Oh, look, what is that? Ah yes, the echoes of yet another grunt. Jaskier can't help sighing - never has connecting with someone been so hard. He can already picture it: he's gonna tell his sister about his day later, and she's gonna reply for the hundredth time why do you keep on bothering?.
What can he say? He likes a challenge. There's also the fact that, while being incredibly frustrating, Geralt is also... well, honest. Jaskier knows that what he sees it's what he gets, there's no trying to navigate second meanings behind words and actions. It's refreshing, really.
Like right now - Geralt should be mad at him. And yet...
"But you'd do it anyway. My hero!"
He playfully nudges Geralt before going back to picking up berries from the ground. There's a lot of them, and they still have some bushes to go - what the hell is he going to do with so many berries? He isn't sure, but he isn't going to say no to such a gift from Geralt, even if technically he doesn't see it as such.
"Speaking of invitations and being excited..." His voice picks up enthusiasm again - and pride as well. "I've finally gotten my first gig in the city. Next Saturday! It's at night, a place for adults, so at least half of my fans can't come." He sounds amused by that, but it's also his way of subtly letting Geralt know that isn't about Cirilla. "I'd love it if you could come."
And he means it. Hopefully Geralt can see that was well.
That's definitely another grunt, because while he's not wrong-- Geralt would carry him down the goddamn mountain if he had to, even if he wouldn't like it-- he doesn't like that Jaskier has him pegged so well. He would have to, he couldn't just leave him with a broken ankle or something on the mountain, the idiot would get eaten by a coyote or a mountain lion before the night was up. And Geralt's not going back to prison for that kind of stupidity.
Thankfully, Jaskier changes the subject all on his own, going from Geralt's unfortunate weakness for a sob story to the first gig that he's gotten in the city. Apparently he'd managed to score a spot at a bar, someplace that someone like Ciri couldn't go to. Which must have been a bit of a hindrance, considering that his target audience is generally too young to drink, and therefore couldn't go into the venue. Not exactly the best choice. Geralt huffs-- figures, that this guy would end up getting a gig at a place where half his audience couldn't even go in, but who could blame him for taking something that paid?
"Trying to pad out your audience?" he asks, because why else would Jaskier ask him to come? He's probably telling literally everyone he knows, just on the off-chance that someone would take pity and show up.
But-- next Saturday. Geralt knows that he doesn't have anything going on, and his brothers have been up his ass about not doing social things. And by the time that Saturday rolls around, he'll have already gotten laid and gotten over whatever this particular bullshit is, so everything will be fine. He'll pick up some woman, fuck her until he feels normal again, and then he'll go to Jaskier's damn show because of perfectly normal non-friendship reasons.
"Farrier might be coming that day, I'll have to see."
It does sound a bit like a hindrance, doesn't it? The thing is, Jaskier isn't doing it for the money. He needs to get out there in as many ways as possible, and beggars can't be choosers. Hopefully, he'll get a better chance to play for his fans in the future, but honestly? He can't say he minds the idea of this bar either - he wants to reach a variety of people as well. His songs are for everyone, the young and old, the men and the women. For both Cirilla and Geralt.
A pity Geralt can't see that...
"Aaaaargh! You're bloody impossible!" He cries out to the sky as he throws his head back, frustration palpable in the very air he breathes. "Fine. Whatever. Flier with info is on my Instagram."
Translation: he doesn't expect Geralt to show up at all.
Oh well. He tried. Does this mean he's giving up? Not at all. But he needs a moment to calm down before he smushes a bunch of berries on that irritatingly handsome face. So once everything is back on their respective baskets, Jaskier takes his and returns to the bushes, but not without putting on his headphones. Music, as always, is the best way to express himself, to handle his emotions.
His playlist of choice? A little something he's chosen to title Ranch DILF is going to be the end of me.
Needless to say, Jaskier sings to every single song in said playlist. And boy, there's a little bit of everything in it. From catchy pop tunes about liking someone with a difficult personality (Katy Perry's Hot'n'Cold, Lady Gaga's Bad Romance, Pink's True Love) to deep, heartful ballads about people that are more than they seem (Alicia Keys' Love Is Blind, Cyndi Lauper's True Colors), Jaskier sings them all... and that includes, of course, the dirty tunes as well, which don't take long to show up.
"♪ You know the words to my songs, no habla inglés. Our conversations ain't long, but you know what is~ ♪"
It isn't hard for him to transition from Jason Derulo to George Michael, Jaskier's body moving to the rhythm as he jumps from bush to bush to fill his basket with enough berries to last him a lifetime. There may be a bit of butt shaking as well...
"♪ Let's go outside, in the sunshine I know you want to, but you can't say yes. Let's go outside, in the meantime take me to the places that I love best! ♪"
Dirty rock has reached his lips (The Doors' Light My Fire, Guns N’Roses' Rocket Queen) by the time Geralt tells him they're done for the day, and Jaskier finds himself back in a better mood, especially when he realizes they're getting their picnic started. The bright yellow tablecloth he's brought with him is spread on the grass near the flowers, and Jaskier takes the chance to grab a couple of them that end up in the basket with the berries. It's tradition by now for him to take a flower during each visit to the ranch and save it in a poetry book at home, a detail that for some reason he hasn't even shared with his sister.
Shoes and hat go off before he sits down on the tablecloth, and he passes Geralt the wine bottle for him to open while Jaskier opens and leaves between them a lovely box of finger sandwiches. An excuse to see Geralt flex those arms? Absolutely. When everything is set and done, he takes out -what else- his phone.
"Today is the day I get a bloody picture with you. I'm taking it whenever you like it or not, so would you please not scowl too badly to save us both the hassle of fifty tries until I get a good shot?"
Hey, at least he isn't asking Geralt to smile. What he is doing, however, is giving his friend the best puppy eyes in his arsenal. Those can't fail... right?
Jaskier is clearly annoyed by Geralt's non-committal and briefly nonverbal answer, but he, just like everyone else in Geralt's life, is just going to have to get used to the grunting. It's one of his primary forms of communication, there's nothing anyone can do about it. He likely thinks that Geralt's just going to blow him off, and, yeah, he's kind of half thinking about it? Going into town is a pain in the ass, especially on the weekends when everything's packed, and parking is fuckoff expensive and most of the bars have cover fees for men. Sure, he could try to invite Triss or Keira along to lighten up the cost, but Lambert hates Triss and Geralt's about eighty percent sure he's fucked Keira, and he really doesn't want to have to deal with any of that shit.
But also, the guy needs people to show up to his gig. He's trying to make it or whatever and shit's hard, Geralt gets that. Can't really fault him for wanting as many people as possible to be there.
The musician decides that he's had enough of Geralt for the moment, though, and pops on a pair of nice-looking headphones. It shouldn't be surprising that he sings along with whatever he's listening to; Geralt would bet that he sings in the shower, too. Probably has whole damn concerts in the shower with himself. He's not sure if that's... endearing? Maybe. Depends.
By the time Jaskier starts breaking out the falsetto and the dirty songs, Geralt's decided-- it's not.
Thankfully, berry picking goes faster when you have two sets of hands instead of just one, and Geralt doesn't have to endure the piercing notes of Guns n'Roses for too long. He taps the musician's elbow to get his attention, pulling him out of whatever imaginary concert he's in the middle of. They set up their lunch, Jaskier spreading out a bright tablecloth and taking out a box of dainty finger sandwiches while Geralt deals with the wine bottle. It's got a cork instead of just a twist-off lid-- fancy-- so Geralt has to pull out his utility knife and pop out the corkscrew to open it. Even the most stubborn corks are no match for Geralt's well-muscled arms.
He holds both of the wine glasses in one hand to pour, putting a very generous portion of wine into each. Jaskier starts wheedling at him for Insta-whatever pictures the moment he hands the glass over, giving him his best sad eyes. Geralt, however, has a young daughter, and has developed some resistance to the Sad Puppy Eyes. Jaskier's eyes are extraordinarily blue, though, and the bridge of his nose is just starting to turn a bit pink from sun exposure, and Geralt's face twists into an annoyed expression because he knows he's folding. He's folding for this ridiculous hairy musician like he folds for Ciri. The universe is a cruel place to bring two people into his life who can make him give in to their absurd demands just by flashing a pair of big eyes.
"One picture," he says, setting down the wine bottle and his glass. "That's it."
He'll let Jaskier figure out the best light and angle and whatever the hell else he wants for his glorified selfie, and maybe he won't scowl too much during it.
Passing the wine bottle to Geralt has been the right idea, holy crap. He goes all wild man on the cork, with an utility knife and everything. Add to that the flexing of those mighty muscles... muscles that now Jaskier knows exactly how strong they are (a lot). Fuck, it sure is hot in here, and it has nothing to do with the summer sun.
For better or for worse, the moment quickly passes, but at least Jaskier gets another wonderful gift today: Geralt allows him to take a picture together. Yes, he yells at the sky before crawling towards his friend until they are side by side, and Jaskier finally dares to do what he's been dying to do since his first visit:
Touch.
And this time, not by accident.
His arm goes around Geralt's shoulders and lands on a hard, firm, meaty bicep; it takes all his self-control not to grope. And since he's feeling so daring, he thinks he may as well go all the way out - so he bumps their cheeks together before quickly taking the picture, not giving Geralt time to have any regrets.
"Aww, look at that, you didn't melt or lose your soul to the camera! That wasn't so hard, now was it?"
The picture is a funny contrast, to say the least: his bright, wide smile and colorful clothes against Geralt's serious face and white hair. Opposites attract, many have said, and this contrast of ideas is poetic in Jaskier's eyes - the picture is perfect. Once he's back on his spot, he sends the photograph to Geralt before finally putting his phone away and raising his glass instead.
"To friendship," he says using that tone that predicts some poetry incoming. "May friendship, like wine, improve as time advances. And may we always have old wine, old friends and young cares."
Jaskier moves in close to get the picture, which is a necessary thing, but Geralt doesn't usually have anyone quite so close to him. He tenses a little at the hand on his bicep and his brow furrows when Jaskier's cheek bumps against his. He's sporting some pretty good scruff at this point, so it's probably not a pleasant sensation against the musician's smooth cheek, either. Jaskier doesn't give him much time to object to anything, though, taking the pictures quickly and being done with it. A wise move-- Geralt isn't going to tolerate much of... this. The touching and closeness and all that.
He puts some distance between them once the pictures are done, slugs back some of the wine to calm the weird feeling in his stomach. He's just not used to people getting in his personal space like that, that's all.
