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whitecrowapothecary · 4 years ago

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Like A Dream

Jaskier has had dreams for as long as he could remember- of monsters and magic and all the things that go bump in the night. He dreams of golden eyes and silver swords and honeyed ballads.

AKA the modern immortal/reincarnation AU no one asked for but I’m writing

Read it on AO3 here!

There’s music around him. Coming from him, his throat warm and honeyed with the lyrics he sings. Not him- the bard, the unknown man who captures his mind at night when he closes his eyes. He- they- are playing for an audience. Jaskier is used to this, the wayward looks, captured attention, but it’s… new. There’s an instrument in his hand he’s never learned to play and lyrics on his lips he’s never written, clothes resplendent of another time, another world, and he drinks it in with abandon. Full, flowing skirts, jackets made of the richest silk brocade in all colors, though all are muted compared to the bright, rich amethyst ensemble he seems to have donned for the performance.

He’s deep into his set, if he should call it that, singing about a fishmongers daughter just to get a laugh out of the crowd when his eyes catch on a small, insignificant detail. Jaskier sings and sways among the royalty around him, but all he can see is gold with flecks of amber, curious cat eyes watching him from the shadows. He takes a step closer, then two, then three until he’s propelling through the crowd, and just as a jaw covered in a neat snow white beard is unearthed from the shadows, a blare sounds, and the image shatters.

He gasps awake, clutching at his chest and trying to quell the shaking of his hands. Sweat sticks his hair to the back of his neck and his forehead in small curls which Jaskier rakes a hand through. On the nightstand, next to the bed, his phone vibrates, clanking softly against the wood until Jaskier scoops it up and hits answer. There are only a handful of people who will actually ring through.

“What, Pris?”

“Ah, woke you up huh? Touchy touchy. You haven’t forgotten about our brunch date, have you?” The voice on the other end is perky, far too awake for Jaskier’s liking right now.

“No, no of course not. You aren’t here yet, are you?” He slips from bed, grimacing and rummaging through his closet for something to wear, phone pinched between his ear and his shoulder.

“Almost, a block away.”

“Shit, okay, let yourself in?” The woman on the other end hums, amused, and Jaskier hangs up. Leave it to him to fail to set an alarm for something like this. He drags his sorry carcass into the bathroom, intent on getting a shower. He feels cold and sticky for all the wrong reasons, and when he looks at himself in the mirror the blue in his eyes is offset by the purple bags underneath. It’s… not an attractive look for himself. The hot water pounds against his back when he hops under the spray and he groans, letting it wash over him. Praying it’ll wash away the dream that seems to cling to him, digging at his bones and refusing to leave.

He’d had the dreams for as long as he could remember- at first they were nothing more than terrors, dreams of hideous, foul smelling creatures with sharp claws. Claws that regularly tore into the soft flesh of his belly, or the tender meat of his thigh, leaving him to wake up screaming and thrashing in bed. His parents, bless them, had tried everything to help, from heavy medication to therapy to a stint in a mental facility, but nothing took the monsters away. Medication only trapped him within his dreams, unable to wake up until he was well and thoroughly taken apart, and therapists only insisted the monsters were representations of some trauma he’d sustained as a child. The stay at the mental facility, well, that was more a break for his parents than thirteen year old Jaskier.

He’d learned to hide them, since then, to hold people at arms length and keep them from seeing what he truly was. The monsters rarely followed him into real life, but on the occasion he saw mention of a kikimore on the news, or a striga cropped up in Germany somewhere, well, it was all too easy to flip the channel and pretend. Now though… it was becoming harder and harder to leave his dreams behind when the sun came up. The dreams had shifted when he was almost eighteen, from monsters hunting and maiming him to something else- instruments and performances and gaudy, awful clothing he had no name for. Days spent walking and walking and walking, sweating under the sun but grinning like it didn’t bother whoever was in his dreams. It was harder still, to pretend that the performer in his dreams didn’t have his hands, his wonderful, skillful fingers, or the voice he’d spent years fine tuning.

He’s knocked from his reverie by the sound of his front door opening and clicking shut and the smell of food drifting in. His stomach growls loudly, protesting it’s current situation, and Jaskier hurries to finish his shower and get dressed. He’s got a towel in hand, scrubbing at his hair when he pads out barefoot and spots the blonde currently tinkering with his tv remote. Her blue eyes are bright, friendly, and she motions to the spread of food currently piled on his coffee table.

“Got you coffee.”

“Thank Melitele.” He makes a beeline for it, not caring the way it burns his tongue as he gulps it down. That draws a laugh from his companion, and he throws himself onto the couch, settling his legs across her lap and tossing his towel onto the chair nearby. He’ll get it later. “You’re a godsend, you know that Priscilla?”

A small smile plays on the woman’s lips, colored by rouge lipstick, and she raises a brow. “I do, but it’s nice to hear. Did you not sleep at all last night, Jaskier?”

“Ah, I’m afraid my muse kept me up, as usual.” He grins at her, reaching out to snag a strawberry from her plate before bending to get at the french toast on the coffee table. It smells absolutely divine, and maybe some food will make him feel more like himself and less like a shell of someone else.

“You really need to learn how to prioritize sleep.” Priscilla says, shaking her head fondly and digging into her eggs. He hums, half paying attention to the news on the screen. It’s nothing new, stocks going up and down, the latest in sports, and something about him, actually. Talking about his newest single that’s put him up in the top ten- Her Sweet Kiss. Jaskier clicks away before they can play the music, drawing a laugh from Priscilla. “You know, you never told me where the song came from.”

“Didn’t I? A whirlwind affair in Europe, during my last tour. She was… incredible, shall I say? Truly someone never forgotten.” He’s bullshitting and Priscilla knows it. The song had come to him, as most do now, in his dreams. Ringing through his ears in a voice so close to his he can feel his throat burning when he wakes up. She doesn’t press though- she knows better than to push Jaskier too far. The glassy, far away look he got when thinking about whatever it was that inspired his songs was sad, old, and lingered on Jaskier’s face the rest of the day. Jaskier focuses on eating now, barely tasting bite after bite and only stopping when his stomach is full. Priscilla does much the same, but she chatters through the melancholy.

Jaskier stops himself on a random show, listening to Priscilla but staring at the screen. It’s something nonsense, talking about old instruments, but his hand stops mid bite, the french toast falling back onto his plate with a wet smack. He stares, wide eyed, at the wide, oval bowl of the instrument and the short, sturdy neck. The strings, there are more than a guitar but not nearly enough- no, his had more. Six pairs, one singular. His?

“-ier? Jaskier, what is it?”

“What is that?” His voice sounds strange, words twisted faintly by an accent he’s never had before, and he sets his plate down as Priscilla looks between him and the tv.

“An instrument? You put on the show.”

“But what kind?” At this Priscilla frowns. She doesn’t seem to know either, and she shrugs reluctantly.

“We could ask Essi, I’m sure she knows more. Why, do you recognize it?”

“No.” He says softly, switching the tv off. He ignores Priscilla’s worried look and goes instead to put on socks and shoes, grabbing his jacket and pulling it on. It’s big, engulfs his frame, but there’s something about it he couldn’t get out of his head when he’d seen it in a thrift shop off of 28th. It’s also entirely too hot outside to need it, but he feels naked without it, and the hood will give him a better chance at remaining hidden. Not that that happens much anymore. Priscilla has the food cleaned up when he steps out of his room, and she swings her keys around her finger, lingering near the door.

“Where are we going today, my famous friend?” Jaskier rolls his eyes, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Anywhere but here. I think I’ll go mad if I hide in bed anymore.”

“That’s the spirit! There’s this new music store on Madison we could check out, and then that little bistro for a late lunch-” Her words fade from his ears as they merge into the crowd outside of his apartment building. He slips on sunglasses, nondescript ones he’d gotten from a random gas station, and prays that today he looks like anyone else. With Priscilla at his side, arm looped through his, no one pays much attention to the couple wandering down the street, chattering away. Jaskier feels a rush of gratitude for his friend, for the unwavering presence she is in his life. He’s not sure how he would have managed his budding fame without her, or handled being recognized everywhere once his face and name and music became more common knowledge.

“You’re the one who wrote the songs.” A rough voice reminds him, teasing.

“Yes, well, I didn’t expect them to break into my HOUSE for an autograph!”

“Get better doors. And a guard.” He drowns in those eyes, an endless pool of gold, and he reaches up to brush a stray lock of hair away, a smile stretching his lips wide.

“Why would I need anyone other than you?”

Jaskier stumbles over a crack in the sidewalk, pitching forward, and it’s only Priscilla next to him that keeps him standing. He rights himself, cheeks pink, and laughs despite his heart pounding in his chest.

“Ah, rather clumsy today. I probably should have had more coffee.”

“Or more sleep.” She counters, Jaskier laughing again and nodding in agreement. More sleep is definitely what he needs. A nice, dreamless sleep. Maybe if he gets that, he’ll be able to function like a human being again, instead of walking through the world with half a mind stuck firmly in fiction. The music shop is a quaint, cute little building tucked in a strip of other quaint buildings, and Jaskier ducks into the dim light of the shop. There are rows and rows of cds, vinyls, movies and more, and his eyes track along them all, taking in the sights and colors. There are plenty of instruments on the wall, guitars, basses, a couple of keyboards and a few sets of bongos even. There seems to be little rhyme or reason besides the alphabetical arrangement of the displays, and Jaskier spends his time wandering while Priscilla goes straight for the vinyls.

He’s near the back of the shop, by the counter when he spots an instrument on display behind the glass display. The sight is enough to make him freeze, and he stares at the smooth wood, the graceful curve of the instrument, finding that his fingers have begun to twitch. This can’t be a coincidence.

“Do you play?” A voice breaks through to him, and he has to blink a few times before he can focus on the man standing before him. His dark hair curls rather attractively, falling around his face and framing rather striking hazel eyes. Jaskier’s countenance sours immediately, and he squints suspiciously. It takes the man a moment, but he grins wide when he recognizes Jaskier. “Dandelion! A pleasure to have you here.”

“Valdo. This is your shop?”

“It is indeed, opened it up after my last album.” He’s proud, almost annoyingly so, but Jaskier begrudgingly has to admit the shop is rather nice. His eyes wander back to the instrument behind Valdo, and Valdo raises his brows. “You never said if you played. Would you like to hold it?”

“You’d let me?”

“I’ve seen how you care for your guitar. I’d warn you it’s expensive, but I know you’re good for any damages.” Jaskier snorts as the other man goes to grab the instrument, and his fingers drum against his thighs. “Do you even know what this is?”

“Not a clue.” Jaskier’s hands are reaching for it as soon as Valdo holds it out, and he tucks the strap around his body. The neck settles into his hands, fingers resting on the strings, and a line of tension holding his body razor tight snaps.

“It’s a-” The soft sound of Jaskier plucking out a melody stops Valdo short, and Jaskier closes his eyes to ward off the dizziness.

A fire crackles merrily in front of him as he plays, tinkering away at a tune with his notebook close by. He isn’t sure about the harmony of the piece, the way the notes blend together. There’s something missing, and he can’t figure out what it is. He stops with a heavy sigh, scrubbing at his face and wracking his brain.

“You’re missing the lowest note in the harmony.”

“Pardon?” He looks up, sees the sensual curve of a small smirk on a very ruggedly handsome face, and those eyes, always those eyes staring back. The man comes over, reeking of pine and metal and home, and reaches to softly pluck at one of the strings. The note rings out and Jaskier latches on.

“Try.” The man whispers, and Jaskier does, drawing the note into his harmony and grinning at the fully bodied life it brings.

Jaskier’s head is spinning when he finally opens his eyes again, Valdo staring at him with unabashed surprise. Priscilla is at his side, hand on his elbow to hold him steady, and he glances down at the familiar way in which his hands hold the lute. Because that’s what it is- his favorite instrument, the thing that made him coin and granted him fame and found him a-

Jaskier’s heart cracks in his chest, and his breath punches out of him in one big whoosh. He lifts the lute over his head, pressing it back into Valdo’s hands before turning to bolt out the front door of the shop. He doesn’t know where he’s going, merely that he has to get away, to find somewhere safe. He feels a thousand eyes on him, whispers following his frantic fleeing, and he ducks into an alleyway, hiding behind a trash can and pressing his back to the brick wall. There’s a stitch in his side from his frantic running and his hands won’t stop shaking as he rakes his fingers through his hair. The song rings through him, as fresh as the day it was written, and the lyrics come to him unbidden.

He’s crazy. He’s well and truly crazy, because there’s no way what he’s seeing can be real, but it’s so vividly him, buried so deep in his heart that there’s no way it could be fake either. His breath comes from him faster and faster, and tears blur his vision as he folds his knees up to his chest and rocks. Priscilla finds him that way, huddled in a ball amongst the trash, sobbing and muttering to himself, and she uses the large hood of his jacket to hide his face as she gets him home. Jaskier has calmed enough to get himself up the stairs when they manage to stumble their way back, and his chest aches from the pounding of his heart.

The tremor in his hands hasn’t abated yet, but the mug that’s pressed into his hands doesn’t shake, so he just enjoys the warmth that it brings him. Priscilla seems at a loss for words, but Jaskier knows what she wants to ask. “Just say it, Pris.”

“What happened? You haven’t been yourself all morning- first with the tv, and then the lute in the shop? Jaskier, I’ve never seen you like this.”

“I have dreams.” He says, voice so soft it’s almost lost in the sound of his heartbeat. “And lately, I can’t tell what’s real and what’s not.”

Priscilla reaches out, touching his shoulder lightly, and her face is soft, sad. “They’re just dreams. What you do here, the music you make, that’s what’s real.”

Jaskier nods, but his heart is plummeting in his chest and he doesn’t know why. Priscilla’s words should be a comfort, someone rooted in his reality telling him that his dreams are just that- dreams. The result of an overactive imagination. That’s all they are, all they’ve ever been. Jaskier tries not to let the thought suck him down somewhere he doesn’t want to go, but it’s near impossible to fight the tide rising in him. “They’re just dreams.”

He takes a sip of his lukewarm drink to find that it’s tea- the stuff he usually drinks as a last resort before bed time. It’s never worked before, but Jaskier downs the rest of it and hopes that this time, it will. Priscilla waits until he’s finished to take the cup, and when she comes back she’s holding a very large, very lute shaped object in her hands. Jaskier frowns, confused, but takes it from her anyway, tracing fingers over the lacquered wood. It’s smooth and warm under his touch, and he finds himself picking at the strings just to hear the sound. “Valdo said that it was yours.”

“I didn’t pay him.”

“He knew you’d say that. He said, and I quote ‘I’ve only been holding it for him.’ Whatever that might mean.” Jaskier schools his features into careful indifference, trying not to let his discomfort show. What in the hell does he mean by that? He’s going to have to go back to the shop and talk to him to find out, but he’s not inclined to leave his apartment for the foreseeable future. Priscilla, sensing the mood has gone down, ruffles Jaskier’s hair and gives his shoulders a squeeze. “Take some time, Dandy, get some sleep, then come back.”

Jaskier makes a soft noise in his throat at the silly nickname, but it’s sweet and Jaskier has never told her to stop. He watches her duck out of the apartment with one last look his way, and once the door clicks shut, locking behind her, he grips the lute tighter. He hasn’t ever played formally- has never been trained, and while a guitar is similar, there’s more strings than ever and he expects to fumble.

