Chapter Text
Jaskier followed the waiter to his table - blessedly empty, he’d gotten there early, as Daddy requested - and looked around the restaurant as the waiter held the chair out for him. It was a busy place - well, Valentine’s Day, why wouldn’t it be - and he was surprised and inordinately pleased that Daddy had gotten them a table.
He was nervous about the date - nervous about the whole situation. He was an aspiring musician who couldn’t keep another job if his life depended on it. He knew he had the talent to go far, he just needed a couple breaks - and some money to pay the rent. So when his exasperated father had finally cut him off, his sisters had started cajoling him into checking out SeekingOmegas.com, a dating app. Jaskier had taken one look at it and declared it had all the cheese of FarmersOnly with all the sleeze of Slickr, his favorite slutty hookup app. So what if the site promised to keep things anonymous and forbade pictures of nudity?
His rent was due, that’s what.
It was with ill grace and desperation that Jaskier had gotten on the app drunk one night and filled out a profile, giddily aiming high, higher than he would have if he were sober. He wanted someone tall, taller than him, which would be a feat. He wanted an alpha - none of this namby-pamby beta stuff (Pick something, for gods' sake, he’d drunkenly slurred at his last two hookups). And gods, he wanted someone rich. Like. Never have to worry about money rich. Never have to sell his soul to make the rent rich.
It belatedly occurred to him, as his finger hovered over the submission button, that some would consider this to be selling his soul too - or at least one very short step below. Selling his body - his scent, his slick pads, worn clothing - to desperate horny rich losers who didn’t have enough personality to get a date.
Fuck it, Jaskier decided, and hit ‘enter’. He’d dated a few of those nerds for free too.
It was about time he got something out of it.
“Everything alright, sir?” Roach asked.
Geralt fiddled with his cuff and wondered for the hundred-and-fourteenth time why his late-forties/early-fiftes butch lesbian personal assistant and chauffeur went by the name of ‘Roach’. But she was calm and utterly dependable, especially when he was flustered, capable when he felt wrong-footed, and altogether put up with far more nonsense from Geralt and his brothers than any beta ever should. She was also bizarrely fond of Geralt, in her low-key way, and Geralt considered, not for the first time, that she was as close to an older sister as he was ever going to get.
In other words, he adored her.
“Nervous,” he grunted, his throat closing up, making it come out raspier than he’d intended.
“You shouldn’t be.” Roach had set up the profile for him, after Lambert and his boyfriend had pestered him for months. Roach had listened to all Geralt’s excuses, shoved the boys out of the room, and then rounded on him, stating that it was high time he not only get laid, but that he stop flirting around with alphas like Yennefer who had no intention of forming anything permanent, and get someone he could rely on.
Geralt had promptly declared that getting something permanent was what he was scared of.
Roach had snorted at him in an insultingly unimpressed way, taken out his phone - which she kept on her during business days - and promptly filled out a profile for him, only tossing the phone back when it was done. Geralt had been searching for the ‘delete profile’ buttons when his account started pinging - half a dozen interested omegas.
He’d stared at Roach in wide-eyed awe.
She’d smirked back.
“I keep telling you you’re a catch,” she’d said then.
She said it again now.
“I’m not a damn fish,” he muttered.
She snorted with laughter. “You, my prize boy,” she grinned, turning round in the driver’s seat to pin him with a knowing look, “are one of the biggest fishes in town. You’re a godsdamn shark. And your boy in there may be a trophy hunter. But I’ve also seen the way your face gets when you talk to him. So you better get in there. Or I am personally going to take you around to an alley and stomp you to death.”
Roach wore some truly monstrous shit-kicker boots that Geralt was slightly envious of - he knew she could make good on her threat.
“You think -” He stopped, words getting caught in his throat. Looked down at his cuffs again. “You think he actually likes me?”
Her face softened a fraction. Out of all his siblings, Geralt she knew was the one who suffered most, and no amount of fatherly praise or sibling rivalry turned into triumphs seemed to stamp it out of him. But when he looked back up again her face hardened.
