents”, interrupting her rehearsals, some of them injuring her or her co-performers. After this latest disaster, a spill of lamp oil nearly catching her skirts on fire, she quit. She was The Countess. She did not have to put up with this incompetence.

“No! I have put up with too much in your stupid music hall! I.am.done!” She threw the elaborate hair piece that one of the maids had been trying to pin to her hair at the conductor and stormed away.

Y/N rolled her eyes and pulled a face at her retreating back. “She’s not even that good,” she hissed to Jaskier who giggled beside her. Their noise was met with a half-hearted glare from Yennefer before she swept over to the huddle where the managers fretted over what to do now that their star had departed. As soon as her back was turned, the two musicians crept closer to listen in.

“The seats were filled. The audience was going to be huge!” one manager, Andre, cried, wringing his hands. “We’ll have to refund the pre-sales. All the money we spent advertising, wasted. We’ll be ruined.”

“Surely we can win her back,” Firman said, far more a question than the confident statement it was likely meant to be.

“No, I do not think you can,” the conductor’s thick accent muffled his words. “She is very angry. To quit on such a night.”

Yennefer watched the three men with a raised eyebrow and a condescending smirk.

“She’s not irreplaceable. Jaskier could play the part just as well. Better.” She turned to where the two young musicians were standing, now trying very hard to appear as if they hadn’t been listening.

“But he is just an orchestra member! How could he possibly?” Andre snapped.

At the same time, Y/N had seized Jaskier by the shoulders in a hug and ignoring his wide-eyed look. “You have to! You’ll be amazing! This is your shot!”

“He has been…taking lessons with one of the best tutors. Along with his natural talent, that makes him a sure bet. Let him prove it to you.”

“Yennefer would know,” the conductor added with a respectful nod toward her. “She does not take anything less than sure.”

~

Geralt wasn’t sure what had brought him into the music hall. He had just been passing through the city, not even planning to stop but having no real way around because of the surrounding cliffs. The grand, sweeping building occupied one side of the square that he and Roach rode through, lit by dozens of colored lanterns and the light from them reflecting off the gilded columns and arches so that it glittered like a gem-encrusted crown in the dying of the day. On any other day, his eyes would have swept past it without a second thought.

Instead, he had stabled Roach and used the space to do his best to tidy himself to blend into the crowd. Still, he knew that he looked the part of the common mercenary at best, looked down upon by the well-dressed nobles and merchants who streamed into the building. He considered himself quite lucky that none of the ushers stopped him as he dropped far too much coin on a standing room ticket and slipped into the back of the grand theatre.

The lights were doused so that only the stage could be seen. Soft music floated over the crowd, barely able to be heard over the still chattering men and women. But suddenly, a single voice cut through, accompanied by a lute as the other musicians ceased to play, and the crowd hushed. The high, clear notes of the instrument and the gentle tenor of the singer were captivating. Geralt gasped at the familiar sound.

~

Valdo watched from the shadows of the box, smug. Jaskier was doing excellently. Every note was technically perfect. And more than that, he had seen the way the crowd had stilled. Every eye was on his beautiful flower, as was deserved.

And yet…

He felt a jealous twist in his heart.

Jaskier was his, a beautiful thing for him alone to enjoy, an instrument for him to play, a symphony for him to write. He did not want to share that with the world.

Unless…perhaps it was time to step once more into the light, beside him.

The other bard’s song was indeed enchanting, not nearly complex enough for his gift, but lovely still. Valdo turned his attention back to it, green eyes glinting with pride.

The song’s final notes hung in the air for a long, breathless moment before the audience rose in a cacophony of cheers and applause.

Of course it was a full house standing ovation. Jaskier deserved nothing less.

Blushing, the blue-eyed bard bowed before scurrying off into the wings.

Valdo smiled, wide and serpentine, slipping back through his hidden door to await him.