Chapter Text
"Dad, please?"
Geralt looked up from his book at his daughter, noting the stubborn set of her jaw that always boded ill for him.
"Please? You promised."
He cocked an eyebrow. "Did I?"
"Yes, when we were talking about it during dinner last night, I asked you to come, and you said hmmmm." Ciri's face contorted as she tried to pitch her voice as low as Geralt's. "It was an agreement hum, I could tell."
"Ciri..."
"Look, I'm gonna pay, I've done all this research, this guy is really good, I just want you there, please?" And here came the puppy eyes.
So that was how Geralt found himself somewhat unwillingly stepping into the Dandelion Tattoo Parlor, Ciri excitedly tugging him along. She practically skipped up to the front desk where a blonde with multiple facial piercings sat typing.
"Hi, I've got an appointment for one o'clock?"
The blonde clicked a few times, then looked up. "Cirilla?"
"Yep!"
The blonde smiled. It was hard not to be immediately fond of Ciri's cheerful nature. No accounting for where she got it from.
"I'll go grab him," she said, and walked into the back.
Geralt looked around the shop. It wasn't really what he'd been expecting, having no frame of reference except for TV. In his mind's eye he'd been imagining something seedy, but this place looked like a trendy doctor's office, all clean lines and stylish art decorating the walls. It was small, but comfortable and inviting.
And then the artist came out, and it was only years of practice schooling his expressions that kept Geralt from showing surprise. He was not what Geralt had been expecting either—"tattoo artist" brought to his mind burly men in wifebeaters. This artist was- well, honestly the best word for him was pretty. Baby face, blue eyes... he was just gorgeous. He also didn't have any visible tattoos, which was interesting. A long-sleeve plaid button-down covered his arms, and Geralt felt himself struck with sudden, intense curiosity about what was underneath them.
The artist's eyes met his, and there was a split-second moment of frisson between the two of them, unnoticeable to anyone else. Geralt was looking, the artist saw him looking, Geralt saw him see him looking. The artist's lips quirked into a tiny, private smile before blossoming into a grin as he turned to Ciri.
"Good afternoon, I'm Jaskier. You must be Cirilla," he said, extending a hand which Ciri accepted.
"Ciri, yeah. This is my dad, Geralt."
Jaskier turned and offered the same hand to him. "Nice to meet you, Geralt." And was it Geralt's imagination, or did that friendly smile turn just the slightest bit lascivious?
Before he could decide, Jaskier was turning away, walking over to the front desk where the blonde was handing him paperwork.
"Thanks, Essi," he said, turning back to Ciri. "I've just got some forms you need to sign before we can get started. Are you under eighteen?"
"Nope, my eighteenth birthday was two weeks ago."
"Oh, really? Usually when I get the recently-eighteen it's because their parents disapprove..." He flicked a glance over to Geralt.
"I don't disapprove," Geralt said, a little stiffly. "She can do what she wants with her body. I just didn't want to have to sign the paperwork for her so if she regrets it she won't be able to blame anyone but herself." Geralt knew his tone was a little too stern, but Ciri had a habit of doing things without really considering the consequences.
Jaskier cracked a brilliant smile. "Well, my job is to make sure she doesn't regret it. Here you are, Ciri, just some notes about the potential risks of tattoos, and a waiver saying you understand those risks." He handed her some paperwork, which Ciri looked over and signed. She went to hand it back to him, but he retracted his hands.
"Ooh, uh, hand it to Essi. Trust me, it's better for everyone."
Essi smirked and took the forms. "Yeah, wait until you see his office."
The office turned out to be one room that was split down the middle so drastically that it brought to mind sitcoms where two roommates draw a tape line across their room. One side had a desk that was littered with papers—sketches, forms, post-it note reminders. There was a bookshelf overflowing with books of all kinds, and every other flat surface was covered in trinkets and a few potted houseplants.
The other side of the room was so pristine it looked like a surgical suite, especially with the big reclining chair and a small rolling cart carrying unrecognizable contraptions. There were empty counters, a sparkling clean sink, and the only decoration was a series of awards framed on the wall. The room as a whole gave an impression that a bomb had gone off on the desk side and hit a forcefield halfway across the room.
Jaskier smiled a little sheepishly as he ushered them in. "I'm not very neat. I have to keep this side clean for hygiene reasons, of course, but this," he gestured to his desk, "is unfortunately my natural state."
"Ever thought about going paperless?" Ciri asked, her tone a little teasing.
He shrugged. "I've got to be able to draw. A lot of artists are moving over to tablet and stylus, but I don't like it. Call me old-fashioned, but nothing will ever replace a pencil and a sketchbook."