He doesn’t.

His fingers know what to do even without his brain, and he hums along to the melody from before. Here, in the safety of his apartment, he plays and plays until the song is firmly committed to memory and he’s written down the lyrics to go along with it. A song about the monster of the wood, a cruel, hungry creature with the head of a deer, stalking him in the night.

“You need to listen to me-”

“I’m your barker, for better or worse. How can I bark if I never see anything?”

“You stay alive for a day longer.” His hands shake with anger, chest burning with it, and the man in front of him, golden eyes fierce and animal, glares back just as hotly. They’re nose to nose practically, and his head pounds in time with his heartbeat as his hands come up, shoving the man away and watching in shock as he goes.

“Go then. I’ll be here, tending your fire and watching your horse, as that is all I am good for.” He turns then, but a hand grabs at his arm, turning him around on his heel. He pulls against it, fights to be released, but Geralt’s hand bunches in his shirt above his heart and holds him. “Geralt-”

“For better or worse, Jaskier.” His eyes meet gold, molten and scalding, and he’s speechless at the sincere intensity in Geralt’s gaze. “I would rather it be better.”

“You don’t get to decide that-” Geralt cuts him off with a kiss, lips hard against his own. It’s awkward, a bit painful, but Jaskier tilts his head, pulls back a bit and Geralt responds in kind. He kisses, Jaskier decides, like a man who has been kissed not nearly enough, and he commits himself to fixing that immediately. Geralt’s grip loosens in Jaskier’s shirt, but Jaskier’s hand comes up to bury in snow white locks, keeping him close as his heart rockets into his throat.

The strings of the lute dig painfully into his fingers when he comes to, and he shakes himself, releasing his tight hold and groaning when blood rushes back into the pads of his fingers. He tucks the lute back away in its case, not wanting to look at the flowers painted onto the wood along its wide belly. He tells himself not to touch the lute, to leave it alone so that all this will go away, but the longer he sits on his couch, leg bouncing and tv on some awful movie the more his fingers itch to play.

Instead, he forces himself to get up, to pull out his vacuum and mop and cleaning supplies. He spends the afternoon scrubbing down every inch of the apartment, puts away his laundry, and even tidies up his desk, which is a rather artful disarray of papers. Some, like Priscilla, call it a mess, but Jaskier knows where each piece of paper goes, and he prefers it stays that way. Cleaning can only distract him for so long, and once the smell of lemon cleaner becomes too much he caves, grabbing the lute and ducking out onto his balcony.

The sun is beginning to descend on the city, and he allows it to warm his bones and loosen his muscles as he plays. Each song that comes from him is new and old and entirely his, each rich, resounding note a piece of him. The instrument is no more a stranger to him than his guitar, or his flute, or any of the other instruments he’s picked up and enjoyed along the way. Its weight, the feeling of the double strings pressing under his fingers is home to him, and he plays long after the sun is set. There’s a reckoning, a righteousness within this instrument that calls to the deepest parts of Jaskier’s soul, and he finds himself crying with no real reason as to why.

He cries silently, holding the lute close to him and staring out over the city. Cars rush past his building, far below, and somewhere nearby a dog barks. But it’s all background noise- it’s nothing compared to the harsh intake of his breath or the way that it shudders out of him. When he can’t stand it anymore he retreats back inside, leaving his lute on his dresser before stripping down and crawling into bed. There, buried under blankets and utterly, terribly alone, Jaskier closes his eyes and dreams.

“You’re alive.” A low, rough voice breathes behind him. He turns, but he already knows what will be waiting for him, and he can feel his face lighting up in a grin.

“Geralt! Of course I’m alive, how could the world bear to part with me just yet?” His heart jackrabbits in his chest at the sight of the man before him, clad as always, in dark armor and a stormy, conflicted expression. Well, the expression is new. The armor, not so much. He finds himself smiling for no real reason as to why, but Geralt’s face is open and honest and terrified, and he can’t keep from reaching out to gently touch his cheek.

“There were rumors- about a bard, having been murdered by a beast.”

“As if I could be harmed by a beast with you protecting me.”

“But I wasn’t.” Jaskier takes a step forward, cupping his witcher’s cheek and smiling when Geralt leans into the touch.

The dream dissolves as Jaskier shifts, drifting between consciousness and unconsciousness. The latter wins out, and his body drifts away while his mind slips again.

Blue eyes stare at him through the mirror. It isn’t a great mirror, small and cracked and woven with imperfections, but he won’t need it for long. He only needs to make sure his hair is presentable, his golden doublet unmarred by any stains, and that his smile, when shown just so, is as charming and delightful as always.

“You’re fussing.” Geralt says, and Jaskier knows, his heart knows that voice and the hand that slides over his hip better than anything. He finds himself leaning back against a strong chest, laughing and tipping his head back.

“Some of us care for our appearance before a performance.” An amused hum, and then lips on his neck, gentle and sweet, kissing a trail up toward Jaskier’s waiting lips. He sinks into the kiss, turning as Geralt’s arms come up and around him, careful not to crease Jaskier’s clothes.

“How long will you be gone?”

“Most of the night. You’re free to come, love. I’m sure they’d love to pester the White Wolf himself.”

“Mmm, pester is right.” The warmth in his chest is softer now, with no edges of anger, and he knows what this is. It’s love. Pure and unfettered by doubt.

That same warmth burns in his chest when he jerks up in bed, leaping from under the covers to run into his bathroom. The mirror he has now is perfect- gleaming with the fresh cleaning he’d done just today and showing his reflection without any defects. The same blue eyes stare back, sweeping over the same lips, the same cheekbones and nicely shaped jawbone. The same messy, tousled brown hair as the bard in the dream. As him . Whoever he was- is- is long gone- left behind in another life completely. That isn’t him anymore, it can’t be, but when he thinks, and thinks hard, they’re there. All the memories, the times in between his dreams. The first time he’d seen Geralt, sitting in the back of a tavern refusing to meet anyone’s eyes, to draw any unwanted attention to him. The feeling of his hair, so devoid of color, twisting around his fingers as he washed blood and viscera from them. His friends- Priscilla, in her blue and red ensemble with the poofy shorts, Essi, a near twin to Priscilla, only shorter and plumper. Valdo, his rival, the troubadour who writes songs without any meaning but somehow comes out on top.

Valdo.

Jaskier scrambles for his phone, dropping it twice before finally swiping open the screen. He has his number, more to make sure he never answers than anything, but now, now he needs it more than anything else. He hits dial without letting himself think, holding his phone to his ear and shifting nervously from foot to foot. The line rings and rings, and just as he thinks it'll go to voicemail he hears a soft click.

"Dandelion? It's nearly three in the morning, what could you-"

"I'm not crazy."

"Debatable." Valdo's voice is amused, but when Jaskier doesn't respond he quickly grows serious.

"You said you were keeping the lute for me." His words are rolling in his mouth, voice mangled by an accent that he can't seem to keep away or bring back. He hears a sharp intake of breath, and then a long, shuddering sigh.

"I was, Julian. For far, far too long. Meet me at the diner on Broadmoor." The line goes dead and Jaskier is left to get ready, a long, long dead name ringing in his ears.

-*-

There are three diners on Broadmoor. Jaskier curses his luck, but only one seems to have the lights on and so Jaskier heads that way first. He pulls on the door and is hit in the face by the smell of stale coffee and hash browns. He glances around, searching, and spots Valdo in a booth back in the corner. His face is drawn, hair a mess, but he has a cup of coffee waiting For Jaskier when he slides into the cheap plastic booth. Valdo slides the mug toward him and he clasps it in his hands, sniffing lightly. He debates putting sugar or cream in it, but he needs the caffeine too badly right now to care much about the bitter taste. Valdo watches his internal debate with a raised brow, leaning back in the booth and sighing.

“You remember.” Jaskier accuses, wincing at the way his tone sounds. Valdo takes it in stride, tilting his head in a small nod and sipping at his coffee.

“I always have. I didn’t know if you would this time around.”

“This time?” Valdo nods again, and Jaskier is quickly becoming frustrated by the non answers. “Valdo, what the fuck is going on?”

“Reincarnation. You’ve heard of it before, yes?” Jaskier nods, and Valdo continues on. “There are some of us who keep coming back. Not always with memories, not always whole. I seem to have no problem keeping them, but others like Priscilla, or Essi, or-”

“Are they really reincarnations?” Jaskier frowns- how much is it reincarnation if you’re just the same body without knowing if your consciousness is the same?

“I said that, didn’t I?” His glare is enough to set a house on fire, but Valdo doesn’t fold under the pressure, instead waving for menus to be brought over. “For decades I was unsure why. Why us? Nothing seemed to connect us together, just random strangers being brought through life. Until I found out you came along as well.”

“You’re saying that I’m the link?”

“You know us all, have some kind of connection. You are the one constant in each of our lives.”

“But the others, they don’t remember?”

“They never have.” Valdo orders something for the two of them, waving away Jaskier’s protest, and plows forward in his conversation. “You don’t always either. I’ve held that lute for the past two reincarnations, neither of which you retained memories for. But you remember now, or are beginning to.”

“Yes.” Jaskier’s voice is a whisper, and admitting it, saying that it’s real takes a weight off his shoulders he didn’t know he was carrying.

“Tell me how?” It’s phrased as a request, and Jaskier nods, staring at his coffee to try and ward off his tears.

“I was seventeen when my dreams started feeling real- performances or days on the road, nights spent stitching wounds or bandaging cuts. Lately they’ve-”

“Been bleeding into your waking hours. Like when you played in the shop.” Valdo’s interrupting makes irritation flare in the back of his mind, but he tamps it down. He’s only trying to help, and is filling in more details than Jaskier would have gotten on his own. Their food comes then, and Jaskier watches as some kind of breakfast scramble is placed in front of him. It’s heavy with hashbrowns, eggs, bacon and cheese. It looks awful. Jaskier digs in hungrily, groaning at the heavenly taste- shitty overnight diners always have the best food. They eat their food in relative silence, too hungry and tired to care much to continue with something else in front of them.

This all seems fake, too good to be real. Valdo’s instant reassurance of what he’s feeling, what he’s dreaming, it has to be some kind of con, some way to get dirt on him. He expects the other man to laugh any minute, to call him crazy and tell him he needs serious help. He’s waiting for a punchline that isn’t coming, and it makes him anstier and anstier by the second. It explains so much- the old, old memories he has of a time before electricity, or running water, of nobles and peasants and monsters. Of witchers and sorceresses and bards. There are newer memories too- of him in a diner much like this, sitting across from a man with white hair and shining golden eyes. Of dancing in a club to his own music, standing alongside all the others in a rally, holding a sign protesting the inequality that ruins his life while cameras show his face. Through it all, his companion is there- a silent, steady presence.

“There’s- a man. Who I am desperately in love with, no matter who I am.”

“Your witcher. White hair, cat eyes?” He doesn’t need to nod for Valdo to know the answer, and he grins. “His name is Geralt of Rivia, though Rivia is long gone now.”

“Is he…”

“Alive? Of course. They, unlike us, do not die.”

“They?” He doesn’t even get a chance to let Valdo talk, his vision going blurry and ears ringing.

“C’mere asshole!” Jaskier laughs, darting away from the witcher intent on catching him. It isn’t Geralt- his hair is dark and cropped short, voice smoother, less gravelly. He’s also much, much more expressive.

“Catch me if you can!” His lungs hurt from running and laughing so much, and he squeaks as hands grab the back of his doublet and yank him to a stop. Jaskier squirms as arms wrap around him, and he pouts, letting himself go deadweight. “You aren’t supposed to use your witchery powers, you know.”

“Oops.” He’s let go then, and Jaskier shoves the other man lightly, grinning.

“Ass. Maybe I’ll go find Eskel, at least he follows the rules of the game.”

“Rules are for peasants.”

“Then you should fit right in, Lambert.” He dodges a swat to the back of the head, laughing and disappearing further into the keep.

Valdo is staring at him expectantly when he blinks, the stone walls and cold breeze fading away from his mind. His food is lukewarm in front of him, and he takes a big bite just to avoid having to say anything yet. Valdo is too smug for his own good though, and he sits forward, grinning.

“Jogged your memory, eh?”

“Shut up.” His insufferable grin only grows bigger, and Jaskier wants to smack it off his face or strangle him. Either would work, honestly. “Is there some way to contact him, or any of them?”

“Not unless you’re a government official, or happen to know someone who had a pest problem. But, there is something that might work.”

“What?”

“Your songs. I'm sure you've already written new ones with the lute- release them in an album. If they’re listening, which is near impossible not to with your reputation, they’ll find you .”

“What if they don’t?”

“Then I suppose you’ll have to bed a government agent.” Jaskier scoffs, wrinkling his nose, but Valdo wags his eyebrows and he can’t help the laugh that bubbles up from his chest. He falls into silence then, staring down at the rest of his food, and his voice is soft when he finally finds the courage to speak.

“Thank you. For keeping it safe.” When he glances up, Valdo’s eyes are bright, shining with relief.

-*-

Jaskier does what he does best- he writes a few songs, then writes a few more, until he’s bursting with music and lyrics and ideas. He gets himself into his studio and doesn’t leave until he’s recorded an entire album, with his lute being the main focus. It brings with it a new, exciting kind of charm that his producers eat right up, a kind of mystical energy that isn’t present in any of Jaskier’s other songs.

It’s also a release- he lets go of the monsters that haunted him, bringing them roaring into his music instead and letting them run wild. His dreams are still plagued by memories, but the more he plays, the more he tries to remember, the easier it gets. Turns out when you stop fighting against a piece of yourself, letting it in is much, much easier. The music videos are his favorite part of the whole process- he crafts one specific to each song, embedding as much of a message as he can in the hopes that one of the witcher’s will see. Will see him and know him, and extend a hand.

He tries to look up the witchers, to see if there’s any kind of way to find them online, but Lambert is too common a name and he has no clue what last name he would use, if any. Eskel’s name yields less results, but still too many for him to narrow down, and he’s left back at square one for them. Geralt’s name? Now that pulls up results.

‘ The witcher, most formally known as Geralt of Rivia, is one of the world’s only practicing monster slayers, and a bit of a recluse. He was last spotted hunting some kind of sea serpent along the mediterranean, and then boarded a plane bound for America.’

‘Geralt of Rivia, White Wolf, was allegedly seen decapitating a local woman at a train station in France. When questioned by police, they were informed that the woman was a bruxa who had been preying on locals. Mr. Rivia was released without further incident.’

That article makes Jaskier laugh, and he prints it out to tack above his desk on his cork board. Leave it to Geralt to scare everyone around him while doing his job. Any article related to Geralt gets its spot on the board, actually and he’s fairly certain he looks like a stalker, but they’re his only glimpse into what Geralt has been up to. It makes the pain easier to handle, knowing he’s just been too busy to seek Jaskier out, and certainly not ignoring the neon signs that are his music. Half of them are Geralt’s exploits, after all, and if he doesn’t recognize them then Jaskier has failed to faithfully recreate them.

But the songs work- somewhat. In a small town somewhere in the midwest, a witcher hears Jaskier’s music, and begins to hunt for his white haired brother.

Jaskier, in the meantime goes about his life, bouncing from interview to interview, one of which he’s in now. The chair is somewhat uncomfortable and the lights are a little too bright, but the woman interviewing him is new, nervous, and he does his best to put her at ease.

