A little pre-relationship/QPR valskier soulmates for you! With much yearning as they haven't quite matured into their friendship yet
Soulmates. Everyone has one, most have more than one, colours symbolising different forms of love, ribbons of intangible silk flowing from one person to another. Jaskier has more ribbons than he can count, a fact that he’s learned to keep hidden after years of name calling. It’s not his fault that he falls in love easily and deeply. The ribbon that ties him to Valdo Marx is the most frustrating, a bright yellow of deep friendship that taunts him endlessly, no matter how hard he tries, their rivalry is just too strong. Maybe someday they’ll be the friends fate chose.
Lost Scenes Thursday! Get to know your favourite authors better. Show five scenes from either abandoned fics where you regret they will never see the light of day, or five scenes from WIPs where you are impatient to see them out there. Long, short, one-liner... it's all good reading. Tag five other authors where you are curious.
this is a fun ask, lets see if i can come up with five. (spoilers: i did! some snickety and witchery snippets below the cut)
abandoned drabble
Jaskier is moping and it shouldn’t bother Geralt. It’s just… irritating, the way Jaskier can be loud even in complete silence. This is really for Geralt’s benefit.
“Jaskier,” Geralt says, and tosses a stick at the bard before he’s quite looked up. He catches it easily anyway. His expression shifts through anger to comical outrage anyway.
“What’s that for?”
“Sparring.”
“Geralt, you do realize traveling unarmed is a deliberate choice on my part?”
“That’s a stick,” Geralt says flatly, and Jaskier frowns for a moment and then laughs
2. bit i cut from "in which ciri acquires an emotional support bard" because it didn't fit structurally/i didn't want to delve too too deep into any of the non-Ciri relationships and this would have needed a whole separate subplot to work
“You don’t have to forgive him.”
Yennefer didn’t respond.
“You’re not completely at fault, I don’t care what either of you think about this.”
Yennefer looked furious for a moment before she schooled her features into something calm and diplomatic. “You didn’t have to forgive him either.”
“Yes, I did,” Jaskier hissed, “because he was so obviously, painfully sorry, and then he apologized with actual fucking words, which last I checked he has absolutely not done for you. He has, in fact, seemed to be denying that he’s behaved unfairly in any way.”
Jaskier drew a deep breath and deflated a bit, “Sorry, I’m not mad… at you.”
Yennefer made a sobbing noise that she would have repressed if she could and found herself suddenly enveloped in a tight hug.
3. tiny bit from the klaus&lemony fic i have temporarily given up on, not sure if this will end up in the final draft
Klaus listened silently as Mr. Snicket awkwardly shuffled about in his seat for a long while before he peered over the top of his book.
“Mr. Snicket, your book is upside down,” Klaus said flatly.
“Yes, I suppose it is.” Mr. Snicket closed the book and set it in his lap rather than flipping it the right way around. He peered back at Klaus over the cover of <title>, his expression somewhat expectant. Slowly, Klaus lowered the book, getting a good look at Mr. Snicket.
Mr. Snicket was wearing his customary button down shirt and slacks. In concession to the summer heat and the casual attire appropriate for one’s home, he had forgone a tie and was wearing a set of house shoes with no socks leaving his ankles exposed.
4. manic pixie dream jaskier (the jaskier/valdo fic i was possessed to write :D )
Valdo doesn’t say much of anything, just hums agreeably when Julian pauses in his stream-of-conscious observations. Valdo’s too distracted by the lingering tingle the touch of Julian’s palm had left against his own and the musical staccato of Julian’s voice to process much of what he’s saying. Julian makes some rambling but incisive comments about the band that Valdo would be hard pressed to recall the specifics of, but his full attention latches back onto Julian’s words as he begins to speculate in discomfiting detail about which of the locals at the next table would be most willing and mutually satisfactorily to get into bed with.
“The one with the coppery hair must be a blacksmith’s apprentice. Look at the muscles in his neck...” Julian moves to stand and Valdo catches him by the wrist. He blushes—red and splotchy feeling, nothing like the soft flush that had entranced Valdo last term. He curls in on himself in pre-emptive shame, but Julian pauses, looking at Valdo inquisitively.
Valdo doesn’t move when Julian carefully disentangles his wrist from Valdo’s fingers or when Julian turns around on the bench to lean into the space between Valdo and the table, not quite touching him. He feels pinned in place like the exotic beetles he had seen through the door in one of the biology labs.
Julian’s smile is sharp and nearly predatory, but not unkind. Valdo thinks he might have an aneurysm when Julian’s hand cups the side of Valdo’s neck. He lets Julian kiss him, too wrongfooted to do much of anything in return.
[and that is where i ran out of transcribing focus, the rest of the scene is in my notebook :/ ]
5. abandoned jacques&lemony fic from so long ago i don't even remember writing it, but i kinda like it. who knows, maybe this will get wrapped into the disastrous snicket siblings fic i want to write
I have always loved my brother and would drain the oceans of the world if it would keep him alive and reasonably whole, but he had a particular way—which I believe only younger siblings can achieve—of driving me up a wall. Currently, he was seated across from me, frowning slightly, his gaze fixed on the entryway of the restaurant as his fingers tapped noiselessly against the white tablecloth. I was confident, though unlike my brother I was no expert on the subject, that it was a pattern of tapping that would elicit a tune from the treble keys and bass buttons of an accordion. I wished he would sit still.
Lemony’s particular fidgeting reminded me of something I very much did not want to think about. Long enough ago that we were a great deal happier and my brother did not yet have a permanent crease of worry between his brows, we had made a regular practice of sitting at tables that were a great deal larger but otherwise very similar to this one with a number of other people. Lemony and Beatrice would play a game. It would start with Lemony tapping his fingers against the table as he was doing now. Beatrice would proceed to guess what he was playing. Inevitably, Lemony would inform her that she was wrong and Beatrice would continue to guess increasingly implausible pieces of music until she decided to accuse Lemony of cheating, and then Lemony would say something along the lines of “How dare you besmirch my honor. You don’t even know how to play the accordion,” and they would argue while Jerome looked distressed and Bertrand watched them fondly, occasionally making an interjection. To the untrained eye, these interjections seemed to be the sort of thing one would say to de-escalate a conflict, but I was certain Bertrand had been egging them on.
Eventually I would say something along the lines of, “everyone is staring, we shouldn’t be drawing so much attention to ourselves,” to which Lemony would respond very pointedly, “You don’t care about that.” And I would glare at him, and he would raise an eyebrow as if to say, “any argument you make will only serve to make me more certain of my suspicions.”
At least he was too polite to voice his suspicions aloud. If I was lucky, Beatrice and Bertrand would have begun to talk about something else and Jerome would begin to relax.
Mostly to derail my train of thought as safely as possible, I asked my brother, “What do you think?”
I had been telling him about my latest mission—to ensure that the remnants of the headquarters at 667 Dark Avenue did not fall into the wrong hands without revealing our organization’s interest in the location. I had hoped to discuss the matter with my brother has he, despite his insistence to the contrary, provided excellent insight into the mind and likely actions of one Esme Squalor, but I suspect he had not been listening.
Lemony schooled his expression into that of an insolent child, “You should tell him how you feel.”