"Need to have a soul to lose any," he says, looking at his phone when the text message containing the picture comes through. It's... fine, he supposes. He looks like himself, all serious and monochrome, except that the light's caught his eyes in just the right way to bring out all the yellow in them. They're hazel, really, that's what it says on all of his documents, but they've got all these strange yellow undertones. If the light hits them just the wrong way, they get a weird, glowy golden look. Just a trick of the light, but it makes him look strange. That's fine, though, Jaskier will probably just edit it out, like you do with red-eye in flash photography.
"Hm," he says, because he's fairly certain that he usually has no wine, no friends who aren't related to him in some fashion, and cares of all ages. "What poet did you lift that one off of?"
That doesn't sound like his own words. It sounds like one of those stupid platitudes that a middle-aged suburban mom would frame and hang up in her living room next to a Live Laugh Love wall decoration. But since they've completed Jaskier's toast-adjacent ritual, Geralt sees no reason to refrain from digging into the sandwiches.
"Oi, oi, slow down!" There's horror in Jaskier's voice in reaction to Geralt fucking slugging. "This isn't your cheap American beer, this is fine wine! Sip it, taste it, allow your tongue to enjoy the flavor!"
To demonstrate his point, he does exactly that: he sips from his own glass, taking his time to savor the wine and licking his lips when he's done. For once, it's not a gesture done with the intention to flirt, but considering his constant dramatic mannerisms? It may not come as innocent as he intends it to be.
He's about to dig into the sandwiches himself, but Geralt's comment gives him a pause. The man has a very dry sense of humor that doesn't show up often, Jaskier learned on the first day, and he's been getting more glimpses of it since then. It doesn't bother him, really, in fact most of the time it amuses him - like the rest of Geralt, his humor doesn't beat around the bush, it is direct and unapologetic.
This comment though... something about it bothers Jaskier, although he cannot quite pinpoint why. He can only blink at him for a moment, feeling like this isn't one of the usual jokes but unsure of how to approach it.
"...that's quite grim of you, my friend. I hope you don't truly mean it. Bunch of bullcrap if I ever heard one."
It seems Geralt's full of surprises today. The invitation, the grabbing, the picture, now a question about fucking poetry. Is he taking interest in Jaskier's hobbies? Because he isn't one to chitchat, that's for sure. The fact he can recognize is not Jaskier's writing warms his heart at least.
"It's an old Irish blessing," Mr British explains after swallowing his first bite of sandwich. "Interested in poetry, Geralt? I have plenty of recommendations. If you're secretly a bookworm and haven't told me I'll be very upset! Tell me about your shelves, what do you keep on them?"
Jaskier sounds absolutely scandalized when Geralt takes more than the most dainty of sips from his glass; he even has the gall to demonstrate proper wine-drinking technique to him, like he's some kind of fucking sommelier or something. It's wine and grading wines is all bullshit anyway, and Geralt usually drinks beer.
He licks his lips when he's done, as though chasing the flavor of the wine. Geralt watches, his face blank, and carefully does not think about Jaskier's mouth.
The whole soul-lacking comment was meant more as a joke than anything, a reference to the fact that most people looked at Geralt and saw nothing more than a big thug at best, and for those that knew his background? A monster at worst. One day, Jaskier was going to find out about his whole felony thing, either because he'd get curious and Google a little too deep or he'd just ask the right people the right questions, then maybe he'd get the comment.
Interested in poetry, he asks, and Geralt takes his glass of wine and drains the rest of its contents in one go.
"No."
Geralt wouldn't know good poetry if it bit him in the ass. He barely finished high school, nevertheless went to some fancy university to learn about rhyming schemes and classic literature and whatever the fuck else a modern liberal arts education means these days. Yen did, because she was smart enough to know that Geralt was dead weight and that she could do so much better, and Ciri will. Thank the gods that Geralt doesn't believe in that she got all her brains from her mother and not from him-- hell, that she seems to have gotten nothing from him but her hair color.
But the question about his bookshelf is... well, he has bookshelves, and they're full of books, and he actually quite likes to read. But either no one believes him if he says that, or they do what Lambert does and make fun of him relentlessly.
Jaskier sighs, looking quite disappointed at the lack of the possible connection they could've made, before drinking some more wine. Anyone that knows him knows he's capable of carrying one-sided conversations for hours, but man, Geralt surely is capable of testing his conversational skills to the fullest. Maybe he shouldn't have texted his sister before coming, that's why he's thinking so hard about it.
Are you sure he is worth the hassle, Jas?
It's not like he can blame her for worrying. This wouldn't be the first time he fucked someone much older than him or even a parent. But this has been nothing like picking up a guy or chick at a bar that he shall never see again, or maybe he will but just for another fuck. It's been more... personal. Well, as personal as it can with Mr Grunt-for-an-answer.
Lizzie thinks he's infatuated with the mystery of a man that probably is just an old guy that likes horses, nothing more nothing less; and the more Jaskier drags this on, the more he'll be hurt by disappointment when the infatuation disappears after a good orgasm. Which is, quite frankly, too hopeful of her - Jaskier doesn't think he's getting that orgasm any time soon. So he'll stick to this mystery, this puzzle wrapped in golden eyes and big muscles, thank you very much.
"Then tell me, Geralt," he continues after finishing his first sandwich. "What do you do in your free time? That isn't horse related?"
Jaskier looks disappointed in that answer, and Geralt just... doesn't get why he's here at all, why he even wanted to say yes when he'd mentioned this thing to him. It's one thing to want to go up the mountain because Jaskier liked trail rides and paid Geralt to perform a service, it's another to agree to come up the mountain to be his second pair of hands performing manual labor for the promise of food and his dubious company.
What was it that his therapist would say at a time like this? Probably to quit being an asshole and carry his half of the conversation with his... acquaintance-friend. Customer-friend-acquaintance. Whatever.
He chews through the sandwich. Jaskier is waiting for some kind of answer to his question, and the afternoon sunlight turns his hair into a gold halo around his head and makes his eyes look almost impossibly blue, and Geralt doesn't know why the fuck he's noticing these things at all.
"I fix things," he says after a few long moments. "Motorcycles, mostly. Sometimes cars."
There's a simplicity to mechanical things that Geralt likes-- they go together a certain way, and when you have all their parts in order, they work. Easy. No surprises.
"Ranch keeps me busy most days, though. Horses need a lot and I've had a lot more business the last few weeks."
More to do, and just one ranch dad to do it all. It's probably partly because of the social media presence and the power of Jaskier's fanbase-- word travels fast when there are a few thousand teenage fangirls twittering about it or whatever it is they do.
Ah, silence. Jaskier's greatest enemy (well, after Valdo Marx, and his father, and-- ahem). He munches on another sandwich as he waits, trying to keep his mouth busy and his mind distracted. Impatience can get the best of him sometimes, and if he pushes too much, Geralt may get sick of him and tell him to fuck off.
But where should he draw the line? With introverts like this guy, some pushing is absolutely necessary. They wouldn't even be here in the first place if Jaskier hadn't put so much work in texting and chatting with him whenever he visited the ranch! Maybe he needs to--
Oh. An answer! A real one! Plus an update on his work life! SUCCESS!
"Motorcycles? You ride bikes? That's wicked!" And incredibly sexy as well - Jaskier wants to demand a ride already. He can already picture both of them on the boke, wind on their faces and Jaskier's arms around those very, very hard abs... Oh god, is he staring? He's staring. Jaskier clears his voice and tries again, leaning is as he starts shooting question after question, absolutely excited at this bit of news. "Do you own one or more bikes? What's the fastest you've gone? Have you taken Cirilla with you? Do the horses get scared of the noises?"
Gosh, he can picture that as well, a greasy Geralt, looking like a badass mechanic-biker, still being soft as he hushes his beloved animals... how is this bloke even real. It makes so much sense as well - he prefers to work on things, be animals or machines, because he doesn't have to interact with people then. It suits Geralt's loner personality. And oh, Jaskier remembers now which were the longest texts he's gotten from him: the ones that guided him through putting up a bird feeder on his balcony. Fuck. Next time he needs something crafty, he should make Geralt come over, he'll pay for the fucking Uber if necessary.
When he hears about the extra business, Jaskier instantly beams.
"Told you! The power of social media, my friend!" He grabs his glass and lightly taps it against Geralt's, as if toasting to that. "Congratulations on your newfound success! If you don't have time for yourself, however- have you considered hiring some help?"
Jaskier perks up almost immediately when Geralt mentions his motorcycle, then gets a sort of dreamy, far-away look on his face while he thinks about it. Geralt doesn't even want to try to guess at what weird, fantastical things are going through his head right now, and doesn't. It's just easier to let it go and answer his rapid-fire questions. Jaskier's mind is a strange and probably terrifying place, and Geralt does not want to venture any further into it than he has to.
"One that I ride and one that I'm fixing up, I don't know, no, and yes, that's why I keep them in my garage at the house."
How does this guy even manage to get through that many thoughts all at the same time, nevertheless get them out of his mouth, too? It would be impressive if it wasn't also a bit difficult to follow. Like his brain is continually firing on all cylinders. And then he jumps right to talking about the business, which is fine except that Geralt still knows almost nothing about social media.
Jaskier's glass pings off of Geralt's, makes a crystalline little noise. He doesn't exactly think it's something to celebrate, at least not like this-- now Geralt's just understaffed, overworked, and extremely confused by his own social media.
"I get a lot of weird comments on that account," he says, taking out his phone to pull up some of the aforementioned comments on Instagram. "The fuck is three eggplants, raindrops, and a taco emoji supposed to mean?"
Since Jaskier is so well-versed in what the Kids are into, he should know, right? And he would know why this mysterious string of emojis is showing up on a picture of him lugging around a bale of hay for his horses on a hot day, his shirt slung over the rail of a fence. Are the people on Instagram confused? Do they think that he's some kind of farmer, and that's why they're posting vegetable emojis? Someone had a similarly confusing string that involved eggplants and peaches, too. And why do so many of them fixate on eggplants? They wouldn't even grow well in this area.
That's two! Two bikes! So cool! And how come he doesn't know how fast he's gone? Does that mean he's never gone too fast or that he's gone so fast he couldn't keep an eye on it? Not taking Cirilla with him though, now that's a crime, Jaskier can't imagine a teenager is happy with that decision. At least it doesn't seem like she's borrowing (read: stealing) his keys to take her own rides.
Jaskier has a thousand more of these rapid-fire questions, especially when he notices Geralt avoids the subject of hiring help (a sign of stubbornness or a bigger issue?) but those questioning thoughts are dropped when he takes out his phone to show him the comments on the picture he posted earlier that morning.
And god, what a picture it is. Jaskier hasn't wanked to it yet only because of lack of time, but boy does it make his blood boil. Weird comments though? Has Geralt gotten a creep as a follower? (Jaskier doesn't count, shut up.) Maybe he needs to teach Geralt how to block unwanted attention that comes in the form of harassment or--
...emojis?
