FrogDazeBogDays



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    Ilya Rosanov gets added to a group chat under the wrong name and doesn’t correct it.

    The Montreal WAGs are open and inviting.
    What follows isn’t a lie so much as a pattern — one that becomes harder to undo the longer it goes on.

    No one knows the truth.
    Not the hockey world, and not the group chat.

    Until they do.

    By the time it arrives, everyone is already involved.

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    13 Jan 2026

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    Jaskier doesn’t actually know how much time has passed since the black-cloaked Nilfgaardians grab him after a performance in a shitty tavern in the backcountry of northern Kaedwen. He’d assumed--foolishly, apparently--that he was far enough north that any Nilfgaardian soldiers would be few and far between, likely just scouts or even deserters. It would have been hard to actually get any further north--the little backwater town where he’d been singing was just a day from the mountains. Anymore travel, and he’d find himself skirting the Trail up to Kaer Morhen, the Warlord’s Keep, and, well. He’s brazen, but not that brazen.

    (or: a wandering bard bites off more than he can chew with the political ballads, accidentally makes friends with a princess in exile, and finds the Warlord of the North in his debt.)

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    05 Sep 2025

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    Jaskier is cursed and absolutely certain that he and Geralt are married. Geralt both does and doesn't like it.

     

    It’s happened before: Jaskier cursed by a past lover to experience for himself the ache of unrequited love. Once, memorably, for a donkey, who was impervious to all the bard’s serenades and compliments, and shat on his favourite pair of boots. The irony of today’s particular curse is that Jaskier’s ‘love’ isn’t actually unrequited. Presumably, though, Lady Freckletits and her sister thought it would be funny to see Jaskier scorned and rejected by the stoic, emotionless witcher he insists on following around.

     

    Ha fucking ha.

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    17 Jul 2025

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    Jaskier heard tales that the Path of a witcher is solitary, and Geralt does nothing to discourage them. He is obviously unused to companionship. His body is geometric with tension: his shoulders held in a rigid line, his jaw clenched at a harsh angle. He hasn’t yet doffed a single scrap of his armor, even though it’s well past dark and the bedrolls have been unpacked. Jaskier’s bodice is discarded, her blouse loose and untucked over her breeches. The plunging neckline hasn’t caught Geralt’s eye once—and she’s been paying attention, unsure if she’s driven by curiosity or hope.

    He’s almost finished with the pheasant, sucking at the marrow, a sheen of grease over his lips and chin.

    Well, maybe, she thinks. I’ve fucked worse.


    Julia Pankratz de Lettenhove meets a witcher. The witcher is hiding something.

    (Or: Geralt and Jaskier, but lesbians.)

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    31 May 2025