“Tell who how I feel about what?” I responded cautiously.
Lemony ignored me, clearly believing I knew what he was talking about. He may have been right to do so.
“In person. Not in a letter he might not receive. He’d be pleased to see you.”
“That’s something, coming from you.”
This was a cruel thing to say, and I wished to take it back. I expected my brother to argue—explain that his circumstances had been more complex, or, possibly, simply walk away without a word as I was certain he was still angry with me about the role I played in making those circumstances more complex, which I was not sorry for as I would rather see my brother miserable than dead and I, still, even with the benefit of hindsight, could see no better alternative. Instead he let his gaze drift back to the entryway of the restaurant. I wondered if he was anxious or waiting for something specific or both.
“I give myself very good advice, but I very seldom follow it,” he quoted. I didn’t know what to make of that. I knew the book about the girl who fell through a hole in the ground and found a world that was whimsical and strange had upset him a great deal as a small child.
oops here’s an accidental follow up to 2021’s valdskier fill for ‘mending clothing’ 😅 now with 150% more pining valdo and 500% more sexual tension! also i’m sorry for paraphrasing and bastardizing sarah dessen, elvis costello, shakespeare, greek mythos, the bible, etc etc… i have no excuse except that valdo minorly possessed me
@whataboutthebard november 7 prompts: taking off clothing, mending clothing
M, 2.4K words, valdo/jaskier (slightly unrequited), background geraskier (ooo we love pain)
The stinger sneaks out between thick slabs of wood meant for keeping in noise and warmth and keeping out light and sobriety, and as the chord hits Valdo’s eardrums, his traitorous heart swells. On this Continent committed to tearing itself apart, there are only a few masters of his craft left standing. Valdo has studied, loved, or taught them all— and unless his ears deceive him, he thinks he might have caught wind of the one person who fits into all three of those categories.
And he has perfect pitch.
He enters the tavern just as tonight’s entertainment is ushered off-stage to some back private room, and thus only catches a glimpse of a coat far too ugly to house the man he knows. But Valdo trusts his gut; he doesn’t order a drink, instead brushing past the barkeep with grandiose excuses of bardic solidarity. The door to the back room swings open slowly onto a narrow staircase, and when Valdo ascends it he finds an equally narrow room awaiting at the top.
There, standing amidst— are they his band? They must be his band, although their dirty attire and sallow faces separates them greatly from anyone Jaskier would have played with at Cintra or Oxenfurt— a small group of cloaked, wide-eyed strangers, is his equal, his rival, and though admit it he will never, his muse. Jaskier’s mousy hair hangs long around his chin, and his coat is really, truly dreadful. Even more upsetting than his garb is the dismay he wears on his brow and frown, and the fervour in his voice when he stammers, “Valdo— what the fuck are you— you can’t be seen here!”
Valdo’s gaze sweeps over the local chaff. If these are the best musicians that this backwater town has to offer, he doesn’t think he’s got much to worry about. He scoffs, raising his palm to the other bard and keeping his tone as peremptory as he can. “Calm down, Pankratz. I rented a suite close by; no one will pay us any attention there.”
Jaskier twists to exchange some complex look with one of his compatriots; the man’s hood casts most of his face in shadow, but the whites of his eyes shine as he nods. Still flustered, Jaskier turns to Valdo and he nods too, albeit much less certainly. Although Valdo cannot say he understands the need for such dramatics, he respects them anyway, making sure the door slams shut between them on his way back down the stairs.
He doesn’t bother glancing behind him the entire journey to his suite, only pausing at one corner before hurrying into the crowded town square. Valdo half-expects his tail to abandon him in the rabble, but when he makes it to his inn and nods to the innkeep, he sees her nod to someone behind him as well.
Disguising his smile as best he can, Valdo leads Jaskier through the winding hallways to his rented room. It reminds him a bit of a classic tale they would have both studied at Oxenfurt. Only in this story, when the door to his room swings shut behind them both and he turns to finally see Jaskier, neither of them are struck down by the gods or turned instantly to salt. Jaskier stares, his gaze as arrestingly bright as always, and Valdo swallows his smile so aggressively that he’s sure he looks quite sour.
Then in the same instant, they both ignite:
“Why in the bloody fucking fuck are you here?”
“Really, Jaskier, I know that your voice isn’t what it used to be, but there’s no point in retiring— why am I here? Why the fuck are you here—”
“Retiring! I’m sorry, perhaps you were too late and missed my sold-out show—”
“A sold-out show in a backwater hovel, my, how will I ever overcome my jealousy—”
“I haven’t heard of any of your shows selling out in over a; well, no, make that ever—”
“Some of us are less concerned with finances and more interested in honing our craft—”
“Oh, I bet you and your fucking craft have spent some nice long winters together, just honing it up—”
“At least I find my inspiration without having to step around piles of horse shit all year long,” Valdo sneers back. “Tell me, darling, how is the muse?”
He fully expects Jaskier to bite back, and when no rejoinder comes, a new and unwelcome shudder runs up Valdo’s spine. The other bard looks as though Valdo has slapped him, his usually brilliant eyes lowered to reflect nothing. Duller than Valdo has ever heard him, Jaskier mutters, “What the fuck do you want, Valdo?”
“I want my greatest rival back,” Valdo answers without thinking. Last time he was brutally, unreservedly honest, it had thrown Jaskier for a loop. He expects the same quick turn this time, and for Jaskier to embrace their regular dynamic. When Jaskier doesn’t even glance up, the pit in his stomach only grows. “I… well… You haven’t been to many conferences or competitions as of late!”
Heaving a gentle but tremendous sigh, Jaskier still doesn’t meet his gaze. “There are more important things in the world than music.”
“No,” Valdo dismisses without hesitation. “Music is the great uniter. Something that people who differ on everything and anything else can have in common. A song may not be able to change your mind, but it can infiltrate your heart, and the heart could change your mind.”
When he finishes the quote, Jaskier is finally watching him. But in his expression is a funny sort of bemusement that makes Valdo’s heart race slightly faster; panic, no doubt. “You read my thesis.”
“Had to keep myself entertained somehow,” Valdo mutters, instead of the sore, ugly truth: that he read it as soon as it was published, and his intent had been to decry it to all who would listen. But instead, he had found it frustratingly genius.
“Valéry, I don’t know what you want from me,” pleads Jaskier.
“Well...” A plethora of ideas come to mind, but only one of them is stupid enough to maybe actually work. Truth be told, he hadn’t given the rumours of Jaskier’s residency in this town enough credence to really think this plan through. But where logic fails, perhaps nostalgia will suffice. He soldiers on: “I’ve torn a hole in one of my very favourite articles of clothing. Perhaps you could mend it for me.”
Jaskier stares, unimpressed. This part went smoother last time. “You know, there are plenty of fine tailors.”
“Of course,” Valdo lifts his chin proudly, bracing himself. “But I find myself hesitant to trust just anyone with this sensitive matter.”
With that, he removes his trousers, which are free of any runs or loose seams or frayed threads. Then Valdo takes a heavy inhale before stripping out of his smallclothes, pulling them down his thighs and around his knees. There is a small hole of fabric missing at the crotch, worn away after years of use. But otherwise his smalls are clean, if slightly sweaty from the journey to fetch Jaskier.
