#yes that is a blink and you'll miss it reference to yennefer being trans

[notquiteaghost]

gnawing through the bars

the witcher, geralt/jaskier, 2.2k

established relationship, nonbinary trans man jaskier, trans woman geralt, #T4T, not actually a fic about jaskier wearing dresses but a fic about jaskier gently coaxing geralt to admit she’s trans

also on AO3

Sometimes, Jaskier gets an itch.

He has, over the course of his life, put a great deal of effort into being seen as a man, no matter the situation or the person seeing. Mages are not cheap, and surgery is not easy. And he doesn’t, in the slightest, regret any of it.

But, sometimes…

In Oxenfurt, he had a friend in a similar boat — not exactly, as she would have quite happily lived as a woman if women could become bards, and in fact did so whenever she wasn’t actively at lessons or performing, but similar enough. Her father was a very talented tailor, and every few months Jaskier would travel home with her, and they would spend days free of the burden of men’s clothing. Trousers, he will concede, are often more practical, but there’s something poetic about dresses that draws him. The flow of the fabric, the weight — no matter how good the tailoring, he never feels quite as himself in trousers and a doublet as he does in a dress.

He didn’t realise just how much he needed that time, that space, until he was without it.

It took some years, to rebuild. Enough money, the right company, a decent amount of luck, but now, he has a list of people who hold banquets he can attend wearing whatever he may like without risk anyone will, say, kick his ribs until they audibly crack. Small banquets, by invitation only, where he sometimes plays and sometimes dances, talks, fleeces everyone at cards.

And one such person is holding one such banquet, just as Geralt’s witchering takes them through the town.

And Jaskier maybe, possibly, slightly forgets he’s yet to commit this particular sin in Geralt’s company, when he asks if the Witcher wants to spend an evening playing at nobility with him.

Geralt has never understood the appeal of banquets.

Since Jaskier, though, he somehow keeps finding himself attending them. And, well, he’s suffered through worse things for the sake of the bard’s smile.

He leaves Jaskier abed in the inn, to see if he can restock some of the rarer ingredients he likes to keep on hand. It’s just past dawn when he leaves, early enough Jaskier won’t stir for anything less than mortal peril, and it’s just nearing midday when he returns.

Jaskier is, to his surprise, no longer in bed. Is, in fact, fully dressed for the day already, and is standing in front of the small mirror, carefully applying something to— his lips—

Geralt’s mind goes blank.

At the sound of the door clicking shut, Jaskier looks up, and grins, widely, as he’s wont to. “A successful shopping trip, then?” he asks. His lips are very, very red. There’s something about his eyes, too, but his lips—

“What,” Geralt manages to say. Jaskier’s face creases in a frown.

“What, what? Did I fuck the line of the paint up?”

He turns back to the mirror, to inspect his lips. Geralt makes a very quiet noise.

Jaskier is. Jaskier is wearing— Jaskier is in a dress. A well-tailored dress, tight to his torso, his waist, that shade of light blue he’s so fond of, sleeves close around his arms, wrists, somehow he’s both delicate and intimidating. The fabric makes a sound when he moves. A dress.

He must make another sound; Jaskier turns to look at him again. His face is more thoughtful, now. His lips are still red. The neckline sits just below the hollow of his throat. Geralt wants to bite it.

“Oh,” Jaskier says, “I forgot to say, didn’t it.”

Geralt nods, once, sharply. He has no idea what his face is doing but he’s sure it makes his feelings clear.

“Well, surprise! Sometimes I wear dresses. I take it by the clench of your jaw that you approve?” Geralt doesn’t bother nodding. Jaskier isn’t an idiot. “Sorry, you thought I asked you along as protection, didn’t you.”

And Jaskier moves away from the mirror, walks over until he can rest his arms on Geralt’s shoulders. The way he sways his hips is definitely on purpose. Geralt is going to catch fire.

“No, darling,” Jaskier says, his voice dropping lower, which always sets Geralt’s blood alight but in contrast with the dress is particularly affecting, “Tonight you’re accompanying me. I want to dance.”

Geralt’s voice says, without consulting him, “I want to have you against the wall.”