“Only one way to find out.”
The restaurant wasn’t the most exclusive in town, but it was high end, enough to know who Geralt was and be impressed when Roach dropped his name. When he said he was there to meet Baby, the maitre d’ did a double-take and then gave him an impressed look up and down, before snapping at a waiter to lead him off. Geralt spotted the omega sitting by himself in a room full of couples, cheek on his fist, fingers idly plucking at the silverware, and lightly grabbed the waiter by the shoulder.
“I’ve got it from here.”
The waiter nodded and left.
Geralt just stood there and did more looking.
Soft, curly brown hair that swooped over his forehead, cheek on the fist facing Geralt, partially obscuring his face. But his fingers were strong, elegant as they plucked the rim of a plate - playing a tune, Geralt guessed, judging by the way he repeated sections and kept time with a heel tapping rhythmically on the floor. Not lying about the music, then. Geralt had listened to a few samples Baby had sent, but those could always be cuts from someone else’s - Geralt was no connoisseur. He watched Baby’s shoulders slump, his hand going limp with a sigh, and before he could straighten up -
“Baby.”
Jaskier’s head snapped around.
And then his jaw dropped.
Ten feet away stood the most achingly handsome man he’d ever seen in his godsdamned life.
He didn’t know how that voice had carried over the chatter and rattle of the crowded restaurant, but it carried like they were the only ones in there - deep and rich, and warm, and perfectly matching with a set of warm amber eyes, gods, he wanted to bathe in them, like caramel. Long white hair belied a youthful face - his hair was white, like it had been that way from birth, not going grey prematurely, as Jaskier had feared. He had cheekbones to sin for and a stubborn jaw that Jaskier bet got him his way a whole lot.
And he was smiling at Jaskier like he was equally pleased with what he saw.
Gods, he was cute. He’d have to tell Roach - he was cute. Curly-swoopy brown hair and huge blue eyes, and youthful cheeks - alright, Geralt was no poet, sue him - and a peculiar way of holding his mouth that said he was often disappointed with the world and used to putting a brave face on it. That was Geralt’s key to success - reading people. He could do it instantly. And Baby, unlike most people, would lie with his eyes - but he would always tell the truth around his mouth.
Right now that mouth was gaping open, like a cute little goldfish, and the image made Geralt’s smile deepen.
He had dimples. Gods, fuck. How could a man that hot have fucking dimples. It ought to be fucking illegal, Jaskier decided.
Baby squeaked. Geralt remembered why they were there and held a hand out. “Pleasure to meet you.”
Holy gods. Holy Melitele, mother of tits, the man had the best voice on the whole gods-damn planet, and Jaskier was going to pass out. He forced his knees to work, to lever himself to his feet with a fist on the table, and reached out - as much for balance, as much to make sure the man was real, as in greeting.
He didn’t get very far, before Daddy was there, taking his hand, bending over it a little and raising it to his lips.
Jaskier almost fainted again at the warm press.
Kissing his hand, Geralt? Really? He could hear Roach’s disapproval, and Lambert’s laughing. But Baby was wide-eyed and impressed, and Geralt decided that, right at that particular moment, that was really the only thing that mattered. Besides that, Baby had callouses on his skin and strength in his fingers that backed up the musician angle - because Geralt may not know about music but he researched such things - and this close Geralt could smell a bit of his omega-ness, a floral top-note threading through the river of scent-blockers and artificial perfumes, and that warmed something deep in his belly. They hadn’t exchanged scents yet - Geralt had wanted to meet in person, his rut was months out yet and Baby had just gotten over a heat, there was no reason to rush - but yeah, he could already tell he wanted another hit of that, from much closer up.
“Have you been waiting long?” he asked, body language guiding him back to his chair, holding it out for him, readjusting it as he sat. His hands lingered on Baby’s shoulders, liking the breadth of them, the way the younger man shivered lightly, still looking dazed, as Geralt sat.