He drops them to the floor, and scoops them up with one hand. Jaskier stares, quite shamelessly, at what Valdo’s garments were previously adorning. Valdo doesn’t move to cover himself, but he does clear his throat expectantly, breaking the silence between them. “That is, unless you have more urgent plans. I’m sure that witcher keeps you on a busy schedule.”
“No,” Jaskier chokes out, finally glancing away from Valdo’s prick and crossing the room in only a few steps to yank the drawers out of his grasp. “No, that’s fine, this— this is fine. You have a needle?”
He indicates that Jaskier should check the small bag on the nightstand, and he quickly finds and retrieves the meagre sewing supplies that Valdo has yet to even open. Jaskier struggles to thread the needle and Valdo bites back a hundred entendres; he’s in too vulnerable a position to tease. Instead he retreats to the corner of the room and sinks into a chair next to his discarded trousers.
Sitting like this, with a distance between them and his legs bared, allows Valdo to recollect the last time they saw one another. He thinks of it and presses his lips together, his mouth remembering how Jaskier’s had felt. Across the room, without glancing up at all, Jaskier chews his lower lip— it makes him look decades younger, somehow.
Valdo’s breath catches in his throat. Jaskier looks up, instantly catching his gaze across the room. Mildly, he offers, “I can get you something else to cover up.”
Valdo shrugs. “If you’d like.”
Neither of them move to do so. Valdo reaches down but cowers at the last moment, resting his palms atop his thighs. Jaskier’s eyes flash, but he says nothing, only twisting his lip gently between his teeth as he returns to his needlework.
Because he’s in the most vulnerable position of his life, or because he’s never allowed himself anything good, or because he knows better than to think this can end well, or because he thinks they’re at their best when they’re at their ugliest, Valdo speaks without thinking; “So. Tell me, Julian. Where is that witcher of yours, anyway?”
The change is instant, and horrific. Jaskier’s voice drops to an awful bitter and clipped tone. “No clue.”
“Ah.” Valdo, appropriately chastened, frowns. “You were so happy last I saw you.”
Jaskier’s frown only hardens. “I was a fool.”
“A fool in love,” guesses Valdo.
“But a fool regardless,” Jaskier snaps back. “Do you care what pattern I stitch into this?”
“Dealer’s choice.” That makes the bard finally glance his way, and then glance very obviously down at his prick, still clamped tightly between his thighs. Jaskier nods sharply before turning back to his needlework.
His fingertips move deftly over the softly worn fabric as Valdo’s fingertips dig into the meaty muscle of his legs. Between them, his cock twitches, desperate for attention. It might be the strangest thing they’ve done together yet. Perhaps the strangeness is what finally prompts Jaskier to speak again.
“He told me he no longer wanted me in his life,” admits the poet, his gaze flicking down to Valdo’s cock even as his heart drifts to another man. It says a great deal about Valdo that his arousal does not falter, and that in fact this jealousy, combined with the attention, makes his erection even harder.
But Valdo is nothing if not a gentleman, even to his greatest rival. Voice unmistakably thick, he tells Jaskier firmly, “Then he was the fool.”
Jaskier laughs; there is no humour behind it. “No, he… he might have spoken brashly, but it was a necessary wake up call for us both. He was grieving, and I was…” He swallows, shaking his head. “I followed him around for decades. I was worse than his horse, I was…”
Valdo tuts. “You can’t blame a poet for being hopelessly romantic.”
“Not much of a poet anymore,” mutters Jaskier.
“Well, that much is true,” Valdo agrees, steadying his hands on his bare thighs and crossing his ankles primly. Juxtaposed with his hard prick, still throbbing between his legs, his prudence must seem amusing. “I’ve heard your recent compositions, and I must say, I would much rather listen to a dog bark at a crow than even one verse of Burn, Butcher, Burn.”
The reference to the classic that they had both so enjoyed in school brings a pleased, clever grin to Jaskier’s lips. He sets Valdo’s smallclothes down on the bed and then rises to his feet, steadying his hands at his hips and staring Valdo down. “Valdo,” he begins, teasing but nervous, in a way he usually isn’t.
Mocking his tone, Valdo echoes, “Jaskier.”
“You found me here.”
“A stroke of good luck.”
“For both of us.” Jaskier takes a step towards him. Valdo is reminded abruptly of chess. He is also reminded abruptly of his lack of dress; he shifts in his seat, knees spreading then closing again. “Valdo, are you going to have some big melodramatic overreaction if I tell you I’ve missed you?”
“Yes,” hisses Valdo. “Absolutely. Don’t you dare.”
Jaskier ignores him, humming, “What was it you asked me for last time? So pitiful, and yet it had a beautiful, memorable ring to it.”
Valdo puts on his best Gwent face and pretends not to remember, parroting back Jaskier’s words cruelly; “No clue.” His traitorous cock dribbles between his thighs, and he shoves his knees together.
“I don’t think you would have come here with the same strange request if you didn’t remember,” Jaskier’s grin turns downright dangerous. “You begged me to be mean. I don’t think I was quite capable of it back then, but. Good news! I’m much meaner now.”
Damn the bard. This is the very thing Valdo had wanted, and the very last way he’d wanted it. He shakes his head, spitting harshly, “You may look the part, but I know you, Julian. Inside, you’re still that bleeding heart poet, aren’t you? It’s unmistakable, even when you’re dressed like a pirate and a lush. It’s in your eyes, and that little twist of your soft pouty lips. You can’t even pretend to be cruel to a man who you once called your greatest rival! You just don’t have it in you.”
The pout Valdo mentioned comes out in full force now; Jaskier is practically smouldering. “I ought to accidentally forget to take the needle out of your drawers.”
Valdo hisses, “That isn’t exactly the prick up my ass I had in mind,” and Jaskier takes the bait, lunging forward. His soft lips capture Valdo’s harshly, and both of them exhale— Jaskier, with the relief of someone who really needs a good release.
Valdo, with the agony of someone who has dreamt of this for decades.
Jaskier is not as gentle as he had always imagined; perhaps his ‘Path’ has wrung that from him, despite all his soft qualities that never seem to fade. But he is passionate, taking what he needs from Valdo and giving him the world in return. They don’t make love but Valdo never expected them to, and when Jaskier moans his name— his real name— into his shoulder, it’s nearly enough to curb the yearning.
He leaves with mended undergarments and a brand new, deeply familiar hole in his heart.
(valskier, T/M, modern au, established relationship, fluff, mild horniness, playing it a little loose with the prompt today, 1.2k, read on ao3)
Mornings have never really been Jaskier’s forte. Back at Oxenfurt, he wouldn’t be caught dead in a class that started before 11:00 AM, and he’s still the university’s unofficial reigning all-nighter champion. The real world blasphemously required him to be up at a “reasonable” time most days, so he tried to keep weekend plans to afternoon hours where they belonged. He wasn’t sure which of his friends suggested they all go for an early breakfast on a Saturday, but whoever it was was getting a stern talking to.
