Jaskier, being the poetic drama queen that he is, had intended to say swear on your life, a common request in romantic stories. But Geralt has so little care for his own life, always ready to throw it away for the sake of saving a kitten from a tree, that Jaskier babbled his way through that one too.
A promise made on the Path and the Trials shakes him to his core and leaves him breathless.
Fuck. Bloody fucking hell. Jaskier said he didn't need poetry - which isn't entirely true, he loves being told pretty words as much as he enjoys giving them out, but he said it for the sake of Geralt, because he can live without it as long as he has him by his side, because he knew that asking for a true confession would scare the witcher away. And yet... On the Trials that made me. And bloody yet the bastard gives him words that poets would kill for to incorporate in their pieces!
How can he be so bad at this yet so romantic at the same time?
Thank the gods for those big, powerful hands coming to hold him, because Jaskier can feel his legs becoming jelly - he wouldn't have been able to be standing much longer after such a promise. His heart is buzzing once again, his scent slowly goes back to his usual sweetness and-- fuck, Geralt is on his neck, his breathing on his skin sending a shiver down Jaskier's spine. Calloused fingers land on the witcher's neck and stroke him gently, his free arm wraps around that big chest to hold him close to say yes, this is absolutely happening, you're mine now.
Because it is. It's happening. Jaskier can barely believe it, and he hangs onto Geralt as if his life depended on it.
I’ll keep the king / Keep him safe at bay / I’ll keep him safe from the dark things that wait / In that house at the top of the rock.
But what is this about Vizima and a sight-reading contest? You remember. Oh! Yes, of course he does. How could he not? One of the best days of his life. One of the most generous sponsors he's ever had the pleasure to work in, one that truly liked and appreciated Jaskier's music and didn't only hire the most famous name he could find to show him off in front of the other lords. Vardo bloody Marx had been there too, and just being in the same room than the asshole should've been bad news, but having him for the competition was actually great because it meant he would have the chance to sweep the floor with him.
And Jaskier truly loves music competitions. The attention, the crowds, the celebration of music, the different styles being played together, the stroke to his ego, the coin, the wine and food, fucking an admirer or two (or three...) afterwards. So when the sponsor offered a little contest for fun, how could he refuse? Valdo made fun of him before it started, he remembers, told him that Jaskier was nothing without the White Wolf. It got his blood boiling, and he made good use of it - he channeled that anger, and his pride, his talent, the adrenaline of having a lute in his hands handed by the fucking king of elves...
Respect doesn't make history. Jaskier twisted Valdo's composition with the same manipulative inspiration and passion he uses to slam the masses' opinion on witchers, and destroyed it with the effectiveness he wishes he could have on such prejudices. While he stayed there, surrounded by people's praises, his soul almost elevated to a new plane of existence just over how happy he was, he had one thought:
I wish Geralt could see this.
...wait a minute.
"You were there?!" Yep, the high pitch is back, enjoy. "Bloody hell, Geralt! Do you have any idea how I wished back then that you could've been there with me? I wanted to share that moment with you! So what did you do, watched the competition and then r-"
--ran away. Oh. Emotions got the best of the witcher, didn't they? After his comments about the whore bedding yesterday, Jaskier is able to stop himself just in time. His head tilts, resting his temple against the witcher's.
"That's why I took me a while to find you again after that, huh? You're lucky there aren't pillows in this room." He teases, obvious mirth in his voice. "So it was my talent that caught you in the end after all." Which makes his chest feel warmer than the sun itself. "And this was what, over a decade ago? All this time we could've..." A sigh. "We're both imbeciles."
Hey, that's compromise, right?
The hand on Geralt's neck moves to cup his face, raising it to make gold eyes fall on blue ones - which look at the witcher in front of him with pure adoration. "You don't have to be afraid of this, my dear."
Not dear witcher, but my dear. And before Geralt can reply, Jaskier leans in and covers the witcher's lips with his own.
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A promise made on the Path and the Trials shakes him to his core and leaves him breathless.
Fuck. Bloody fucking hell. Jaskier said he didn't need poetry - which isn't entirely true, he loves being told pretty words as much as he enjoys giving them out, but he said it for the sake of Geralt, because he can live without it as long as he has him by his side, because he knew that asking for a true confession would scare the witcher away. And yet... On the Trials that made me. And bloody yet the bastard gives him words that poets would kill for to incorporate in their pieces!
How can he be so bad at this yet so romantic at the same time?
Thank the gods for those big, powerful hands coming to hold him, because Jaskier can feel his legs becoming jelly - he wouldn't have been able to be standing much longer after such a promise. His heart is buzzing once again, his scent slowly goes back to his usual sweetness and-- fuck, Geralt is on his neck, his breathing on his skin sending a shiver down Jaskier's spine. Calloused fingers land on the witcher's neck and stroke him gently, his free arm wraps around that big chest to hold him close to say yes, this is absolutely happening, you're mine now.
Because it is. It's happening. Jaskier can barely believe it, and he hangs onto Geralt as if his life depended on it.
I’ll keep the king / Keep him safe at bay / I’ll keep him safe from the dark things that wait / In that house at the top of the rock.
But what is this about Vizima and a sight-reading contest? You remember. Oh! Yes, of course he does. How could he not? One of the best days of his life. One of the most generous sponsors he's ever had the pleasure to work in, one that truly liked and appreciated Jaskier's music and didn't only hire the most famous name he could find to show him off in front of the other lords. Vardo bloody Marx had been there too, and just being in the same room than the asshole should've been bad news, but having him for the competition was actually great because it meant he would have the chance to sweep the floor with him.
And Jaskier truly loves music competitions. The attention, the crowds, the celebration of music, the different styles being played together, the stroke to his ego, the coin, the wine and food, fucking an admirer or two (or three...) afterwards. So when the sponsor offered a little contest for fun, how could he refuse? Valdo made fun of him before it started, he remembers, told him that Jaskier was nothing without the White Wolf. It got his blood boiling, and he made good use of it - he channeled that anger, and his pride, his talent, the adrenaline of having a lute in his hands handed by the fucking king of elves...
Respect doesn't make history. Jaskier twisted Valdo's composition with the same manipulative inspiration and passion he uses to slam the masses' opinion on witchers, and destroyed it with the effectiveness he wishes he could have on such prejudices. While he stayed there, surrounded by people's praises, his soul almost elevated to a new plane of existence just over how happy he was, he had one thought:
I wish Geralt could see this.
...wait a minute.
"You were there?!" Yep, the high pitch is back, enjoy. "Bloody hell, Geralt! Do you have any idea how I wished back then that you could've been there with me? I wanted to share that moment with you! So what did you do, watched the competition and then r-"
--ran away. Oh. Emotions got the best of the witcher, didn't they? After his comments about the whore bedding yesterday, Jaskier is able to stop himself just in time. His head tilts, resting his temple against the witcher's.
"That's why I took me a while to find you again after that, huh? You're lucky there aren't pillows in this room." He teases, obvious mirth in his voice. "So it was my talent that caught you in the end after all." Which makes his chest feel warmer than the sun itself. "And this was what, over a decade ago? All this time we could've..." A sigh. "We're both imbeciles."
Hey, that's compromise, right?
The hand on Geralt's neck moves to cup his face, raising it to make gold eyes fall on blue ones - which look at the witcher in front of him with pure adoration. "You don't have to be afraid of this, my dear."
Not dear witcher, but my dear. And before Geralt can reply, Jaskier leans in and covers the witcher's lips with his own.