“You’re doing great, love. What were you saying?”

The woman blushes, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear before asking again. “Your newest album, it pulls away from the bouncier, lighter tone of your second album. Why?”

“Good question. Writing fun music is wonderful, lovely, but I, and I’m sure you’ll be surprised, have my own fears. Monsters that haunt my dreams, who begged to be put into song.”

“So the songs are based on dreams?”

“Now you’re catching on.” Jaskier winks, drawing another giggle from her, and he leans back in his chair, tilting his head. “No one can tell me they don’t dream of dark and twisted things sometimes. Of wanting a knight in shining armor to come save them.”

“That’s an incredible way to put it. Are any of the monsters in your songs real?”

“Oh yes. The leshy, or leshen is a forest spirit that is said to roam the deepest parts of a forest. There are also ghouls, terrible hunchback creatures who stalk battlefields, and basilisks, large winged creatures with iridescent scales and scalding breath.”

He sees his interviewer shudder, and his gaze goes soft, a wistful smile tugging at his lips. “Where did you hear about these monsters?”

“From a friend, years ago.”

"Do you still talk to them?"

Jaskier's eyes find the camera, and it's a terrible cliche to spike the lens, but he does it anyway. "We lost contact a while back. I'm hoping that… through my music, I can find him again."

"Well, I'm sure your fanbase can help!"

"That they can." Jaskier grins, glancing back at the interviewer, and he hears someone yell cut behind them. He stands, shaking her hand and giving her a quick hug. He murmurs a few words of encouragement, and when he ducks into the room they've designated for him he tells his producer to send her something. Flowers or a gift or anything. She handled him like a champ. It's thankfully his last interview of the day, and he grabs his lute, which he brought just in case before ducking out the door. He makes his escape from the building out onto the street with relative ease, slinging his lute across his back to navigate the crowds easier. The amount of times he’s had to refuse security before they learned was more than he could count. He's stopped a few times by fans, asking to take pictures, and he glances at them on his phone once his Twitter dings.

@dandelion stopped and took a picture! Best day ever!

The rest of the post is filled with heart eye emojis and hashtags, but Jaskier stares at the photo. The awful stripes and swirls on his button up are reminiscent of a bowling alley floor, but his jeans are cute and his boots top the whole outfit off. He thought it'd looked cute when he put it on, and is pleased to see that others agree. He looks better in general- the bags under his eyes are all but gone and there's a confidence in the set of his shoulders he hadn't noticed before. Like knowing who he is has completed a puzzle he didn't know he'd lost a piece to.

He tucks his phone back into his pocket as he skips down the steps to the subway, whistling merrily the whole time. The public transportation in the city had to be his favorite thing in the world, aside from jelly donuts and Geralt's eyes. It makes going from place to place a snap, and he doesn't have to constantly tell people he can't drive when they ask where his car is. The train is running a minute behind, as usual, but Jaskier books it down the rest of the stairs and through the turnstile, jogging up just as the doors slide open. People file on quickly, taking their seats, and Jaskier moves to step on when he spots snow white hair.

That in itself isn't unusual- plenty of old people ride the subway, but it's a man who looks no older than his mid thirties. He's dressed in all black, jeans and a heavy sweater, and strapped to his back are twin swords, their pommels shining dully in the fluorescent lights of the train. A duffle bag hangs from one shoulder, nondescript, but a pale, scarred hand hovers over it protectively. Jaskier is aware he's staring, holding up the train, but his feet are rooted firmly in place as his head begins to pound. The man- Geralt- irritated by the lack of movement turns to see what's going on, golden cat eyes cold and hard. The sight sends vertigo crashing through Jaskier so wildly that he feels his knees give out, and his vision blurs as he collapses onto the ground.

-*-

"No, no. He's fine. Don't hold the train for us." A voice, rough and low and heavenly drifts through his consciousness and he groans, burying his face in a warm, nicely toned chest. Strong arms wrap around him, holding him, and he sinks into the embrace without really thinking. When he moves the arms tighten around him, holding him closer, and he finally rouses.

He cracks an eye open to see an officer in front of them, debating with Geralt about getting him medical care, and he groans, sitting up and plastering his best smile on his face.

"Sorry love, my sugar dropped again. Was I out long?" The officer stops when he speaks, and Jaskier tilts his head curiously. "Tell me you didn't call them, you know I don't want the attention."

He looks up at Geralt, false frown on his face, and Geralt shakes his head. "Another passenger. I told them you were fine."

"That I am! I'm very sorry for the confusion, I just got off of a rather long interview and was a bit hungrier than I expected." The officer looks between them, brows furrowed, but tucks his notepad away and nods reluctantly.

"If you're sure you'll be alright."

"Feeling loads better already! Sorry again Officer!" Jaskier watches until the officer leaves the platform, and then shoves his way out of Geralt's arms. Geralt lets him go without a fight, sitting on the bench and watching as Jaskier paces the length of the platform, ranting. He's speaking in a language he knows but doesn't know, but it's better than letting everyone else hear him.

" I dreamt about you for years! Years, and the first thing I do is pass out when I see your goddamn face. Son of a bitch." Jaskier glares accusingly at him, but the corners of Geralt's mouth tug up in a smirk and Jaskier can feel his heart going a mile a minute. " I could have broken my lute, or-or been cut in half by the doors all because you were on the subway you big old insufferable-"

" You dreamt about me." Geralt's voice is soft, fond, and Jaskier loves and hates the way his voice curls around elder speech. " Jask, I didn't know you'd come back."

" Didn't- didn't KNOW? I am, and I am going to brag here, insanely famous, Geralt. Like on the news famous. How in the WORLD did you not know?"

" I don't watch the news."

"Of course you don't- of course I would get the one witcher in the whole wide world who doesn't watch the news ." He's cut back into English at some point, and he stops, fists clenched as Geralt stands up with his palms out. It's something he's seen Geralt do with Roach a thousand times when she's being antsy, and it drives him up the wall. "I am not a horse , Geralt, I am your fucking barker."

"You're acting more like my horse right now." Geralt is close enough now Jaskier can smell the soft cologne he's wearing, and his knees go weak again with the fact that he's actually here.

"You jackass -" Jaskier launches forward, throwing his arms around Geralt's neck and pulling him down to kiss him senseless. Geralt takes it in stride, scooping Jaskier off his feet and spinning with the momentum. He's careful of Jaskier's lute, but his hands are strong and firm as Jaskier is thoroughly crushed to his chest, held so tight that neither of them seem to be breathing. Jaskier doesn't care- his feet are off the ground completely, a fistful of white hair in his hands again and Geralt's lips on his. He has a beard, neat and taken care of, and Jaskier's other hand slips down to cup the side of Geralt's neck, thumb brushing through the coarse fibers.

Geralt is the first to pull away, Jaskier tipping forward blindly to kiss him again, huffing when Geralt smiles and bumps their noses together.

"Train is coming. As much as I've missed this, I'd rather not miss the next one."

"Tell me you aren't leaving me." Jaskier presses their foreheads together, eyes closed to keep any potential tears at bay. “Please.”

“I have to check into my hotel.”

“Geralt of Rivia, if you think for one minute you aren’t coming home to sleep in my bed you’re a fool. Fuck your hotel room.”

“It has a jacuzzi.” Geralt laughs when Jaskier pulls back to glare, and Geralt holds onto Jaskier’s hand, guiding them through the throng of people and onto the train. Geralt motions towards a seat, but Jaskier stays plastered resolutely to his side and just rests his head against Geralt's shoulder. He sways with the movement of the train, but Geralt’s arm is around his hip, holding him steady as the train goes around a curve and slows a bit. He feels more at peace with Geralt next to him than he has in years, and he’s drifted off to sleep when Geralt moves just a bit, dipping down to whisper in his ear. Elder speech brushes against him, trailing down his spine, and his eyelids flutter as he leans in to hear him better.

“What stop do we get off at, Jaskier?”

And oh, if hearing his name from Geralt’s lips isn’t sublime. “Two more.”

“ You were asleep.” Jaskier chuckles softly, turning his head and kissing him lightly.

“ I’ve lived here for years. I know how long I have.” His elder isn’t nearly as pretty or fluid as Geralt’s but he seems to enjoy it all the same, pupils widening at the sound, the sight of Jaskier’s lips moving. He feels like prey being hunted and he loves it. True to his words, two stops later Jaskier is the one to lead them off the train and up the many, many stairs to the street above. His hand never leaves Geralt’s, afraid that if he lets go the man will disappear into the crowd and leave him alone again. His apartment building isn’t far from the station, and he has to pass through three different checkpoints before he’s even flagged into the building. All of the security guards eye Geralt with barely hidden suspicion, but Jaskier is either oblivious or doesn’t care. The hot, possessive kiss that Jaskier pulls Geralt into while waiting for the elevator is answer enough.

Jaskier’s head is spinning again by the time they make it to his door, and he sags against it, panting lightly and trying to get his key in the lock. Geralt’s hand comes up, guiding the key in as he stands just close enough for Jaskier to be intimately aware of every inch of him. Jaskier gasps, shakes against the door and finally manages to shove it open. He hurries into the room, past the kitchen and into the living room. His lute is slung onto the cushions gently just as his knees give out again, and he catches himself on the arm of the couch, Geralt at his side a moment later.

He can’t feel his legs- he really, really can’t feel his legs, and he isn’t sure that it should seem like such a good thing. Geralt is a hard, hot presence between his thighs, and he arches up into Geralt’s touch, whimpering his name. He wants, he wants so desperately and he feels like he could fall apart at any moment, his breaths coming faster and faster as Geralt grins down, at him teeth sharp and glistening and begging to be buried in flesh. He reaches up, brings him down and kisses him, lapping into his mouth just to taste and let a fang scrape against his tongue.

His chest is heaving when he blinks from his memory, and oh, oh he’s embarrassingly, frustratingly hard. How in the hell does he explain something like this? His knees smart from where they’ve hit the floor and he pitches himself forward, out of Geralt’s surprised hands, his palms slapping against the wood of his floor as he pants. It’s better than letting Geralt see him, worked up over nothing. But he doesn’t get the chance to even think of a lie- he hears Geralt’s sharp intake of breath, the soft huff of a stunned laugh. Geralt is on his knees next to him before he can move, lips on his neck and teeth digging just so into the pale, unmarked flesh. Jaskier keens without meaning to, the noise spilling from his lips, and his cheeks flush when Geralt makes a triumphant noise, pulling back and using a hand on the small of Jaskier’s back make him sit back.

“If you say anything smart, Geralt, I will throw you off my balcony.”

“You don’t have to hide from me.” Is all he says instead, and he takes Jaskier’s hands, guiding him to sit on the couch while he takes care of Jaskier’s lute. Jaskier watches, knees pressed to his chest to hide his slowly dwindling erection as Geralt hunts around his apartment, breathing deep and seeming pleased at what he finds. He lingers briefly by the bedroom door, but seems to think better about exploring there just yet. Instead he reaches up, undoing the clasp across his chest and letting his swords slide from his back. He places them on the coffee table and pulls his sweater up and over his head. Jaskier watches it all, eyes wide, and he jumps as the sweater is tossed at him. He catches it with only a minor fumble, pressing it to his face and breathing deep.

He can almost feel the growl that rumbles through Geralt at the sight, and he grins, toothy and bright, sniffing again. It’s easy to lose his train of thought at the sight of Geralt- Modern clothes suit him well, from the cut of his jeans to the way his t-shirt shows off the rather lovely shoulder to hip ratio he has. Practically perfect. What really arouses him, and this shouldn’t ever be admitted out loud, is the amount of weapons Geralt has on him. There are two pistols tucked into sheathes under his arms against his sides, at least two knives tucked into each boot, not to mention the swords he’s already discarded.

“How do you draw the pistols with your sweater on?”

“I don’t.” Geralt’s voice is amused, and he reaches to unbuckle the leather harness, silver rings glittering along his fingers. There are no fingers that are bare of rings, whether they’re smooth, simple bands or ones studded in small spikes. It’s… ridiculously attractive and Jaskier fears for his heart at this rate. The holsters slip off of his shoulders and they too are left on the table with his swords, though he doesn’t go for the daggers in his boots at all. “You’re staring.”

“I’m allowed to.” He breathes out, reaching a hand out as Geralt pads over. His fingers splay against Geralt’s chest as the older man leans down, kissing him slowly, the warm metal of his rings sliding across Jaskier's cheek. Jaskier shivers at the sensation, making a soft noise as he stretches up further to try and get closer. Geralt pulls back too soon, always too soon, and Jaskier groans with disappointment.

“Tell me what happened when we came in.”

“Do we really have to talk about that now?” Geralt leans back, eyes searching his face, and Jaskier sighs dramatically, tugging Geralt to sit next to him on the couch so he can lean against his chest. "I wasn't born with my memories. I had- it feels stupid to repeat this all- I had night terrors as a child."

"Of monsters." Jaskier nods, pressing Geralt's sweater to his face and speaking through the fabric.

"Particularly of me being eaten by them. When I got older, graduated high school, they shifted focus. They showed me, or the bard I thought was haunting my dreams, following you, performing at a banquet, being chased by a farmer's husband. Within the past few months they got worse. They slipped into my daydreams, took them over, until I could hardly go outside without seeing something that would set them off."

"Is that what happened on the platform?" Jaskier shakes his head, sighing.

"I don't know what that was- a reaction to seeing you again, after only seeing you in dreams maybe? All I remember is getting hit by the worst vertigo I've ever felt, and then I was waking up in your arms. This last time- I'm not sure. I really don't want to keep collapsing though, my knees won't be able to take it."

His joke is weak but Geralt chuckles anyway, pressing his nose into Jaskier's hair. "I'll get you kneepads."

"My hero." He feels a rumble go through Geralt's chest and that brings a smile to his face. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Tell me about you, what you've been doing. I, for one, have been struggling with my memories and made it as a musician. But you, last of the witchers, are impossible to find info on."

"How do you know I'm the last?"

"Internet speculation. Don't worm your way out of this." Geralt sighs heavily, shaking his head and muttering to himself before Jaskier turns and plops himself into Geralt's lap so Geralt has to look at him.

"Eskel and Lambert retired a few years ago. Contracts are few and far between."

"What do you do then when you aren't fighting monsters?"

"I… Translate." Jaskier doesn't think he's heard right, and he tilts his head.

"Pardon? Was my very sexy boyfriend about to tell me something even sexier?" Geralt raises a brow at the word boyfriend, but Jaskier can see that he's pleased by the automatic assumption that they're together. Like they were never apart at all.

"I interpret. Mostly for doctors offices or business meetings. I'm occasionally called to the field when researchers need help."

"What languages?" Geralt doesn't say anything, cheeks flushing a faint pink instead. Jaskier grins then, pleased as all get out, and he leans forward, bumping their noses together and watching the way Geralt's pupils open wider at the contact. "What languages, Geralt?"

"There- aren't many I don't know."

"Someone's been busy."

"I had time. And language barriers make hunting harder." Jaskier laughs at the defensive tone to Geralt's voice, leaning their foreheads together and laughing until Geralt kisses him to shut him up. And even then he giggles against Geralt's lips, wiggling when Geralt tickles at his ribs.