The very naked boyfriend Jaskier found sprawled out between him and the alarm clock was the only reason the squealing device didn’t wind up smashed against a wall. That, and the way the sheets rucked up to expose Valdo’s thigh as he reached for the clock sucked every single thought, destructive or otherwise, out of Jaskier’s head. A few sleepy smiles later, Jaskier found himself bundled up in a mess of blankets and limbs, tracing paths over that pale skin with his mouth.
Then Valdo slipped his long fingers into Jaskier’s hair, flashed him a sly smile, and uttered fighting words: “I can’t decide if your obsession with my legs is cute or creepy.”
Jaskier tore his lips away from Valdo’s thigh with a squawk. “I am not obsessed with them!”
“Don’t whine,” said Valdo, seemingly unphased by his baseless accusations. “I said it might be cute. In fact, I’m almost sure it is. At least fifty percent cute.”
“I’m not obsessed.” He wasn’t. “I pay acceptable and completely understandable homage to a lovely pair of appendages that just so happen to be connected to your torso.”
Valdo wrinkled his nose. “Appendages? Not sexy, Julian.”
“I’m not trying to be sexy, I’m defending my honor!”
It might be true that Jaskier tended to give Valdo’s legs a little extra attention, but to call him obsessed was overstating things. So what if he never missed an opportunity to lavish Valdo’s thighs with kisses? Valdo enjoyed that every bit as much as Jaskier did; Jaskier could catch Valdo running his fingers over the marks left behind days later. And if Jaskier’s brain short-circuited every time Valdo’s legs wrapped around his waist, how could he possibly be blamed? It wasn’t his fault Valdo was an insatiable minx, was it?
Valdo chuckled at him. Chuckled. “You’re allowed to be obsessed with me, love. I would have preferred it be for my eyes or something, but this works too.”
Jaskier definitely was obsessed with Valdo’s gorgeous brown eyes, but that was a conversation for a later date. “You know what?” Jaskier said, crawling up over his boyfriend with a hand planted on either side of Valdo’s head. “it’s your fault I’m obsessed with them.”
“So you admit it?”
“Shut up.”
Valdo giggled up at him and, in full service of the completely valid point Jaskier was about to make, wrapped his legs firmly around Jaskier’s waist. If Jaskier briefly—briefly!—forgot what he was about to say, no one would ever be able to prove it.
“It’s your fault,” Jaskier continued, “because they’re a mile long each, unreasonably muscular for someone who does no physical labor—”
“I run!” Valdo cried, swatting Jaskier’s arm.
Jaskier plowed on. “And the first thing you do when I’m within range is entrap me in them! What was I supposed to do?”
“Whatever you need to tell yourself, dear one.” Valdo’s tone was smug with victory, but his pale cheeks had gone pink.
Jaskier dipped down for a kiss that became two and three, and he lost interest in counting after that. Valdo licked into his mouth. His arms wound around Jaskier’s neck, pulling him down to press Valdo into the mattress. Then the little tease turned his head with a grin and let Jaskier’s next kiss fall messily onto his cheek.
“We have to get up,” said Valdo breathlessly. Jaskier ducked to kiss his neck, featherlight.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Breakfast with our friends, recall?”
Jaskier sighed mightily and let his full weight crush his boyfriend for a moment in revenge, earning him a groan and a pinch to his shoulder. “Fine,” he grumbled. Valdo detangled himself to let Jaskier roll off and out of bed.
“Can I borrow something?” asked Jaskier, making a B-line for the chair in the corner of Valdo’s bedroom piled high with clean but unfolded laundry.
“If you must,” said Valdo, sounding very put-upon.
“Shut up,” Jaskier replied throwing a grin over his shoulder. Valdo’s eyes were notably watching his ass, as they often did whenever Jaskier turned around, but of course they weren’t going to talk about that little obsession. “I know you love me wearing your clothes.”
Valdo sniffed pompously. “I will neither confirm nor deny that.”
Jaskier laughed and continued to dig around in the pile for something to wear. He knew he’d left a few shirts here and at least one pair of jeans, but they were all mysteriously absent. There was no point checking the closet. Valdo only bothered to put away his nice clothes; all the others were either in the chair or in the dirty hamper.
“You could leave things here if you wanted,” said Valdo from the bed. His tone had changed but Jaskier couldn’t quite pin it down. More serious, maybe? Jaskier couldn’t think what about.
“I leave plenty of things here,” Jaskier replied without turning around. “You just never wash them.”
“I’m your boyfriend, not a laundry service.”
Jaskier snorted. “I think it’s reasonable to expect you to wash my clothes if you’re the one wearing them.”
“I do not do that.”
“You absolutely do.”
“Irrelevant.” Valdo sighed heavily and Jaskier heard the blankets rustling. “Anyway, that’s not what I mean.”
“Oh?”
There was a short pause. “You could leave more things here. Like… the rest of your wardrobe. Maybe.”
Jaskier’s brow furrowed for a moment. Why would he leave all his clothes here? That didn’t even make sense. Then the realization hit him and he spun around so quickly, he almost toppled over, stark naked with one of Valdo’s hoodies in hand.
Valdo looked a bit like he was trying to hide, at least as much as someone of his height was capable of hiding in an otherwise empty bed. He’d sat up against the headboard, knees brought up to his chest and the duvet pulled over his shoulders. A head of disastrously messy curls atop a pile of blankets. It was adorable. Jaskier dropped the hoodie he was holding and sat down on the side of the bed.
“Are you asking me to move in with you?” Jaskier asked. His heart hammered away in his chest. Jaskier was pretty sure he knew what was going on, but he wanted to be sure. He wanted Valdo to say yes. Because then Jaskier could say yes.
“Depends,” Valdo muttered. The covers shifted over his knees like he was fidgeting. Valdo rarely fidgeted.
“On what?”
“On your answer.”
Jaskier smiled so wide, his cheeks ached. He grabbed Valdo’s face with both hands and kissed him with a comically loud smack. “Yes!”
Valdo let out a bark of nervous laughter that turned real and warm, especially when Jaskier yanked him down onto the bed by his ankles and climbed back on top of him, kissing every inch of skin available.
“What about breakfast?” asked Valdo, but the intention behind it was weak. His legs were already back around Jaskier’s waist, and he made no move to let go.
Jaskier kissed the side of Valdo’s neck and the point of his jaw and the apple of his cheek. “We were going to be late anyway.”
Mornings were still terrible, Jaskier wanted that on record. But maybe they wouldn’t be as terrible if they all started out like this.
For the ever-wonderful @jaskierswolf as part of an exchange! 💖
Valdo isn’t in love with Jaskier. He’s not. They’re rivals, and that’s all there is to it. But when the Witcher reappears in their lives, Valdo isn’t about to let him hurt Jaskier again. Which means only one thing; posing as a couple in order to make Geralt jealous. This is fine. Right?
Rated T. Contains: drinking, post-mountain angst, fake-out make-outs, hiding in alleyways, banter and a brief run-in with a vampire. 5.5k words.
~
“Shit.”
Valdo paused, the edge of the cup against his lip. “What?”
Priscilla was already on her feet, her own wine abandoned. “Where’s Jaskier?”
Valdo put the goblet down. “Upstairs, tuning up,” he said. “Poorly. Why? What’s going on?”
“For fuck’s—” She cursed again, scrambling away from the bar in a rush.