And Jaskier’s grin is wicked as he purrs, “Well, yes. It’s barely midday; why else do you think I’m already dressed?” 

 The banquet is, of course, wonderful. It’s been an age since Jaskier saw Elis, and he’s done so well for himself. One of few downsides to his nomadic ways are how difficult it is to get letters, and how out of the loop he is because of it. It’s always nice, to catch up on gossip, to spend an evening with his friends and good music and his Witcher.

Geralt isn’t usually one for dancing, but Jaskier’s beginning to suspect he could ask absolutely anything of him in that dress and Geralt would do it without question. It’s a very heady power. They don’t exactly make it back to the inn before they fuck.

Now, they’re led in bed, the dress carefully folded away again, Jaskier’s head resting on Geralt’s lovely chest. Usually, it’s no difficulty at all to fall asleep like this, spent and sore and safe.

Usually.

“I can hear you brooding,” Jaskier says, lightly. Geralt is tense, for some reason, and very much awake. Jaskier dreads to think what he’s brooding over. Most things he shrugs off like so much water off a duck’s back. “Did someone say something? Do I need to break out the daggers?”

“No one said anything,” Geralt says, gruff. He doesn’t want to talk about it, which, unfortunately, only further cements Jaskier’s determination to make him talk about it.

“I know you hate the nobility, dear, but musing on that hatred doesn’t usually keep you awake.” Geralt huffs, which means he’s trying not to smile, which is a start. “Come on, out with it, what’s wrong?”

Geralt doesn’t reply, but this isn’t Jaskier’s first try at prying emotions out his Witcher; he doesn’t say anything either, letting the silence drag out until Geralt huffs again, more annoyed, and says, “It’s not my business.”

“Wait,” Jaskier says, pushing himself up so he can see Geralt’s face, a frisson of alarm shooting through him, “Did I say something?”

Geralt isn’t glaring, exactly, but he’s closer to it than not. “No.”

“…But?”

And now, there we go, that’s a glare. They fall back into a silent stalemate, which lasts several minutes, until Jaskier gives in and says, “Look, I can’t sleep through the tension coming off you in waves, so either we’re talking about it, or— Well, the alternatives are all far more enjoyable than talking about it, so I won’t offer them, actually. Your choice is to talk about it or to deal with me being incredibly irritable tomorrow.”

Geralt’s glare intensifies, because he’s an idiot, and he never learns. He’s stubborn, sure, but of the two of them, Jaskier will always outdo him.

So, after another minute of resentful silence, Jaskier slides out of bed and gets his lute, to demonstrate clearly his commitment to not sleeping. He’s halfway through the tune of a ballad played at the banquet, trying to figure the notes by ear, when Geralt groans, and says, with great pain, “The— Dress.”

“Oh,” Jaskier says, and sets the lute back on the floor. “Oh.”

Of course. He forgets, frequently, that while he may have far more many years on this earth, Geralt’s experience with the more avant garde approaches to gender amount only to what Jaskier has shown him. And while Jaskier has certainly, on occasion, been attracted to people content with the hand life dealt them, he has had… suspicions.

“It’s—“ Geralt covers his face with a hand. He’s still led on his back, Jaskier now sat cross-legged beside his torso. “I— You’re a man.”

“Ehhh.”

Geralt removes the hand to blink at him.

“I wanted to be a bard,” Jaskier shrugs. “Bards are men. I don’t mind it, being a man, but I didn’t particularly mind being a girl. If I wanted to be— Well, girls of noble stock really only get married and have children, but if I wanted that I imagine I’d have been quite content as a woman.”

That’s not entirely accurate, but Jaskier has learnt not to throw people in the deep end about this. Or at all, really. He’s yet to find anyone of a like mind, and explaining to people who don’t already know what he means isn’t worth the effort.

“…Huh,” Geralt says, still looking at him.

“You know,” Jaskier says, still musing about the many variants of this discussion he’s had, “I’ve never really managed to put it into words? I just… did it. Left Lettenhoven as a girl, left Oxenfurt as a man. I have always, I suppose, figured maybe it’s all a bit more complicated than everyone oh so neatly fitting as either woman or man, but I don’t really know where I’d even begin eschewing the whole thing entirely…” Geralt just keeps looking at him thoughtfully, no hint of disgust or bafflement, which. Is nice. Not the point, though. “Not that that’s what we were talking about, anyway. You were having emotions about the concept of men wearing dresses that I assume mean you yourself want to wear dresses.”