"No wonder your elder is good." Geralt huffs out a laugh, shaking his head and leaning back so he can look at Jaskier, gaze sweeping over Jaskier's face slowly.

"My brothers and I are the only ones fluent."

"In the world?"

"There are small elven communities hidden around, but other than that, yes."

"Where are your brothers?"

"Somewhere in the midwest." Geralt says it with a shrug, as if it isn't a big deal. "They move frequently."

"Too used to being on the Path." Jaskier muses, though it's truer than he might realize. “What about you, where do you settle?”

“I don’t.” Jaskier tilts his head, thinking about that. He isn’t sure why Geralt would ever settle down, since he’s the last witcher active apparently. It would make sense for him not to have any place to call home, but the thought bothers him. A lot more than it should.

“You have a home here, if you want it.” He whispers, heart in his throat, and Geralt’s whole demeanor softens. His eyes look more amber in the setting sun coming through his balcony, and Jaskier leans forward, lips brushing Geralt’s at the same time his phone rings. He groans, intent to ignore it, but Geralt’s fingers dip into Jaskier’s back pocket to pull it out. He hits answer, holding the phone up to Jaskier’s ear as he glares.

“Jaskier, who the fuck are you kissing?”

“Hello Priscilla, nice to see you again, I’ve been just dandy since we last saw each other.” Jaskier takes the phone from Geralt, pressing it to his ear on his own.

“Jaskier, Twitter is in an uproar, there are pictures everywhere.”

“Naughty pictures?” Jaskier puts the phone on speaker while he moves over to Twitter, scrolling through the thousands of tags he’s gotten in the past two hours alone. They’re all the same picture, which Jaskier saves immediately, some better quality than others. There’s him in his bowling alley button up, held aloft in Geralt’s arms, kissing him senseless. It’s a rather artistic photo, the contrast between his bright colors and lute and Geralt’s stiff black clothing and threatening swords. “Ah.”

“That’s all you have to say? You haven’t seriously dated anyone since high school and that's what you say?” Priscilla is pissed, rightfully so, and Jaskier winces.

“Look it’s not that I didn’t want to tell you, I just-”

“I asked him not to.” Jaskier can hear the sharp intake of breath over the phone from Priscilla when Geralt talks, and she’s much more pleasant this time when she speaks. Traitor.

“Oh. And you are?”

“Geralt.”

“And where are you from, Geralt? How long have you been dating my best friend?” He sees Geralt’s lips quirk in a smile, and he rolls his eyes, letting Geralt do the talking. At least that way he isn’t getting yelled at.

“Rivia. We’ve been seeing each other for a few years now, I would say.” Jaskier snorts at the lie, except well- it isn’t really a lie. They’ve been together for years and years over entire lifetimes.

“Rivia?” A distant quality overtakes her voice, and Jaskier winces, clapping a hand over his ear as Priscilla squeals. “Jaskier, please tell me you aren’t dating Geralt of Rivia.”

“Uh.” Geralt’s lips twitch upward as he raises a brow at Jaskier’s hesitation, but Priscilla is laughing, wheezing out little breaths, and Jaskier waits for her to calm down before he answers. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No, no it’s just unbelievable.”

“Hey!” There’s offense in Jaskier’s tone, and Geralt’s hand rests on his hip, squeezing lightly. Jaskier shudders at the touch, scowling, but his witcher is the picture of innocence. “I guess the cats out of the bag, eh love?”

“Mhm.” Gods Jaskier has missed those little sounds, the answers but not answers.

“You have to say something on Twitter before your fans break the site. And introduce us properly.”

“Right, right. Dinner okay?”

“Only if I get to pick the place.”

“Deal. I’ll call you later, okay?” Priscilla gives an affirmative and hangs up, Jaskier tilting his head at Geralt with his brows raised. “So, Geralt of Rivia, ready to be official with a popstar?”

“Not really. But with you? I’ll manage.” Jaskier rolls his eyes, moving to tuck himself against Geralt’s side. Geralt’s arm snakes around him, hugging him a bit closer as Jaskier raises his phone.

“Say cheese!” He grins wide, waiting until Geralt isn’t glaring to snap the photo. It’s a good one, Geralt’s eyes liquid and warm, the corners of his mouth tilted up in the smallest of smiles. It’s definitely going to be his wallpaper. Jaskier posts it onto Twitter with a simple caption.

My knight in shining armor.

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #modern au #reincarnation au #immortal geralt of rivia #flaskbacks #popstar Jaskier

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professorjaskier · 3 years ago

Text

Working Out the Way to Your Heart

Hi y'all! This is a fic written for @thewitcherbog's flash challenge. Thanks to @bonafide-whumper and @sulkyshengshou for beta reading. Hope you enjoy!

Gen, Geraskier hurt/comfort and fluff, A03 link

CW: mild internalized fatphobia, fat-shaming, homophobic comments, and awkward flirting at the gym and fair

Jaskier let out a forlorn sigh as he pulled into the parking lot of his new gym. It looked just as shiny and terrifying as he’d imagined, the silver chrome sign with “Morhen’s” etched into it more fit for a high-class restaurant than a workout facility. He stayed in his car and glared at the sign, cursing everything that had led him there.

Fucking Valdo Marx. Most of the time Jaskier was able to put aside his hatred for the other man for the sake of his career. Yes he was a prick, but there was no better manager for up-and-coming stars, and Valdo had truly earned his reputation. Jaskier had never been more popular, his streaming numbers skyrocketing in the past few months, but his fame had come at a price.

“One last order of business and then you can go. I got you a gym membership,” Valdo had said, shoving a shiny silver membership card towards him.

Jaskier had spluttered, aghast at Valdo’s bluntness, but before he could get a word in edgewise, Valdo had continued. “It’s a gym many celebrities use and they are known for their confidentiality and getting results. If you want to make it big, it’s time to take your image seriously.”

Jaskier had blushed and left without another word. That had happened a week ago, although the cruel words had looped through his mind on repeat since then. Forever the procrastinator, he had put off the inevitable until he’d received yet another pointed voicemail from Valdo earlier that morning. Yes, he had put on a bit of weight lately, late night snacks tempting him after long hours in the recording studio, but it wasn’t that noticeable...was it?

The pinched feeling of his jeans around his waist was answer enough, so he’d finally bit the bullet and driven to Morhen’s. Valdo was right. Just looking at their reviews on Yelp had proven that they were a top tier institution. Their website also boasted several exercise classes as well as the opportunity to book an appointment with a personal trainer.

As if.

Jaskier hated gyms and the idea of an incredibly fit person forcing him to do push ups in front of people sounded like his worst nightmare. For now, he’d go inside, look around, and order a Peloton for his house to get Valdo off his back. Hopefully, this would be the last time he visited this establishment.

“C’mon Jask, you can do this,” he muttered under his breath. Using his last burst of bravery, he locked his car and walked through the large double doors.

Sweat and anxiety pervaded his nose before he had the chance to take in anything else. Jaskier chuckled at the familiar scent, noting that all gyms smelled the same regardless of its clientele’s net worth. God, he hated this.

Shaking off the last of his nerves, he walked towards the main desk and stopped, stunned at the sight before him. Behind the desk sat the most beautiful man he’d ever laid eyes on. His silver hair lent an ageless quality to his face, leaving Jaskier uncertain of whether he was thirty or sixty. Either number could be possible, but with biceps like that, Jaskier would bet he was younger than his hair color would suggest. Honestly, how his polo clung to his body was a mystery to Jaskier, one that he would love the chance to unravel.

Jaskier gasped as the man looked up, pinning him with eyes like molten gold. Maybe he would have to rethink his stance on gyms.

“Can I help you?” the mysterious man behind the counter asked, tilting his head as they looked at one another.

Jaskier opened his mouth, struggling to find the words that should have been at the tip of his tongue. It should’ve been a simple conversation, but Jaskier’s brain had turned off in the presence of the god-like man before him.

“Do you already have a membership?” the man asked, this time speaking slowly as though he were speaking to an idiot who couldn’t understand him. To be fair, Jaskier hadn’t shown any evidence of intelligence throughout this entire interaction, but that was going to change.

Jaskier nodded and fumbled for his card. “Umm, yeah, yeah I do.”

Alright, maybe it wasn’t going to change.

The handsome man — who on further evaluation was wearing a tiny name tag with the name Geralt in neat, silver print — nodded towards the entryway. “Just scan in here.”

Jaskier nodded again, not trusting his words for the first time in his life. Words usually spewed out of him faster than he could control. How had this stranger affected him so strongly? It made no sense.

As he walked through the turnstile, he heard Geralt say, “Have a good workout.”

“Thanks, you too!”

Jaskier winced at his faux pas. You too?!? What the hell had he been thinking?

As he turned around to apologize, he noticed a small quirk of the other man’s lips that hadn’t been there before. “Nervous?”

A smile found its way to Jaskier’s lips for the first time in the past few hours as he nodded. “Yeah. That obvious, huh?”

The silver-haired man shrugged his shoulders as he gave Jaskier the up-down. “I’ve always found that it’s easier to workout with someone. Makes it less scary, especially for first-timers.”

Jaskier blushed, unconsciously crossing his arms in front of himself. Of course the handsome bastard would know that it was his first time in awhile. That was the whole reason that he was there, a voice that sounded uncannily like Valdo’s sniped at him.

“Yes, well I don’t really have anyone to go with, so I thought I’d just look around.” Jaskier hoped that would be the end of the conversation. When the other man just stared at him, he turned on his heel and headed towards the area filled with ellipticals.

“Wait!”

Jaskier turned back around to see Geralt launching himself over the front desk and lightly jogging over to him. It took every ounce of his self-control to stop his mouth from dropping open in awe. If it was possible, the other man’s physique became more impressive the closer he got.

“I could workout with you, if you’d like.”

Jaskier blinked slowly, letting the words process as his brain attempted to turn back on. As much as he would love to watch this hunk of a man work out, he was certain that he would rather die than suffer the embarrassment of allowing Geralt to see how out of shape he was. Yeah, no thanks.

With that in mind, Jaskier tried to think up any excuse he could to extricate himself from this situation. “Oh, thank you, but I wouldn’t want to slow you down. You look very fit and I’m...well, very not, and I probably won’t be here for long. Anyways, aren’t you on desk duty?”

Geralt shrugged and whistled loudly in the direction of an equally built red-headed man. “Lambert, take over desk duty.”

“What the fuck? Why would I—?”

“Just do it or I’ll tell dad what you and Aiden did last night in the—”

“Fine,” the redhead — who was apparently called Lambert — replied, scowling as he passed the two of them on his way to the front desk.

Jaskier chuckled at the sight of such a powerful man looking like a mopey zoo lion behind such a small desk. He was so amused by the situation that he’d almost forgotten about his predicament until Geralt cleared his throat.

“I’m not on desk duty anymore.”

Shit. Jaskier thought over his options, quickly weighing the pros and cons. If he said yes, then he would get to spend more time with Geralt. The man was an enigma and Jaskier needed to know more. Not only would he be able to talk to the other man, but maybe he could pick up some workout tips. The other man had to know what he was doing with a physique like that. Besides, it was Geralt’s job to see people in all stages of fitness. Maybe he could help him.

“Alright, that would be nice. I’m a little lost with all these machines. I honestly don’t know where to start.” Alright, that was a minor lie. Although he hated gyms, he had a slight idea of how to navigate them, but Geralt didn’t need to know that.

The other man grunted in response and nodded over towards the treadmill. “What are your fitness goals?” he asked as they navigated their way through sweaty people and moving equipment.

Jaskier shrugged, looking down at himself, noting the way his stomach came out further than it had used to. “Lose some weight. My manager said it was time to start focusing on my image, so I guess the goal is to look...sexier?”

All of a sudden, Jaskier’s face was smashed into a hard surface, nearly knocking him to the floor. After steadying himself, he realized that the hard surface was actually Geralt’s back, the larger man having stopped suddenly in front of him. Jaskier looked up to find Geralt’s eyes pinning him in place with a shrewd glance. How did the man have so much power over him?

After a long pause, Geralt spoke. “You look fine. Your manager is stupid.” With that, Geralt turned back around and continued walking towards the treadmills. Either the other man was completely unaware that Jaskier was no longer following him, still stuck in one spot gawping at the other man’s words, or he did not care. Truthfully, Jaskier wasn’t sure which option he would bet on.

Shaking off the shock, Jaskier jogged over towards Geralt. “Umm thank you for that, Geralt, but my manager is one of the best in town. He wouldn’t have told me my weight was an issue unless it was.” Even as he said the words, Jaskier felt doubt gnawing at the back of his mind. Nowadays it felt as though Valdo didn’t give a shit about him.

Geralt grunted, pressing a series of buttons on the treadmill’s console that Jaskier knew he had no hope of memorizing. “My brother Eskel is twice your size and the strongest man I know. It’s not the weight, it’s the fitness…”

Geralt paused, giving him a meaningful look. It took a moment to realize that the other man was likely waiting for his name, given that they hadn’t officially introduced themselves. God, he was bad at this flirting thing.

“Jaskier.”

“Jaskier,” he repeated, pointing towards his own name tag. “Geralt.”

“Nice to meet you,” Jaskier said with a smile. One of his lovers had told him that his smile was what she’d first noticed about him. Maybe it would have the same effect now.

Disappointment washed over Jaskier and Geralt just grunted in response, crossing his bulging arms across his chest. “It’s not about the weight, Jaskier, it’s about how fit you are. I can help you create a fitness program if you’d like, but you don’t need to worry about your looks.”

Jaskier blinked, running those words over his head on repeat. Geralt thought he looked good, and if the flush on his cheeks meant anything then Geralt thought he looked very good. Maybe it wasn’t a lost cause. Only way to find out was by following his lead.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

“You want to get a personal trainer?” Valdo asked, his eyebrows climbing higher towards his hairline as the conversation went on.

“Yeah. I really bonded with one of the trainers at Morhen’s and I want to hire him for one-on-one work.”

Jaskier held his breath, waiting for Valdo’s opinion on the matter. God knew that Valdo would have an opinion.

A moment passed, both of them staring at one another until Valdo leaned over his desk, his eyes full of understanding.

“You have a thing for this trainer, don’t you?”

Jaskier blushed, saying absolutely nothing. He knew that Valdo had made him promise to stay in the closet for the time being, saying that it would be harder to make it in the industry if he was openly pansexual from the start. It was a lie that he hated, feeling like he was hiding a true part of himself from his fans and the world, but it was only for a little while. Once he made it big, he could tell anyone he damn well pleased.

Valdo sighed and leaned back into his chair, massaging his brow in the same way Jaskier had seen his mother do over the years. “Fine. Hire him. At least that will take care of one problem.”

Jaskier frowned, looking down at his soft gut with a flush on his cheeks. “I promise nothing’s going to happen. I know the deal.”

“You’d better,” Valdo said, “or else I’ll throw you out like yesterday’s leftovers and ruin you. You may have potential, but I won’t waste my time on people who don’t take their career seriously.”

Jaskier clenched his jaw and nodded, doing everything in his power to avoid eye contact with his manager at all costs. It wouldn’t be long now. He just needed to power through and then he’d be free.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Geraaaallltt,” Jaskier whined as he wiped the sweat from his brow. “You already made me do twenty push ups, please don’t make me lift weights too.”

An affronted gasp drew itself from his lips as he watched Geralt smirk at his pain.