Valdo was content to return to his wine and ignore whatever new drama was flourishing when the room around him went silent. He turned, intrigued, just in time to see the door of the tavern shut behind a large figure clad entirely in black, with white hair and two swords strapped to his back.
Ah.
Valdo had never actually met Geralt, the great White Wolf, owner and destroyer of Jaskier’s already fragile heart, but he’d heard enough—both in songs and Jaskier’s continual ramblings—to know him on sight.
The witcher peered around the wide space, clearly looking for something. Or someone. Valdo hoped he was here on a contract and not looking for his erstwhile travelling companion. It had been nearly half a year since Jaskier returned to them, exhausted and miserable, and they’d only begun to see any kind of progress in his mood these past two months. To be confronted so suddenly with the man who’d broken his heart could undo all that work.
Not that it had been Valdo’s work. It had been Priscilla who’d dragged Jaskier out of bed and gotten him to play his lute again. Valdo’s role had been a little sharper—goading him into leaving the university accommodations, challenging him to competitions, teasing him about metric and rhyme schemes until Jaskier could take it no more, penning something brilliant in only a few hours just to prove he could.
He hadn’t offered the soft, constant reassurance that Priss and their other friends had, but the tactic hadn’t been a complete failure, and Jaskier had been back on the Oxenfurt performance circuit—in a reduced capacity—for just over a month. Priss had been thrilled that he was back on his feet; Valdo was just happy to have some real competition again. He’d missed Jaskier’s sniping. It gave them both something to work towards, and Valdo’s music was always better when he had someone to rub against.
Valdo had to admit that heartbreak gave Jaskier’s music an edge that hadn’t been there before, or had been buried beneath something softer. It was frustrating: it meant that Valdo could already see this year’s championship slipping from his grasp. Jaskier’s newest song was wonderful.
I am weak, my love, and I am wanting. It was the sort of thing Valdo wished he had written himself, although his own lyrics were rarely so heartfelt. It was a tragic song, and frustratingly relatable. If this is the path I must trudge.
He was about to stand to follow Priss when the door opened again and in walked Jaskier himself. Bollocks. Priss had rushed upstairs to the small room in which they rehearsed and dressed and tuned, but Jaskier had clearly taken himself off somewhere, probably to walk off his nerves before performing.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Without stopping to think, Valdo jumped up from the bench.
As he dashed across the room, Valdo spotted Jaskier freeze in the doorway, his eyes wide and his hands clinging to the strap of his lute as he noticed who was standing in front of him. Valdo knew that look in his face all-too well. He’d grown horribly familiar with it over these past six months.
He leapt forwards, pushing a couple of patrons out of his way, smoothly slid around the enormous bulk of the witcher—still thankfully facing the other way—and wrapped a hand around Jaskier’s waist.
Jaskier was warm beneath his palm. He smelt of wine and lavender and chamomile. He was trembling. Without pausing, Valdo tugged him away and through a side door before the witcher could even turn around.
Miraculously, Jaskier allowed Valdo to maneuver him into the more private side room, then slumped like a cut-down marionette as Valdo deposited him in a booth.
“What was that?” Jaskier said, finally turning to look at Valdo.
Valdo shrugged. “I had to do something,” he said. “You were just standing there!”
“I was not—”
“You were standing there gaping at him like a fucking fish. You were lucky I pulled you away before you started sobbing at him.”
Jaskier’s outraged expression dropped, for just a moment. There was a crease in his chin. “I wouldn’t have…” he couldn’t finish the sentence.
Oh, no. Valdo was good at sarcasm and teasing, not tears. But Priss had vanished and Geralt was just beyond the doorway and Jaskier looked like he was going to start sobbing any moment. Valdo dithered for a moment, totally lost, before finally making a decision.
“I’m getting you a drink,” he said, “and then you’re going to tell me what happened.”
“But—”
“Red or white?”
“Valdo—”
“Red or white?”
Jaskier sighed. “Red.”
Valdo resisted the urge to reach down and squeeze his hand. “Alright, then.”
~
Valdo made quick work of acquiring a bottle of wine along with two cups, before heading back to their table. Thankfully, Jaskier hadn't moved, but was sitting staring ahead, looking at nothing at all.
Valdo handed one of the cups to Jaskier, who took it in shaking hands as he sat down opposite.
“Right,” he said. “I know you didn’t want to talk about it. But he’s here now. What happened?”
Jaskier scowled at him. “What?" he muttered, “you just want the juicy details for another song? Or so you can mock me?”
Valdo winced. He probably deserved that. “No,” he said impatiently. “I want to know what he did to you, so I can ensure that when I cut him down he bloody deserves it.”
Jaskier stared at him. “But you hate me.”
“I don’t—” Valdo took a calming breath. “I do not hate you. I am… not unfond of you.” He sniffed, pulling his shoulders back in an attempt to regain a little dignity. “The only person who is allowed to make you suffer around here is me. Everyone else just gets it wrong, anyway.”
“Is that so?”
“This witcher left you a wreck for six months after breaking your heart. I merely said you were a talentless wastrel.”
“... who panders to the masses.”
“Who panders to the masses, yes.” Valdo swirled his wine. “Which cannot be an insult as we both know it's true. You’re better than all that Toss a Coin business, Jaskier. When you put your mind to it you can create art, not that… foot-stomping tavern drivel.”
“I can’t tell if you’re attempting to compliment me.”
Valdo smiled. “Me neither. In any case: you have it on my word as your professional rival. I shall not tell a soul, nor will you find your loss featured in one of my songs.” He paused. “So? What happened?”
Jaskier stared at him for a long, tense moment. He took a deep drink from his cup. Finally, he relented.
He spoke in a hushed tone at first. He spoke of Yennefer—a name Valdo recognised from several of Jaskier’s more impassioned rants over these past seventeen years—and Valdo suddenly felt he could guess where this was going.
He could guess, and yet it was so much worse than that.
“And then he just left you on that mountain?”
Jaskier nodded, silently. Valdo shook his head and saw off the dregs of his wine before refilling both of their cups, right to the top. “Bastard.”
“He didn’t know.”
“Don’t defend him, Jaskier.”
“But he didn’t! He couldn’t have known how I feel. Felt.”
Valdo slammed the empty bottle down, making the tabletop shake. “You asked him to go to the coast with you!”
Jaskier blinked at him. “And?”
“And if he couldn’t figure out that you were in love with him from that alone then he’s more of an idiot than I had previously assumed.” He sipped at his wine, before adding— “Which isn’t saying much.”
Jaskier continued to stare. “I don’t quite follow.”
Valdo sighed, feeling the wine going to his head. “He had you throwing yourself at him for over twenty years and he rejected you every time. I fear the man is beyond saving. Utterly hopeless.”
“...and the coast?”
“Well,” Valdo leaned across the table. “It’s the coast, isn’t it? I assume you weren’t intending to take him to Lettenhove, but that little place… Gods, where was it, just south of your family’s keep, the one near Kerris? With the rockpools and the caves?”
“I… yes.”
“There you are, then. The only thing I hear you speak about more fondly than Geralt is that blasted little spit of land. Remember when you were hung up on de Stael? You told Priss you were going to marry her there dozens of times. Clearly it’s important to you, and if you went on about it with us then no doubt you went on about it with him. If he didn’t take the fucking time to listen to you and realise what, exactly, you were asking of him then frankly that’s his fault, not yours.”