Oh.
Ooooh.
Jaskier snickers. "You must have some idea! That's why you're asking me and not your very young daughter."
Geralt's face tells him he's 100% serious and Jaskier just loses it then. He even has to put his glass down not to accidentally drop it instead, that's how hard he's laughing now. He's not trying to be mean, this is simply adorable, and honestly kind of impressive. How do you stay so... well, innocent is probably not the word, but that's the idea. Geralt can be quite antisocial, but still. Jaskier hopes this is just a part of his personality quirks -taking things too literally and being disconnected from the modern world- and not a red flag on their age difference.
"Geralt, my friend, you don't think those are actual eggplants, do you?" It's hard to talk and laugh at the same time, but somehow he manages. "It's code - almost a metaphor, we could say. A way to express what they think about you without using sexual-" he waggles his eyebrows then "-language that minors could see or the bots could delete. Don't think about vegetables, think about what they represent. An extremely handsome man posts a quite flattering -to say the least- picture of himself and makes the public's imagination run wild. Can't you tell what they want you to do to them, Geralt? Think about it for a second. See the shapes and put two and two together. I believe in you."
Actually, Geralt's asking Jaskier and not Ciri because when he asked Ciri, she had laughed in his face. He should probably have disciplined her for that, but he was too busy being extremely confused about the nuances of social media and why it was showing him phallic purple vegetables.
He is absolutely not going to tell Jaskier that.
Geralt shoots Jaskier a stern look, one that he maintains throughout the musician's entire spiel; the furrows in his forehead deepen when Jaskier's eyebrows waggle at him suggestively. His mouth twists into an annoyed expression when he starts going on about being handsome and taking flattering pictures and that kind of bullshit. Lying to his face, that's a new one. He didn't think Jaskier was the type to spout baseless falsehoods.
"Jaskier, the girl that posted this is..." he checks her profile and does a little mental math when he finds her birthdate in the description. "Nineteen. I'm old enough to be her father, she shouldn't be sending anything to me. And not-- vegetable cocks."
What the fuck is his life? What is his life that he's getting sex emojis from teenagers on Instagram?
"I should take these pictures down." The back of his neck feels warm. He'll blame it on sunburn, even though he's already put sunscreen on to prevent that. "People are getting the wrong idea."
He knew he should've stuck to just horse pictures and not listened when Ciri told him to post pictures of himself, too.
Geralt's mouth twists and Jaskier feels a bit bad for him, not guessing he's not believing his words and thinking his reaction comes from understanding finally sinking in. No matter how bad he feels, though, he can't help chuckling again when Geralt says vegetable cocks.
"Nineteen is a young adult, Geralt. And she isn't actually sending you anything. Trust me, I know what fans sending you things looks like." And boy, has he gotten things since his channel started - he has to drink to that. "It's just a playful, sexier yet not rule-breaking way of saying you're hotter than global warming."
Smooth, Jaskier. Really smooth.
Do age differences bother him? Or is it just because this is too young? It's not like Geralt can be Jaskier's father. Maybe it's just because this hits too close to home, considering Cirilla and all. For one millisecond there (one Lizzie would be proud of), Jaskier wonders if he shouldn't change his approach, maybe drop it completely. Is he even doing the right thing here, hanging out with a man ten years older than him that obviously doesn't enjoy sexual innuendo?
That little insightful thought is instantly dropped when his dick takes over his thinking again, Geralt's threat pushing him to lean in and grab the man's arm with both his hands, as if that could stop him from doing anything.
"NO!" He realizes what he's doing a little too late - Jaskier looks into golden eyes, reminds himself for the hundredth time why he can't just go for it and smooch the hell out this DILF, and slowly pulls back after clearing his voice.
(His fingers still feel warm where they touched Geralt though.)
"I mean... I get it. If it makes you uncomfortable, then I get it. Your comfort comes first, and I don't want you to give that up for the sake of the ranch. That isn't -or shouldn't- be what social media is about."
A pauses - should he? Well, he's already embarrassed himself enough, he supposes, may as well go all the way. But he doesn't meet Geralt's eyes when he asks, "if you do take them down, would you at least send them to me? I like seeing you more often than these visits to the ranch."
Which isn't a lie, but also, he doesn't want to lose his wanking material. Sue him.
For a moment, Geralt almost considers asking him what things his fans send him that are so bad, but then he realizes that this is both a very invasive question and also a very unwise question, because Jaskier might actually answer it. And if it's bad enough to make Jaskier, a man who has possibly negative amounts of shame, have to drink when he thinks about it, Geralt doesn't want to know. He will live a happier and more fulfilled life blissfully ignorant of the weird shit that people Snapchat at him or whatever.
For some reason, the prospect of Geralt taking his pictures down from the Instagram account is terribly distressing to Jaskier, and he's actually a little startled by his outburst-- it'd be hard to tell, Geralt's surprise mostly consists of staring at him with a furrowed brow, but it seems odd that he'd be so invested in the pictures on Geralt's account. It's not as though his photos reflect on Jaskier's reputation or anything. That's not how social media works, or at least he doesn't think it does. So why would he be so upset about Geralt taking down a few pictures?
Pictures, specifically, of him that a number of other people seem to find very attractive.
That thought kicks around in his head for a minute or so while he frowns at his phone. If these comments had come from anyone else, Geralt might have thought that they shared those sentiments. But Jaskier wouldn't, there's no way that a young, objectively attractive man looking to start a music career would be interested in a middle-aged father who spent most of his time around horses and smelled like it, too. He would be interested in pretty young people like himself, or someone wealthy who liked to pay for pretty young things. Geralt is none of those things.
And he also isn't interested in men, that's important to remember, too.
"Why would you want pictures of me?"
Geralt doesn't even want pictures of himself. Why would anyone else?
Jaskier looks up at him then, eyes wide and shock written all over his face, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. Has he heard correctly? There's no way Geralt doesn't know.
Is it?
"Because... friends..."
His mouth is running out of habit - Geralt asked a question and he doesn't like silence. But he soon closes it, realizing there's no way to salvage this without actually saying I like you. And after that question? The mere thought makes something in his chest hurt.
He soon realizes what it is: he feels like a fucking creep.
Is Geralt truly that oblivious? Is it because of his age, not understanding modern flirting? Because he's straight? Maybe he is queer, but simply not into Jaskier, and the idea of a younger man who values freedom over family life being into him isn't even an option. Or maybe he's asking on purpose to put Jaskier on the spot, considering the context of the thirsty comments they just discussed.
In the end, the real reason doesn't matter, the final conclusion is still obvious: everything Jaskier's done so far it's been 100% one-sided, and the tolerance he thought was there turns out to be in his head. He's no different from an internet anon creeping on him through his DMs, making Geralt feel uncomfortable and wanted only for being a hot piece of meat instead of appreciated for his work at the ranch.
Jaskier has no chances here. Lizzie will be happy to hear that later, he supposes.
There's one thing he hasn't been lying about though, and it's that he still likes this friendship. And if that's all he can get, well, he'll protect it. He looks down at his glass with a sigh, looking disappointed.
"I guess you're right, why would I want pictures from a friend?" He laughs, because the question sounds dumb in his head (he gets pictures from friends all the time and he sends his own to Geralt as well) but also to cover up any embarrassment that can go through in his expression - he still wants to salvage this, even if it has to be platonic. "Delete them, Geralt. I want you to have fun with your account, not to be harassed."
Do friends send each other pictures of themselves? Of other things, sure-- he'd sent Jaskier a picture or two of something that he'd thought the musician would enjoy, like the horses. His brothers would send him pictures of things sometimes, too, especially Lambert, most of the time if he found something funny or weird. Yen would send him pictures of Ciri, vacation photos from trips that he didn't go on. But none of them sent him pictures of themselves, and they certainly had never asked for him to do the same.
Is this what young people did now? Is this how he finds out for certain that he's gotten old?
There's a sudden sick twist in his gut, an uncomfortable possibility. He's not... he's not like one of those kinds of old men, going after people a whole decade younger than them because they're young and don't know what they want out of relationships yet. And sure, Jaskier's twenty-eight, not some barely-legal co-ed, but maybe it's overstepping some client boundaries to take him up the mountain alone for something that could, in the right context, look like a date-like activity. Though Jaskier couldn't have thought it was actually a date, he wouldn't have agreed to come if he'd thought that.
Still. He needs to be more careful. Like he'd said with the pictures-- someone could get the wrong idea.
"I'll take care of them later," he says. "Reception's shit up here."
The rest of their totally platonic picnic passes relatively easily-- Jaskier carries the majority of the conversation, being far better at small-talk and that kind of thing than Geralt's ever been. And Geralt tries to at least participate a little, even if he does have a tendency towards one-word answers. Evening's setting in by the time they pack everything up and head back down the mountain, the sunset painting the meadows in shades of red and gold.
The horses get put away for the night with their (lighter, since they'd been grazing all afternoon) dinners, seemingly content to be back in the barn after spending all day out doing... horse things. Mostly standing around and eating grass, but who knows what goes on inside the head of a horse during long summer afternoons.
This would be about the time that he would walk Jaskier up to where his ride would come to get him, then take the turn to head back to his own house. But Jaskier's very much a city boy, and Geralt's had enough city folk come down for trail rides to know that they aren't always aware of what needs to be done post-trail ride. Probably never had to deal with a tick in their lives. He imagines that Jaskier's probably much the same.
"You should tick check yourself before you go back home," he says. "You've probably got a few on you. Use my shower, if you want."
He's certain that Jaskier has at least one on him, because Geralt already picked one or two of them off of himself in the time since they'd come down off of the mountain. If he has them, the musician almost certainly does too-- ticks don't discriminate against prettyboys with guitars. Very egalitarian of them.
While this little turn of events ends up in heartbreak for him (what a surprise), Jaskier must admit something does improve in this relationship, and that's the conversation. It's not always easy to chat with Geralt when they're on different horses and the man can easily ignore him by making Roach go a little farther or faster. It's not like he's making that much conversation now either, but the fact he's participating at all (even if it's with one-word answers) is a huge deal. It's... well, nice. A nice platonic chat. It reminds Jaskier of why he puts up with his grumpy ass in the first place.
He tries to flirt a little less. He has to wonder if his mannerisms even make it possible.
The day is over a little too soon, although it's probably for the best. Jaskier takes a picture of the beautiful sunset and sings all the way back to the ranch, a calm and thoughtful song about the twists of destiny leaving his lips to match what he's been in his mind since that awfully awkward moment of realization.
