Archive of Our Own ^beta

Geralt sat in the back of the inn, silent, leaning against the wall. The night was setting in, he had long since finished his hunt for the day (though the town they were in promised they had a few more contracts, if he was willing), he was full, and only a few stray cuts littered his body. By all means, the Witcher should’ve been going, walking around and enjoying the relative peace, maybe finding somebody he could spend the night with. That idea was thwarted by the fact that he couldn’t take his eyes off of Jaskier. 

Jaskier, who was laughing merrily now, plucking at his lute. Behind him, some musicians were gathered, playing some upbeat tune. It sounded familiar, though the words escaped Geralt. It didn’t matter what his bard was singing, no, not when he looked like this. Hair damp with sweat, eyes gleaming, and shirt just starting to unbutton to try and stave off the heat of movement, Jaskier was a sight. The Witcher knew this well, knew this as the man stopped his singing for a moment, downing a glass of water that was on the stool beside him (and Geralt definitely didn’t track the water droplets that trickled down his throat, from just how desperate the man in front of him was for relief), before he started moving, legs tapping out a rhythm in the music, body moving in a way that would’ve made a secular man believe in the gods. 

He was the center of attention, always, drawing people’s eyes from around the room. Men, women, everyone was enraptured by Jaskier, by his siren calling of song and dance. And then he was picking his lute up again from where it had fallen limply into its strap around his shoulders, and the glass was long gone from the stool. He lifted one of his long, lithe legs (gods above, the things Geralt wanted to do to him-) and leaned forward to his audience. Geralt could feel their want, their need, could imagine the song had to be passionate, but then again, when wasn’t Jaskier passionate? He was passionate about his favourite forms of poetry, he was passionate about fashion, he was passionate about how Valdo Marx was the scum of the earth and should really go die in a pit somewhere, hell, sometimes, the bard seemed passionate about how bread should properly be buttered. Jaskier was passionate in every fiber of his being, and the crowd was desperate for a taste, desperate to just get a moment closer. 

Surely, they had heard the rumors. Everyone had. Every town they went to, Jaskier had more propositions to spend the night than he could possibly ever fulfill. It was a regular occurrence, and Geralt didn’t care before, so long as his suitor had a room for them that would allow Geralt to rest, or so he told himself. Yet he felt the twisted hand of jealousy lurch inside of him as someone in the crowd leaned close, as Jaskier kissed their hand. 

Things were different now, he knew. They were together, finally, after years of desperate mutual pining. There would be no one tugging the bard close tonight, no blemishes with owners unknown on his fair skin. He loved Jaskier, and Jaskier loved him. He knew this. 

Geralt watched as Jaskier kicked off the stool at a particularly high moment, watched as Jaskier scanned the crowd, and locked eyes with him. The crowd was wild, begging for a glimpse, a moment from the famous bard Jaskier. And Jaskier winked at him, before taking a few steps back, lining up with the musicians behind him. Though no one would possibly be looking his way, Geralt took a deep drink from his ale to try and hide the blush riding high on his face, to try and stop the shake of his heart. He didn’t just love Jaskier. Fuck, he couldn’t . Love wasn’t just like this. He had loved Yennefer. Something was different with Jaskier. 

He didn’t even notice the performance was over (as this was, of course, Jaskier’s second encore), until he had a brilliant handful of bard in his lap. Jaskier made a small noise as he sat down, reaching over to take the ale from Geralt’s hands. The witcher couldn’t do anything but watch, enraptured, as the pink, song swollen lips drank it all down in one go, letting out a soft sigh of relief after. 

His hair was sweaty, falling into his face and Geralt immediately pushed it back, the feeling in his heart preening at the way Jaskier pressed against his hand, at the way his hand seemed to find its place cupping his cheek. His eyes, staring right at Geralt’s, were abuzz with energy, not yet fallen from its peak. Jaskier smiled, and Geralt ignored the way his heart fluttered. 

“How was the performance, dear heart?” He asked, turning his head to press a kiss to Geralt’s calloused hand.

He smiled back, just barely, enough that no one walking by, (of which there were a few people now, coming to see if they had a chance to speak with the Bard, and dejectedly going back to where they came from when they knew they didn’t) could or would notice, but enough that Jaskier, kind, thoughtful, ethereal Jaskier would. “Best one yet,” He murmured, voice rough, as he couldn’t trust the words to come out properly. Geralt pulled Jaskier closer, till their chests were almost touching and slotted their lips together, hoping to prove his words. 

From the other, a noise of contentment rose, and he leaned closer still, even as Geralt pulled away to breathe. He looked at Jaskier, all rosy cheeked and heart eyed, and something in him shifted. He needed this man to be his. He needed to be Jaskier’s. 

He formed a plan, one he could only fulfill when Jaskier would be fast asleep in the morning. The only component missing, of course, would be how to keep him in bed.

Jaskier let out a little whine. “You’ll have to prove that, you charmer,” He said, pulling Geralt closer yet again, by his shirt. 

Nevermind. The horny bard solved that problem for him. 

Weeks passed. Geralt had fulfilled his mission, or part of it, his bag seems heavier now, though. No time seemed right, enough. It was a weight burning into his side whenever he thought of it, but he wanted to handle this right. Wanted to make it all worth it, for his stupid, romantic bard. Now, it was a night similar to the one when he formulated his plan. 

Jaskier had put on another amazing performance, and Geralt had only just come back from scouting a potential field (which, turns out, had no noonwraiths in it, and was a complete waste of time) and now, Jaskier was in his lap in their room. They were kissing desperately, hot and heavy with Jaskier's weight resting on his thighs, his groin. A familiar heat filled him at the sweet sounds leaving Jaskier but he couldn’t feel much other than weight, still in his full armor. 