“Not -” Baby cleared his throat. “Not -” His eyes blinked. His mouth, as Geralt suspected, contorted. “Yes, actually, I was starting to think -”
Geralt raised an eyebrow, moving the napkin into his lap. Waiting.
“Fucking hell, what took you so long?”
There it is. Geralt almost grinned.
For a moment Jaskier could’ve bitten his own tongue off, but the man only looked more amused, and Jaskier realized it was all going to come out sooner or later anyway, no use trying to hide it. He was dandelion fluff, and bitter at the core, and it had ruined more things then he could even bear to think of, before they’d ever got started. “I was beginning to think you’d stood me up!” He reached for his water glass, trying to hide his nerves.
Daddy only watched him closely, mirroring him as he took a drink, his motions a half step behind Jaskier’s. Jaskier didn’t want to think how he knew that careful mirroring was instinctive - a sure sign that someone was interested. Didn’t like how it made him want to preen - a classy, expensive restaurant, the best-dressed alpha, certainly the most handsome, all white hair and black suit and deep red shirt, smelling… some note Jaskier couldn’t put a word to, yet, but practically thrumming with life.
He would have absolutely no problems calling this man Daddy in bed.
“Would you believe I was nervous?” Geralt asked.
Baby stared. “Would I - Have you seen yourself? No. No, I would not.”
Geralt’s lips twitched, and he nodded minutely towards the door. “You can go ask my assistant if you like.”
A man this handsome should not admit to having normal human feelings like nerves, Jaskier frowned. He was already determined to bang him like a screen door, why did he have to be so fucking - so fucking… fuckable? his mind supplied. Yes. Thank you. Now shut up. His mind obediently fucked off for the night, leaving Jaskier’s mouth to its own devices.
“Of course you have an assistant,” he pouted.
“She’s gay.”
That seemed to stop Baby in his tracks, Geralt noted with amusement.
“Did you think I would bang her anyway, because she’s a beta?”
“I - I - No!” he floundered. “No! I know betas aren’t always like that. Fuck. I know everyone’s not always like that. Gods. Ew. No. No.”
The man was dimpling at him again, and Jaskier buried his head in his hand, trying to get his brain to reset. He was Jaskier, for Melitele’s sake. He could flirt with anything. Anyone. Had done. Several times. He had experience. Now he was melting down. Like…Like…
“Oh my gods, I’m sweating off all my scent blocker,” Baby moaned, flapping the collar of his shirt.
“It doesn’t smell like it to me,” Geralt soothed. He cleared his throat, couldn’t help leaning in.
“But even if you did, you still smell wonderful.”
Jaskier froze. Well, froze wasn’t really the right word, he was a burning column from his head to his feet, and raging inferno of -
“Oh my gods,” Baby groaned again. “My heat.”
A big hand covered Jaskier’s on the table, warm, and soothing, and protective, and - and loose, he could pull away if he wanted, but for a moment he felt his whole body want to shrink and hide in that loose cave.
“Geralt,” that deep voice said.
For a moment Jaskier didn’t understand, and peeked up over his own hand.
“My name is Geralt,” he said. “I thought you should know.”
“J-Jaskier,” he managed. Twitched a frown. “Well, Julian, technically, but everyone calls me Jaskier. I like it.”
Daddy - Geralt - nodded, his thumb rubbing lightly, soothingly, over the back of Jaskier’s. “Jaskier,” he said, voice low, still carrying warmly over the table - but now, Jaskier felt, somehow not carrying beyond - “you don’t have to do anything you don’t want. Not now, not tonight. Not ever. I wanted to meet you because I’ve enjoyed talking to you. But you don’t smell like heat. And rest assured, nobody in this restaurant would touch you even if you did. If they tried, I’d rip their arm off,” he added with a growl.
Jaskier felt that growl all the way down to his toes, saw the accompanying scowl, and had no problems believing it.