After saying his good-byes to Pegasus, Jaskier takes out his phone to order a ride... and freezes when Geralt makes his comment, blue eyes widening.
"...what." That has come out a bit more like a squeal than he intends it to. "Bloody hell, Geralt! This isn't our first trail ride!" He's already putting the phone away and taking off his flannel shirt. "Why is it TODAY that you choose to warn fucking warn me about this?"
He's a little too busy freaking out at the idea of nasty bugs hanging on his body and untying his boots to realize that Geralt has invited him inside and also this was something done back at the Pankratz estate... but by the servants.
Jaskier's immediately upset by this information because-- as Geralt suspected-- he apparently had no idea that ticks are a thing. Despite the fact that it's common knowledge that ticks exist in woods and meadows and have no qualms with latching onto a human host and making a nice meal out of them. He's already starting to take off his clothes, even though Geralt hasn't even brought him back to the house yet and he's just standing out near the street.
"Don't strip right now, unless you want to walk barefoot to the house," he says, then starts to lead the musician back up the driveway towards his home. "Usually I don't get this many on me just from taking a trail ride, but we usually don't roll around in the underbrush either."
The house that Geralt built is, unsurprisingly to anyone who knows him, very much in a cabin style, a sturdy two-story thing with a semi-basement, made from wood and stone with a deck off of the main floor and a balcony off of the second. Geralt leads him up the stairs to the deck, then into the house that way; that entrance goes right into the living room, the closest one to the first-floor bathroom. A person might be surprised that the house actually seems like it's been decorated rather than just filled with whatever furniture would do, but any cohesiveness in the design is entirely Yen's input. Geralt would have been fine with a house with mis-matched furniture so long as each individual piece was serviceable, but she had taken one step into it and demanded that he run these decisions by her first. Something about not wanting her daughter to spend half of her time in a house full of flannel.
So the end result is cozy, a place that Ciri could be comfortable living in, too, with enough of Geralt's-- as Yen would put it-- bullshit mountain man aesthetic that he doesn't feel like a stranger in his own home. Maybe more soft fabrics and warm colors than he would've used, but Yen kept it muted, subtle. She'd always been better at this sort of thing than him, anyway, so leaving it to her had been a good decision.
She had also, for inexplicable reasons, shown considerable glee in putting a dense faux-fur rug in front of the large central fireplace, regardless of the looks Geralt gave her. He knows what she thinks it'll be used for, but he'd have to be dating someone to fuck them on the rug in front of his fireplace.
Anyway.
"Take off your shirt and jeans," he says. "I'll check you over. Bathroom's over there, you can check the rest when I'm done and rinse off."
It's not a big deal-- he'd done the same thing with his brothers after long days messing around in the woods as kids. Purely practical. There's nothing strange about putting his hands on Jaskier, getting his fingers through his hair.
"I'll toss your clothes in the dryer while you're in there. Heat'll kill anything we missed."
"...ah. Right." You'd think he'd try at least to look ashamed of how quickly he can undress, but he doesn't. He just picks his guitar, his bags and his shirt and clears his voice. "Lead the way!"
The fact Geralt is inviting him to his freaking house is finally sinking in, and that instantly gets rid of his indignation, replacing it with a grin instead. The bugs are worth it in exchange for this one more step in this re-... ah, friendship, he reminds himself. Right. Which is why he doesn't make an innuendo joke when Geralt mentions rolling around in the underbrush, no matter he's dying to.
Jaskier has seen the house from the outside every time he's visited, of course, and he's always thought it matches the mountain man motif Geralt has going on. So he expects the inside to match - imagine his surprise when it doesn't.
Alright, that's not completely fair. It does match in theme, it's just... well. It's actually well done! Jaskier wouldn't mind spending time here and even take pictures he wouldn't be ashamed of sharing. There even are a fur rug and a fireplace! Geralt only needs to open a few shirt buttons and it'll be the perfect romance novel cover. Has the rug ever been baptized, he wonders.
...he shouldn't be thinking like that. Friends, friends!
"You have a very nice place here, Geralt. I didn't expect you to have an eye for decoration." He keeps turning on his spot in the middle of the room, taking every detail, wanting to learn more about this mystery of a man - and that's why he's distracted when Geralt speaks, so his mouth works on automatic. "Oh gee, buy a bloke dinner first, you scamp."
His turning stops as soon as he finishes saying that. Everything happens in an instant: first the freezing and the wide eyes, a second later the raising of his hands to gesture, which he can't do because they're busy. His flannel shirt falls to the floor and Jaskier curses under his breath as he drops his bags and his guitar case on the couch.
"Sorrysorrysorry I didn't mean-- I mean--" Fuck. Triplefuck. He is being a creep after all, holy shit. He hasn't been this much of a bisexual disaster in a while. "A shower after a warm day sounds lovely, thank you, my friend."
Yeah, friend. There we go. Smooth as fuck (except he isn't).
Jaskier clears his voice and starts undressing as Geralt requested, at more normal speed this time. Partly because he wants to stick to this whole better-not-come-off-as-flirting deal, partly because he needs a moment for his brain to stop panicking at the fact he's undressing for bloody Geralt. This isn't how he imagined it would happen, honestly. And it's not like Jaskier hasn't been in locker rooms before, but this is definitely different. Geralt will be touching him and inspecting him closely in the privacy of his home and--
Bollocks he mumbles under his breath again as he drops his I'm a luxury you can't afford t-shirt on the floor next to his shirt, and now his lovely (blue and yellow) tattoo and all that freaking body hair are in display. His jeans go off next, and he decides to search the room for a topic of conversation to try to distract himself from the fact Geralt is now seeing him in his underwear.
There's one sock left to take off when he sees it. He frowns, confused and already getting a little annoyed if he's understanding this correctly.
"...Geralt. Have you been lying to me or your daughter just happens to have a huge collection of high fantasy?"
Jaskier seems to approve of his house, which... shouldn't mean anything but kind of does, for some reason. Geralt just mentally brushes it off; no one would like it if someone thought that their house looked awful. It's nothing strange. And it doesn't matter much anyway, it's not as though Jaskier's going to be spending much time in Geralt's house. What would he be here for?
In response to his dinner comment, Geralt just gives him a single raised eyebrow-- he doesn't take it personally, it's the kind of horseshit that people say in this kind of situation. A way to break the weird tension of having to strip down in front of someone you don't know very well. Jaskier seems oddly flustered by the whole thing afterward, though. He still does what Geralt asked and takes off his shirt and jeans, tossing them into a pile, but he seems keen on inspecting his surroundings more than paying attention to his host. Geralt doesn't stop him; he has to get out of his own shirt so that Jaskier can check his hair and back as well, and to briefly go into the kitchen to fetch a paper towel. Needs to have something to squash the ticks in once he finds them, after all.
He asks about the bookshelves, which are, as he noticed, packed full-- fantasy, horror, classic gothic novels, a few shelves dedicated to those popular young adult novels that Ciri likes. Quite a few of the paperbacks are well-loved, with bent pages and cracked spines. Geralt steps behind him, reaching out with one hand to brush aside some of the hair at the nape of his neck so that he could look at his hairline. Start pushing his fingers through his thick, dark hair, feeling for any ticks that might be hiding there.
"Ciri is a very prolific reader," he says. "But I didn't lie to you. I don't read, I don't have time to anymore."
He used to read, a hobby that he'd really picked up while he'd been in prison. Not much else to do while he was there but exercise, read, and try not to get into any more trouble. Be a model prisoner and try to look nice for the parole board hearings.
"Hold still." There's a suspicious little bump in the hair just behind Jaskier's right ear. Geralt grabs it between thumb and forefinger and pulls, and-- yeah, there's one. First tick of the afternoon. Geralt deposits it on the paper towel and squashes it with a thumb.
Indeed, Jaskier is busying himself by inspecting his surroundings, which means he completely misses on Geralt taking off some clothes as well. Probably for the best, he's already having enough of a hard time.
So Geralt had been lying, the bastard! Jaskier wants to huff... but a gasp escapes his lip instead when that a strong yet kind hand touches the nape of his neck. When did Geralt get behind him? How can a man this big be so sneaky? Fuck, his fingers are long and gentle and they're pushing through his hair now - Jaskier swears he could bloody swoon right now.
And if he pushes his head back against that hand, well. Totally an accident. Really.
"Y-you arse." Ah, his voice has come out a little too squeaky, hasn't it? Good lord, this is almost pathetic. He takes a deep breath and tries again, ignoring how fast his heart is beating and how it echoes in his own ears. "Don't play innocent with me, this is the second time you answer with a technicality just to avoid my questions. If you don't want to call it lying then call it bloody cheating."
He knows because he's a word-spinner and he used to pull the same shit on his parents. Not so fun when someone else pulls it on you, mmh, Jaskier?
One would think holding still should be a hard task for Jaskier - and usually it is, ball of energy and all. But it isn't so difficult this time, because he can feel Geralt's fingers on his ear and his body can only freeze as a shiver runs down his spine. His eyes are shut tight and Jaskier tries to think about not erotic things to distract himself from Geralt's hand on him and Geralt's warm breath on the back of his head and Geralt's body being so close and--
Fuck. Valdo Marx in a thong. Sundays spent in church. Spoiled milk. Nasty bugs, like the one Geralt is---
Oh for fuck's sake. This isn't working! It's the silence, it's gotta be. He hates silence, and it makes this moment worse by making it an Actual Moment (TM). He needs a topic of conversation asap. Where were they? Ah, yes. Literature.
"Every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter," he recites Oscar Wilde as he realizes his chest is flushed now. Dammit, hopefully Geralt doesn't notice. "Is that lovely gothic section yours or your daughter's?"
Do they have books in common? Now that would be as unexpected as the excellent decoration.
"Hm," he says when Jaskier accuses him of cheating, giving away absolutely nothing. It is cheating, a little, because he knows that he's skirting around the question on a technicality. At first it had been because Jaskier was nosy and pushy, but now... it's fun, almost, to tease him. Just a little.
Jaskier holds very still while Geralt takes the tick off of him, presumably because he's taking a gross insect out of his hair. He keeps searching for more as the musician stays silent, focusing entirely on his task. He doesn't want to miss one, after all, and have it bite him. He could get sick from that, if he's particularly unlucky, and he doesn't need Lyme disease or something while he's trying to get his music career off the ground.
He breaks the silence with an Oscar Wilde quote as Geralt's finishing up with his scalp, pushing his ear forward a little and finding a little black dot hiding back there. Apparently the musician's ears are very attractive to ticks, and it takes Geralt a few moments to figure out how to grab the thing and remove it from its awkward location. Thankfully, it's too soon after their trip for the bugs to have bitten yet, so it comes off easily enough once he can grab it.