As Geralt and Ciri sat in two squashy chairs opposite the desk, Jaskier started shifting papers. "I've got- hmm. I've got some sketches for you based on our email conversation. I'm just not sure..."
As he moved things around trying to find the relevant sketchbook, Geralt blurted out, "How old are you?"
Jaskier paused and met Geralt's eyes. He raised an eyebrow and flicked his gaze down Geralt's body. "Old enough."
The double-entendre made Geralt's stomach warm, but he was well-practiced in looking stern regardless of what he was feeling. He continued to hold Jaskier's gaze steadily, until the artist sighed, rolled his eyes, and went back to looking through his papers.
"I'm twenty-six. I've been tattooing for nine years, and as a full-time professional for seven. I've owned my own studio for two years. Satisfied? Would you like my license number? My CV? A list of references?"
"No," said Ciri, elbowing her father and shooting him a look. "Ignore him, he's just being rude. I'm really excited you agreed to work with me, the pictures I saw of your work online were incredible."
He smiled at her. "Thanks. Ah, here, found it."
He sat down across from them and flipped through his sketchbook The page he sat down in front of Ciri contained several drawings of flocks of swallows in flight, in various sizes and arrangements. They were beautiful drawings, each one giving a sense of free and easy movement. Geralt immediately regretted being dickish about Jaskier's age—he was obviously talented.
"So what we're going to do now is solidify your design, including size and placement. Let me know which of these is closest to what you want, and then if there's anything you want to change we can do that."
Ciri's fingers brushed over one drawing where the swallows were flying roughly in a line, increasing slightly in size as they chased each other. Each one was in a different position, one lifting its wings, one swooping, one twisting, giving the piece coherence without repetitiveness. "This one," she said.
"Ooh, you've got a good eye," Jaskier said. "That's the one I would have chosen too. I think it will work really well with the placement you've picked. You said you wanted it on your shoulder blade?"
"Yeah, here" said Ciri, wrapping her right arm around her neck to point to where she wanted it, on her back at the top of her left shoulder.
"Okay, if it's on your left shoulder I think we should flip the picture so they're flying to the left, yeah?" Ciri nodded. "Okay, that's easy enough to do with the copier before I print the stencil. How do you feel about the size?"
"Um? Kind of hard to tell on paper. Maybe a little bigger than this?"
"Okay, I'll eyeball it when I'm making the copy, and when I put the stencil on you'll have a chance to look at it and make changes then. Anything else about the design you want to change?"
Ciri drew her fingers over the birds. "No, they're beautiful."
"Great! Well I'm going to go copy this and make a therma-fax, and then we'll put it on you and see how you like it, okay?"
"Sure." And he flitted out of the room.
Ciri leaned over to Geralt. "Thanks for coming, Dad. Now could you stop staring daggers at the guy? Isn't he doing a good job?"
Geralt relaxed a little, letting the stern expression slide off his face. "Sorry. You're right, he's being very professional. Even if he is extremely talkative. He really seems like he wants you to be comfortable. And the swallows are beautiful, sweetheart."
"Aren't they? They're just what I wanted, I'm so excited. I've been thinking about this for ages. And yeah, Jaskier's really nice. I'm actually lucky he agreed to take me without a reference; he's been getting a lot of attention on social media lately and I've gotten the impression he pretty much has his pick of clients."
Geralt hmm-ed. "The whole thing isn't what I expected. I think I have to admit that I had some stereotypes about tattoo artists that were probably unfair. But this- I can see now why you wanted to do this."
"Maybe you should get one too," she said in a tease. Then, suddenly, her eyes went wide with the force of her idea and Geralt cursed silently. He knew that look. "Wait, Dad, you should get one too! Would you? Just one swallow? For me?"
At this moment Jaskier came back with a sheet of something pinched delicately between two fingers. Ciri turned to direct her excitement at him instead. "Would you give my dad a tattoo too? A swallow?"
Jaskier looked at Geralt, and something in Geralt's face made him chuckle. "Not when he's looking at me like that."
Ciri whipped back to her father. "Come on, Dad! I'm going to college in a few months, wouldn't it be cool to have something to remember me?"
"Do you think I'll forget you otherwise? When you're coming home twice a month to do laundry?"
"Okay, then, call it a birthday present!"
"I already got you a birthday present."