Valdo realised, as he leant back from the table, that Jaskier was staring at him, open mouthed. Without thinking, and spurred on entirely by too many glasses of wine, he reached across and firmly pressed his first two fingers to Jaskier’s chin, snapping his jaw shut.
“Much better,” he said, withdrawing his hand and trying to ignore the way his skin was tingling. “You’ll catch flies. Do you want to go back to your rooms? I’m sure Priss won’t mind if you bow out of your performance.”
“No,” Jaskier said, shaking his head. “I’m not just going to leave. Not because of him.”
Valdo smiled at that. “Good,” he said, leaning back. “So; what’s the plan? Do you want to ignore him? Shout at him? Or something a little pettier?”
“Such as?”
“You could go back out there and make him unutterably jealous.”
“How so?”
“Oh, you know, flaunt a new relationship in front of him. Make him realise what he missed, or make him think you were so unaffected by your parting that you moved on in a mere moment. But that would require a second person, of course.”
Jaskier’s eyebrows raised. “Are you offering?”
Valdo willed himself to look nonplussed.
“Perhaps,” he shrugged, deliberately examining his fingernails. “I’m the pettiest bastard you know. Besides, Geralt’s well aware of our—” he wiggled his fingers above the tabletop. “—spats. Imagine his horror to realise he chased you right into the arms of the man you hate the most. Even Valdo Marx is a preferable companion to you.” He grinned, wickedly. “It might work.”
Jaskier made a derisive snorting sound. “This implies that he would feel jealous in the first place. Which he would not.”
Valdo pursed his lips. “Regardless,” he said, with a wave of his hand. “That’s your pettiest option. If you’re going to be level-headed about it you should just go out there, perform your set like he isn’t even here, and leave feeling smug and self-satisfied without even acknowledging his presence.”
“Is that what you would do?”
Valdo snorted. “Melitele, no. I’d throw a full cup of wine over him and call it a day.”
“Like you did to me at that competition five years ago?”
Valdo grinned at him. “Was that truly five years ago? My, how time flies.”
“You ruined that doublet, you know.”
“Jaskier, love—” Valdo really did reach across the table now, taking Jaskier’s unresisting hand. “That doublet was ruined the moment you ordered it in salmon pink.”
“That was blush.”
“It was salmon pink, and it made you look like you’d contracted some awful disease. I did you a favour.” Before Jaskier could argue further, Valdo removed his hand and stood, trying not to wobble. “Come,” he said, business-like. “You’ve got a performance in less than fifteen minutes, and I’m going to figure out what that blasted witcher is doing here in the first place.”
“Wait--”
Valdo turned with a sigh. “Yes?”
“I don’t hate you, either.”
Oh. Valdo set his face into an assured smile, trying not to beam too brightly. “Good.”
~
Valdo was genuinely relieved that Jaskier’s performance carried off without a hitch. There was a single second as Jaskier stepped on stage where his fingers faltered, but he quickly recovered before launching into the first song on his set.
It was not, of course, quite as good as Valdo’s own performance had been earlier in the evening. But they had a further four months until the next competition and he was quite sure that by then his favourite and most loathed rival would be back on his feet in time for Valdo to push him back down again.
He’d found Priss, who by that stage was in a terrible panic, and quickly explained what had happened. Relieved and more than a little suspicious, she’d gone off to the front of the crowd, both to encourage engagement with the already half-cut audience and to create a barrier between Jaskier and the witcher, who was still lurking in the shadows.
Valdo had taken himself off to find the innkeep, who told him in hushed tones that the witcher had been summoned by King Radovid himself—or at least one of his many and various lackeys—to see off some terrible nocturnal beast apparently stalking the streets, picking off night-time wanderers.
Valdo leaned on the bar, eyebrows raised. The so-called monster was reported to have been targeting the city for weeks, maybe even months, yet he had heard neither hide nor hair of the tale. According to the innkeep, there’d been a spate of disappearances—which wasn’t unusual, people left the city all the time—and the most recent development had been two dead bodies. That, too, was not particularly unusual: not in a city like Oxenfurt.
Feeling relieved that the witcher would likely hang around for no more than a day and be on his way when he discovered there wasn’t anything to actually fight, Valdo sidled back towards the stage. He leant against a wall and watched as Jaskier wrapped up his set. He failed to include both the newest song, Her Sweet Kiss, or Toss a Coin; a wise choice, although one that would leave him wanting for coin later.
As the crowd drunkenly cheered and Jaskier grinned down at them with his face flushed and eyes bright, Valdo felt a little surge in his chest. It was just because he was pleased to see his rival back on form, he told himself. It was anticipation for the next time they were placed head-to-head. It was fear; fear that now Jaskier appeared to be back on track Valdo would actually have to start putting in the effort again to impress him.
To beat him. Not to impress him.
Valdo didn’t have time to further chase that thought. Jaskier was stepping from the stage, his doublet undone and his undershirt maddeningly unbuttoned, and the witcher was heading straight towards him.
Fuck.
The crowd was packed, especially near the stage, and Valdo found himself battling against a sea of people. He spotted Priss on the opposite side of the room, equally stuck, who looked at him with pleading eyes before mouthing ‘do something!’ at him.
Valdo resisted the urge to shout back—’I’m fucking trying!’—and pushed past a pair of singing drunkards, squeezing himself through the tiny spaces allowed by the crowd.
He pushed harder, nearly sending someone tumbling to the floor as he burst into the little gap that had naturally formed around witcher and bard, stumbling forwards and looping his arm through Jaskier’s with a forced laugh before the witcher had even had a chance to greet him properly.
“Darling!” He cried, trying to cover the way his heart had jumped into his throat and how suddenly out of breath he was. “That was absolutely wonderf— oh.” He made a deliberate show of noticing Geralt, as if for the first time; as if he had somehow failed to notice the presence of a witcher amongst drinkers and students and poets. “Gods,” he breathed, widening his eyes. “As I live and breathe.”
Geralt just stared at him. His eyes flicked back to Jaskier. There was something in his expression that Valdo didn’t like; something almost like possession. Valdo swallowed, steeled himself, then stuck out the hand not clinging to Jaskier’s arm.
“Valdo Marx,” he said, smoothly. “I am assured you know of me.” Geralt’s expression slid into one of confusion, his eyebrows knitting. Before he could speak, Valdo continued, pulling back his unshaken hand. “Yes, yes, I know all about Jaskier’s little adventure with the djinn.” He nudged Jaskier with his hip, squeezing him tighter. “No hard feelings, hmm?”
“Right.” Geralt’s voice was low and rumbling. Valdo did not care for it.
“Anyway,” he said, feeling more confident the longer he spoke, “Jaskier, we need to discuss that thing next week, remember? And dear Priss is going spare looking for you. I’m very sorry, ah—” he hesitated, regarding Geralt with a sniff. “Gerald, was it? But our mutual friend—” he packed the word with venom, “—is needed elsewhere. See you later, hmm?”
For a moment, he thought the witcher would argue. But he just glanced between them, expression chilly, before nodding towards Jaskier.