“But if I make you nervous,” Geralt continued, amber eyes shading in a way that Jaskier immediately knew masked a frequent hurt, “we don’t have to do this. You don’t have to stay. You can leave anyti-”
“NO!” Jaskier yelped, so loud other people nearby turned to look. He blushed, but made no move to get away. He looked at Geralt. “I - I don’t - That’s not -” He huffed. Sighed. Got up. Tugged Geralt’s hand to follow him and turned away.
Geralt got to his feet in confusion - the omega’s scent really was impenetrable in this fog, despite his worry - and the waiter approached to ask what was wrong, but Geralt waved for him to wait, and followed Jaskier.
Jaskier led them down the hall to the bathrooms - it was on the tip of Geralt’s tongue to tell him that the restaurant didn’t allow intimacy here - when Jaskier spun, pushed him against the wall, and hauled him the short distance down for a kiss.
Geralt’s head spun a little, distracted by the strength in his hands, but his mouth quickly caught up. Jaskier’s mouth was already open against his, tongue demanding entrance, and Geralt could no more deny him than he could deny Roach’s lavish birthday parties. He opened. Jaskier took. They settled into their rhythm. Geralt’s arms folded about a slender body that fit up against his like it belonged there.
When Jaskier got what he wanted he drew back a little, cornflower-bright eyes a little shocked, a little blown. Geralt nosed into his collar, taking a deep whiff of scent.
“You smell nice,” he murmured.
Jaskier shivered, feeling that voice, combined with warm breath, all the way down his chest under his shirt, hands still steady at his back.
Above the waist, too - Geralt really was a gentleman.
“O-orange blossom and honey,” he said.
Geralt grunted a question.
“That’s - that’s what I’ve been told I smell like.”
There was a pause in Geralt’s soft snuffing, like he was comparing this to a mental assessment, and then he nodded. His lips and nose were nuzzling all around Jaskier’s scent gland, in a way that made his toes curl, and, once, his tongue made the tiniest lick against his skin, before he shuddered and restrained himself. He forced himself to draw back, honey eyes blown dark amber with want.
“What do I smell like?” he asked, voice rough and raw. “To you?”
Jaskier realized with embarrassment that he’d been so busy focused on the man’s looks, on the way that he kissed, that he’d completely forgotten to scent the man. It was a common enough greeting, especially for families or mated partners, no one would think him rude for -
He tugged Geralt back down and stuck his nose in the man’s neck, and took a whiff.
Geralt felt him go stiff, and then -
“Oh my gods, you smell good,” Jaskier sighed, melting against him with a little moan. “That’s it,” he whined, pressing his nose against Geralt’s scent gland, mouth open as if trying to drink him. “I’m filing a complaint. No man this hot should smell this good. There’s just - There’s gotta be a - a -”
Geralt chuckled beneath him, arms tightening. “So you think I’m hot?”
Jaskier drew back enough to fix him with a stern blue eye. “I am fairly certain you know you are, sir,” he growled.
Geralt half shrugged. “Mm. Can’t always trust my assistant about these things.”
Jaskier drew back, squawking. But not, Geralt noticed, so far that he broke Geralt’s grasp. “I - You!” He rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth and looked around, as if noticing for the first time where they were. He looked back at Geralt. “I’m starving!” he declared, and suddenly he sounded like the man Geralt’d been texting to for weeks. “You?”
“I could eat,” Geralt nodded.
They walked back to their table. The waiter had already reset it and seated another couple.
Geralt opened his mouth to protest. Jaskier took his hand and led him out the door.
“Where’s your car?”
Geralt nodded at the limo in front of them.
Jaskier didn’t even slow down. Just marched over and let himself in. Geralt slid in after him. Jaskier told the driver to take them to the best pizza place in town, and then pulled Geralt down for another kiss. He was rusty. But Jaskier liked the way his big hand cupped the side of his face, fingers curling back to cradle his head. Liked the way he kissed, moving Jaskier where he wanted him. When he half turned in his seat, knee crossing Jaskier’s, Jaskier shifted to be more convenient for him, and pulled him closer.
Roach smirked at the image in her rearview mirror, and put the partition up.