"Not a whole lot of fourteen year old girls reading Wilde," he says, moving on from Jaskier's hair to the nape of his neck, then down his back. His skin is soft and smooth, clearly well taken care of, and there is surprising strength in the muscles of his back. A splash of color marks his side where the tattoo runs. "They're mine."
His back looks clear, but there's technically one more spot for him to check. Ticks like to hide in dark, warm places, and one of their favorite spots is just underneath waistbands in trousers or, in this case, undergarments.
"Waistband," he says as a warning, then hooks his thumbs over the edge of it and pulls it back. Not much, just enough to see a half an inch or so of extra skin, and it's just as creamy-pale and smooth as the rest of him. Geralt's mouth feels oddly dry; maybe he's a little dehydrated because of the wine.
"You're good," he takes his hands off of Jaskier, and his fingertips feel like they're tingling just a little. "You'll still need to look over the rest of you. I'd appreciate it if you could check through my hair first."
One of the downsides of having his hair long-- it's a lot to check through. But the color of it means that ticks don't blend in at all, so that's one very minor benefit to his premature gray.
"You just insulted a whole new generation of bookworms," he replies, laughing and grateful for the distraction, because Geralt's fingers are on his freaking back now. God. Every spot he touches tingles, he swears. He needs to keep conversation up, to convince his brain to hold onto the blood instead of sending it south - and he's about to say something about his surprise over them having authors in common when Geralt gives his warning. Jaskier doesn't have time to react, he can only say-
"What?"
-before Geralt is hooking his thumbs over the waistband of his fucking underwear. Jaskier catches his breath and before he can stop himself, he's raising his hand to cover his mouth because he's sure a very embarrassing noise almost escapes him. Geralt is looking at his ass. Geralt is looking at his ass. GERALT IS LOOKING AT HIS ASS! Or maybe he isn't. Is he? He doesn't know what to think, he doesn't know what he wants the answer to be.
Geralt isn't interested in him, he reminds himself. He wanted to be treated like a friend, right? Well, this is it. Dudes being dudes.
Then why does his heart keep on screaming about mixed signals? (His heart has never been good at giving advice, Lizzie would say.)
It's a quick moment that's over soon, but Jaskier feels like it lasts a fucking eternity. It's not helped by the fact Geralt asks him to check through his hair, something Jaskier has wanted to do since he first met him: to run his finger through white locks and let his nails tease the nape of his neck and-- stop.
"S-sure." He gulps before he starts turning around. "If you have a comb I could also help you with--"
Words get stuck in his -suddenly very dry- throat when Jaskier finishes turning and finds himself face to face with the two biggest tits he's ever seen in his fucking life.
That embarrassing squeaky sound from before? Yeah, he can't stop it this time.
Geralt was born chiseled by Michelangelo himself. Every muscle is bulging: his six-pack could be used to wash fucking leather on, those arms are thicker than some of the tree trunks in the forest, and the chest... good lord, that chest. What a mighty chest. Jaskier wants to bury his face in it, to take naps on it, to suck on those perky nipples - PIERCED nipples. Geralt has piercings. On his nipples.
Also a fucking wolf tattoo.
Did they drink all the wine? He needs more wine.
Jaskier realizes he's raising his hand and quickly takes it back - so much for not being a creep. And his voice? The traitor comes out in a high pitch when he speaks.
"...you are a wolf."
His brain is not working right, so that thought is the only thing he manages to say. He isn't talking about the actual animal - Geralt is a wolf in the same way he is an otter. How could he not see it before?
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What can he say? He likes a challenge. There's also the fact that, while being incredibly frustrating, Geralt is also... well, honest. Jaskier knows that what he sees it's what he gets, there's no trying to navigate second meanings behind words and actions. It's refreshing, really.
Like right now - Geralt should be mad at him. And yet...
"But you'd do it anyway. My hero!"
He playfully nudges Geralt before going back to picking up berries from the ground. There's a lot of them, and they still have some bushes to go - what the hell is he going to do with so many berries? He isn't sure, but he isn't going to say no to such a gift from Geralt, even if technically he doesn't see it as such.
"Speaking of invitations and being excited..." His voice picks up enthusiasm again - and pride as well. "I've finally gotten my first gig in the city. Next Saturday! It's at night, a place for adults, so at least half of my fans can't come." He sounds amused by that, but it's also his way of subtly letting Geralt know that isn't about Cirilla. "I'd love it if you could come."
And he means it. Hopefully Geralt can see that was well.
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That's definitely another grunt, because while he's not wrong-- Geralt would carry him down the goddamn mountain if he had to, even if he wouldn't like it-- he doesn't like that Jaskier has him pegged so well. He would have to, he couldn't just leave him with a broken ankle or something on the mountain, the idiot would get eaten by a coyote or a mountain lion before the night was up. And Geralt's not going back to prison for that kind of stupidity.
Thankfully, Jaskier changes the subject all on his own, going from Geralt's unfortunate weakness for a sob story to the first gig that he's gotten in the city. Apparently he'd managed to score a spot at a bar, someplace that someone like Ciri couldn't go to. Which must have been a bit of a hindrance, considering that his target audience is generally too young to drink, and therefore couldn't go into the venue. Not exactly the best choice. Geralt huffs-- figures, that this guy would end up getting a gig at a place where half his audience couldn't even go in, but who could blame him for taking something that paid?
"Trying to pad out your audience?" he asks, because why else would Jaskier ask him to come? He's probably telling literally everyone he knows, just on the off-chance that someone would take pity and show up.
But-- next Saturday. Geralt knows that he doesn't have anything going on, and his brothers have been up his ass about not doing social things. And by the time that Saturday rolls around, he'll have already gotten laid and gotten over whatever this particular bullshit is, so everything will be fine. He'll pick up some woman, fuck her until he feels normal again, and then he'll go to Jaskier's damn show because of perfectly normal non-friendship reasons.
"Farrier might be coming that day, I'll have to see."
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A pity Geralt can't see that...
"Aaaaargh! You're bloody impossible!" He cries out to the sky as he throws his head back, frustration palpable in the very air he breathes. "Fine. Whatever. Flier with info is on my Instagram."
Translation: he doesn't expect Geralt to show up at all.
Oh well. He tried. Does this mean he's giving up? Not at all. But he needs a moment to calm down before he smushes a bunch of berries on that irritatingly handsome face. So once everything is back on their respective baskets, Jaskier takes his and returns to the bushes, but not without putting on his headphones. Music, as always, is the best way to express himself, to handle his emotions.
His playlist of choice? A little something he's chosen to title Ranch DILF is going to be the end of me.
Needless to say, Jaskier sings to every single song in said playlist. And boy, there's a little bit of everything in it. From catchy pop tunes about liking someone with a difficult personality (Katy Perry's Hot'n'Cold, Lady Gaga's Bad Romance, Pink's True Love) to deep, heartful ballads about people that are more than they seem (Alicia Keys' Love Is Blind, Cyndi Lauper's True Colors), Jaskier sings them all... and that includes, of course, the dirty tunes as well, which don't take long to show up.
"♪ You know the words to my songs, no habla inglés. Our conversations ain't long, but you know what is~ ♪"
It isn't hard for him to transition from Jason Derulo to George Michael, Jaskier's body moving to the rhythm as he jumps from bush to bush to fill his basket with enough berries to last him a lifetime. There may be a bit of butt shaking as well...
"♪ Let's go outside, in the sunshine I know you want to, but you can't say yes. Let's go outside, in the meantime take me to the places that I love best! ♪"
Dirty rock has reached his lips (The Doors' Light My Fire, Guns N’Roses' Rocket Queen) by the time Geralt tells him they're done for the day, and Jaskier finds himself back in a better mood, especially when he realizes they're getting their picnic started. The bright yellow tablecloth he's brought with him is spread on the grass near the flowers, and Jaskier takes the chance to grab a couple of them that end up in the basket with the berries. It's tradition by now for him to take a flower during each visit to the ranch and save it in a poetry book at home, a detail that for some reason he hasn't even shared with his sister.
Shoes and hat go off before he sits down on the tablecloth, and he passes Geralt the wine bottle for him to open while Jaskier opens and leaves between them a lovely box of finger sandwiches. An excuse to see Geralt flex those arms? Absolutely. When everything is set and done, he takes out -what else- his phone.
"Today is the day I get a bloody picture with you. I'm taking it whenever you like it or not, so would you please not scowl too badly to save us both the hassle of fifty tries until I get a good shot?"
Hey, at least he isn't asking Geralt to smile. What he is doing, however, is giving his friend the best puppy eyes in his arsenal. Those can't fail... right?
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But also, the guy needs people to show up to his gig. He's trying to make it or whatever and shit's hard, Geralt gets that. Can't really fault him for wanting as many people as possible to be there.
The musician decides that he's had enough of Geralt for the moment, though, and pops on a pair of nice-looking headphones. It shouldn't be surprising that he sings along with whatever he's listening to; Geralt would bet that he sings in the shower, too. Probably has whole damn concerts in the shower with himself. He's not sure if that's... endearing? Maybe. Depends.
By the time Jaskier starts breaking out the falsetto and the dirty songs, Geralt's decided-- it's not.
Thankfully, berry picking goes faster when you have two sets of hands instead of just one, and Geralt doesn't have to endure the piercing notes of Guns n'Roses for too long. He taps the musician's elbow to get his attention, pulling him out of whatever imaginary concert he's in the middle of. They set up their lunch, Jaskier spreading out a bright tablecloth and taking out a box of dainty finger sandwiches while Geralt deals with the wine bottle. It's got a cork instead of just a twist-off lid-- fancy-- so Geralt has to pull out his utility knife and pop out the corkscrew to open it. Even the most stubborn corks are no match for Geralt's well-muscled arms.
He holds both of the wine glasses in one hand to pour, putting a very generous portion of wine into each. Jaskier starts wheedling at him for Insta-whatever pictures the moment he hands the glass over, giving him his best sad eyes. Geralt, however, has a young daughter, and has developed some resistance to the Sad Puppy Eyes. Jaskier's eyes are extraordinarily blue, though, and the bridge of his nose is just starting to turn a bit pink from sun exposure, and Geralt's face twists into an annoyed expression because he knows he's folding. He's folding for this ridiculous hairy musician like he folds for Ciri. The universe is a cruel place to bring two people into his life who can make him give in to their absurd demands just by flashing a pair of big eyes.
"One picture," he says, setting down the wine bottle and his glass. "That's it."
He'll let Jaskier figure out the best light and angle and whatever the hell else he wants for his glorified selfie, and maybe he won't scowl too much during it.
