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inber · 4 years

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The Man - Number 7 Dice Roll Song Prompts (Geralt x Jaskier)

A/N: This ficlet is inspired by the song 'The Man' by The Killers, which I could totally see Jaskier rocking. This fic is AU, and is a lil' angst that leads to fluff. The first of my 12 dice roll song prompts! Read on if you like the boyes in leather/punk stylin' ;) Lyrics in bold! Warnings: Boyes kissin', Angst.

"Hey, uh," Jaskier was sidling up to a lone woman at the bar, who was waiting for her drink to be poured, "Do you have any raisins in your purse?"

She blinked at him, taking in his casual lean, the careless unbutton of his untucked shirt, rolled up to his elbows. A pair of necklaces on leather cords dangled down, drawing attention to the dark scruff of his chest hair. "Um, no?" She responded, visibly confused.

"Oh, damn." He ruffled his hand through his chestnut hair, handsomely styled in licks against his forehead, and shot her a cheeky grin. "How about a date?"

She picked up her drink, rolled her eyes, and walked over to her waiting friends. Jaskier spread his arms wide, as if unable to comprehend how she wasn't already on her knees, begging to suck his cock. Geralt chuckled, and took a swig of his beer. "Has that line ever worked, Jask?" He asked, all smirk.

"Yeah," Jaskier defended, slouching beside his friend, "Like... once or twice. C'mon, it's endearing." His British accent heavily leaned on his words. "Some of us have to work for it, Ger'. I don't get why you turn so many babes away. You're fuckin' mad."

Geralt grunted. There was a reason he politely declined the people that threw themselves at him. But the reason just so happened to be his best friend and co-worker, who was currently glowering into his beer.

The owner of a motorcycle repair shop that had a reputation for quick, attentive work, Geralt had first met Jaskier when he'd brought in his matte black 2001 MTT Turbine Streetfighter. Honestly, Geralt's attention had been on the rarely produced speed-demon of a vehicle, rather than on Jaskier. At first.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" He'd looked up when he'd heard the purr of the Rolls-Royce engine, abandoning the dirt-bike he'd been fiddling with. "Fuck me, she's a beast."

"Isn't she, though?" Jaskier had trilled, and Geralt tore his gaze from the beautiful metal to...

The beautiful owner.

Jaskier had been dressed in a Ramones t-shirt, the sleeves torn off, exposing his tattooed biceps. The leather pants he wore were adorned with hand-sewn patches; bands, slogans, a pride flag. Day-old eyeliner smudged beneath a pair of sky-blue eyes, and Geralt had noted the multiple rings pierced through the man's left ear, black and silver.

Geralt had swallowed thickly and was glad for the counter he stood behind.

Most people were intimidated by him; he stood over six feet, muscle-bound, and wore his silvery hair long, often up in a bun. He had pale eyes, a green that seemed to glow when the sun hit it. He was covered in scars from his youth; tales he did not tell about old gangs, fights, crimes. He was free of that, now, running a clean business - but his imposing nature didn't soften with time.

Jaskier, though. Jaskier had grinned, and nodded his head. "Your septum ring is awesome. Suits you. I like the design."

Absently, Geralt had reached up to touch the gold clicker; it was a delicate filigree pattern. His daughter had chosen it for him. Unused to compliments, he'd muttered something that passed for 'thank you', and raised his chin at the bike. "She giving you problems?"

"Naw," Jaskier had purred, "Just brought her over from the UK. I asked around, and you're the best shop in town, so I'm entrusting my baby to your care. Just wanna check she made the trip intact before I take her out and open her up, y'know?"

"You ever ridden her to her limit?" Geralt gazed at the bike, and had wondered how it'd feel on the road.

"Close to it, yeah." Jaskier enthused, "205 miles is my record. It was like flying, Christ." He perked. "Say, you'd know where to go, to test her, right? I don't really wanna get busted my first month here. Gotta find a steady job, work out the details of my green card."

"You can afford this bike without a job?" Geralt had felt uneasy; he didn't want to tangle with a dealer. Even if he was hot.

"Could. Past tense. Made a mint fucking with bitcoin - one of my mates is a tech nerd. Cashed mine in before they crashed in value. Bought Countess here," He patted the bike, "And a flat, and then uh, yeah, lost a lot. Between couch cushions and barstools. But hey! Live fast, die young."

