#okay geralt

[teatitty]

It's way funnier to me to imagine that Geralt is the one who desperately wants Dandelion to winter at Kaer Morhen with him but Dandelion keeps saying no on the simple grounds that it's too fucking cold and do you want me to die Geralt? Do you want me to get hypothermia and fucking die?

And Geralt's like "please I am begging on my knees I will cuddle you every night to keep you warm I just need to prove you actually exist"

[alugerr]

I hate drawing him

[yourmusicmuse]

So if you haven't been able to tell, I'm in a bit of a Witcher hyperfixation so I made some textpost memes!! Please no Season 2 or Season 3 spoilers in the tags because ya girl has only seen Season 1 bc I'm as slow as a snail lolol

But I hope these make you smile or laugh :D

[janjan-the-ninth]

My brain whenever I hear that Cavill is the Witcher and cannot be replaced:

[patroclusdefencesquad]

joey batey in every song he writes for jaskier : i will sprinkle in the fact that jaskier is in love with geralt

[rhythmiccicada]

Geralt is convinced that he only helps Jaskier out and keeps him out of trouble because the consequences are much worse.

He wants to fuck a lady or lord in wedlock? Tried that (more than) once and Geralt had to take down a pack of seven drowners to convince the spouse to keep Jaskier alive.

He makes sure Jaskier puts dry clothes on after a fall in a lake? That’s because a sick Jaskier is so so bad and somehow even with a sore throat he talks more.

But eventually the annoyance fades and slowly, so slowly, time softens the doting he does without much thought. Geralt keeps Jaskier warm even before he complains. Geralt steps in front of Jaskier so he won’t scream.

Someone points it out, eventually. Ciri, probably, but when she asks him why he treats Jaskier like a lover, Geralt almost throws himself off the mountain’s side. It’s ridiculous and he has just gotten used to caring for this helpess and annoying creature that has latched onto him and refuses to shake off.

Geralt doesn’t stop taking care of him.

And if he can’t find the contempt that was there before? Well that’s not for anyone else to know.

[whumpypepsigal]

“We didn’t come this far just to abandon each other.” — “Then don’t abandon me.”

[geraskierfanficprompts]

Prompt 22

Geralt rides into a town only to see a small family fumbling around in the street in a panic. Apparently they're a family business of fishermen who are worried that something much bigger than a fish has swam into a trap of theirs. Geralt gets a promise of money for getting rid of it and goes off to kill whatever water monster it is. But he gets to where they describe the beast and he finds... A mermaid? It's trapped and tied around in a net, facing away from Geralt, and clearly in pain, though he doesn't know why, yet. The webbed ear of the mer flicks and it turns to face him, hissing. Geralt holds his hands out in a placating gesture and sloowly walks closer, only for the mer to slam the full weight of it's tail into Geralt's legs and sweep him off his feet. Gods damn it. It can never be easy. Geralt draws his sword, and begins cutting the trap off the mer, even as it hisses, flails, and tries it's absolute damnedest to claw his face off. He ends up straddling it like it's a fucking gator, and when he frees it of it's restraints, it's only then that he can finally make out the giant wound on the mer's side. Too big and nasty a wound to just release it into the water. Oh great. It's gonna LOVE this. But it's not like he has to DO anything about it. He's a cold, emotionless witcher. He doesn't care of the mer lives or dies. If the wound is infected or kills the mer, he couldn't give less of a damn. So Geralt is currently walking up to his room at the inn, with a very angry hissing mer thrown over his shoulder, clawing the shit out of his armor. When he asks for the bath to be filled, blessedly nobody asks any further questions. The mer stops struggling as soon as it's in the bath, but it sure is still hissing at him. Geralt puts his sword away and takes off his armor and the hissing lessens. Now it's just whenever he gets too close. Big problem. He needs to get close in order to patch up it's wounds. The mer has the biggest, brightest, inhumanly blue eyes, with slitted pupils. It has sharp teeth, and twinkling iridescent blue scales dusting across the edge of it's face and it's cheeks. It stops hissing at him to listen to the bard perform downstairs. It stops attacking him, even as he pokes and prods at their wound. This is great! Except for when the bard stops and the mermaid goes back to thrashing and screaming- So Geralt is forced to hum songs under his breath to calm it. It's pupils expand and it stares at him in awe, with a slightly parted mouth. Geralt's just happy it stopped flopping around like a- w- Well... Like a fish. He fixes it all up, and shares his food, and softly hums to it the whole night, before it curls up a bit more and starts nodding off. He stops humming and steps to the inn's bed, only to be surprised when hearing a voice behind him murmur "Thank you." Oh shit-