“You absolute bastard! Mocking my pain! Here I am, sweaty, disheveled, exhausted, and you just smirk at me. You’re a cruel, cruel man, Geralt!”

“Hmmm. How about we make it another 20 push ups?”

Jaskier groaned, but kneeled on the ground in preparation for the torture that awaited him. “Fine, but only because you’ve forced me to.”

And because Valdo had made another remark about his figure the other day, although he’d kept that information to himself. He’d been working out with Geralt for two months and he had definitely gained some muscle, but he was still too soft to be a sex symbol. At least that was what Valdo had to say on the matter. He would just have to work harder.

Geralt snorted, joining him on the ground in perfect push up position. That was something that Jaskier loved about Geralt. The older man never let him do his workout by himself. Instead, Geralt would go through the exercises with him, only stopping to make small corrections to Jaskier’s posture as they went through the routine. It was nice. Jaskier usually liked being the center of attention when performing, but at the gym he felt more vulnerable; it was nice to have someone who made him feel more comfortable.

And Geralt truly did. Whether it was through non-verbal grunts or a quip, Geralt always made Jaskier feel truly at ease. It had been a long time since he’d truly felt like he could be himself around another person. He hoped the feeling would last.

The rest of their routine passed by quickly, Jaskier lost in his own thoughts of inadequacy and fear. What if he could never be enough? Would it cost him his future? Would Geralt care?

He was drawn out of his spiraling thoughts by a heavy hand clamping down on his shoulder. Jaskier startled, being dragged back to the land of the living and greeted with worried, golden eyes.

“Are you alright?”

Jaskier pasted on a fake smile, hoping that it would be convincing enough. “Yeah, ‘M fine. Just lost in my thoughts for a little bit.”

“Hmmm,” Geralt hummed, his eyes still showing traces of worry. “Well, you did great today. You’ve reached most of your fitness goals. You should be proud.”

Jaskier’s smile became brittle as he looked away. “Right. Thanks, Geralt.”

“I mean it,” Geralt countered, lowering his head so Jaskier would be forced to make eye contact with him. Instead of suffering the indignity of showing his insecurities, Jaskier opted for silence. He’d selected that option more often these days.

Jaskier heard Geralt sigh and felt the warmth of his larger hand slip away. For a moment, Jaskier almost begged for Geralt to touch him again so he could feel that warmth, but he stopped himself. This was a professional relationship, nothing more.

Only that wasn’t strictly true anymore. Geralt had started to invite him out for after-workout smoothies followed by dinner and beers. On days that Geralt had to stay late, Jaskier often stayed with him, writing songs behind the desk as Geralt went about his duties. Hell, Jaskier had even met Geralt’s golden retriever, Roach, and his teenage daughter, Ciri. They were more like friends than anything. The blurring of that line was a dangerous temptation that he tried to ignore on most days. If he didn’t think about it, then maybe it wouldn’t be so hard to ignore his feelings for the older man.

“You should come with me to the fair tonight. Get things off your mind. You’ve been stressed lately.”

Jaskier looked up and found Geralt blushing but still pinning him with a concerned expression. “I thought you were taking Ciri and her girlfriend out.”

Geralt nodded, his eyebrows drawing closer together as though he were thinking through a complicated rhythm section. “Yes, but it would be nice to have company over the age of 16.”

Jaskier laughed. Geralt had a point, and how was he supposed to say no when Geralt looked so hopeful. “Yeah, yeah I’ll come with you. It’ll be fun, but you’d better be ready to go on every ride with me.”

As Jaskier turned away, he caught a glimpse of Geralt’s true smile flashing at him. It was rare that it made an appearance, especially when they were at the gym. Jaskier ignored the fluttering in his stomach that accompanied the soft expression. If he pretended it didn’t exist, then maybe it would stop affecting him so much.

The fair was everything that he’d thought it would be. Jaskier beamed as he took in their surroundings— the crowds of people, the junk food, the dangerous carnival rides. It took him back to when he’d been a kid and his mother would take him to the county fair once every summer. He hadn’t been to one of these in years, but the excitement he felt was just as palpable as it had been nearly a decade ago.

“Dad, Cerys and I want to ride the rollercoaster. Can you hold our stuff?”

Jaskier chuckled as Geralt blanched at the large array of prizes the two girls were holding. The two men had watched in awe as this athletic, red-headed girl won game after game, racking up an impressive amount of prizes to give to her girlfriend. However, now they had the problem that they had too many things to ride the attractions.

Jaskier pushed his way past Geralt and gestured to give him the stuffed animals. “Go, have fun. We’ll be around here.”

“Thanks, Jask!” Ciri exclaimed. Without another word, Ciri grabbed Cerys’ hand and bolted into the crowd.

Jaskier turned around and shoved half of the prizes into Geralt’s arms. “There. That’s better,” Jaskier said, ignoring the grunt of protest from Geralt.

“Jaskier,” Geralt complained. “How are we supposed to eat fried dough with no hands?”

The singer turned around, amused by the pitiful expression on Geralt’s face. How a man so large and fearsome could look like a wounded puppy at the turn of a hat was still a mystery to him. It was just something so inherently Geralt that Jaskier doubted he would ever truly understand.

“That’s your problem, Geralt. I can’t have any fried dough, you know that.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt growled, grabbing the young popstar’s attention. “It’s only one night. Enjoy yourself.”

“Darling, you don’t understand. Valdo—”

“Isn’t your trainer. It’s your cheat day.”

Fuck. Jaskier knew he would regret this later when he was sat in Valdo’s office once again being reamed out for not reaching his goals yet again, but Geralt looked so certain. He wouldn’t want to disappoint him.

“Fine, but I’m splitting it with you. The last thing I need is an entire funnel cake.”

Geralt rolled his eyes, but let the issue drop. Jaskier found them a picnic table that looked like it had seen better days while Geralt bought their treat. It was fucking delicious. God, he had forgotten how tasty fried food was.

“You’ve got something there,” Geralt murmured under his breath, pressing a thumb to the corner of his mouth and brushing away the powdered sugar coating his lips.

Jaskier froze, a gasp leaving his lips at the gentle gesture. He felt Geralt’s hands trembling as the older man removed them from the side of his face. They were silent for a moment, both staring into each other's eyes as though they weren’t surrounded by thousands of people. If Jaskier had questioned Geralt’s feelings before this, then they were clear as daylight now. Geralt liked him too and he’d never felt more elated in his life.

“Jask, I—”

“Dad! Cerys won another teddy bear for me!”

Both men looked up, startled out of their moment by Ciri’s shrill exclamation.

“Fuck,” Geralt murmured under his breath. “Ciri, Cerys, that is too many—”

Jaskier let Geralt’s voice trail on as background noise. Something had shifted, and he’d never been more terrified in his life.

“What the fuck is this?” Valdo boomed as he slammed a magazine down in front of him.

Jaskier, who had been woken up by an angry phone call from his manager, looked down curiously at the offending paper. He wondered what he could’ve possibly done to piss Valdo off now.

His question was answered as he looked on the page and his blood ran cold. There, clear as day, were he and Geralt, eating funnel cake as Geralt swiped away the powdered sugar from the corner of his mouth. Apparently his hat disguise hadn’t worked as well as he’d thought.

“Val, it’s not what it—”

“It’s not what it looks like? Because to me it looks like you're on a date with this freak, eating something that is most definitely not on your diet. Tell me I’m wrong!”

Jaskier shuddered, feeling a flush rising to his cheeks; he couldn’t tell whether the rising color was from his rage or his embarrassment, but it was certainly there. “You’re wrong. It wasn’t a date, he’s just a friend.”

“Oh, he’s just a friend,” Valdo repeated in a faux calm voice. “Well then my side piece is just a friend when we eye fuck one another from across the room!”

Jaskier looked away as he tried to fight back the tears forming in his eyes. He wouldn’t give Valdo the satisfaction of seeing him cry. “We haven’t done anything wrong! It isn’t like that.” His voice quivered with each word, something he knew Valdo had noticed, but he couldn’t control it. He was just so fucking nervous.

“But you want it to be!” Valdo bellowed, his face crimson as he stared down at Jaskier. “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Valdo spat out, snatching the tabloid from the table. “I’m going to give you two options. You’re going to go on the record and swear that this man is just a friend, nothing more, and then tell him that you will not be seeing him again. Otherwise, I am going to drop you. Are we clear?”

Panicked and scared, Jaskier looked into the eyes of his manager and truly saw him for the first time. He had never truly liked the man, but now he saw him as the devil that he was. He should’ve never signed that contract.

“I said, are we clear?” Valdo repeated, eliciting every word as he encroached on Jaskier’s space.

“Y-Yes, I understand.”

It was as if a switch had flipped as Valdo straightened his tie and smiled down at him. “Good. I’m only trying to protect you, Jaskier. Your career is fragile right now, you understand?”

Jaskier nodded and headed towards the door, hoping that his tears would hold until he made it to the bathroom on the next floor.

As he reached for the door, Valdo said, “And Jaskier?”

He stopped, slightly twisting his ear towards the other man to show that he was paying attention. Valdo didn't deserve the respect of turning to face him.

“Don’t eat fried food again. Your waistline truly can’t handle it and it would be a shame to destroy such a pretty face.”

Jaskier’s shoulders tensed as he nodded and bolted out of the room. He needed to see Geralt. Immediately.

Jaskier slid into his usual parking spot and barely waited long enough to park his car before jogging towards the door. As he burst through the entrance, he saw Eskel’s face look up in surprise before his expression turned into concern.

“Jaskier, are you alright?”

“Where’s Geralt? I need to see him.”

Eskel, who had seemed to notice how he’d avoided answering the question posed to him, pointed behind him. “He’s on his break in the office. Is this about—?”

Before Eskel could finish his question, Jaskier scanned into the gym and pushed his way through the door.

The room itself was white, undecorated, and dull; very similar to any staff room in any business. The only thing that made this room extraordinary was the silver-haired man staring at him with shock in his eyes.

Jaskier walked towards him and noted that the tabloid magazine was sitting in front of him. Fuck, he’d hoped that he would be the one to break the news to Geralt, but it seemed that someone had beaten him to it. With that in mind, Jaskier took a seat at the table across from Geralt.

“Jaskier, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know—”

Geralt fell silent when Jaskier lifted up a hand. “You did nothing wrong, but we need to talk. Just— please hear me out, okay?”

The tension in the room grew, but Geralt nodded his head, giving Jaskier the go ahead to say his piece. If only he knew what he was going to say.

Best to start at the beginning. “Valdo called me into his office this morning. Gave me an ultimatum. I have to either tell the press that you are just a friend and never see you again or he’s going to drop me from his label.”

Jaskier heard Geralt gasp but couldn’t see his reaction. Instead he focused on his hands. They were easier to look at than Geralt’s handsome features.

“He can’t do that! You must have a contract—”

“Which he will consider breached if I come out to the public like that. It was one of his terms for taking me on. H— He said that it was just temporary, but now I’m not so sure.”

There was a long pause before Geralt’s voice rasped out, “I understand.”

Jaskier looked up, finding Geralt’s face shuttered off from all emotion. It was like the last few months hadn’t happened. Like he was just another stranger that had walked into the gym, and he hated it more than he could describe.

“I don’t want to do this, Geralt. It’s why I’m here. I— I needed to tell you that—” Jaskier paused, taking in a deep breath. This was it. There was no going back now, no matter how terrified he was. “I don’t want to be your friend.”

Jaskier watched as Geralt flinched at the words, grabbing his hand before he bolted.

“I don’t want to be your friend. I want to be more. I want to wake up with you and help you get Ciri to school in the mornings. I want to be there when you’re grouchy and cantankerous like the old man you think you are. I’ve thought of no one else but you since the day I walked into this fucking gym. Hell, even all the music I’ve written these past few months is about you!

“So the paps were right,” he stated through tears that had started to roll down his face mere seconds before. “You aren’t my friend, Geralt. You’re my everything.”

Jaskier looked up to find Geralt’s poleaxed expression fixed on him.

He snorted, rubbing his thumb along the back of his hand. “I’m sorry that I’m telling you all this. It must be awkward, but I had to tell you that you mean the world to me, Geralt, and that I’m sorry that I’m such a fuck-up. If I could’ve just kept pretending—”

He was cut off by a pair of lips pressing against his own. They were a little dry, but they moved against his own with such fervor that he nearly fell off of his seat. As they pulled apart, Jaskier gasped for air and met Geralt’s slightly crazed gaze.

“I don’t want to pretend anymore. I want you.”

Jaskier felt his lip trembling as he held back the sobs threatening to rip out of his throat. “And here I thought you weren’t good with words?” he replied, trying to mask his fragility with humor. He knew that Geralt would see through the facade — he always did — but he wasn’t ready to let it go just yet.

“Hmmm,” Geralt hummed, wiping away his tears with a gentle swipe of his thumb. “I’ll try to be for you.”

With those words, Jaskier slumped into Geralt’s embrace, clutching at him for purchase and some semblance of calm. They sat there for seconds, minutes, hours — Jaskier couldn’t tell — but when they eventually dragged themselves apart they were both sitting on the cold floor.

“You’re so beautiful,” Geralt murmured, eyes glued to the side of his face.

Jaskier laughed, a hysterical edge tinting it as he climbed onto Geralt’s lap. “I look a mess! I’m an ugly crier.”

“Still prettier than most people I know,” Geralt responded, pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose.

Jaskier choked out a laugh, allowing his head to rest on Geralt’s broad shoulder. “Geralt, this doesn’t change reality. My career—”

“Let me worry about that, Jas. I’ve got a plan.”

“You can’t fire me! I have a contract with this client!”

Jaskier watched in awe as Yennefer Vengerberg glared at Valdo Marx, the man who had made his life a living hell for the past few months, probably longer if he looked back on his first years of fame without the rose-colored glasses. This woman was going to be his new best friend.

“Actually, your contract is null and void for several reasons, most prominently the fact that Mr. Pankratz was coerced into signing this document.”

Valdo snarled, but Jaskier noticed the corners of his eyes tightening. He was scared. Good, he should be.

“Jaskier signed that contract of his own volition!”

“You threatened him with blackmail and ruin if he didn’t sign on to your label, and if that doesn’t hold in court, we can come at you with the multiple statements from your ex-clients that outline instances of harassment throughout the years. Not a good look, I have to say, Mr. Marx.”

Valdo paled and turned towards Jaskier. “Do you know what will happen if you leave? No one else in town will want to represent a gay, chubby little—”

“That’s quite enough, Mr. Marx, or would you like to add more fuel to the fire?”

With that Valdo clicked his mouth shut, turning back towards Yennefer. “What do you want?”

A razor sharp smile spread across her beautiful face, leaving Jaskier both horrified and strangely turned on, something he would never be telling Geralt about his ex-wife. “Glad you ask. My client wishes to be released from your binding contract with rights to all of his songs.”

“That’s ludicrous!”

“That’s show business, Mr. Marx.”

As Jaskier watched the two bicker over the details, he mulled over what he would do once this was over. First, he would have to head over to Triss’ office and talk over the finer details of his new contract. He wouldn’t sign it today, his previous experiences making him more cautious when signing anything, but that was okay. It was almost over and then things would be better.