“You look well, bard.”
Something inside Valdo snapped. He watched as Geralt walked away, feeling his skin prickling.
“Well,” Jaskier said, “that could have been—”
“What a bastard.”
“What?”
“Bard? Bard? After all this time he can’t be fucked to use your name?”
“Valdo, it’s not—”
“No, Jaskier. I cannot— urgh!” he threw his hands into the air, exasperated. “The man is a piece of shit. He needs to know exactly what he’s thrown away. I know you said that you didn’t want to be petty about it but quite frankly I think you ought to reconsider that.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I’m going to wait until he looks this way and press you against that wall—” Valdo gestured dramatically to the whitewashed facade behind them, “—and kiss you till your knees give out, so if that’s something you’d rather I not do you need to tell me now, because he’s about to turn around.”
Jaskier stared at him. He’d gone decidedly pink, the shells of his ears scarlet. Shit.
“Okay,” Valdo scrambled, “fine, that was a bad idea, but you can’t just—”
“Okay.”
“What?”
“Okay! But he’s turning around, so—”
That was all Valdo needed to hear. He pressed his palms to Jaskier’s shoulders, slammed him against the wall and kissed him.
Valdo was a good actor—certainly a better actor than Jaskier. It should have been easy. It should have been easy to make it look real while reminding himself it wasn’t. Easy to fool the witcher into believing that Valdo had stolen his bard. Easy to fool himself that it didn’t mean anything, that it was just a kiss, just righting a perceived wrong. Getting revenge. Making someone jealous.
It was an act. Just an act.
And then Jaskier opened his mouth beneath Valdo’s lips with a near-imperceptible moan and all thoughts of acting were gone.
It was not a delicate kiss. It was messy, and desperate, and Valdo didn’t have it in him to care as Jaskier wrapped his hands around his waist, tugging him closer, then lower; sliding down his arse. Valdo reached up, carding his fingers through Jaskier’s soft, dark hair before licking into his mouth, relishing in the taste of him; wine and honey, all warmth and sweetness. Jaskier gasped, the sound smothered beneath the kiss, then nipped Valdo’s lip between his teeth.
It was frantic and wonderful, and Valdo could feel his body responding where Jaskier was pressed against him, where his hands squeezed at him. He needed to stop. He needed to tear himself away before it was too late and he was lost to it.
Finally, painfully, he pulled back. Jaskier was staring at him, eyes dark, hair hand-tangled around his head like a halo. His lips were darkly red, stained with wine and bruises.
They were only doing this to make Geralt jealous, he reminded himself.
“Did it—” Valdo’s voice sounded hoarse. “Did it work?” He muttered. “Did he see?”
Jaskier blinked at him. He licked his lips. “I don’t know,” he breathed. “I… I forgot to check.” He was terribly, wonderfully flushed. He peered over Valdo’s shoulder towards the bar. “Fuck,” he said. “He’s not even looking this way.”
“Oh.”
They lapsed back into silence. Finally, Jaskier spoke again, his voice low.
“You can let go now.”
Valdo’s hands were still grasped around Jaskier’s shoulders, his fingers bunching in the rich silk of his doublet. He let go like he’d been burnt; like Jaskier’s skin was scorching, rather than just warm.
It took Jaskier a little longer to unhand him.
“Right,” Jaskier said, still barely louder than a whisper. “I should— I should pack up. And get my pay.”
With a last, lingering look Jaskier slid away, leaving Valdo staring blankly at the pockmarked wall.
Finally, he allowed himself to breathe.
He turned around, intending to either return to his rooms or find another bottle of wine, when he was suddenly and terrifyingly confronted with Priss’ furious face.
“What the fuck was that?” She hissed.
“What was what?”
“You know what, Marx. What do you think you’re playing at?”
“I really don’t think—”
“No, you don’t, do you? What about Jaskier?”
“Jaskier can look after himself. I’m not intending to be some witcher-rebound, we were just attempting to goad the bastard a little.”
“Goad the—?” She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose between finger and thumb. “You’re both in your forties! I thought better of you.”
Valdo only shrugged. “Your mistake, then.” He relaxed his shoulders, attempting to sound sincere. “Look, Priss,” he said, hands raised, “I know you’re worried about him, and truly: I’ve no intentions to hurt him. Not like that, in any case. We were just—”
“You think I’m worried about Jaskier getting hurt?”
“Uh.” Valdo stuttered, “Yes?”
Priss groaned, squeezing her eyes shut. “For fuck’s—” She took a deep, steadying breath. “I am worried about you getting hurt, Valdo.”
“What?” He said, forcing a laugh. “Me? Why?”
She just looked at him, arms folded across her chest. She raised a single eyebrow. The denial was on Valdo’s lips before she could speak.
“Honestly,” he said, “I’ve no idea what you mean. It’s Jaskier, for Melitele’s sake.”
“Exactly.” She muttered. “It’s Jaskier. How many years have you been hopelessly in love with him?”
Valdo felt like she’d punched him, the air fleeing his lungs in a painful rush. “Nonsense,” he managed, weakly. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I?” She said. “You’ve been pining after him since we were students.”
“I have not.”
“Then what is all this?”
“He’s just my— we’re rivals! We’ve always been rivals!”
“Only because you’re too cowardly to act on your feelings. Because it’s easier to pretend you hate him than admit that you’re in love with him.”
“I am not in love with him!” Valdo realised he was shouting, quickly reining himself in. “It’s not like that.”
“Then what is it like?”
“It’s—” he swallowed, trying to find an answer. “I told you. It’s just a… a rivalry. That’s all it ever has been.”
“Valdo, you don’t have to—”
“I’ve got to go.” He pushed past her. “It’s late, and there’s—”
His eyes fell to the bar. Geralt was still there. And so was Jaskier.
They were talking. Properly talking. Geralt’s face was stony and serious, Jaskier’s unreadable, but a little pale. Geralt’s hand was wrapped around Jaskier’s arm.
There was a stone in Valdo’s stomach. The floor beneath him wobbled dangerously in a way that had nothing to do with the wine. There was an ache, bone-deep, squeezing around his lungs and his heart, cracking.
Priss was saying something, but he wasn’t listening as he pushed through the crowd towards the door. He resisted the urge to look over his shoulder as he shoved the door open, stumbling into the cool night air beyond.
He picked a direction and walked. It didn’t matter where he went; he’d lived in Oxenfurt for over half of his life, and he’d be able to find his way back to his rooms blindfolded. He strode down the empty streets, burying his hands beneath his armpits to fend off the chill. He was sure it hadn’t been this cold earlier in the evening.
I am not in love with him.
It had been a bare, shame-faced lie. He’d been lying to himself for—Gods—twenty years. Longer. It was easy not to think about it, especially when Jaskier was so infrequently in the city, always off with his witcher. But now he was back, and the feeling that Valdo had been denying for so long was now near-impossible to ignore.
It was a rivalry. Their relationship was all about competition and showmanship and one-upping each other, a messy dance that hurt without ever truly drawing blood. If he’d given in to the feelings bubbling below the competitiveness Valdo knew, with certainty, that the pain would have been so much worse than the simple bruising of an ego after a narrow loss.