Geralt pushed his hands up the back of Jaskier’s shirt, prompting him to lean back so he could slowly tug it out. It would’ve been faster to just rip it off, but he didn’t want to hear the scolding of how long it took to resew the buttons. He tugged Jaskier closer, kissing him again, hard and demanding, as he threw the shirt to the side. 

Lute calloused hands scrabbled against his sides. "That's not fair, Ger- You're all dressed up still, c'mon," Jaskier whined, lips still pressed nearly against Geralt’s. 

Geralt gave a soft hum, eyes half lidded with lust as he leaned back, now holding onto Jaskier’s hips, taking in the sight of his bare arms, his rumpled hair. "Get the lube, then? I'll get all this off?" 

Jaskier didn’t even think about it. He was up and getting to work as soon as his legs would let him. Geralt stayed back, watching (Jaskier’s ass) as the man crossed the room in quick strides. He worked on undoing the straps of his armor, freeing himself mostly from the chest piece as Jaskier seemed to not have much luck. Usually Geralt was the one grabbing their supplies, so he couldn’t blame the man. 

Geralt’s eyes moved off of that fine, fine ass, trying to troubleshoot what was going wrong, as he moved the bulk of his armor away from himself. “Jask, its- no, it’s in the small pocket. On the inside. The one that faces the front,” He said, seeing the man rummage in the main compartment. 

Jaskier huffed, looking back over his shoulder in mock annoyance as he looked in the correct pocket. “Really, Geralt, you couldn’t have said that earlier? My time is prec-” His eyebrows furrowed, and he froze. 

Geralt was suddenly tense, frowning and ready to spring up at any second. Had something happened? Was Jaskier hurt? “Jask-”

The man pulled something out, slowly and carefully, eyes wide. It was a small, square box, with a logo of a jeweler on it. “Since when do you wear jewelry, Geralt?” He asked, eyes wide as he looked down. 

Geralt’s heart was beating almost as quickly as a normal mans, suddenly springing to his feet. He couldn’t find it in himself to cross the space between them. It was only a few steps, yet it felt uncrossable, a vast ocean, and all he could do was stand and watch. “I- I can explain, I promise,” He said. Jaskier looked up at him, eyes wide and accusing. He was worried, his fingers just slightly too tight around the box. Geralt sighed. Great, he thought to himself, I fucked this up, too. “Jus-”

“What’s this supposed to be, Geralt?”

“Just open it!” He forced out. It wasn’t supposed to be this way, he wanted to do it better - his mind was swirling, trying to think of something, anything to say. 

With shaking hands, Jaskier opened the box, and looked up at Geralt. He looked back down, and Geralt saw the tears gather at his corners, the box slipping free and hitting the ground. “ No,” He said in disbelief, a smile just curling up at the corners. 

Geralt took a deep breath. He got down on the floor, sitting across from Jaskier, and nodded. He took the box, and took out the ring. It was gold, he knew how Jaskier liked his gold, especially when it came to rings. It was fairly plain, with some engravings, embellishments (he could still hear the craftsman laughing when he described Jaskier’s taste to him, promising to make him something his pretty song bird would love), and there, right in the middle, was an engraving of a wolf, and a lark. Underneath, he had asked the man to engrave the sign of Quen, hoping he could always be there to protect Jaskier, through both of their long lives. 

He cleared his throat, holding the ring carefully, as he shifted so he was on one knee. Jaskier let out a squeak, the first of his tears falling, as his hands came to his face. 

“Jaskier…” He fumbled with his words, mouth suddenly dry. He cleared his throat again, and tried once more. “I had a speech planned. Or, was trying to make one. I wanted this to be romantic. Like you deserve. Something…something nice. I could uh, never really find the right time,” Jaskier’s eyes, blurry with tears, looked up from the ring, to meet Geralt’s eyes, suddenly so tender that Geralt could feel his own eyes prick with wetness. “But, I just…I want to be with you. I want to marry you, Jaskier. I want to be Mister Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove,”

“Well,” Jaskier choked out, sniffling through his tears, “You wouldn’t be the Viscount, I’d still be-”

“I know, Jask. I know. I already said I butchered all nice words, but I just…I want to be yours, Jaskier. I’d like you to be mine,” He took a deep breath, holding the ring up imploringly, feeling tears in his own eyes. “If you’ll take a Witcher like me.” 

All Geralt could do was hold onto the ring as Jaskier threw himself at him, arms wrapping around his sides. He could feel the man weeping, muttering incoherently. “What was that, love?” He asked, slowly trying to get them both sitting up. 

Jaskier kept weeping. “Oh, you fool. Of course I’d say yes. This is the most romantic thing anyones ever done for me!” He cried, holding onto Geralt again. 

“The ring, love, the ring,” Geralt whispered, pressing a kiss to Jaskier’s cheek. He couldn’t stop the bright grin he had, even if he wanted to. 

Jaskier nodded, pulling back and letting go just enough to let Geralt slip the band on his finger. “I love you so much,” He whispered. 

Geralt pulled him into his lap, sure his heart might burst, and leaned his head on his shoulder. “I love you even more.”

They sat in silence like that for a while, in each others embrace, Geralt feeling a wet spot grow on his shoulder from Jaskier’s tears. It felt heavenly, and Geralt never wanted to stop, but a sniffle from Jaskier broke him out of his daze. 

“So,” He asked, still very much crying, and smiling, “are we still fucking, or what?” 

Geralt laughed out loud, just barely, kissing Jaskier hard. “Right, sorry. How could I forget that.” And he stood, carrying Jaskier to the bed, having something to celebrate.