Speaking of better, he saw Yennefer signalling to him that they were leaving. He grabbed his coat and turned around to spare Valdo Marx one last glance. Jaskier was pleased to see the man pale and unsteady behind his desk.

“Goodbye, Valdo. I hope you figure your shit out, I truly do.”

Without another word, he slipped out the office door and walked down the hall where he found Geralt pacing a furrow into the carpet. Upon noticing their presence, Geralt left his well-tread track and walked over to greet him with a hug.

Jaskier stayed in Geralt’s embrace for as long as he could, savoring the feel of strong arms keeping him safe when he felt bereft. Everything was changing so suddenly — for the best, admittedly, but it still felt nice to have Geralt as a safe port during the storm.

“How did it go? Was everything okay? Did he say anything?”

“Darling, darling, you have to give us a moment to answer the questions,” Jaskier responded, a smile playing on his lips.

“Yes, darling, let us answer,” Yen quipped drily. The two men looked up to find her examining her flawless manicure, completely ignoring the affectionate snuggling happening mere feet from her. “There are still a few details to work out, but Jaskier is no longer in that ridiculous contract. Now if you excuse me, I have a date with my wife.”

They watched as Yennefer strutted out of the office with purpose. She stopped, turned around, and pointed an accusatory finger at the two of them. “If you show up at Triss’ office before 3, I will stop representing you in court.”

Jaskier laughed, knowing the threat was baseless, but nodded. “Alright, Yenna. I’ll see you both after 3.”

Yen nodded with a pleased smirk on her face and walked out the door, leaving both lovers alone once again.

“I heard what he said to you from down the hall,” Geralt murmured into Jaskier’s hair.

The singer stiffened, remembering all the times that Valdo had spoken ill of him, bullying him about his fashion sense or his appearance. He hated that Geralt had heard those things. Maybe the older man would agree now that they’d been brought to his attention. Maybe—

His spiraling thoughts came to a grinding halt as Geralt pressed a kiss to the corner of his right eye. “He’s full of shit. People are going to love you, Jask. You’re perfect.”

Jaskier stiffened, avoiding Geralt’s face. “You really think so?” he asked, going through the long catalogue of his imperfections.

A familiar hand ran through his hair, brushing away his insecurities with a single touch. “I don’t think so. I know.”

Jaskier smiled, taking in how confident Geralt was in that moment, basking in the brilliance of his lover. He was right. Valdo was full of shit and gone from his life. Things were looking up.

It was over, but something better was beginning and he couldn’t wait for this new adventure to start.

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Tag List: @comfyswitcherblanketfort, @kuripon, @dapandapod, @officerjennie, @jaskierswolf, @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde, @bi-aragorn, @fontegagrilledcheese, @alllthequeenshorses, @stonedstargazer666

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crushcandles · 3 years ago

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omg describing jaskier as medieval justin bieber...ur mind... chef kiss

I was/am right and I should say it. I laugh every time I get to use that tag.

#crushcandles answers YOUR asks #dykeromanroy #it perhaps doesn't work quite as well in S2 but i dngaf #long live twinky continent popstar jaskier

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dmitri-smerdyakov · 3 years ago

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Jaskier basically being the popstar of the Continent and having fans - including that dockhand’s niece - is just so funny to me because now I’m imagining Jaskier having a fanclub and fanbase who follow him and his songs religiously, like I wonder if there’s discourse about Jaskier and his fans jump in to defend him. “Yeah, okay, he sleeps around but it’s 1264 now, stop slut-shaming him! He’s an artist!” “Yeah, he called Geralt out, as he should!” etc.

And then there’s obviously debate about his sexuality, with the arguments being “umm he clearly sleeps with women!!!” vs “EXPLAIN BURN BUTCHER BURN THEN, IT’S CLEARLY ABOUT GERALT THE WITCHER, you clearly haven’t been a fan since 1240 like I have, I’ve been a fan since ‘Toss a Coin’, only true fans know smh”, alongside “it’s none of our business, he can sleep with who he wants, we just love the music :3″

#i don't know what this post was i'm so sorry #i've been listening to all of his songs on repeat lmao #jaskier #the witcher #geraskier #the bard is the literal epitome of a bisexual disaster and i love that for him #random post is random #geralt of rivia

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icantbelieveitsnotdeviantart · 5 years ago

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I don’t have time to write this au with some wips backed up, so for your entertainment- harpy au Jaskier *animu edition* and the prologue-Witcher who found him in my previous post.

(He is from the Griffon Witcher School which the wiki assures me means he’s good at magic)

Griffon-Witcher has to leave Jaskier, so he’ll need a more permanent illusion while playing in the taverns. Jaskier is extremely dubious.

“Are you sure this little Witcher curse-thing works? Because I don’t think it’s working.”

“Sigh, I think it works, Jaskier”

“But are you SURE? I can’t feel a difference!”

“You know you’re wings won’t actually disappear, right?”

“....Witcher magic is useless!”

0 notes

maasmuse · 2 years ago

Text

Manon didn't rush. She spent some time searching "Jaskier" to get as much information as she could. Which turned out to be a lot. What amount of it was true? She doubted a lot.

What does a famous popstar want her for?

She guessed there was only one way to find out. She armed up, said goodbye to Abraxos -the stray dog she couldn't get rid of and was off.

This was not where she thought the day was going to take her.

maasmuse:

Manon was at home. Reluctantly resting. She hated sitting around doing nothing. She had never had that luxury until a few years ago and she still found it odd.

However, her last job had messed her up a bit. Nothing major in Manon’s eyes but her rip doctor had told her to rest for a few weeks. Apparently a few bullet wounds that had snuck past her armour and that required rest. She felt fine but she would listen. Sort of.

An incoming call appeared in front of her eyes. She didn’t know the number but that wasn’t exactly strange since she vowed to never work with a fixer again.

She accepted the call to find a young looking man, looking being the key word. Brown hair, nice features and quite a stunning pair of blue eyes.

“Yes?”

Jaskier smiled when the call was answered, he too was thinking much of the same when face of his contact popped up. She was very beautiful too. Not necessarily spelling trouble though - he found many people beautiful daily. “This Manon right? I uh fot a job for you if you’re interested.”

#muse: manon

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limerental · 2 years ago

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ficletober 2022 day nineteen - yenralt modern au

Ciri is about to go off to college and the extended family hasn't had a real beach vacation in about a decade. Everyone knows why. Yennefer and Geralt haven't been able to be in the same room together since their divorce nine years ago.

Content warning for a past mutually unhealthy/abusive relationship

It's somebody's hare-brained idea to rent a place on the coast a few weeks before Ciri flies off to her freshman year of college. A big family thing like they used to, as much as any of them have ever had family. Musing aloud about why they stopped like they don't all know.

The beachhouse they rent is unreal and clearly only in the budget thanks to the contributions of the resident popstar, who immediately claims the master suite. It's all big, big windows and sleek wood panelling and wet-shiny tile floors and too much glass. Ten bedrooms and an inground pool out back looking right over the dunes and the ocean, rippling.

Geralt scoffs at it, says, what do you need a pool for if the ocean's right there? His beach vacations as a kid with his brothers had been a stuffy motel room with the old man, lugging all their beach gear, towels, chairs, umbrella a few damn blocks on sandy asphalt to the beach and not leaving the water for hours and hours.

Nobody's all that interested in commiserating with his whiny grumbling. They haven't seen each other in years, and some of them haven't ever met at all, not all in the same room under pleasant circumstances.

Geralt's brothers fly in. Lambert's accompanied by his feisty and charming partner, Keira, who walks everywhere with one hand shoved in his back pocket, and Eskel comes bearing gifts of homemade wine and goat cheese and his usual, big, smothering bear hugs that threaten to crack your spine in half. Vesemir arrives and immediately sets himself up in a chair on the pool deck with a margarita, but he nods at Geralt and says something about him doing a good damn job with that girl and Geralt gets up to grab another beer before he can hear whether the old man's proud of him or not.

Triss shows up with regrets that her mysterious new partner is too busy with work, and she doesn't really look at Geralt much at all but kisses Ciri on both cheeks and twirls her around like she's still young enough to play princess tea party like they used to.

There's Uncle Regis, who mostly occupies himself with a little laminated birdwatcher's guide and tiny binoculars, and Auntie Milva with young foster Angouleme, who has maybe finally stopped getting into trouble, and cousin Cahir, who slathers himself head to toe in pasty sunblock and still turns lobster pink after the first day.

Jaskier appears in all his airbrushed tan, blonde highlighted, popstar noisy flourishing wearing pink-tinted glasses and a creamy linen kaftan and kissing everybody full on the mouth in greeting. He's got some young guy with him who must be just about Ciri's age, and they retreat to the master suite together almost right away and don't come out half the trip.

Ciri's delighted by the whole deal, shrieking like the little girl she still is in Geralt's eyes. She and Angouleme and her school friend Mistle scurry up and down the dunes and ride waves on their bellies in the water and return windblown and gritty with sand. Regis, hands on hips and floppy sunhat catching the wind tuts at them about the fragile dune ecosystems, and they stick out their tongues and make a series of rude gestures. Eskel scolds them about showering off before jumping in the pool, and when they resist, he and Lambert threaten to hold the ruffians under the spray of the outside shower, young ladies or not.

And then, a few days in, Yennefer arrives.

It's like all the air's sucked out of the atmosphere when she walks onto the pool deck. Geralt had been down on the beach all day and missed her arrival, and she's dressed in something gauzy and black, sheer enough to see her white bikini underneath and the familiar curves of her body, and her wild curls are loose and she's barefoot. Geralt stares at her toes and stays rooted to his spot by the poolside grill, gripping at a spatula so hard he's afraid the handle will crack.

Lambert leans on his shoulder and says, don't fucking burn the hotdogs, you doofus, and Eskel comes up on his other side and says, you got the shittiest hot dogs imaginable anyway, what did you just waltz in and grab whatever? And Geralt protests that they were on sale and you can't mess up cooking a hot dog anyway, and his brothers throw up their hands and nudge him away to take over.

Then he's just standing there by the pool wearing a grilling apron with some busty tits in a bikini pastered on it, and Yennefer's toes start marching their way closer. He flees. He all but flings himself off the boardwalk down to the water, heels burning on the sand.

He balls up the apron in his hand and leaves it on the beach and breaststrokes out into the water imagining maybe he could swim all the way out past the buoys and just keep going. Or maybe get turned around enough that when he comes back out of the surf, he's in some alternate dimension from a decade ago where he and Yen and Ciri and his brothers still do yearly beach vacations and he didn't screw it all up and Ciri's not yet yo-yoing back and forth between each of her parents in their separate worlds.

She's turned out OK, he knows, but it hadn't been easy for her for a moment and that never fails to chew him up with a nauseous sort of guilt.

When he crawls out of the water and goes back, it's already evening and the big house is fully empty. Gone ice cream, says a note on the kitchen counter and in someone else's chickenscratch it says ur a ding dong. The leftovers from dinner are stowed away in the fridge, and Geralt stands there in the glaring fluorescence of the stainless steel spaceship of a kitchen eating cold hot dogs one after the other until he feels less like he's going to float away from shaky hunger.

Then, he goes right to bed.

Of course, he can't sleep a wink in unfamiliar places, so he lies there in the blue silence of the too big room listening to everybody when they get back, voices echoing through the house. The lot of them play a board game with more gusto than seems necessary, hooting and hollering, and several times, there's a commotion and a splash as somebody gets chucked in the pool for being a sore loser or for cheating or the last time, just because of your face, Eskel yells as he dunks a screeching Lambert again.

Geralt lies there flat on his back and watches the glowing ripple of the pool water against the ceiling of his bedroom, and he must fall asleep eventually because suddenly the house is dead silent.

He can't breathe suddenly, knowing somewhere in this house is a room where his ex-wife is sleeping, maybe curled up with Ciri for old time's sake or maybe staring at the ceiling the same way he is. He doesn't know how to picture her as something that exists in the present, seeing her as she was when she was twenty-five with a slicked back ponytail and bouncing little Ciri on her hip looking a little shell-shocked like she still didn't know how she ended up there, holding a baby and playing house with a guy she only met a year ago.

He remembers her saying, you said I'd make a shit mother and maybe you were fucking right.

He gets up. He tiptoes down the slatted main stairs and goes out the glass door to the pool deck. He's only been standing out there a few minutes when the door slides open, and she's right there.

Like a mirage, the sickly-blue of the pool's chlorine glow washing the underside of her jaw, hooding her eyes, catching in her loose curls. She looks greyscale, ghostly, and Geralt thinks, zombie. As if he's not the one who's been shuffling, shambling, living dead for a whole decade.

He slumps forward against the impractical glass railing of the deck with the absurd thought that maybe if he holds still, she won't see him. When he was a kid, he always dreamed of camouflaging like some slippery amphibian, shrinking away into the background. His freaky albinism and his gangly, gaunt looks mean he's always stood out more than he ever liked to.

Out of anybody, Yen's the only person he's ever met who had always toed this perfect line of looking right over his head, right through him when she felt like it and the next second zeroing in exactly where it hurt. Geralt's always been teetering on a similar knife edge of remembering only the fuzzy-warm good moments and then only the sickening worst of the worst.

The Christmases, the birthdays, the first infamous blind date, the nights in her apartment in Vengerberg where he had a side of the bed that was soundly his and a toothbrush there and a whole drawer in her wardrobe for his mismatched socks and single pair of blue jeans and ugly button downs.

The dropped calls, the cheating, the times she shouted and he bitched and she bellowed and he flung cold, cutting insults, and the sticky red bloodstain congealing on the wall the night she hurled a pint of jam, how he'd sliced his palm cleaning the shards and bled fat drops across her living room carpet and worst of all, when little Ciri stood there moon-eyed and disheveled and woken from sleep watching them without a word.

Yen calls to him, and he doesn't look around. Geralt, you're not invisible no matter how much you want to be, she says, and he drops his head into his hands and pushes his palms flat against his eye sockets. I'm surprised you're here, he says, his voice sounding like someone else's, didn't think you'd actually show.

He can hear her bare feet slap on the damp concrete as she rounds the pool.

He has this weird thought that she's about to snug up tight behind him and her hands will sneak down to grip one buttcheek in each hand the way she used to sometimes, teasing and vulgar and juvenile the way she let herself be with him, putting her pelvis flush against the backs of her hands and calling him sweetcheeks with a throaty drawl that made it sound less like a cutsey moniker and more like a challenge.

He remembers how she'd sometimes lean and kiss his body standing like that if they were alone, too short behind him to reach anywhere but the groove between his shoulderblades, her nose chilled and pointy and her mouth tickling and sending an itch all through the muscles of his back. He always thought about turning around to see what facial expression she hid against his back, but he never once did.

But of course, in the present, she just leans a polite distance away against the rail, and he looks out at the dark smear of the beach and can't really make out the tide or horizon line. Just dark, just percussive waves, and Yen rests a hip against the glass and doesn't look at him either when she says, you're the one who left, Geralt. In Vengerberg way back then. You left.

Geralt swallows and he feels it in every muscle in his face and throat and jaw, like he has to voluntarily flex every minor little one to make it happen. He doesn't know anatomy too well. He thinks he's missing some parts anyway or else it doesn't really make sense why he can't just open his mouth and not say something useless.

He says, yeah, I left. Yeah. You know why, and she hums. He doesn't know why, not with the surety that he used to. The good things and the bad things tangle into confusing knots, and it's impossible to weigh her bad things and his bad things on the scale to see who caused it, who's worse, who broke them.