And then Geralt freezes, like a deer in the brush. Jaskier can’t help his fond smile.

“C’mon,” he coaxes, gentle, “What did I just say? Am I, of all people, going to cast judgement?”

It takes another minute of tense silence, but Geralt says, shortly, “I don’t.”

“What, think I’ll judge you? Have emotions? Want to wear dresses?”

“They’re not— Practical.”

“Gods, I love you,” Jaskier says. Geralt could be made of stone, he’s so tense, but still he’s here, in their bed, letting Jaskier see. It’s the greatest gift Jaskier has ever been given. “Okay, so if not dresses, what do you want?”

“This conversation to end,” Geralt says, immediately.

“Nope!” Jaskier counters, cheerfully. “I’m a dog with a bone, you know this. You want… to wear practical women’s clothing? No? No, that wouldn’t be much different, would it. You… want me to be sweet with you?”

“Is that not what you do already.”

Jaskier says, quite without thinking, as all his thoughts are focused on what about their night Geralt could be yearning for, “It’s only what you deserve, Geralt, honestly—“ And, suddenly, it clicks. “Oh.”

Geralt, of course, doesn’t say anything, but that’s fine, Jaskier’s having a lot of thoughts. About the looks on Geralt’s face, when Jaskier plays the songs only not blatantly about the Witcher because he’s using the wrong pronouns, when people say certain despicable things about Yennefer, and now Geralt never truly relaxes around any man except Jaskier, and tiny little Witcher children with no other option but the male path before them.

“Oh, I am a fool,” Jaskier laments, half to himself. “I am a fool, an idiot, how did I not know! I am the world’s expert on you! How did I not see—“

“What,” Geralt growls.

“You’re a woman.”

And, oh, if Jaskier thought Geralt was tense before. If he reached out and touched, he’s sure Geralt would shatter.

“No,” Geralt says, completely toneless.

“Ah, ah,” Jaskier wags a finger, “Don’t even try it, we’ve been over this already. I am in love with you, I will treat you with the utmost kindness, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

The tension isn’t easing out of Geralt, exactly, but the Witcher is beginning to look less like a deer waiting for the pierce of the arrow and more like a someone recently stabbed, somewhere painful but non-lethal. It’s that look, that tells Jaskier he’s right. That’s exactly how Geralt always looks, when Jaskier speaks into the light all the most secret, tender things Geralt keeps so guarded. How Geralt looked, the first time Jaskier said I love you.

Geralt says, with the barest hint of feelings, “Jaskier.”

“She wiped out your pest,” Jaskier sings, quietly, experimentally, “Got kicked in her chest…”

“Jaskier.”

“She’s a friend of humanity, so give her the rest—“ And, finally, Geralt’s composure breaks, and she sits up, clutches at Jaskier without looking at him, grips his hand with significant strength, stares at the wall as tears well in her eyes for, possibly, the first time in almost a century. Jaskier’s heart aches. He pulls her close, tucks her head under his chin, says, “Oh, sweetheart,” as he runs a hand over her back.

They stay like that for a while.

Eventually, Geralt sits up again, wipes at her face with her sleeves because she’s disgusting like that, and tries to once again pretend she’s never emoted in her life. Jaskier knows the expression on his face as he looks at her is ridiculously soppy.

“Can we sleep, now?” Geralt asks, and Jaskier laughs even as he lies down, wraps an arm around Geralt’s chest, lets her rearrange the blankets just so.

He presses a kiss to the nape of her neck. She takes the hand pressed to her chest and laces their fingers together. Tomorrow, Jaskier will see about contacting Yennefer, and finding out if the relevant magic has gotten any less complicated, and maybe a brief visit back to Elis’ for some clothes. Or, for advice about tailoring, more likely. Either way, it’s already far closer to dawn than not, and Geralt is finally relaxing into sleep, so, after pressing one last kiss to her jaw, he finally lets himself do the same.