She pouted. "Yes, thank you, it's a very nice car, but-"
At this point Jaskier clearly decided it was time to intervene. "Look, Ciri, I don't tattoo reluctant people. Part of the reason I opened my own shop was so I couldn't be forced to take frat boys on dares or people who've lost bets. I don't want my art on people who aren't excited to have it there." He turned his gaze to Geralt. "I believe in enthusiastic consent in all aspects of life."
And there was certainly no mistaking the look Geralt was getting. He inhaled deeply, trying to steady himself. Twenty-six, he thought to himself. He's twenty-six. Way too young for you.
"But-" she started.
"Hey, how long did you think about this before deciding you wanted it?"
Ciri hmm-ed, a habit she'd picked up from Geralt in her childhood. "I've been thinking about it for over a year."
"So, do you want to give your dad more than a couple of minutes?"
The way Jaskier was speaking was gentle, but very firm, and fuck if that didn't push Geralt's buttons. He put on the stoic facial expression that had saved him in so many uncomfortable situations in the past, but inside he was thinking about how if Jaskier turned that tone, that look on him he might just find himself on his knees in front of the kid.
Fuck. Geralt shook himself. Get a grip. Never mind that Jaskier had been flirting shamelessly since he'd walked through the door, there was no way he wanted that from Geralt. Young men like him never did. They saw an older man, physically imposing, and they wanted him to manhandle them, not the other way around. And after Liam, he'd sworn to himself, no more daddy issues.
Ciri agreed reluctantly that Jaskier had a point, and they agreed to table the issue for the time being and get the stencil onto her. He asked her to sit on the large, reclining chair with her chest toward the chair's back.
"Everything was sterilized after my last client, including all non-disposable equipment and the chair. If you want me to wipe it down again before you use it, just let me know. I'm going to put on some gloves before I touch you. Would you move the strap on your shirt down?" Ciri was wearing a tank top, making it easy to push the strap off her shoulder to expose the area where he would be applying the stencil. She then sat on the chair the way she'd been asked. When she leaned forward, however, she was a little too short for the position of the chair, and her forehead touched a metal bar instead of the headrest.
Geralt looked at Jaskier, who was busy pulling things from the cabinets and setting them on the rolling cart. Never one to ignore a problem he could solve, Geralt got up and crouched by the chair to fiddle with the various knobs. It only took a few moments to work out which knob controlled the height of the headrest and turn it until Ciri could comfortably rest against it.
"Oh," said Jaskier, coming over to see what he was doing. "Thank you, Geralt."
That made Geralt look up, and he actually, to his eternal shame, made a small noise as he drew in a breath. Not a gasp, but embarrassingly close. Ciri noticed the look on his face and pulled her head up to look at Jaskier.
"Oh my gods," she said. "Those are gorgeous."
In the process of pulling on a pair of surgical gloves, Jaskier had rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. For the first time, his tattoos were on display, and Ciri was right—they were gorgeous. Captivating, even. Two full sleeves in shades of black that disappeared up his arms. Geralt couldn't have said what they were tattoos of. There were definitely lots of identifiable objects in the art—a curling treble clef here, a dandelion puff in the process of blowing away there—but they were stirred together by a flow of lines and shapes, as though he'd been doodled on without a lot of forethought..
The overall effect was one of aesthetically pleasing patterns from a distance, and then the closer you looked, the more you saw. Geralt felt like he could have stared for hours. And what's more, the flow of the lines enhanced the look of strong muscles in Jaskier's forearms. Geralt felt his mouth go dry as he stood up.
"Thanks," Jaskier said to Ciri, "I did them myself."
Geralt, who had been busy eyeing Jaskier and wondering whether the rest of his body was covered in tattoos like that, did a double-take. "You- Both of them?"
The artist smirked and wiggled his gloved fingers at Geralt. "Fully ambidextrous. Comes in handy. And, yes."
"Hmm?"
"The answer to the question you're wondering is yes. Everywhere I can reach. And plenty of places I can't." He winked. Ciri snorted, but blessedly chose not to comment. "So, Ciri, can I get you to lean forward? The first thing I'm going to do is disinfect your skin, then after the alcohol dries I'll wet your skin with water and apply the stencil, alright?"
The process only took a minute, and then Jaskier had Ciri stand and handed her a small mirror. He directed her to the large mirror hanging on the back of the office door, where she could turn her back and use the small mirror to see the stencil clearly.
"Okay, before I ask you what you think, I want to make something clear. I would much rather spend an hour here re-printing and re-applying stencils than put something permanent on your body you're not excited about. Some people have a social instinct to say 'yeah, that's fine' because they don't want to be difficult, and I am telling you that this is not the time for that. So take a second, really look, and then tell me what you think."