Back then, he said it was what's best for Ciri, but now, he sees her years of shuttling back and forth across the country, her parents never in the same room for long a whole damn decade, never doing another family beach vacation again, and isn't all that sure. They maybe should have tried to tough it out for her sake, tried that couple's counselor, done some therapy.

Yen seems like she's thinking the same things, because she says, we didn't do too bad with her, did we? I mean. We didn't totally screw her up. He hasn't stood this close to her for so long in maybe nine years. He imagines he can smell a waft of her perfume, lilac-sweet. He says, not totally. Probably. But we did a number on her.

Geralt's half looking out of his periphery, enough to see her face crumple. I mean, he says, I guess no more than anyone does. I think we did what we could do.

Like something from a dream, Yen sighs and leans and suddenly her forehead is pressed against his shoulder, both of her hands are on his bicep, fingers curling tight in a way that hurts a little.

He only hesitates a moment before he turns his body toward her, holding her with the arm she isn't clinging to like a lifeline, and almost to herself, she says, there's still time. He wants to ask, time for what?

He doesn't know how to make himself say all the stuff he wants to. How he even misses the manic pitch voice her voice took when she's yelling. How he thought about calling, texting, something. How when he went to the flowershop that last time, they'd asked him what he wanted to put on the card and he all he could think of was There's nothing at all wrong with you. Because he'd shouted that and worse the night before. But there's nothing wrong with you didn't sound good at all, and he couldn't make himself think what it was that was right with her.

In Vengerberg, he'd left the flowers on the kitchen counter, no note, and cleared his things out of his drawer.

He tucks his face into her neck, hunching down, and rubs his palms against her back again and again. Slow, like he can memorize how she feels again, like he ever forgot in the first place.

He wants to say, there's a lot of stuff right with you, there's nothing more right in the world, but instead he says, missed you, Yen. All small. Remembering how she lit up when he called her that the first few times back then. How she grinned against his smile and he mouthed Yen like it was precious.

He says it now into the nighttime quiet of the pool deck and then can't stop saying it. Yen, yen, yen.

She winds her arms up around his back and clings, hiding her face. There's still time, she breathes, and he gets what she means. It's not a yes or a no but a knife-edge maybe, teetering.

He can feel the silent presence of his whole family sleeping in the hushed mansion behind them, and he knows Yen doesn't really have anybody else, doesn't know how to let herself have anything even though the wanting eats her up to nothing. And maybe he's been cruel, keeping her from this, making it awkward, making her feel like she has to skirt around the edges of a life he's carefully excised her from.

It's already almost dawn, a little glow pinking the horizon line. You want pancakes? he blurts, because it's his turn to do breakfast and she says, remember when you tried to make heart-shaped ones and they all looked like butts?

He remembers. She pulls back a little, enough to really look at him and that means he can really look at her right back, and she says, make mine really really butt-shaped.

And he laughs and is afraid to laugh and laughs anyway, and he doesn't say anything except, butts it is.

When the rest of the house rouses themselves and trickles down to the kitchen hours later, they find a pile of lumpy pancakes warming in the oven and a horrible floury mess all over and a note on the counter that says

really sorry for the mess. and the kitchen too - G&Y.

#yenralt #the witcher #my fic #ficletober #yennefer x geralt #them

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samstree · 3 years ago

Note

How about ‘The No-Good, Very Bad Day’ for your title-to-fic ask?

Modern Assassin AU, cw: violence, domestic abuse

Geralt is the most infamous assassin in an underground organization called The Wolves of Kaer Morhen.

Infamous because of his ruthless methods, also because a few years ago, one client going by the name Stregobor ended up dead on the Blaviken beach right after hiring him.

Rumor says he's the one who did it. It doesn't matter. He's the best among all the wolves, so business goes on.

And Geralt is having a no good, very bad day.

The job was supposed to be simple. Find the target, disrupt his pacemaker, make it look like a heart attack, and get out.

The target recognizes him. Oh shit, now he's trying to flee from the window.

Geralt catches him by the wrist and tries to pull him up. He needs it to be a clean kill and a body all over the pavement is not clean.

The guy ends up on the pavement, people start to panic. It makes getting out very difficult with all the bodyguards and police gaining on him. By the time he makes it back to base, he's collected several wounds all over him. And a massive headache.

It gets worse.

The most famous popstar, Valdo Marx, appears by Geralt's doorstep with a photo in his hand. A blurry image of a man with white hair fleeing from the scene. It's unmistakably him.

A blackmail then.

"I'm very willing to destroy all copies of this photo, white wolf, as long as you help me dispose of a... mere inconvenience."

The inconvenience turns out to be his husband, another musician going by the name Dandelion, although much less popular. Geralt vaguely remembers their wedding pictures on the covers of magazines.

Geralt is suspicious of Valdo immediately. "All you needed was a simple request, and money, which I assume you don't lack. Why all the fuss?"

"I've heard some rumors, rumors about your moral code with what happened at Blaviken. You see, white wolf, I can't risk it."

Geralt hates being blackmailed.

The same night, he finds this Dandelion fella in a pub he's performing at. Geralt hides in the crowd and listens to this young man sing a few hit songs from Valdo’s album, and to his surprise, notices that Dandelion is better than the original cover. The emotion is deeper, letting the nuances in the lyrics shine through.

It’s like he understands these songs with his soul. Like he lives and breathes through them.

Curious.

A public figure's spouse can't end up dead at the back of an alley. It will draw too much attention. It’s another inconspicuous job. He'll have to befriend this guy, find out how to make it look like an accident.

"You are singing your husband's songs." He approaches Dandelion as he packs up the guitar.

"My husband's songs, yes, of course," he chuckles tightly. There's a hint of bitterness in those words, akin to regret. "Call me Jaskier, and you are?"

The smile he gives Geralt is blinding. For a moment, Geralt looks into those blue eyes and thinks about the ocean, and the cloudless sky above, stretching all the way into the horizon. And then, he notices a darkened shadow by Jaskier's hairline. It's faded to yellow now, but Geralt can recognize a half-healed bruise anywhere.

Now that he sees the signs, he's seeing them everywhere: the too-long sleeves Jaskier is wearing, the way his collar is buttoned to the top, the too-thick foundation on his face, and even the slightly rigid movement of his arms.

Jaskier is still waiting.

And smiling.

"Name's Geralt." He takes Jaskier's hand and shakes it gently. The metallic touch of a wedding ring burns into Geralt's palm.

Geralt can't tell if his no good, very bad day is looking up or down, but a silent decision is made as Jaskier murmurs his name back. He never knew his name could be said...almost beautifully. Like the name of a poem. A song.

So he smiles back.

Blackmail or not, Valdo Marx is going to become the next Stregobor. That much he is sure.

#geraskier #geraskier headcanon #thanks for the ask!!#<3 #sorry it took so long #i come up with plot very slowly and write slowly #assassin!geralt #dark geralt #hurt jaskier #cw: domestic abuse #cw: domestic violence #cw: violence #cw: blood #geralt x jaskier #I will not write this so the prompt is open to anyone

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writinglizards · 3 years ago

Text

My Heart Just Knows

Sequel to Don’t Stop (I Can’t Turn the Feeling Off)

Summary: Jaskier pays Geralt a visit at his studio after a long day. Geralt makes it very good for them both.

Paring: Geralt/Jaskier Rating: Explicit Warnings: Smut, Dom/Sub play, use of the word ‘sir’, semi-public sex

Read on Ao3

As their relationship progresses, there's...a slight change. Geralt texts more often, more openly. He tells Jaskier when he's having a bad day, when he's worried, when he's struggling with this, all of it, and he gives Jaskier the opportunity to connect to him, to reassure and explain. And in return, Jaskier does his best to be a little more manageable. He doesn't smother him in attention, doesn't text incessantly, or call, or make a general nuisance of himself. They're...they're finding a balance.

They go on a few more dates, little things that end in sweet kisses and sometimes a frantic fuck at either Geralt's apartment or Jaskier's house. It's good. It's good, and Jaskier's terrified of when and how it's going to end. He keeps telling himself that they both want this, that it's not likely Geralt's just going to break it off, suddenly tired of the attention that comes with Jaskier being a popstar after he’s had his fill of Jaskier's body. He's not...he's not like that, Jaskier knows. It doesn't make it easier to deal with, but texting Geralt about it does, so he continues to do that.

Bad day, Geralt texts him sometime shortly after 1 pm, you wanna meet up for dinner? I'll pay.

Sure. You thinking that Nilfggard place downtown again?

If that's what you want, yeah. Just wanna see you.

Jaskier's chest is tight as he reads over the words. "Hold still," Yen tells him, pinching his bare shoulder aggressively. He flinches, whining, and she smiles only a little meanly at him when their eyes meet in the mirror, "you can moon over Geralt later."

"Yenna--"

"No, don't you 'Yenna' me, Jaskier. Later. You've got another interview." He grumbles in response, shoving his phone between his thighs to eliminate the temptation of looking at the texts again. "And if this goes well enough, I'll cancel the 3 pm interview."

"Really, Yen?" he asks, sitting up a little straighter. Her smile softens just a little, goes a little more genuine around the edges.

"Mm. But only if this goes well. And that includes hair and makeup, you imbecile, so hold still." He does, smiling all the while. He knows she's offering to cancel the later interview so he can meet Geralt at his studio as he closes down for the evening. He also knows if he points that out she'll overload his schedule just to prove a point. It's practically a game.

The interview goes well enough, and Yen scowls only a little when he comes back to the hair and makeup room with his best pout in place.

"Yenna--"

"Oh, shut up, for Melitele's sake. I already canceled," she says before he can even ask, and he can feel the smile on his face, stretched so wide it hurts.

"You're the best, Yen."

"I'm aware," she says primly, "now sit back down. We've got a meeting to catch in an hour and you can't wear stage makeup to it."

By the time she drops him off at Geralt's studio building, he's exhausted, but looking forward to it. They haven't talked much since setting up dinner tonight, and Jaskier's hopeful Geralt will want to take him home (or let Jaskier take him home). It's...it's been a while since they've gotten off together, although they've seen each other plenty. And they haven't fucked in even longer.

He rides the elevator up, shifting from foot to foot anxiously until the doors snick open on the correct floor. He ducks into the office less than a minute later and is delighted to find Aiden at his desk with Lambert in his lap, very obviously making out.

"Hello darlings."

"Son of a--fuck," Lambert yelps, tumbling out of Aiden's lap and directly onto the floor. Aiden fumbles a hand out to catch him but he's laughing and he's not much help.

"It's been a good day for everyone, I see."

"Hi Jaskier," Aiden smiles, helping Lambert up who shakes off his hands immediately, glowering.

"Listen, popstar--" he starts in, aiming for intimidating, but the effect is diminished by the way Aiden melts behind him, smile soft and fond, "--Geralt doesn't know. You can't--"

"Can't say anything? My lips are sealed." He mimes pulling a zipper closed in front of his mouth and Lambert fumbles to a stop, confused.

"...Really?"

"Really. It's not my place to go blowing your big secret, dear." He winks over Lambert's shoulder at Aiden, who erupts into snickers, a hand clamped over his mouth.

"And what do you think is so funny, kitten?"

"I--I just--" he has to pause to breathe, to calm himself down, "We've been dating three years and Jaskier's been dating Geralt two months and he already knows. Lambert--"

"Yeah, yeah, I get it," he grumbles, but even he's grinning a little now.

"Am I missing something here?"

"It's a secret only from Geralt," Aiden tells him helpfully, "everyone else knows."

"Ah." That's... "is there any particular reason?" he asks. Lambert shrugs and Aiden grins broadly.

"Geralt told Lambert not to harass me two days after we started dating and it was just...too funny to correct." Lambert snorts a laugh and Aiden's grin softens as their gazes catch and hold, "And here we are."

Jaskier's chest tightens watching them. It's clear they care about each other, clear they love each other, and he's...he's happy for them, he is. He just hopes...

"Aiden, when's that next appointment?" Geralt's voice calls from somewhere in the workroom, making Jaskier jump and Aiden roll his eyes.

"He canceled," he hollers back, dragging Lambert back down into his lap with a grin, "you're cleared for the day." There's a vague rumble of assent from the other room as Lambert beams and twists back to press a kiss to Aiden's throat, swinging a leg over the armrest of the chair to lounge back in his lap, Aiden's arms around his waist, his back to Aiden's chest.

"You aren't afraid he'll walk in and catch you?" Jaskier asks, and Lambert laughs.

"Pretty boy's real focused at work, popstar," he grins, "why, I've--"

"Okay," Aiden laughs, slapping a hand across Lambert's mouth, "no lurid details, thanks." Jaskier can't help but laugh.

"Ask me again when princess isn't here," Lambert grins, elbowing Aiden playfully. Aiden slaps at his chest vaguely.

"Behave."

"I always behave, kitten."

"Mm, no, you don't," he says, but he still presses a kiss to Lambert's cheek, "now are you gonna let me work or are you gonna have to go sit in the car until I can get off early to pick puppy up from daycare?"

"Fuck you," he mutters, cheeks tinged pink, and Jaskier bites back a laugh. Ah. So that's what that means.

"Do you think he'd mind if I--" he trails off, gesturing vaguely toward the back room, and Aiden refocuses on Jaskier, smiling.

"Nah, go right ahead. I'll shout before anyone comes in, no worries." The wink he sends Jaskier implies he knows very well what they've gotten up to in the past. Jaskier fights down the blush burning in his cheeks as he steps through the door.

Geralt's stitching together an outfit across the room at one of the large, industrial sewing machines, humming softly under his breath. It's a tune Jaskier recognizes, one of his songs.

"Aiden?" Geralt asks, not turning to look, and Jaskier's chest aches with how much he loves him, this quiet, attentive man.

"Try again, love," he says softly, and Geralt swears. Jaskier laughs as he pulls the fabric away from the machine and snatches up a stitch ripper.

"Couldn't have waited another fucking minute, could you?" he grouses, "you ruined my seam."

"Mm, I'm sure you can fix it," Jaskier grins, crossing the room to press up behind him, drop his chin onto Geralt's shoulder, "I believe in your very capable skills, darling."

Geralt grumbles irritably, but he also turns to kiss Jaskier sweetly, so he can't actually be that mad.

"What are you doing here so early?"

"Good boys get their last interview of the day canceled so they can come visit their very important other half," he murmurs, kissing along Geralt's throat, "and I've been such a good boy, sir."

"You want me to put you in your place?" Geralt asks, and it sends a shock of heat straight to Jaskier's core. He'd just been teasing. They haven't...Geralt's not really interested in dominating and Jaskier hasn't slipped on him since that last time with the dildo. The thought of it--

"Don't tease me, love," he murmurs, kissing Geralt's throat again as he pulls away. He twists to look at him, expression thoughtful.

"I'm not."

"Geralt. I know you don't...you don't like that."

Geralt twists, getting his hands around Jaskier's waist and tugging him forward, thumbs pressing into the jut of his hipbones just above the waistband of his trousers, "It doesn't do anything for me, but I--you like it. And I like to see you feel good." It sends a shiver down his spine.

"Aiden's in the other room," he whispers, but it sounds like a weak protest even to his own ears.