[churchofpossum]

Now kiss

[finleycannotdraw]

I love your draws! How about a unexpected first kiss? From both parts, like surprise on their face, and then they just kiss again because they are two idiots in love ❤️

thank you so much!!!<3

I wasn’t entirely sure where to go with this until tonight, but I hope you like what I came up with!

idiots in love, emphasis on the idiots!

they are just. so stupid. god they’re so dumb

[nullio]

an "I love you" Jaksier and "It'll pass" Geralt

[teatitty]

Okay no but I'm thinking more about Big Brother Eskel hearing about this fucking bard Geralt has picked up and all the mischief and mayhem he causes while also bringing back a light to Geralt's eyes and making his path so much less lonely [wolves were never meant to be alone and especially not Geralt] and when he does meet him he's just like. Fuck. Look at this thing. He's so small and wild and free. Is anyone going to fuss over him like he's an errant baby brother or do I have to do everything around here my-fucking-self. And then he does and Dandelion's incredibly confused but he's not, like, mad about it

[jaskiercommabard]

Hi can I request “Let me do this, please.” for geraskier please and thanks 💛

I'm sorry this took so long! I am a slow writer on a good day, and I was planning on doing like a 300 word drabble but Geralt said NO. 2500 words or I feed you to Roach

Read on AO3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Geralt, help me, please,” Jaskier screams. 

Not Jaskier.

It is not Jaskier, but that doesn’t keep the blood from rushing in Geralt’s ears as he hunts the thing that has his voice. 

Jaskier is safe, back at the inn - probably sleeping by now, or else terrorizing the pretty barmaid Geralt had left him flirting with. He’s safe, far away from this barren, gore-filled clearing, unless-

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have followed you.”

The voice is thick with tears, wobbling pitifully. The cries continue, ricocheting mercilessly through the forest. 

“I’m afraid.”

“Don’t leave me.”

“Geralt, Geralt. I’m here.”

He is not here. The only trace of Jaskier comes from the strip of thick linen blocking Geralt’s vision, the barest memory of lemongrass and cinnamon hitting the air when he tugs the fabric more securely over his eyes. Beneath it, only rot. 

Geralt turns in a slow circle, blade raised and ready to strike. He’s spent all day tracking the location of a nightwraith that has been calling young men to their deaths in the forest, and now the moon is high. Geralt is not a young man, so he is relieved to find - in a stroke of his peculiar sort of luck - that the nightwraith isn’t overly particular about which hearts it rips out and leaves at the edge of town. 

“There you are,” it coos, the tone familiar and melodic. “I tried so hard to find you.”

It’s a perfect mockery of relief and exhaustion, the same sigh that greets him after a long day riding or a long night performing, and it’s close. Its feet fall just like Jaskier’s, a little heavier on his right side where his hip is starting to give him trouble - Geralt can almost see the unevenly worn soles of his boots crunching toward him through the blanket of leaves on the ground.

It's late enough in autumn that Jaskier would be grousing about the cold, and as soon as the thought crosses his mind, the creature's teeth begin to chatter.

“There’s something out here. I’m frightened. Why won’t you help me?”

Closer, now. Close enough for Geralt to lunge at it, and the gasp that falls into the quiet air when his sword finds the creature’s flesh belongs to Jaskier, too. 