Geralt's estimation of Jaskier, which had been increasing since he'd first seen the man, went up another notch. It would have been so easy for this young, up-and-coming talent (if the awards on the wall were any indication) to be cocky, or pushy about what he thought was best. Anyone who treated Geralt's daughter like this, worked this hard to make her happy, was bound to find a soft spot in Geralt's heart.
Ciri hummed over the stencil for a minute, then said "The placement is perfect, it's exactly what I was imagining. But they're maybe a little big? I know earlier I said-"
"Nope, no problem, say no more. I know it's hard to look at something on paper and picture its scale on your body, it takes practice. Would you like to go back to the size of the original drawing? That would make this guy," he gestured at the left-most, largest sparrow with two fingers held apart, "about this big."
"Yeah, that looks right. Wow, you really knew what you were doing all along, didn't you?"
Jaskier waved a dismissive hand, but he was smiling. "Like I said, it takes practice. I'll be right back."
In short order, Jaskier had the new stencil printed, the old one wiped away, and the new one placed. After inspecting this one in the mirror, Ciri declared with delight that it was perfect.
"Fantastic! Alright, all there's left to do is for me to tattoo you! If you need to stop at any point, please let me know. It will hurt, but you've picked a pretty good place for a first tattoo, and your dad's here to hold your hand, right Dad?" Geralt's lips quirked just a little as he nodded. "Oh, look, he smiles. That's good to know. Pull that chair you've been sitting in over to her right side. Ciri, you have a seat, I'm going to get all my tools ready."
Ciri sat in the chair but didn't lean against the headrest yet. Geralt came over to her.
"Do you really want me to hold your hand? I can just sit over there if you'd prefer, I know you don't like me to hover."
Ciri looked a little bashful, but nodded. Geralt didn't press, just pulled the chair over as he'd been instructed while Jaskier set out paper cups and filled them with ink, wet several paper towels, and laid out everything on the rolling cart.
"One more thing," Jaskier said as he sat on a rolling stool, and he handed Ciri a small plastic package. "Those are your needles. I'm showing you that the package has never been opened. After I use them on you I will throw them away. For future reference, if you ever go to sit for a tattoo and the artist isn't using a new set of needles, get up and walk out." Ciri nodded. "Okay, before I open these I'm going to wash my hands one more time and replace my gloves. And then we'll be ready to start!"
While Jaskier did that, Geralt squeezed Ciri's non-stenciled shoulder. "Nervous?"
"Excited, mostly. A little nervous."
"The stencil looks great."
"Yeah? Thanks, Dad."
Jaskier returned, sat, and got the tattoo gun ready.
"Alright, are we ready?"
"Yep!"
"Okay, lean forward." Ciri did so, reaching for Geralt's hand as she did. The sound of the tattoo gun buzzing filled the room, and Jaskier said, "Here we go! Remember to breathe."
At the first touch of the tattoo needle, Ciri squeezed her father's hand, but she relaxed after only a couple of seconds..
"Oh, that's not bad at all."
"Yeah?" Geralt asked.
"Yeah, it's like... kinda like being stung by bees but not as painful."
"Do you want me to move?"
She squeezed his hand again. "No."
Geralt glanced at Jaskier, noting that this was the longest he'd gone without talking since they had met. The artist seemed intensely focused on his work. Geralt watched the actual tattoo process for a while, found it a mix of fascinating and gruesome as ink and a little blood welled from his daughter's skin only to be wiped away by Jaskier, but he also found he kept getting distracted by those damn forearms and sleeve tattoos. Geralt tried not to stare, but they were fascinating. The more he looked, he started to get a general sense of themes—nature on the left with flowers, twining vines, subtle leaf patterns, and music on the right, swirling staffs with actual melodies mixed with more abstract, lyrical shapes. At some point Jaskier passed the tattoo machine from one hand to the other without so much as a pause, and fuck, why was that so hot?
The time passed shockingly quickly despite there being no noise except the tattoo gun and Jaskier occasionally checking that Ciri was alright. Finally, he turned off the machine and gave Ciri's shoulder a final wipe to clean away stray ink.
"Done!" he said.
Geralt got a good look at the completed tattoo for the first time, and he was so captivated he reached out to touch it without thinking.
"Whoa." Jaskier said sharply and caught his wrist tightly before he could make contact. "No. Your hands aren't clean." And fuck, that tone was back. Geralt met Jaskier's eyes and was suddenly grateful he was sitting down.
"Fuck," he whispered, barely audible, but he could tell from his expression that Jaskier had heard him. He gave him a slightly curious look, eyes tightening for a moment like Geralt was a puzzle he was trying to solve.