He should have admitted it to himself sooner. Priss was right; he was a coward, and he likely would have never done anything about it, especially after Geralt entered Jaskier’s life. But if he’d acknowledged it, and sat with it, he could have moved on years ago.
If he even could move on.
He’d ignored it, and called it rivalry, and now he knew what Jaskier’s lips felt like—what his tongue tasted like—the sounds he made when he was kissed—and Valdo could never move on from that, even if he had another twenty years to try.
There was something in the way Jaskier had looked at him when they’d parted, lips shining, eyes dark. Valdo had thought for an impossible moment that it might have been something more. But then the witcher had returned and they’d stood by the bar together and the way Jaskier had looked at him—
It was nothing like the way Jaskier had looked at Valdo.
He kicked morosely at a loose pebble, sending it skittering noisily down the cobbled path and colliding with a lopsided stone wall. The crack of it making contact echoed down the empty street.
Valdo stopped abruptly in the centre of the road, running his hands through his hair and digging his nails into his scalp. What the fuck was he supposed to do now?
“Here I am.”
He froze. He was sure he’d heard a voice, but the street was utterly deserted; even the closest windows were dark. Valdo turned around, feeling like a spinning top. There was no one behind him either.
Must have been the wind.
Feeling unnerved, he quickened his pace, taking the next left down a narrow road between two rows of tight-packed buildings, heading back towards his apartments.
“I can smell your blood.”
This time, he spun around without a second thought. The road was empty. Up above, the moon was hidden beneath a thick, dark cloud. There was a tight squeeze in Valdo’s gut as he remembered what the innkeeper told him about why the witcher was in Oxenfurt this evening.
Before he could think—before panic could truly set in—something heavy slammed into his side. He’d heard about people’s lives flashing before their eyes before death, and had always assumed it was trite nonsense, but now he was reliving everything, all at once.
He was going to die. He was going to die, and they’d find his body in the morning and he’d be just another victim for the witcher to examine. He was going to die, with the secret of being in love buried in his lungs.
The thing pulled him sideways, and he found himself being tugged into a narrow alley. He couldn’t breathe.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
Something was wrong. He knew that voice.
“There’s a fucking vampire out there!” The voice was hissing. “You could have been killed!”
Valdo’s vision snapped back into focus. Jaskier. He was gripping him tight around the arms, pressed against his body in the tiny space. Valdo could hear his own pulse in his ears. He could feel Jaskier’s frantic heartbeat, where their chests were pressed together.
“What—” Valdo stuttered, before Jaskier threw a hand over his mouth.
“Shh!”
From the street outside, there was a rattling hiss. The sound of something large making its way down the cobbled path. Jaskier’s fingertips were pressed into Valdo’s cheek.
The noise grew closer. And then—
The thrum of magic. A sudden burst of heat and a flash of flame. The tell-tale shff of a sword being unsheathed and a low, rumbling swear.
Slowly, Jaskier removed his hand. “I think Geralt’s got this,” he muttered, looking back to Valdo. “Are you all right?” Valdo could only nod, wordlessly. Jaskier grinned. “Good.”
In a sure, slow movement he leant forwards, closing the already tiny gap between them, pressing his lips to Valdo’s. Valdo hesitated for only a moment before kissing Jaskier back, pushing against him, wrapping his arms around his waist even when his knuckles dragged against the damp stone wall behind them.
When they’d kissed in the tavern it had been fast and urgent, all edged desperation. Valdo had thought it was an act; or at least that Jaskier had been acting. In the alley, pressed against the stone with Jaskier’s hands carding through his hair and his foot sliding between Valdo’s ankles, he realised that he might not have been.
Jaskier kissed him slowly, like it mattered, like he meant it, like there was a reason he’d chased him from the tavern into the vampire-infested streets. He lingered, and when Valdo opened his mouth beneath him he smiled into the kiss, lightly tracing the line of Valdo’s lip with his tongue, sending irrepressible shivers down Valdo’s spine.
Valdo hadn’t been kissed so softly in years.
But—
He pulled away reluctantly, eliciting a small sigh from Jaskier.
“What about Geralt?” Valdo muttered. “At the tavern, I thought…”
Jaskier rolled his eyes at him. “He came to warn me,” he said. “Told me there was a vampire around, and he was fucking worried about me.” He scowled. “I said he lost the right to be worried about me when he left me on that fucking mountain top.” Jaskier sniffed, his nose wrinkling. “Then I told him to fuck off.”
Valdo’s eyes widened. He wished he could have been there to witness it. “And did he?”
Jaskier looked smug. “He did. Although I’m not sure he appreciated me rushing after you when I realised you’d gone.”
“Shit, Jaskier—”
Jaskier waved a hand at him. “It’s fine. I followed you, he followed me, between the three of us we somehow found the vampire. And he has to kill it, while all we have to do is stand pressed against each other in this alleyway until he does. I think we get the better side of the deal, don’t you?”
Valdo was about to agree with him, when from the street came a clang—the wet sound of something hitting the floor—then silence.
“Oh,” Jaskier smirked. “Quicker than anticipated, too.”
“Does that mean we can leave?”
“I’d rather wait until he’s gone, if that’s quite alright with you.” Jaskier’s hands tightened around Valdo’s waist.
“That might be wise,” Valdo agreed, sliding his hands up Jaskier’s chest towards his shoulders. “Given the circumstances.” He paused, catching his lip beneath his teeth. “Jaskier…”
“Hmm?” Jaskier tilted his head to one side, eyes flashing in the low light.
“Why did you follow me?”
“Because I didn’t want you to get eaten by a vampire, mostly.”
“Is that so?”
Valdo could feel Jaskier’s hand sliding towards the small of his back, his fingers twitching beneath his doublet.
“The only one who is allowed to make you suffer around here is me,” he said. “A vampire’s just going to rip you to pieces without pausing to comment on the atrocious rhyme you used in your newest song.”
“It wasn’t that bad.”
“It was dreadful.”
“Perhaps you should have let it eat me,” Valdo teased, leaning closer. “No more dreadful rhymes and no more competition. An easy victory, for once.”
“Well yes,” Jaskier said, mirroring Valdo’s movement till there was perhaps just an inch between their faces. “But that does bring us to the second reason I was keen for you to remain unscathed.”
“Oh?”
“If that thing had left you nothing more than a bloody smear on the cobblestones, then I wouldn’t be able to do this…”
Jaskier kissed him again, just as slowly as before; just as confidently. Valdo felt himself melt beneath the touch, pressed against the cool stone behind him. Beyond the alley, the sounds of a witcher dragging away a recently disposed vampire faded.
When Jaskier finally pulled away, it was silent.
“I meant what I said earlier,” Valdo whispered. “I… don’t hate you.”
Jaskier smiled against his lips. “I don’t hate you either.”
I had this fever crafted idea about who Valdo was and slapped it up into a discord chat, and now I'm subjecting all of you to it too:
Valdo Marx is a doppler (doppelganger, whatever canon calls them) that saw Jaskier and said "he looks neat!" and took his form and decided barding also sounded like fun. But he also knew he couldn't run around as Jaskier but he's also dumb, so he slaps on a fake mustache and calls it a day.
Cue Jaskier and Valdo meeting, and doing the spiderman meme