The strike falls short of a killing blow, thrust out blindly as it is, and does little more than confuse and enrage it. Soon the voices are overlapping, shrieking above him, losing their soft edge. Vicious wind tears around him and he’s caught in a squall of Jaskier weeping, Jaskier laughing, Jaskier howling in pain. It is behind him and before him, above him and around him, oppressive, inescapable. He has no choice but to rip the fabric from his eyes and-

And there is Jaskier, where Geralt knew he would be, kneeling in the dirt with trembling hands pressed into his side. A gruesome stain slips out from beneath his fingers, so similar to the red of his doublet that it only makes the fabric darker, and a matching ribbon of it falls from his mouth. 

It’s a nightmare Geralt has woken from a thousand times, Jaskier all blue and pink and red, too red at the end of his own sword.

"Why?" the thing mouths, but it's lost, crackling out somewhere in the air instead of falling from his lips. The creature wields his voice like a weapon as it loses control, twisting that sweet tenor into something that stings his ears. 

The taste of blood coats Geralt’s mouth and fills his nose, real and hot and nauseating. It's a strong illusion, built from grief and malice, and it has to end, now, before he cracks beneath the weight of it. He has no choice but to sprint past Jaskier to reach the corpse on the other side of the clearing, but even his enhanced speed is no match for a wraith this powerful. Fingers colder than ice wrap around his ankle and he is flung like a doll to the ground, knees singing with pain as they crash into the earth.

“Let me do this,” he shouts over the roaring wind, twisting back to face the wraith. He’s foolish for it, maybe, but it’s easier to argue with a monster when it wears a face he squabbles with a hundred times before breakfast most days. “Please. Let me help you!” 

For a moment, the frigid hand on him only tightens. It’s enough to make his bones creak, but then Jaskier’s face softens, rippling out from the center. That familiar mop of messy hair turns golden, tumbling easily over a set of round, narrow shoulders. Finally, blue eyes turn maple brown - upturned and mournful, a perfect match to the farmer who had begged Geralt to find his missing daughter. 

They had looked just like hers, watery and wide, when the man chased him down outside the alderman's hut. Find my girl, he had pleaded, pressing a stack of old coins into Geralt’s palm. Bring her home, however you can.

The flickery image of the girl nods once, just the barest dip of her chin as she releases his ankle. It’s enough for Geralt to lurch away, extending his hand to cast Igni over the too-small body decaying in the dry grass beside them. For a moment, above the rot and char and heat, the air is washed out with a breeze of sweet hay and lilies, and then she is gone. 

What’s left behind is a maelstrom of untamed rage and malice, once more with Jaskier’s face, flickering now as the illusion struggles to hold itself together. Something sick and sharp blooms in Geralt’s throat, but he raises his sword anyway. He wavers, and the wraith smiles with his friend’s mouth. It’s all wrong - all sharp, dripping teeth jutting out from endless black, and that is just enough to snap Geralt back to focus. 

The wraith shrieks, the witcher springs. It still has Jaskier’s tears and Jaskier’s hands and Jaskier’s sweet, wide eyes when it dies on Geralt’s sword.

**

The pleasant hum coming from the warmly lit hall of the Merry Magpie rises when Geralt stalks in the front door, its patrons ruffling like rattled hens at the sight of him. He forgoes the bar entirely - he’ll collect his coin from the alderman and deliver it along with a box of ashes to the farmer in the morning. Tonight, he’ll tend to the cold spike of grief and guilt settled in his own chest.

He can’t shake his unease as he climbs the stairs to the shadowy upper floor of the inn - it rolls around in his gut, sends his shoulders bunched halfway to his ears. It’s irrational, he knows, but the feeling only winds itself more tightly around his spine when he shoves open the door to their shared room and finds it empty. 

Geralt swallows around the sharp thing creeping higher into his throat. The bard isn’t far, not with his lute and songsheets strewn about the bed. He’s just as likely to be in a room around the corner with that freckled barmaid, or out behind the inn with the stableman he’d been making eyes at all day, or-

“In here, Geralt!”

In his panic, he’d missed the thick humidity of the room and the scent of Jaskier’s soap, missed the familiar tick of his heart beating quarter-time against Geralt’s own. 

“That is you, Geralt?” he continues, calling from behind the dressing screen in the corner of the room. “You’d better be Geralt, or you’ll have some explaining to do to my outrageously large and occasionally violent very best friend in the whole wide world-”

His voice swings up an octave when he turns to find the witcher only a few paces from him.

