Jaskier had won his internal bet about the pet name, for the record. He couldn't let his reputation as a lover extraordinaire be totally ruined, of course, and that meant leaving some evidence of amorous activities. He hardly needed to make love to the man just to accomplish that, though; it was a small matter to make his undressing into such a production that Barry had spilled practically before getting his pants off. The wizard was into knives, and chains, and honestly it was a bit much for someone in a big stone tower. Jaskier was beginning to think he was compensating for some personal inadequacy. Still, a few of Jaskier's seams split with an ornamental knife, a pair of tin handcuffs hanging off the bard's wrist, and the slightest touch of Barry's own hands undoing his braes was enough to send the now thoroughly drunk wizard spurting off to a sated slumber. Jaskier hadn't even had to get into the spitting distance, let alone dirty his hands, as it were. Although it had been a shame to ruin a good outfit.
Left alone in the ludicrously over-Gothic tower, Jaskier did what he did second-best (after his various bardic endeavors, of course); snooping around and messing shit up. Geralt was always telling him he could make a magical disaster out of a hedge-witch's compost-heap, now was the time to see what he could do with a real sorcerer's supplies. There was, it had to be said, a certain amount of gleeful cackling.
Three hours later, the bard was quite satisfied with his results. The extremely creative insults he'd sent out using the Wizard's personal stationary and megascope had been a good start (he had certainly listened to the man talk long enough to mimic him convincingly). Barry's magical colleagues could likely visit vengeance upon him far in excess of what Jaskier could accomplish in a single night. At least, without leaving immediate evidence. Stripping off potion labels was another worthy endeavor; his close observation of Geralt's alchemy let him know just what to swap for the most potentially explosive results. Loosening the hinges on the specimen cages would provide a nasty shock next time Barry attempted to fill them, along with an escape route for the unfortunate prisoner.
After those entertaining diversions, he had turned his attention to his original goal; thwarting any plans to capture or otherwise inconvenience his or any witcher. Luckily, Barry was the sort of person to label all his projects and equipment, as he assumed anyone aside from himself was an idiot. One of many reasons, Jaskier supposed, that the tower ran on magic instead of manpower. How convenient for any would-be saboteur. The helpfully tagged "Witcher Capturing Supplies" had been easy to locate and access. Those cuffs he had used earlier had come in handy to swap out for the heavy and odd-smelling type Jaskier knew from experience could mess with magic. The enchanted cage had been slightly harder to deal with, but it was worth the trouble of moving all the pears out of a fruit crate to know that anyone who tried using these supplies to capture a witcher would meet with a very unpleasant surprise.
A quick trip to pick up some goodies as a reward for his hard work, and Jaskier settled down to catch a few hours of sleep. He was awakened by the groans of his host, and was happy to serve him the most foul tasting and ineffective "hangover cure" he could produce on short notice.
"Where did the, uh, doohickies, go?" asked Barry eventually, gesturing at Jaskier's wrists.
"The handcuffs? You burned through them in a moment of sublime passion," improvised Jaskier.
"I did?" said the extremely hungover evil wizard, who clearly did not remember much at all about the previous night.
"Oh yes, it was truly the most impressive thing I've ever seen, Sir Sorcerer, I nearly fainted from the sheer sexiness," prevaricated the Bard.
"Er, yes, of course, I'm sure it was," said the wizard. "A, ah, repeat performance shall have to be arranged."
"Oh, I couldn't possibly," said Jaskier, as though it had been a polite request as opposed to a boorish order, "for I am afraid that this one night of ecstasy has ruined me for carnal pleasures for months, nay, years. I must return at once to Oxenfurt, that I may compose a series of odes to your prowess and magnificence! The Ballad of Barentholemew the Extremely Well-Endowed will echo throughout the annals of history," he lied. Well, not lied exactly. He had the bare-bones of a truly scathing tune that was going to be very popular in the whorehouses of the world by this time next year. About a sorcerer thinking with his dick, and sending off for a witcher without any idea what to do with him. Jaskier couldn't wait to find out how it ended.
As Jaskier had expected, his supposed-bedmate had been unable to resist the draw of potentially having the whole continent literally singing his (cock's) praises. Say what people might about the quality of his work, Jaskier had by Melitele earned his title as Voice of the Continent. Barry probably thought he was rather clever, giving up one good lay now, for infinite lays in the future. Hah. Sucker. A fuck in the hand is worth two in the...hmm, Jaskier needed to work on that metaphor, actually. In any case, the bard was quickly on his way, cheerfully composing several more verses to 'what do you do with a horny wizard' to tide him over until he could have narrative closure to his more bespoke work.
Note: vibes for this are very
Getalt: someone will die
Jaskier: of fun! …Still dying tho, it's my fun ;D