Geralt grunted, eyed him suspiciously, and had ultimately relented. The younger man was somehow not grating on him like most people did. "You know much about tuning her?" He'd asked.

"Yeah, but my gear is still being shipped. Can't bring that shit on a plane."

"What's your name?" Geralt picked up a wrench.

"Jaskier." The other man sighed. "Yeah, I know, it's odd. My mum's Polish."

Geralt had laughed, a low rumbling sound. "Weird. So was mine. I'm Geralt," He tossed the wrench to the other man, who caught it, "And if you don't piss me off by the end of the day, I could use a second pair of hands around here."

Jaskier did piss him off, almost daily, for five years. But Geralt loved having him in the shop. He worked hard and with the same passion as his boss, never accepting 'that'll do'; he sought perfection. Didn't matter if he was tuning a kid's first Kawasaki or replacing the brakes on a veteran's vintage Harley. All bikes received the same care.

Geralt sponsored Jaskier's green card application, found him a place to live in Brooklyn that wasn't covered in black mould, and brought him home on Fridays to eat spaghetti with Ciri, his daughter. They settled into a steady, companionable rhythm, going out drinking together when his daughter was with his ex-wife.

One morning, Jaskier came into work, handed Geralt a fresh bagel and his black coffee (with three sugars), and had grinned.

"Alright, boss?" He'd said, much like any other morning, but that day something clicked. That day Geralt let himself glimpse the future; Jaskier's name on the shop sign outside, going home together, tucking into bed at night after Ciri was asleep and wrapping his arms around the other man, and--

Fuck.

After that, he became more reserved. Jaskier could do better than an ex-gang member, divorced and made bitter by the world. And the man had so much love to give. It seemed every week he had another tragic break-up story about the person he'd been with, certain they'd been the one, begging Geralt to come out and have a 'few' beers to 'help him recover'.

And Geralt ached, but he caved, every time.

It was exactly how he found himself in a new dive bar that night, watching Jaskier unsuccessfully attempt to 'recover'. For all his looks, and that lovely accent, he couldn't flirt his way out of a wet paper bag. Most of the time when he got lucky, it was because he kept his mouth shut.

Geralt had watched him go home with another young man or woman or person again and again - "You don't mind, love?" Jaskier would always ask - and he'd have to remind himself that he was doing the right thing. Too often he'd have to drink the jealousy down, choking on the bitterness of it.

"Hey, I think they're gonna do karaoke." Jaskier observed, watching someone set up a microphone. "You wanna sing a duet?"

"I'm absolutely nowhere near drunk enough to sing." Geralt refused, and Jaskier had the nerve to pout adorably. "You knock yourself out, though."

"I will." Jaskier huffed, before tapping on the bar to get some attention. He ordered four shots of silver Patron, sliding two at Geralt.

"Jaskier, you know tequila..."

"...Brings out fun Geralt!" The other man finished, all impish grin, as he threw back his first shot. "Woo! That'll put hair on my... ah, never mind."

"Dork." Geralt accused, before sighing, and picking up a shot. "Fine, then. Good luck up there." He poured the sharp liquid down his throat, and chased it with the second shot, barely flinching.

"Such a man." Jaskier complimented, and Geralt hoped the dank bar was dim enough to disguise his blush. "Right!" He strode towards the microphone confidently, forgetting his second shot. Geralt pulled it close for him to drink later.

Jaskier conversed briefly with the person in control of the karaoke screen and the music, before patting the man on the shoulder, and taking up the mic. He unclipped it from the stand, as a spotlight lit him up. Geralt watched, feeling the tequila warm him.

The first bars of music began to play, a funky rock beat infused with a hint of disco, and Jaskier moved his hips in time to the beat. Then, he lifted the microphone to his mouth, and sung.

I know the score, like the back of my hand,

Them other boys? I don't give a damn,

They kiss on the ring, I carry the crown,

Nothing can break, nothing can break me down!

Geralt's mouth was hanging slack. Jaskier was owning the small stage, hitting every note with a bassy perfection, the hint of a snarl at the back of his throat. He commanded the attention of the entire bar. Geralt's grip tightened on his beer.

I'm the man, come round and,

No-no-nothing can break,

You can't break me down!