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For better or for worse, the moment quickly passes, but at least Jaskier gets another wonderful gift today: Geralt allows him to take a picture together. Yes, he yells at the sky before crawling towards his friend until they are side by side, and Jaskier finally dares to do what he's been dying to do since his first visit:
Touch.
And this time, not by accident.
His arm goes around Geralt's shoulders and lands on a hard, firm, meaty bicep; it takes all his self-control not to grope. And since he's feeling so daring, he thinks he may as well go all the way out - so he bumps their cheeks together before quickly taking the picture, not giving Geralt time to have any regrets.
"Aww, look at that, you didn't melt or lose your soul to the camera! That wasn't so hard, now was it?"
The picture is a funny contrast, to say the least: his bright, wide smile and colorful clothes against Geralt's serious face and white hair. Opposites attract, many have said, and this contrast of ideas is poetic in Jaskier's eyes - the picture is perfect. Once he's back on his spot, he sends the photograph to Geralt before finally putting his phone away and raising his glass instead.
"To friendship," he says using that tone that predicts some poetry incoming. "May friendship, like wine, improve as time advances. And may we always have old wine, old friends and young cares."
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He puts some distance between them once the pictures are done, slugs back some of the wine to calm the weird feeling in his stomach. He's just not used to people getting in his personal space like that, that's all.
"Need to have a soul to lose any," he says, looking at his phone when the text message containing the picture comes through. It's... fine, he supposes. He looks like himself, all serious and monochrome, except that the light's caught his eyes in just the right way to bring out all the yellow in them. They're hazel, really, that's what it says on all of his documents, but they've got all these strange yellow undertones. If the light hits them just the wrong way, they get a weird, glowy golden look. Just a trick of the light, but it makes him look strange. That's fine, though, Jaskier will probably just edit it out, like you do with red-eye in flash photography.
"Hm," he says, because he's fairly certain that he usually has no wine, no friends who aren't related to him in some fashion, and cares of all ages. "What poet did you lift that one off of?"
That doesn't sound like his own words. It sounds like one of those stupid platitudes that a middle-aged suburban mom would frame and hang up in her living room next to a Live Laugh Love wall decoration. But since they've completed Jaskier's toast-adjacent ritual, Geralt sees no reason to refrain from digging into the sandwiches.
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To demonstrate his point, he does exactly that: he sips from his own glass, taking his time to savor the wine and licking his lips when he's done. For once, it's not a gesture done with the intention to flirt, but considering his constant dramatic mannerisms? It may not come as innocent as he intends it to be.
He's about to dig into the sandwiches himself, but Geralt's comment gives him a pause. The man has a very dry sense of humor that doesn't show up often, Jaskier learned on the first day, and he's been getting more glimpses of it since then. It doesn't bother him, really, in fact most of the time it amuses him - like the rest of Geralt, his humor doesn't beat around the bush, it is direct and unapologetic.
This comment though... something about it bothers Jaskier, although he cannot quite pinpoint why. He can only blink at him for a moment, feeling like this isn't one of the usual jokes but unsure of how to approach it.
"...that's quite grim of you, my friend. I hope you don't truly mean it. Bunch of bullcrap if I ever heard one."
It seems Geralt's full of surprises today. The invitation, the grabbing, the picture, now a question about fucking poetry. Is he taking interest in Jaskier's hobbies? Because he isn't one to chitchat, that's for sure. The fact he can recognize is not Jaskier's writing warms his heart at least.
"It's an old Irish blessing," Mr British explains after swallowing his first bite of sandwich. "Interested in poetry, Geralt? I have plenty of recommendations. If you're secretly a bookworm and haven't told me I'll be very upset! Tell me about your shelves, what do you keep on them?"
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He licks his lips when he's done, as though chasing the flavor of the wine. Geralt watches, his face blank, and carefully does not think about Jaskier's mouth.
The whole soul-lacking comment was meant more as a joke than anything, a reference to the fact that most people looked at Geralt and saw nothing more than a big thug at best, and for those that knew his background? A monster at worst. One day, Jaskier was going to find out about his whole felony thing, either because he'd get curious and Google a little too deep or he'd just ask the right people the right questions, then maybe he'd get the comment.
Interested in poetry, he asks, and Geralt takes his glass of wine and drains the rest of its contents in one go.
"No."
Geralt wouldn't know good poetry if it bit him in the ass. He barely finished high school, nevertheless went to some fancy university to learn about rhyming schemes and classic literature and whatever the fuck else a modern liberal arts education means these days. Yen did, because she was smart enough to know that Geralt was dead weight and that she could do so much better, and Ciri will. Thank the gods that Geralt doesn't believe in that she got all her brains from her mother and not from him-- hell, that she seems to have gotten nothing from him but her hair color.
But the question about his bookshelf is... well, he has bookshelves, and they're full of books, and he actually quite likes to read. But either no one believes him if he says that, or they do what Lambert does and make fun of him relentlessly.
"I don't read."
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Jaskier sighs, looking quite disappointed at the lack of the possible connection they could've made, before drinking some more wine. Anyone that knows him knows he's capable of carrying one-sided conversations for hours, but man, Geralt surely is capable of testing his conversational skills to the fullest. Maybe he shouldn't have texted his sister before coming, that's why he's thinking so hard about it.
Are you sure he is worth the hassle, Jas?
It's not like he can blame her for worrying. This wouldn't be the first time he fucked someone much older than him or even a parent. But this has been nothing like picking up a guy or chick at a bar that he shall never see again, or maybe he will but just for another fuck. It's been more... personal. Well, as personal as it can with Mr Grunt-for-an-answer.
Lizzie thinks he's infatuated with the mystery of a man that probably is just an old guy that likes horses, nothing more nothing less; and the more Jaskier drags this on, the more he'll be hurt by disappointment when the infatuation disappears after a good orgasm. Which is, quite frankly, too hopeful of her - Jaskier doesn't think he's getting that orgasm any time soon. So he'll stick to this mystery, this puzzle wrapped in golden eyes and big muscles, thank you very much.
"Then tell me, Geralt," he continues after finishing his first sandwich. "What do you do in your free time? That isn't horse related?"
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What was it that his therapist would say at a time like this? Probably to quit being an asshole and carry his half of the conversation with his... acquaintance-friend. Customer-friend-acquaintance. Whatever.
He chews through the sandwich. Jaskier is waiting for some kind of answer to his question, and the afternoon sunlight turns his hair into a gold halo around his head and makes his eyes look almost impossibly blue, and Geralt doesn't know why the fuck he's noticing these things at all.
"I fix things," he says after a few long moments. "Motorcycles, mostly. Sometimes cars."
There's a simplicity to mechanical things that Geralt likes-- they go together a certain way, and when you have all their parts in order, they work. Easy. No surprises.
"Ranch keeps me busy most days, though. Horses need a lot and I've had a lot more business the last few weeks."
More to do, and just one ranch dad to do it all. It's probably partly because of the social media presence and the power of Jaskier's fanbase-- word travels fast when there are a few thousand teenage fangirls twittering about it or whatever it is they do.
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But where should he draw the line? With introverts like this guy, some pushing is absolutely necessary. They wouldn't even be here in the first place if Jaskier hadn't put so much work in texting and chatting with him whenever he visited the ranch! Maybe he needs to--
Oh. An answer! A real one! Plus an update on his work life! SUCCESS!
"Motorcycles? You ride bikes? That's wicked!" And incredibly sexy as well - Jaskier wants to demand a ride already. He can already picture both of them on the boke, wind on their faces and Jaskier's arms around those very, very hard abs... Oh god, is he staring? He's staring. Jaskier clears his voice and tries again, leaning is as he starts shooting question after question, absolutely excited at this bit of news. "Do you own one or more bikes? What's the fastest you've gone? Have you taken Cirilla with you? Do the horses get scared of the noises?"
Gosh, he can picture that as well, a greasy Geralt, looking like a badass mechanic-biker, still being soft as he hushes his beloved animals... how is this bloke even real. It makes so much sense as well - he prefers to work on things, be animals or machines, because he doesn't have to interact with people then. It suits Geralt's loner personality. And oh, Jaskier remembers now which were the longest texts he's gotten from him: the ones that guided him through putting up a bird feeder on his balcony. Fuck. Next time he needs something crafty, he should make Geralt come over, he'll pay for the fucking Uber if necessary.
When he hears about the extra business, Jaskier instantly beams.
"Told you! The power of social media, my friend!" He grabs his glass and lightly taps it against Geralt's, as if toasting to that. "Congratulations on your newfound success! If you don't have time for yourself, however- have you considered hiring some help?"
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"One that I ride and one that I'm fixing up, I don't know, no, and yes, that's why I keep them in my garage at the house."
How does this guy even manage to get through that many thoughts all at the same time, nevertheless get them out of his mouth, too? It would be impressive if it wasn't also a bit difficult to follow. Like his brain is continually firing on all cylinders. And then he jumps right to talking about the business, which is fine except that Geralt still knows almost nothing about social media.
Jaskier's glass pings off of Geralt's, makes a crystalline little noise. He doesn't exactly think it's something to celebrate, at least not like this-- now Geralt's just understaffed, overworked, and extremely confused by his own social media.
"I get a lot of weird comments on that account," he says, taking out his phone to pull up some of the aforementioned comments on Instagram. "The fuck is three eggplants, raindrops, and a taco emoji supposed to mean?"
Since Jaskier is so well-versed in what the Kids are into, he should know, right? And he would know why this mysterious string of emojis is showing up on a picture of him lugging around a bale of hay for his horses on a hot day, his shirt slung over the rail of a fence. Are the people on Instagram confused? Do they think that he's some kind of farmer, and that's why they're posting vegetable emojis? Someone had a similarly confusing string that involved eggplants and peaches, too. And why do so many of them fixate on eggplants? They wouldn't even grow well in this area.
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Jaskier has a thousand more of these rapid-fire questions, especially when he notices Geralt avoids the subject of hiring help (a sign of stubbornness or a bigger issue?) but those questioning thoughts are dropped when he takes out his phone to show him the comments on the picture he posted earlier that morning.
And god, what a picture it is. Jaskier hasn't wanked to it yet only because of lack of time, but boy does it make his blood boil. Weird comments though? Has Geralt gotten a creep as a follower? (Jaskier doesn't count, shut up.) Maybe he needs to teach Geralt how to block unwanted attention that comes in the form of harassment or--
...emojis?
Oh.
Ooooh.
Jaskier snickers. "You must have some idea! That's why you're asking me and not your very young daughter."