“Merciful gods, witcher, you really have to stop doing that. It’s…unnerving. I am unnerved. Has anyone ever told you you’re unnerving?”

Jaskier has. Frequently, but Geralt is so caught up in staring at his throat working, whole and unhurt, that he doesn’t answer. 

“Fuck. Are you alright?” Jaskier asks as he rounds the steaming basin in the center of the room to close the space between them. His tone is tempered now, low and even, the way it is when he soothes Roach while Geralt picks pebbles out of her shoes. Geralt wets his lips but only nods, and careful hands rise up to pet him over anyway. 

There’s a peculiar crease in his brow, a dimple beside his frowning mouth that, surely, no creature could ever mimic. It only deepens as he works away the armor to uncover Geralt piece by piece, unable to find any visible injury. The help only slows him down, really, but Jaskier is warm and real and his waist fits neatly into Geralt’s palm where his hand has drifted, so he lets himself be fussed over. 

The bard is chirping away as he always is when the thorns start to prick at Geralt’s stomach again.

“Jaskier,” he tries to command, but it comes out strangled, “I need you to stop talking.” 

The bard squawks indignantly, swatting at his shoulder where he’s masterfully knocking loose a pauldron that needs its latch replaced.

“You are so rude, do you know? You’re terrible to me.” 

“Jask. Stop.” 

Either Jaskier hears the plea he’s trying to swallow, or Geralt is bleeding out on the forest floor and hallucinating, because he snaps his mouth shut obediently and steps back. That’s wrong, that’s worse, so Geralt tightens the hand on his waist to draw him back into the circle of his arms. 

He presses his face into the space beneath Jaskier’s jaw, because he wants to, and because he can’t help himself. His other hand drifts into the gently curling hair at the nape of Jaskier’s neck, damp with sweat and steam from the bath slowly cooling beside them. He startles slightly at the touch, but Geralt only noses in further. 

After what has been only a moment for Geralt but certainly a small eternity for the bard, he speaks softly into the top of Geralt’s head.

“Just tell me what’s wrong, dear. Please.” 

“It had your voice,” he whispers. Jaskier scoffs indignantly, but it’s missing some of his usual bluster. 

“I can assure you, nothing and no one on this Continent has my-” 

He cuts himself off, tensing in Geralt’s hold as the words hang above them.

Luring our men into the forest, the innkeeper's wife had said. They all heard it - their wives, lovers, calling to them in the night. It drove them mad, ripped their hearts out.

“It had my voice.”

He understands, and the meaning is cutting through the air like an arrow let loose too soon, flying outside Geralt's control.

“And you had to…?” Jaskier grimaces, all blunt teeth, and leans back to drag a thumb across his throat. Geralt nods tightly, follows the motion with his eyes and then with the tips of his own fingers. That familiar sparrow-heart pulse jumps up to meet his touch in the same soft and perfect spot where Geralt had plunged his sword. 

“Oh, love,” he breathes, and it twists in Geralt's stomach like a fist. He slides his eyes away to track a bead of sweat falling from Jaskier's temple, and he can smell it - lemongrass and cinnamon, salt-sweet skin. No copper, no decay. 

Though his blood moves too slowly for it to show, Geralt feels the flush high in his cheeks anyway, where it might blossom on a human's face - where it does begin to blossom on Jaskier's. It pricks strangely beneath his eyes, makes his tongue slow and clumsy. 

“Did you know?”

A startled noise bubbles out of Jaskier as he meets Geralt’s gaze, but his eyes are fond and soft, wide with something that looks like wonder. Geralt leans into the tender brush of knuckles across his cheek, forgetting for a moment why he ever stopped himself before.

“That you love me?” He laughs, high and soft and musical. It's unbearable. “I suspected. Did you?”

The answer sits on his tongue like the last bite of an apple tart, lives in his throat like a shared skin of good wine, scratches at his chest like an ancient shirt stitched together by a musician's cautious hands.