Then he dropped his wrist and the moment was over. Ciri was pushing herself up from the chair and bounding over to look in the mirror at her new tattoo.
"Oh wow, it's incredible, you did such a good job!"
He really had. It was obvious why Jaskier was a tattoo artist, the work looked even better on skin than it did on paper. What had captivated Geralt on first glance was the stippled shading which, along with the slight size difference between the birds, gave the illusion that they were actually flying off Ciri's shoulder.
"Can I take a picture for my instagram, Ciri?" Jaskier asked. "Totally okay if you're not comfortable with that."
"No, no, it's fine, I know it's an important part of your business."
As they navigated the photo, then ointment and bandage, Jaskier lectured Ciri at length about how to take care of her tattoo in the coming weeks and long-term. Geralt was still staring, contemplating.
Finally, they were done, and Ciri turned to him. "What do you think, Dad, would you want to get one?"
He took in a breath. "Yes."
"Wait, really? You really would?"
"Yeah." He turned to Jaskier. "Would you give me one swallow right here?" He pressed his fingers to his left pectoral, right where he could feel his heartbeat.
Jaskier looked between him and Ciri, considering carefully.
"Tell you what. Make an appointment, come back some other day without her." He jerked his head to indicate Ciri.
Geralt raised an eyebrow. "Are you implying I'm being peer pressured by my eighteen-year-old daughter?"
"I mean, having met her I feel that that is not implausible. She is certainly a handful."
Geralt smiled in spite of himself. "Do you see this hair?" he said, indicating his prematurely grey locks. "Yeah, alright. I'll make an appointment."
Jaskier gave him a friendly smile, and Geralt could almost ignore the small amount of heat in his eyes. "Looking forward to it."
"It's gorgeous, sweetie. I'm impressed."
"Isn't it? Dad's gonna get one too." Ciri smirked.
"Hey." Geralt brandished a spatula over the kitchen island at his daughter. "You don't get to literally beg me to do something and then sound so smug about it when I agree."
Eskel and Lambert, both sitting at the kitchen table nursing beers, exchanged surprised looks. "Wait, you really are?" Eskel asked.
Geralt colored a little. "I have an appointment next week."
"You, uh. You don't seem the type."
"Oh come on, Uncle Eskel," Ciri said, "Tattoos are totally mainstream now. There's not a 'type' to get one."
"Yeah, but if there were it wouldn't be forty-year-old social worker, would it?" Lambert interjected.
"He just wants to see Jaskier again," Ciri teased.
"Ciri..." Geralt said as a warning, but it was too late. Twin delighted grins were spreading over his brothers' faces.
"And who's Jaskier?" Lambert asked.
"The tattoo artist. He flirted constantly with Dad for my entire appointment."
Now Geralt was blushing in earnest. "It is not like that."
"He was just Dad's type, too, this pretty little twink-"
"Ciri!" Geralt said, a little scandalized. "Not appropriate. And he was not a twink, he was basically the same size as me."
Ciri waved a dismissive hand. "Doesn't matter, he had major twink energy."
"And none of this is relevant, because he's twenty-six."
Lambert roared with laughter. "You certainly seem to have given this a lot of thought, bro, for it to 'not be like that'."
Eskel, on the other hand, suddenly looked thoughtful. "Twenty-six is actually pretty young."
"It would be if Geralt was chasing him, but you know he doesn't do that."
It was true, Geralt basically never pursued romantic interests. It was part of the reason it had been so long since he'd had a serious one. He was just acutely aware of what he looked like to other people, how intimidating he could be, and he never wanted to put someone in an uncomfortable position.
The other part of the reason was that it was the older he got, the harder it was to find someone who wanted what he wanted. Yennefer had been one thing, when he'd been young and impressionable and the couple years she'd had on him made it feel like she was much more worldly. But when that had imploded he'd suddenly found himself in his thirties, a fully-grown adult used to taking charge and speaking with authority out in the world, and he'd struggled to find someone who understood that the last thing he wanted was to be like that in the bedroom.
And Jaskier was not that person. Geralt had no reason to think he might be, and there was no point getting his hopes up again to have them inevitably dashed in a painfully uncomfortable encounter the way they had been so many times before.
Instead he put the thought out of his mind and waved the spatula at his family. "See if I cook dinner for the three of you again. I'll just go up to the ranch and feed Pop and the rest of you can fend for yourselves." They laughed him off and the subject blessedly turned to the family trip to see Vesemir they were planning for next weekend.