People were rising to dance, cheering, an adoring crowd gathering as he launched into the chorus. Geralt blindly grabbed the stray tequila shot and threw it back. He heard the bar guy ask if he wanted another, and the noise he made must have sounded like 'yes', because another was poured. Unthinkingly, he downed that, too.

I got gas in the tank,

I got money in the bank,

I got news for you baby - you're looking at the man!

Jaskier was parading, playing the crowd up, strutting and stalking and crushing the song. Geralt watched a woman climb onto the stage and begin to dance, grinding against him as he launched into the bridge; her giggling friends followed - two other women and a handsome blonde man. When Jaskier growled 'I'm the man' and the dude gripped his hip possessively, Geralt saw white. He was up before he'd given his legs permission to function, stalking towards the stage.

I don't give a damn!

Jaskier finished, to riotous applause, but he didn't have much of an opportunity to enjoy the attention or the whispered proposition of the blonde. Geralt yanked him off the stage, slammed down some cash for their tab, and pulled Jaskier out the back, into the alleyway. Outside, it was misting with rain.

"Dude, what the fuck?" Jaskier growled, "I had so much going on in there!"

"No you didn't." Geralt snapped, "You had a gaggle of, of drunk sluts, that's all."

"So fucking what?" Jaskier spat, "I'm a drunk slut!"

"Yeah, you are! And I'm fucking sick of you wasting yourself on people who don't appreciate you, for what you can bring. You'll fall into anyone's arms just to not be alone, and it's-- it's fucking pathetic! You're better than that!"

"Oh, oh, this is rich, Geralt. You telling me how to feel? When was the last time you let anyone close, hm? Maybe I don't want to be lonely but you, you've accepted loneliness like it's a roommate. But guess what! That bitch doesn't pay rent, and you can fucking evict her. You're just too scared." Jaskier was wet, and seething, and Geralt had never felt so full of rage and arousal at the same time.

"Of course I'm fucking scared!" He roared, "People will destroy you. Every week, that's what you go through. When they toss you out like trash."

"At least I go through something!" Jaskier matched Geralt's thunder, "You don't feel anything!"

"Yes, I fucking do! I love you so much that it actually hurts, and--" Geralt froze up, remembered all the tequila, and visibly winced. "Fuck. I mean, shit. I mean, I--"

"You love me?" Jaskier was regarding him with such an expression of shock that Geralt felt sick. Christ, he wanted to turn the time back and slap those stupid shots right off the bartop.

"I'm... look, Jaskier. I already know I'm no good for you. I'm just an old fucker who has seen too much, with a kid and a mortgage and a bunch of scars, and you--"

But he didn't get to finish his gloomy tirade, because Jaskier was kissing him hungrily; Geralt froze up for a moment, before he gave himself wholly to the embrace. He shared the sharp taste of liquor in a twist of tongues, raked his work-calloused fingers through the other man's hair, growled into his mouth and gripped him by the hips, easily lifting him onto the hood of a parked car. Jaskier wrapped his legs around the larger man and sought dominion with the kiss, all scraping teeth and the abrasive brush of stubble. When they parted for breath, Geralt looked fierce, blown-out pupils, his hands shaking. Jaskier licked his jaw, finding a pierced lobe to nibble.

"How long?" He whispered, "How long have you felt like this?"

Geralt's hands roamed Jaskier's body desperately, as if trying to memorise every muscle beneath his shirt. "Too," He gasped, "Too long."

"Wish you'd have said something, or flirted back at me when I tried, or... fuck, anything." Jaskier pulled back enough to meet Geralt's guilty gaze. "Would have saved me a lot of time looking for you in other people."

"What?" Geralt started, "I-- I don't..."

"I love you too, you impossible fuckin' idiot. You just put up so many walls that I figured it wasn't worth losing my job over. Or losing you. Even if I could only have you as a friend."

Geralt breathed, and pressed his forehead against Jaskier's. "Fuck. I guess... we have some time to make up for?" His hopeful tone earned him a grin.

"I'll fuckin' say. Work's gonna be weird tomorrow. Hey, you got any tips for dealing with a crush on your boss?" Jaskier combed a few stray silver locks away from Geralt's face.

"Yeah," Geralt growled, "Buy him a bottle of tequila."

Jaskier laughed, until he fell silent under another needy, sweet kiss. When he went home that night, it wasn't with a conquest. It was with the one.

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