“I must have. I-” he shakes his head as if the right words might tumble out of him. Jaskier only sighs, an easy smile stuck on his face as he raises his palm to Geralt's cheek. It's the same look he has when they meet each other on the road after a season apart. 

He can’t reconcile the smile and the screaming, the image of the wraith still exploding like a bomb behind his eyelids.

"I'm sorry," he says, nonsensically. His thumb is back at the hollow of Jaskier's throat.

"For what?"

"I hurt you." 

I cut you down as you begged me not to. As you cried out for me to help you. What does that make me?

"Show me," he whispers, just loud enough to hear over the peculiar tangle of their heartbeats. There is an unfamiliar look on his face, something curious and patient, something that makes him sweat even as the room is cooling. 

Geralt swallows hard, presses his thumb into the top of Jaskier's throat, dragging it down until it meets the loosely gathered laces of his chemise. Jaskier's hands fly up to untie them, slowly exposing each precious inch of skin that had been rent and torn by the blade. Instead of steel, Geralt pulls gooseflesh along in his wake. It blooms along with the sweetly creeping flush that spreads across Jaskier's collarbones - blood brought to surface by his hand, again, so different this time.

Geralt continues his path over Jaskier's breastbone, across the dip between his ribs, until he reaches the spot above Jaskier's navel where his sword had struck its final blow. He follows the path again with the flat of his hand, up over a rabbiting heart until his palm rests in its place against Jaskier's neck. His breaths have gone thin and quick, the way they did when he was dying. 

He's not dying, now - no, Jaskier is very much alive when he closes the meager space between them. He's alive when he tips their foreheads together, and Geralt wonders how he could ever have been fooled, seeing this face without the crinkles near his eyes and the easy flush in his cheeks. He’s so alive when their lips brush and it’s all sweet and hot, no ash left in the breath they share.

Geralt knows what Jaskier sounds like with steel in his throat, now, what he sounds like drowning in his own blood. He’ll never unlearn it. It's only fair, he decides, that he should know what Jaskier sounds like when his lips find that same place, when his tongue follows.

[yeraskier]

five times everyone questions jaskier's sanity, and the time jaskier realizes he was (sort of) right all along. [inspired by yesterday's events... you know the one]

also on ao3

Geralt looks… different. Very different. Like his entire fucking face has changed different. 

He looked just like himself at supper last night, but now it’s morning, and suddenly, he looks nothing like himself. It doesn’t even make any sense. Jaskier briefly considers that maybe he had a bit too much ale the night before, but he’s drunk more than he did last night and this has never been the result.

Geralt definitely looks different. Very different. Like a whole new face different. He looks a bit taller, too, which is completely unfair.

Jaskier eyes him suspiciously, and he’s probably completely losing it, but even the man’s Adam’s apple looks different when he swallows. Gods.

He doesn’t realize he’s reached out until the tip of his index finger makes contact with Geralt’s cheek. The witcher freezes, spoon stopping midway to his mouth before he slowly turns his head.

Jaskier pokes his cheek again, and then his jaw, and then his nose.

“What happened to your face?” He asks, sliding in closer to inspect. He pokes one of Geralt’s cheekbones, twice. Three times, for good measure.

“Do that again,” Geralt growls in a way that tells the bard he most definitely should not do that again.

Jaskier drops his hand.

—

“Has anyone else noticed that something's wrong with Geralt's face?”

Ciri lifts her head from the book she’s been scribbling in as Yennefer eyes him skeptically through the mirror she’s facing.

“What are you on about now, Jaskier?”

“Geralt. His face. It’s different,” he says, stepping further into the room. “And so is his physique.”

Yennefer arches a perfectly done brow at him.

“Not that I’ve been paying, or have ever paid any attention to his physique or anything,” he amends quickly, “because I don’t…”

Ciri’s snicker covers up a muttered, “right,” which Jaskier pretends to not notice.

Yennefer sighs as she turns to face him, “Geralt is fine. He looks the same as he did yesterday, and the day before, and last week, and the week before. He looks the same as he’s looked for decades. It comes with being a witcher.”