Geralt's face tells him he's 100% serious and Jaskier just loses it then. He even has to put his glass down not to accidentally drop it instead, that's how hard he's laughing now. He's not trying to be mean, this is simply adorable, and honestly kind of impressive. How do you stay so... well, innocent is probably not the word, but that's the idea. Geralt can be quite antisocial, but still. Jaskier hopes this is just a part of his personality quirks -taking things too literally and being disconnected from the modern world- and not a red flag on their age difference.
"Geralt, my friend, you don't think those are actual eggplants, do you?" It's hard to talk and laugh at the same time, but somehow he manages. "It's code - almost a metaphor, we could say. A way to express what they think about you without using sexual-" he waggles his eyebrows then "-language that minors could see or the bots could delete. Don't think about vegetables, think about what they represent. An extremely handsome man posts a quite flattering -to say the least- picture of himself and makes the public's imagination run wild. Can't you tell what they want you to do to them, Geralt? Think about it for a second. See the shapes and put two and two together. I believe in you."
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He is absolutely not going to tell Jaskier that.
Geralt shoots Jaskier a stern look, one that he maintains throughout the musician's entire spiel; the furrows in his forehead deepen when Jaskier's eyebrows waggle at him suggestively. His mouth twists into an annoyed expression when he starts going on about being handsome and taking flattering pictures and that kind of bullshit. Lying to his face, that's a new one. He didn't think Jaskier was the type to spout baseless falsehoods.
"Jaskier, the girl that posted this is..." he checks her profile and does a little mental math when he finds her birthdate in the description. "Nineteen. I'm old enough to be her father, she shouldn't be sending anything to me. And not-- vegetable cocks."
What the fuck is his life? What is his life that he's getting sex emojis from teenagers on Instagram?
"I should take these pictures down." The back of his neck feels warm. He'll blame it on sunburn, even though he's already put sunscreen on to prevent that. "People are getting the wrong idea."
He knew he should've stuck to just horse pictures and not listened when Ciri told him to post pictures of himself, too.
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"Nineteen is a young adult, Geralt. And she isn't actually sending you anything. Trust me, I know what fans sending you things looks like." And boy, has he gotten things since his channel started - he has to drink to that. "It's just a playful, sexier yet not rule-breaking way of saying you're hotter than global warming."
Smooth, Jaskier. Really smooth.
Do age differences bother him? Or is it just because this is too young? It's not like Geralt can be Jaskier's father. Maybe it's just because this hits too close to home, considering Cirilla and all. For one millisecond there (one Lizzie would be proud of), Jaskier wonders if he shouldn't change his approach, maybe drop it completely. Is he even doing the right thing here, hanging out with a man ten years older than him that obviously doesn't enjoy sexual innuendo?
That little insightful thought is instantly dropped when his dick takes over his thinking again, Geralt's threat pushing him to lean in and grab the man's arm with both his hands, as if that could stop him from doing anything.
"NO!" He realizes what he's doing a little too late - Jaskier looks into golden eyes, reminds himself for the hundredth time why he can't just go for it and smooch the hell out this DILF, and slowly pulls back after clearing his voice.
(His fingers still feel warm where they touched Geralt though.)
"I mean... I get it. If it makes you uncomfortable, then I get it. Your comfort comes first, and I don't want you to give that up for the sake of the ranch. That isn't -or shouldn't- be what social media is about."
A pauses - should he? Well, he's already embarrassed himself enough, he supposes, may as well go all the way. But he doesn't meet Geralt's eyes when he asks, "if you do take them down, would you at least send them to me? I like seeing you more often than these visits to the ranch."
Which isn't a lie, but also, he doesn't want to lose his wanking material. Sue him.
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For some reason, the prospect of Geralt taking his pictures down from the Instagram account is terribly distressing to Jaskier, and he's actually a little startled by his outburst-- it'd be hard to tell, Geralt's surprise mostly consists of staring at him with a furrowed brow, but it seems odd that he'd be so invested in the pictures on Geralt's account. It's not as though his photos reflect on Jaskier's reputation or anything. That's not how social media works, or at least he doesn't think it does. So why would he be so upset about Geralt taking down a few pictures?
Pictures, specifically, of him that a number of other people seem to find very attractive.
That thought kicks around in his head for a minute or so while he frowns at his phone. If these comments had come from anyone else, Geralt might have thought that they shared those sentiments. But Jaskier wouldn't, there's no way that a young, objectively attractive man looking to start a music career would be interested in a middle-aged father who spent most of his time around horses and smelled like it, too. He would be interested in pretty young people like himself, or someone wealthy who liked to pay for pretty young things. Geralt is none of those things.
And he also isn't interested in men, that's important to remember, too.
"Why would you want pictures of me?"
Geralt doesn't even want pictures of himself. Why would anyone else?
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Is it?
"Because... friends..."
His mouth is running out of habit - Geralt asked a question and he doesn't like silence. But he soon closes it, realizing there's no way to salvage this without actually saying I like you. And after that question? The mere thought makes something in his chest hurt.
He soon realizes what it is: he feels like a fucking creep.
Is Geralt truly that oblivious? Is it because of his age, not understanding modern flirting? Because he's straight? Maybe he is queer, but simply not into Jaskier, and the idea of a younger man who values freedom over family life being into him isn't even an option. Or maybe he's asking on purpose to put Jaskier on the spot, considering the context of the thirsty comments they just discussed.
In the end, the real reason doesn't matter, the final conclusion is still obvious: everything Jaskier's done so far it's been 100% one-sided, and the tolerance he thought was there turns out to be in his head. He's no different from an internet anon creeping on him through his DMs, making Geralt feel uncomfortable and wanted only for being a hot piece of meat instead of appreciated for his work at the ranch.
Jaskier has no chances here. Lizzie will be happy to hear that later, he supposes.
There's one thing he hasn't been lying about though, and it's that he still likes this friendship. And if that's all he can get, well, he'll protect it. He looks down at his glass with a sigh, looking disappointed.
"I guess you're right, why would I want pictures from a friend?" He laughs, because the question sounds dumb in his head (he gets pictures from friends all the time and he sends his own to Geralt as well) but also to cover up any embarrassment that can go through in his expression - he still wants to salvage this, even if it has to be platonic. "Delete them, Geralt. I want you to have fun with your account, not to be harassed."
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Is this what young people did now? Is this how he finds out for certain that he's gotten old?
There's a sudden sick twist in his gut, an uncomfortable possibility. He's not... he's not like one of those kinds of old men, going after people a whole decade younger than them because they're young and don't know what they want out of relationships yet. And sure, Jaskier's twenty-eight, not some barely-legal co-ed, but maybe it's overstepping some client boundaries to take him up the mountain alone for something that could, in the right context, look like a date-like activity. Though Jaskier couldn't have thought it was actually a date, he wouldn't have agreed to come if he'd thought that.
Still. He needs to be more careful. Like he'd said with the pictures-- someone could get the wrong idea.
"I'll take care of them later," he says. "Reception's shit up here."
The rest of their totally platonic picnic passes relatively easily-- Jaskier carries the majority of the conversation, being far better at small-talk and that kind of thing than Geralt's ever been. And Geralt tries to at least participate a little, even if he does have a tendency towards one-word answers. Evening's setting in by the time they pack everything up and head back down the mountain, the sunset painting the meadows in shades of red and gold.
The horses get put away for the night with their (lighter, since they'd been grazing all afternoon) dinners, seemingly content to be back in the barn after spending all day out doing... horse things. Mostly standing around and eating grass, but who knows what goes on inside the head of a horse during long summer afternoons.
This would be about the time that he would walk Jaskier up to where his ride would come to get him, then take the turn to head back to his own house. But Jaskier's very much a city boy, and Geralt's had enough city folk come down for trail rides to know that they aren't always aware of what needs to be done post-trail ride. Probably never had to deal with a tick in their lives. He imagines that Jaskier's probably much the same.
"You should tick check yourself before you go back home," he says. "You've probably got a few on you. Use my shower, if you want."
He's certain that Jaskier has at least one on him, because Geralt already picked one or two of them off of himself in the time since they'd come down off of the mountain. If he has them, the musician almost certainly does too-- ticks don't discriminate against prettyboys with guitars. Very egalitarian of them.
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While this little turn of events ends up in heartbreak for him (what a surprise), Jaskier must admit something does improve in this relationship, and that's the conversation. It's not always easy to chat with Geralt when they're on different horses and the man can easily ignore him by making Roach go a little farther or faster. It's not like he's making that much conversation now either, but the fact he's participating at all (even if it's with one-word answers) is a huge deal. It's... well, nice. A nice platonic chat. It reminds Jaskier of why he puts up with his grumpy ass in the first place.
He tries to flirt a little less. He has to wonder if his mannerisms even make it possible.
The day is over a little too soon, although it's probably for the best. Jaskier takes a picture of the beautiful sunset and sings all the way back to the ranch, a calm and thoughtful song about the twists of destiny leaving his lips to match what he's been in his mind since that awfully awkward moment of realization.
After saying his good-byes to Pegasus, Jaskier takes out his phone to order a ride... and freezes when Geralt makes his comment, blue eyes widening.
"...what." That has come out a bit more like a squeal than he intends it to. "Bloody hell, Geralt! This isn't our first trail ride!" He's already putting the phone away and taking off his flannel shirt. "Why is it TODAY that you choose to warn fucking warn me about this?"
He's a little too busy freaking out at the idea of nasty bugs hanging on his body and untying his boots to realize that Geralt has invited him inside and also this was something done back at the Pankratz estate... but by the servants.
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"Don't strip right now, unless you want to walk barefoot to the house," he says, then starts to lead the musician back up the driveway towards his home. "Usually I don't get this many on me just from taking a trail ride, but we usually don't roll around in the underbrush either."
The house that Geralt built is, unsurprisingly to anyone who knows him, very much in a cabin style, a sturdy two-story thing with a semi-basement, made from wood and stone with a deck off of the main floor and a balcony off of the second. Geralt leads him up the stairs to the deck, then into the house that way; that entrance goes right into the living room, the closest one to the first-floor bathroom. A person might be surprised that the house actually seems like it's been decorated rather than just filled with whatever furniture would do, but any cohesiveness in the design is entirely Yen's input. Geralt would have been fine with a house with mis-matched furniture so long as each individual piece was serviceable, but she had taken one step into it and demanded that he run these decisions by her first. Something about not wanting her daughter to spend half of her time in a house full of flannel.
So the end result is cozy, a place that Ciri could be comfortable living in, too, with enough of Geralt's-- as Yen would put it-- bullshit mountain man aesthetic that he doesn't feel like a stranger in his own home. Maybe more soft fabrics and warm colors than he would've used, but Yen kept it muted, subtle. She'd always been better at this sort of thing than him, anyway, so leaving it to her had been a good decision.