"And my last appointment canceled. Aiden won't come back here because he doesn't want me to give him any extra work." He says it matter-of-factly, but he's not pressing, just...offering.

"What about dinner?"

"We can get something after, if you want," he murmurs, pressing his lips to bare skin peeking from the deep v of Jaskier's shirt. He sinks his fingers into Geralt's hair, petting gently.

"Will you take me home afterward?" He's...a little nervous about...about after. He doesn't play as a sub often for a number of reasons, one of which being his sub drop can be...bad. Most people don't want to deal with that.

"Of course," Geralt hums, lips barely brushing his skin, "whatever you need from me, Jask," and that's...

"Please," he gasps, tightening his grip in Geralt's hair, "sir, please."

Geralt breathes out quietly for a moment, and then his shoulders straighten as he pulls away. Jaskier lets him go.

"Go kneel by the couches. Don't touch anything, yourself included. If you're very good, I'll take care of you after I've fixed the problem you caused. Understood?"

Jaskier swallows hard and nods. Geralt just raises an eyebrow.

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Go sit."

Jaskier feels a little thrill go through him as he crosses the room, settling down on his knees by the client couch. Geralt watches him critically until he's settled and then he nods, more to himself than to Jaskier, and resumes his work on the sewing machine.

It's a unique thrill, to be on the other end of their play, to have Geralt ignore him. He's already hard and aching in his trousers and watching the curve of Geralt's shoulders as he works is only getting him more wound up. He shifts, biting back a whine, and the sound of the sewing machine stops.

"Do we have a problem over there?" Geralt asks, tone severe, and his stomach clenches so hard it almost hurts.

"N-no, sir," he mumbles, forcing himself to stillness. His hands settle on his thighs and he squeezes sharply, trying to calm himself down. Geralt stares at him for another long minute before he turns back to his work. Jaskier lets out a breath.

He closes his eyes and focuses on the slow rush of breath in his lungs, the easy inhale, exhale pattern. He tries to focus on that rather than the burning under his skin, his own arousal. At some point, every exhale becomes a whine, but he's so far gone he doesn't notice until Geralt snaps at him.

"Can you be quiet?" he asks, and when Jaskier's eyes snap open, he's not even looking at him. He whines again, louder, unable to help himself. "Answer the question, Jaskier."

"N-no," he admits, and something in him roils to admit that he can't be good enough for him, can't--

"You need help?" Geralt asks, tone a little softer, and Jaskier sobs, nodding.

"Please."

Geralt sighs, a long, slow exhale, and then he's standing. He pauses to scoop something up from a nearby table before approaching Jaskier.

"Will this work?" he asks, presenting a scrap of fabric for Jaskier's approval. It's soft and silky from the looks of it, and Jaskier nods, tilting his head back and letting his mouth fall open as if to take Geralt's cock. Geralt groans.

"Cheeky," he mumbles, thumb pressing temptingly against his bottom lip, "misbehave and cause distractions and still think you deserve my cock in your mouth." He takes the cloth and winds it tight before shoving the fabric gently between Jaskier's teeth.

He moans as the fabric presses against his tongue, soft and silky like he knew it would be. Geralt stretches the ends of it back behind his head and tips his head down with one hand, knotting the fabric tightly but not so tightly it causes undue stress on his jaw.

"How's it feel?" Geralt asks, "nod if good, shake your head if it needs adjustment." Jaskier hardly waits for the question to be out of Geralt's mouth before he's nodding, tongue pressing against the fabric as he works his jaw testingly. There's a little give, but not too much. It's perfect.

"Good," Geralt says fingers settling on the hinge of Jaskier's jaw and digging in just a little, "you stay quiet and let me finish my work, and then we'll see what you've earned." Without another word, he turns and crosses back to his sewing machine. Jaskier could cry.

He tries to be good, but it's so fucking difficult. He's hot and hard in his trousers and Geralt looks so good, shoulders pulling the fabric of his shirt tight across his back as he bends over the sewing machine and Jaskier whines around the gag.

Geralt starts humming again and Jaskier forces himself to focus on that--the pleasant melody of it, the way it makes his chest tight with fondness. He lets himself get lost in the sound, and when the sewing machine stops humming, he doesn't even notice.

"Jaskier?" Geralt's voice is soft and his fingers along his jaw are gentle. He can't remember closing his eyes, but opening them takes an enormous effort. "Good?"

"Hmmph," he mumbles through the gag. His tongue feels thick, his thoughts syrupy. He's not sure when he slipped into subspace but it's...pleasant. To put it mildly.

"Will you behave if I remove the gag?"

"Mmph."

"Alright," he says, as if Jaskier had answered with something intelligible. His fingers shift gently through Jaskier's hair before unknotting the fabric and easing the gag, damp with saliva, from between his teeth.

He gives him a minute to work the stiffness from his jaw, one hand cupping his face gently as he does so almost automatically. His half-lidded eyes are locked on the clothed cock not a foot from his face and it makes his mouth water to think of getting his lips around it. He hopes Geralt thinks he's been well behaved enough to let him suck him off.

"Color?" he asks, and it's so hard to make words work, but--

"Green," he rasps out, voice wrecked. Geralt hums.

"You were very good after the gag. Do you think you deserve my cock?" he asks conversationally, and Jaskier sways forward without really meaning, cheek pressed to the front of his trousers, "Answer me, Jaskier."

He rubs his face against the firm bulge of him, like a cat, moaning. He can't do much else.

"In your mouth?" he asks, voice low, and Jaskier moans again, soft and shaky. Geralt hums in response.

He doesn't say anything, just unbuttons his slacks, holding Jaskier back with one hand in his hair as he works them down his hips enough to pull his cock free.

Jaskier moans again, mouth falling open when Geralt rubs the head across his slightly parted lips, one hand around the base of his cock and the other still tight in Jaskier's hair. Distantly, he knows what comes next, but right now all he can process is the slick of precome on his lips and cheeks. His tongue flicks out to lick the taste from his lips. Geralt groans.

"You're so pretty on your knees, sweetheart," Geralt says, and it ignites something hot in Jaskier's gut, something ravenous. Geralt uses endearments so rarely. To hear it now lights him from the inside and Jaskier shivers with it. "You going to be good and let me fuck that sweet little mouth now?"

"Please," he rasps, barely loud enough to be heard, but Geralt makes a soft noise.

"Good boy," he breathes, and Jaskier chokes, gut clenching tight, "hands on my thighs. Don't want you tempted to touch yourself." He whines softly, but follows the directions, digging his fingers into the soft fabric of his slacks and bunching them under his hands.

As soon as he does, Geralt presses forward and Jaskier's jaw falls farther open, his length sinking between Jaskier's lips.

"Fuck," Geralt sighs. He stops about halfway and Jaskier mumbles incoherently in protest as he pulls backward before thrusting forward again, only a little deeper. "You feel so good, Jask."

He does his best to be good for him, tonguing along the length and sucking at the head as he pulls back, but it's hard to be present enough to do a good job. Mostly he just lets his jaw go slack as he whines around his length, lets his mouth and throat be used as Geralt presses in until he bottoms out, Jaskier's nose pressed to his pubic bone and buried in coarse white curls.

"Your throat's so tight," he groans above him, working his hips in short little circles as he bumps against the back of his throat. Jaskier's gone lax--he can feel the fullness, but it's only distantly uncomfortable. His fingers flex in the fabric of Geralt's trousers and his dick pulses hotly and he just...floats.

"You want me to come down your throat?" Geralt asks, breathless, and Jaskier whines, unable to respond. He does, he does, but-- "Words, Jaskier."

Geralt tugs him off his length, the red, swollen head of his cock bobbing enticingly before his lips as he pops free of Jaskier's mouth. He's enraptured with the slickness of it, the way precome beads needily at the head, the string of saliva still connecting his swollen lips to the plumpness of him.

"Words, Jaskier," Geralt repeats, tone severe, and it breaks him out of it, just a little.

He glances up at him through his eyelashes, mouth hanging open. His dick aches and his throat aches and he wants so badly for Geralt to find his pleasure in using him--wants to be good.

"Please," he forces out, "come down my throat, sir."

It's all the encouragement Geralt needs. He growls roughly as he shoves his dick back between Jaskier's lips, and Jaskier sucks and laves greedily at him, desperate to feel his release hit the back of his throat.

"Not gonna be long," Geralt warns, voice rough, and Jaskier moans brokenly, fingers tightening in his trouser fabric again.

Geralt shoves his hips against Jaskier's face twice, three times, before spilling. It's messy and thick and more than he was expecting--he chokes a little even as Geralt pulls back, gives him room to swallow.

"Shh," he's soothing, grip gone gentle in Jaskier's hair, "I know, 'm sorry, sweetheart. Swallow, love, you're fine."

Geralt's thick fingers wipe the tears from his eyes, the ones he didn't know were there, as he swallows, panting roughly.

"You did so well, Jaskier," he murmurs when Jaskier's mouth is empty again, breath rasping in his lungs, "so good for me, thank you, sweet." He shivers.

They don't move for several moments. Geralt guides Jaskier's forehead to his hip, lets him rest his head there as he catches his breath and presumably decides what to do with him. He's so hard it's painful and he can barely breathe for how badly he wants Geralt to finish him off.

Despite that, he's also aching for Geralt to deny him, to tell him he was good but not good enough, to have him sit, ignored and untouched, until his arousal dies, until he's no longer burning for it.

"How should I reward my good boy?" Geralt asks, fingers carding gently through Jaskier's hair, and he can't help but whine. Maybe someday he'll tell Geralt about how badly he wants to be denied, but right now-- "what do you want, Jaskier?"

"Wanna get off," he slurs, voice wrecked. He hardly sounds like himself.

"Do you deserve for me to jerk you off, or should I let you rub against me instead?" he asks, and the thought of that, of not being given what he really wants--

"Please," he mumbles, unable to give voice to it, "please, sir."

"You'd like that?" Geralt asks, tone conversational. Of course he knows Jaskier would like that--they've talked a little about his need for denial, talked about how hot he gets for humiliation. Geralt obviously doesn't know quite the extent of it and Jaskier had thought Geralt was choosing to go easy on him. Now he knows he's just playing the game.

Geralt steps back, settling on the client couch, and widens his thighs. Instinctively, Jaskier shuffles forward to press between them before Geralt hauls him up to straddle his thigh, knees resting on either side. He threads Jaskier's arms around his neck and Jaskier shakes with his effort to hold still.

"You don't touch yourself," Geralt says softly, "you keep your hands around my neck. I'll touch you if I want. You can move, but you're going to come in your pants, understand?"

The shivers trembling up his spine intensify and he nods, hiding his face against his arm and Geralt's neck. "Yes, sir."

"Good," he says, palms settling on Jaskier's hips, "get going, then."

Geralt's hands fall to rest on the swell of his hips, just holding, and Jaskier has to encourage himself into movement, rocking forward gently. Geralt doesn't reprimand his speed or give him directions, so he closes his eyes and breathes deeply, trying to bite back a whine. He doesn't want to upset Geralt, wants to be good, wants--

"Hey," Geralt whispers, lips brushing Jaskier's temple, just a gentle graze, "follow what your body wants, Jaskier. There's no rules here." It's exactly what he needed to hear and he whines openly when Geralt encourages him to move faster, to chase that white-hot feeling burning in his gut.

He snaps his hips forward, grinding his cock along the press of Geralt's thigh, shifts to grind harder up against his stomach for a minute before resettling along his thigh, panting hard.

"There you go, Jaskier," he breathes, squeezing his hips gently, and Jaskier could cry for how good it feels, "good job, sweetheart, just take what you need."

"'M close," he gasps out, twisting his face to press his lips to Geralt's cheek. He hadn't been asked to kiss him and he hadn't been told it wasn't allowed, so--

"Yeah? Come on, Jask, what do you need?"

"You," he sobs out, and Geralt turns to meet his lips with his own, kissing him slow and sweet as Jaskier grinds hard against his thigh and comes in his pants, shaking and gasping into the kiss.

He rides out the feeling with shocky little rocks of his hips, eyelids fluttering, and Geralt holds him through it, palms sliding up his back and then back down, even and controlled. It's grounding and it's exactly what he needs to force himself back into control, to pull himself out of the fog of needy subspace he'd fallen into.

When he pulls back, finally, Geralt's watching his face closely before he breaks into a soft smile. "There you are," he says, voice soft and reverent, "how was it, Jask?"

"Good," he says. The word is inadequate to describe the way his entire body feels light and fuzzy, the wave of tiredness suddenly tugging his eyelids down. Geralt smiles.

"Yeah, I bet," he leans forward to kiss him, quick, "I was...okay?" Oh. Oh.

"You were perfect, love," he says, because it's true, "thank you. I wouldn't...I wouldn't trust just anyone to dom for me anymore. You did a very good job." Geralt doesn't respond outwardly with more than a nod, but Jaskier can see the way the praise lights him up from the inside, the way his smile pulls a little wider, eyes crinkling just a little more at the corners.

"Thank you, I'm...not as comfortable. Domming." Jaskier knows. They've talked about it, a little bit, about how Geralt doesn't really get the idea of finding pleasure in the power. "This was...good," he says haltingly, and Jaskier perks up.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," he affirms, before ducking his head, blush spreading up his cheeks, "I...liked seeing you take your pleasure...because of me." Ah.

"You just love to spoil me," Jaskier mumbles, cupping his face and leaning forward to kiss him, soft and sweet, "no matter what role you take. My good boy."

"Ah--" Geralt makes a soft noise at the praise, pressing into Jaskier's kiss for one quick, heated moment before he pulls away, "we should...uh. We should go. I could take you home?" Geralt asks, voice low.

"Sounds like a plan, darling," Jaskier can't help but grin. His pants are sticky and uncomfortable, come rapidly cooling, and he's not looking forward to the walk back to the car, but--

"Here," Geralt says, pulling away to move to the other end of the room and rifle through a set of drawers, "go change." It's a simple skirt, colorful but not flashy, and Jaskier can tell just from looking at it that it's his size. His heart skips, chest tightening.

"You made this for me?"

"Mm," he's not looking at him, "I did." Jaskier laughs breathlessly and he feels...so light.

They leave the studio a few minutes later, Jaskier's soiled pants in a bag. In the front office, Aiden's behind his desk and Lambert's across the room in one of the waiting chairs. Interestingly, his hair is mussed and his shirt buttons are a little off.

"Lambert, don't harass my employee," Geralt burrs, tugging Jaskier after him, their arms linked, "Aiden, you can go home early, whenever you're ready."

"Will do, boss man. Thanks!" He catches Jaskier's eye and fucking winks.

He doesn't say anything about it until they're in the elevator.

"So Aiden and Lambert," he starts, not intending to give away their game but just...prod Geralt's own assumptions (he's not sure how Geralt doesn't know they're fucking, honestly) but Geralt breaks him off with a groan.

"Aiden and Lambert are...weird. Especially together. It's best not to think too hard about it," Geralt says, and Jaskier's lips twitch. They're in for a long con, alright. "So, my place or yours?"

"Mine," Jaskier purrs, leaning up to nip Geralt's jaw. Beneath his lips, Geralt shivers, "we haven't got to use my bed yet."

#witcher #witcher fic #geraskier #lizard writes #rating: explict #everyone pretend i did not blow way past when i promised this one lmao whoops #its been a crazy two weeks yall

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