“But—”

“Geralt is fine,” she says with a level of finality that lets Jaskier know he is not winning this argument, “and you’re an imbecile.”

—

Jaskier’s not going crazy, okay? No matter what anyone says (fuck you very much, Lambert!) he is not going crazy.

The man still walks like Geralt, and talks like Geralt, and acts like Geralt, and knows things that only Geralt would know (like the fact that Jaskier has also needed chamomile rubbed on his bum… more than once), so it must be Geralt, except for the fact that looks nothing like Geralt.

“Do you really not see a difference?”

Ciri groans from beside him, clearly irritated at her reading being disturbed. Oh well, she’ll have plenty of other chances to read during their little hiatus. “No, Jaskier, I do not see a difference.”

The bard sighs as he watches Geralt, or whoever the fuck that is, from across the library. It’s all he’s been able to do for the last three days, which, well… isn’t new since watching Geralt has become one of his favorite past times over the last decade or so, but that’s how Jaskier knows he isn’t going crazy. Something is different.

Jaskier has spent hours on hours taking in the man’s defined jaw, and his expressive brows, and his pouty lips. He’s spent so much time trying to depict the specific shade of yellow in Geralt’s eyes, and the curl pattern of his hair, and how long it takes his stubble to grow back after it’s been shaved. He’s spent far too long picking up on every little detail to be told that nothing about the man has changed, because so much has changed. 

“How could you not see the difference? Everything about him is different! I mean look at the shape of his face!” Jaskier exclaims, waving his hand wildly in Geralt’s general direction. “And look at his nose! Gods, look at that nose!”

Ciri blinks at him once. Then, again. She doesn’t blink for three beats and then, she blinks again.

“Look!”

She does look this time, and she even squints. Jaskier waits, watching her, mentally begging for that realization to dawn over her.

Her lips do a thing where they press together and push upward, almost like a frown. “I think you’re right,” she tells him.

Jaskier’s eyes widen, posture straightening in alert.

“His skin looks much more vibrant, I think that new soap Yen got him is working.”

His eyes narrow into slits, and Ciri turns to him with a cheeky grin.

“Very nice, Ciri,” he drawls, “very nice.”

Jaskier huffs as he slumps back in his seat, turning his attention back to Geralt.

She’s right, though, his skin does look more vibrant.

—

“Triss, you’ve got to believe me,” Jaskier whines.

“I’ll believe it when I see it, Jaskier,” she says, “but I just saw Geralt, and he looked fine, same as he’s looked the last ten times I’ve seen him since I got here.” She continues her journey down the hall, and Jaskier is truly surprised by how fast the woman walks. 

“But he isn’t! He isn’t himself, Triss, I swear, and I’m the only one who realizes!”

Triss comes to such an abrupt stop that Jaskier almost crashes into her. When she turns around, her head rolls, along with her eyes. She looks as exasperated as Jaskier feels.

“Suppose Geralt’s face somehow did change, how would that have happened, Jaskier? Explain that to me.”

“Well, I don’t know how exactly, but it must have been the work of a mage. Or maybe one of his potions!”

Triss levels him with a flat look. “A potion? Really? Right, because witchers are running around making potions that can help them shapeshift.”

And when it’s put like that, Jaskier realizes how insane he sounds. “That doesn’t rule out the possibility of a mage!”

“You guys have been in Kaer Morhen for weeks now. Just you, Ciri, Yen, a bunch of witchers, and now, me. And last I checked, Yennefer warded this place so well Melitele herself could strike this area right now and everyone here would remain untouched.” She’s talking with her hands, something she does when she’s at her wit's end, something she does when she’s refraining from turning the person she’s talking to into a toad. “That, alongside the protections that were already set up, means that the possibility that any mage could waltz in here uninvited, or even come close enough to this place, to cast some face-changing curse on Geralt is absolutely zero.” 

“Yes, but—”

“You need rest, Jaskier. You’re starting to sound diabolical.”

With that, she turns on her heels and leaves him in the hallway.

—

“So… you and Geralt have known each other for quite some time now, huh?”

Vesemir looks unimpressed.

It’s an expression he’s becoming quite familiar with.