She had also, for inexplicable reasons, shown considerable glee in putting a dense faux-fur rug in front of the large central fireplace, regardless of the looks Geralt gave her. He knows what she thinks it'll be used for, but he'd have to be dating someone to fuck them on the rug in front of his fireplace.
Anyway.
"Take off your shirt and jeans," he says. "I'll check you over. Bathroom's over there, you can check the rest when I'm done and rinse off."
It's not a big deal-- he'd done the same thing with his brothers after long days messing around in the woods as kids. Purely practical. There's nothing strange about putting his hands on Jaskier, getting his fingers through his hair.
"I'll toss your clothes in the dryer while you're in there. Heat'll kill anything we missed."
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The fact Geralt is inviting him to his freaking house is finally sinking in, and that instantly gets rid of his indignation, replacing it with a grin instead. The bugs are worth it in exchange for this one more step in this re-... ah, friendship, he reminds himself. Right. Which is why he doesn't make an innuendo joke when Geralt mentions rolling around in the underbrush, no matter he's dying to.
Jaskier has seen the house from the outside every time he's visited, of course, and he's always thought it matches the mountain man motif Geralt has going on. So he expects the inside to match - imagine his surprise when it doesn't.
Alright, that's not completely fair. It does match in theme, it's just... well. It's actually well done! Jaskier wouldn't mind spending time here and even take pictures he wouldn't be ashamed of sharing. There even are a fur rug and a fireplace! Geralt only needs to open a few shirt buttons and it'll be the perfect romance novel cover. Has the rug ever been baptized, he wonders.
...he shouldn't be thinking like that. Friends, friends!
"You have a very nice place here, Geralt. I didn't expect you to have an eye for decoration." He keeps turning on his spot in the middle of the room, taking every detail, wanting to learn more about this mystery of a man - and that's why he's distracted when Geralt speaks, so his mouth works on automatic. "Oh gee, buy a bloke dinner first, you scamp."
His turning stops as soon as he finishes saying that. Everything happens in an instant: first the freezing and the wide eyes, a second later the raising of his hands to gesture, which he can't do because they're busy. His flannel shirt falls to the floor and Jaskier curses under his breath as he drops his bags and his guitar case on the couch.
"Sorrysorrysorry I didn't mean-- I mean--" Fuck. Triplefuck. He is being a creep after all, holy shit. He hasn't been this much of a bisexual disaster in a while. "A shower after a warm day sounds lovely, thank you, my friend."
Yeah, friend. There we go. Smooth as fuck (except he isn't).
Jaskier clears his voice and starts undressing as Geralt requested, at more normal speed this time. Partly because he wants to stick to this whole better-not-come-off-as-flirting deal, partly because he needs a moment for his brain to stop panicking at the fact he's undressing for bloody Geralt. This isn't how he imagined it would happen, honestly. And it's not like Jaskier hasn't been in locker rooms before, but this is definitely different. Geralt will be touching him and inspecting him closely in the privacy of his home and--
Bollocks he mumbles under his breath again as he drops his I'm a luxury you can't afford t-shirt on the floor next to his shirt, and now his lovely (blue and yellow) tattoo and all that freaking body hair are in display. His jeans go off next, and he decides to search the room for a topic of conversation to try to distract himself from the fact Geralt is now seeing him in his underwear.
There's one sock left to take off when he sees it. He frowns, confused and already getting a little annoyed if he's understanding this correctly.
"...Geralt. Have you been lying to me or your daughter just happens to have a huge collection of high fantasy?"
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In response to his dinner comment, Geralt just gives him a single raised eyebrow-- he doesn't take it personally, it's the kind of horseshit that people say in this kind of situation. A way to break the weird tension of having to strip down in front of someone you don't know very well. Jaskier seems oddly flustered by the whole thing afterward, though. He still does what Geralt asked and takes off his shirt and jeans, tossing them into a pile, but he seems keen on inspecting his surroundings more than paying attention to his host. Geralt doesn't stop him; he has to get out of his own shirt so that Jaskier can check his hair and back as well, and to briefly go into the kitchen to fetch a paper towel. Needs to have something to squash the ticks in once he finds them, after all.
He asks about the bookshelves, which are, as he noticed, packed full-- fantasy, horror, classic gothic novels, a few shelves dedicated to those popular young adult novels that Ciri likes. Quite a few of the paperbacks are well-loved, with bent pages and cracked spines. Geralt steps behind him, reaching out with one hand to brush aside some of the hair at the nape of his neck so that he could look at his hairline. Start pushing his fingers through his thick, dark hair, feeling for any ticks that might be hiding there.
"Ciri is a very prolific reader," he says. "But I didn't lie to you. I don't read, I don't have time to anymore."
He used to read, a hobby that he'd really picked up while he'd been in prison. Not much else to do while he was there but exercise, read, and try not to get into any more trouble. Be a model prisoner and try to look nice for the parole board hearings.
"Hold still." There's a suspicious little bump in the hair just behind Jaskier's right ear. Geralt grabs it between thumb and forefinger and pulls, and-- yeah, there's one. First tick of the afternoon. Geralt deposits it on the paper towel and squashes it with a thumb.
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So Geralt had been lying, the bastard! Jaskier wants to huff... but a gasp escapes his lip instead when that a strong yet kind hand touches the nape of his neck. When did Geralt get behind him? How can a man this big be so sneaky? Fuck, his fingers are long and gentle and they're pushing through his hair now - Jaskier swears he could bloody swoon right now.
And if he pushes his head back against that hand, well. Totally an accident. Really.
"Y-you arse." Ah, his voice has come out a little too squeaky, hasn't it? Good lord, this is almost pathetic. He takes a deep breath and tries again, ignoring how fast his heart is beating and how it echoes in his own ears. "Don't play innocent with me, this is the second time you answer with a technicality just to avoid my questions. If you don't want to call it lying then call it bloody cheating."
He knows because he's a word-spinner and he used to pull the same shit on his parents. Not so fun when someone else pulls it on you, mmh, Jaskier?
One would think holding still should be a hard task for Jaskier - and usually it is, ball of energy and all. But it isn't so difficult this time, because he can feel Geralt's fingers on his ear and his body can only freeze as a shiver runs down his spine. His eyes are shut tight and Jaskier tries to think about not erotic things to distract himself from Geralt's hand on him and Geralt's warm breath on the back of his head and Geralt's body being so close and--
Fuck. Valdo Marx in a thong. Sundays spent in church. Spoiled milk. Nasty bugs, like the one Geralt is---
Oh for fuck's sake. This isn't working! It's the silence, it's gotta be. He hates silence, and it makes this moment worse by making it an Actual Moment (TM). He needs a topic of conversation asap. Where were they? Ah, yes. Literature.
"Every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter," he recites Oscar Wilde as he realizes his chest is flushed now. Dammit, hopefully Geralt doesn't notice. "Is that lovely gothic section yours or your daughter's?"
Do they have books in common? Now that would be as unexpected as the excellent decoration.
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Jaskier holds very still while Geralt takes the tick off of him, presumably because he's taking a gross insect out of his hair. He keeps searching for more as the musician stays silent, focusing entirely on his task. He doesn't want to miss one, after all, and have it bite him. He could get sick from that, if he's particularly unlucky, and he doesn't need Lyme disease or something while he's trying to get his music career off the ground.
He breaks the silence with an Oscar Wilde quote as Geralt's finishing up with his scalp, pushing his ear forward a little and finding a little black dot hiding back there. Apparently the musician's ears are very attractive to ticks, and it takes Geralt a few moments to figure out how to grab the thing and remove it from its awkward location. Thankfully, it's too soon after their trip for the bugs to have bitten yet, so it comes off easily enough once he can grab it.
"Not a whole lot of fourteen year old girls reading Wilde," he says, moving on from Jaskier's hair to the nape of his neck, then down his back. His skin is soft and smooth, clearly well taken care of, and there is surprising strength in the muscles of his back. A splash of color marks his side where the tattoo runs. "They're mine."
His back looks clear, but there's technically one more spot for him to check. Ticks like to hide in dark, warm places, and one of their favorite spots is just underneath waistbands in trousers or, in this case, undergarments.
"Waistband," he says as a warning, then hooks his thumbs over the edge of it and pulls it back. Not much, just enough to see a half an inch or so of extra skin, and it's just as creamy-pale and smooth as the rest of him. Geralt's mouth feels oddly dry; maybe he's a little dehydrated because of the wine.
"You're good," he takes his hands off of Jaskier, and his fingertips feel like they're tingling just a little. "You'll still need to look over the rest of you. I'd appreciate it if you could check through my hair first."
One of the downsides of having his hair long-- it's a lot to check through. But the color of it means that ticks don't blend in at all, so that's one very minor benefit to his premature gray.
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"What?"
-before Geralt is hooking his thumbs over the waistband of his fucking underwear. Jaskier catches his breath and before he can stop himself, he's raising his hand to cover his mouth because he's sure a very embarrassing noise almost escapes him. Geralt is looking at his ass. Geralt is looking at his ass. GERALT IS LOOKING AT HIS ASS! Or maybe he isn't. Is he? He doesn't know what to think, he doesn't know what he wants the answer to be.
Geralt isn't interested in him, he reminds himself. He wanted to be treated like a friend, right? Well, this is it. Dudes being dudes.
Then why does his heart keep on screaming about mixed signals? (His heart has never been good at giving advice, Lizzie would say.)
It's a quick moment that's over soon, but Jaskier feels like it lasts a fucking eternity. It's not helped by the fact Geralt asks him to check through his hair, something Jaskier has wanted to do since he first met him: to run his finger through white locks and let his nails tease the nape of his neck and-- stop.
"S-sure." He gulps before he starts turning around. "If you have a comb I could also help you with--"
Words get stuck in his -suddenly very dry- throat when Jaskier finishes turning and finds himself face to face with the two biggest tits he's ever seen in his fucking life.
That embarrassing squeaky sound from before? Yeah, he can't stop it this time.
Geralt was born chiseled by Michelangelo himself. Every muscle is bulging: his six-pack could be used to wash fucking leather on, those arms are thicker than some of the tree trunks in the forest, and the chest... good lord, that chest. What a mighty chest. Jaskier wants to bury his face in it, to take naps on it, to suck on those perky nipples - PIERCED nipples. Geralt has piercings. On his nipples.
Also a fucking wolf tattoo.
Did they drink all the wine? He needs more wine.
Jaskier realizes he's raising his hand and quickly takes it back - so much for not being a creep. And his voice? The traitor comes out in a high pitch when he speaks.
"...you are a wolf."
His brain is not working right, so that thought is the only thing he manages to say. He isn't talking about the actual animal - Geralt is a wolf in the same way he is an otter. How could he not see it before?
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