Jaskier flashes his most charming smile, “have you by any chance noticed any changes in his appearance?”

Dead silence. Great.

“Anything at all?” He presses on hopefully.

The witcher’s expression goes from unimpressed to murderous.

Jaskier has never bolted from a room so fast in his entire life.

—

Jaskier knows this isn’t really the smartest plan he’s ever had, it’s probably in the top five of the dumbest, actually.

He doesn’t know what he has to gain from watching Geralt sleep, but it’s better than just sitting back and waiting for answers to come to him. And alright, he’ll be the first to admit that it’s kind of (really!) fucking creepy, but Jaskier has to get to the bottom of this. So, watching Geralt sleep has to hold some kind of answer.

Many years of sleeping alongside the witcher have taught him how to maneuver without waking the man up, he’s grateful for that now in a way that he’s never been before.

Despite what many may believe, Geralt’s quite the peaceful sleeper. He barely moves, he breathes softly, his face remains soft and pliant— he sleeps like… well, an angel. Even with this brand-new face, all of these little things still exist.

There’s always a certain level of alertness, though, something Jaskier realized early on, but that seems to be nearly nonexistent tonight. It must be Kaer Morhen. Geralt’s at peace here. It’s probably one of the few places, if not the only place, where he truly feels safe. The thought makes Jaskier’s heart melt.

For the second time this week, he finds himself reaching out almost involuntarily. The back of his fingers run along the side of Geralt’s face, and the witcher releases a hardly audible sigh. Jaskier smiles, allowing his fingers to wander a bit, lightly tracing the lines of Geralt’s face, both sharp and smooth.

Geralt’s nose twitches, and Jaskier taps a finger to it. Definitely number one on the list of the dumbest things he’s ever done.

The witcher startles awake, sitting up so fast he nearly headbutts Jaskier. He probably would’ve had the man not fallen off the bed, and flat onto his ass onto the cold, hard ground.

“Ow,” Jaskier groans.

“Jaskier?” And oh, fuck, that sleep-worn voice always did things to him, and right now is not the best time for any of those things to be happening.

Geralt’s eyes zero in on him, and Jaskier offers a weak smile and a wave.

“What the fuck are you doing, Jaskier?”

“Trying to figure out what happened to your face,” he responds, and it comes off as more of a question than an answer

Even in the dark, Jaskier can feel Geralt glaring at him. Then, the witcher lights up the candles beside his bed, and Jaskier can see Geralt glaring at him.

“This again?”

“Yes, this again.” Jaskier hisses defensively, dusting his buttocks off as he rises to his feet. “There is something incredibly wrong with your face, and no one else sees it, but I do.”

“Jaskier—”

“No! I’m being serious right now, Geralt. Your face has changed, alright? It’s completely changed, and I don’t know why I’m the only one who has realized but—”

“Wait—”

“I’m starting to feel kind of crazy over here, and I—”

“I think I know what’s going on. Yen—”

“...don’t understand how everyone else can just—”

“Jaskier, you’re not listening.” Geralt’s standing, now, and he’s all up in Jaskier’s space the same way Jaskier was in his mere minutes ago. And he’s shirtless, which is very, very distracting.

But not distracting enough, Jaskier is on a mission here, Godsdamnit. 

“No, you’re not listening. Your fucking face—”

“My face is fine. Yennefer—”

“Your face is not fine, Geralt. I mean, it’s not like you look like a gremlin or anything, but—”

“Yen, she—”

“You’re still beautiful—”

“Yennefer is fucking with you, Jaskier.”

“I don’t think any curse could ever make you less beautiful—” Wait.

“Wait.” That was Geralt’s voice, as if he’d read Jaskier’s mind.

“Yennefer’s fucking with me?!” Jaskier exclaims at the same time Geralt says, almost breathlessly, “you think I’m beautiful?”

“Huh?” The bard answers dumbly, “what? Yes, of course, I think you’re beautiful. Woo-hoo, this isn’t news to anyone. Now, what do you mean Yennefer’s fucking with me?”

Geralt doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t do anything. He just stares. He stares for so long that Jaskier starts thinking that maybe Geralt’s the one fucking with him.

“Hello?” Jaskier snaps a few times. “Continent to Geralt?”

The witcher seems to blink out of it and huffs a laugh.

“Remember last week when you replaced the soap Yennefer uses for her hair with an ink of sorts?”

Yes, Jaskier does remember. Vividly. It’s one of the best pranks he’s pulled on the sorceress since they started their little game. “And it turned her hair red.”

Geralt hums in confirmation, “well, you know Yennefer. She said she’d do something about it. I didn’t know what, but… seems like it was this. She casted a beholder spell on you.”

“A what?”

“It’s a spell that makes whoever it’s put upon see whatever the caster wants them to see. In this case, it was… my face.”

Jaskier gasps. “That witch.” She’s a genius. Evil, but a fucking genius. “Do you know how long until it wears off?”

“How long did it take Yen to get her hair back to black?”

“Five, maybe six days.”

“That’s probably your answer.”

Jaskier groans. Knowing Yennefer, it’s probably double that. “Gods.”

Geralt hums, thoughtfully. And then, “so…”

Jaskier doesn’t know where this is headed, but he doesn’t like it.

“About you thinking I’m beautiful…”

He gulps. Right. “I said that, did I?”

The witcher takes a step forward, and it was a big step, and there wasn’t that much space in between them, to begin with, so that single step has them toe-to-toe. “You did.”

“Well, everyone thinks you’re beautiful,” Jaskier grins, nudging him as he tries to play it off. 

Geralt tips his head to the side with a slight furrow in his brows, “not everyone.”

“Everyone who isn’t an idiot, I mean,” says the bard, “or a jealous prick, or a prejudiced waste of space. You’re beautiful, it’s hard to look at you and not see that. Most people see that, it’s not just me, ask anyone in this keep. I may not have had anyone on my side about your face looking different, but they all agree about your face being beautiful trust m—”

“Jaskier.”

“Yes?”

“You’re doing that thing you do when you get nervous.” Geralt smirks when he says it, the prick.

“What thing?”

“The rambling thing.”

“I’m always rambling,” Jaskier tells him, “and I know this because you’re always telling me to shut up.”

“No, you’re always talking,” Geralt corrects, “and when you talk, it’s controlled. Whereas when you ramble, it’s hardly coherent because you’re going a mile a minute. You only do that when you’re nervous.”

Fuck.

Geralt leans in closer, lips stretching even further, “am I making you nervous, Jaskier?”

Fuck.

“I—”

Gods, they’re so close. They’re so close, and they’re only getting closer because Geralt is still leaning in like he’s going to—

“Stop.”

They’re not close anymore. Geralt is suddenly several feet away from him. He no longer looks smug, he looks confused, and… small.

“I know where that was headed,” Jaskier begins, licking at his lips and realizing how dry they’d gotten from Geralt trying (and succeeding!) to seduce him, “and trust me when I say I am on board, like all the way on board.”

Geralt cocks a brow, as if to say, then why aren’t we already naked?

“But, I want my first kiss with you to be with you.” At the witcher looking confused again, he continues, “I know it’s you, but I want you to look like yourself.”

The witcher sighs. “I don’t think I’ve ever been irritated by Yennefer more than I am at this moment.”

“I feel your irritation, believe me,” says Jaskier, “and I promise once this wears off I’m all yours, but in the meantime… we can still sleep together in a completely clothes-on kind of way.”

Geralt smiles.

And that’s how the two end up spending the rest of the night cuddling while plotting how Jaskier’s going to get Yennefer back.

—

The spell wears off a day later, and by the time Jaskier emerges from Geralt’s room the following day, he forgets what he was getting Yennefer back for in the first place.

He ends up baking her a chocolate cake as a thank you, with the words THANK YOU, THE SEX WAS GREAT on it.

The look of mortification when she sees it is priceless. Unintended, but priceless.

As it turns out, the best revenge is a bit of kindness.

[mekonfoy]

cuddling

[helianthus21]

yennefer did nothing wrong ever, and if she did, that was her sexy era shut up