the one where jaskier is drunk (taken from this prompt list, for @clementinecrane)
He feels himself blush. He ignores it.
“You’re drunk,” Geralt grunts.
“Mmm, true,” Jaskier slurs as his head tips forward, “but that doesn’t mean you aren’t pretty. Because you are.”
Geralt rolls his eyes and pulls the bard from the chair he had been seated on. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”
“Yes!” The bard claps his hand once before pointing towards the stairs and exclaiming, “take me to bed, G’ralt!”
Geralt releases an exasperated sigh as Jaskier leans his full weight against him. It’s fine, really, he can carry the extra weight. What isn’t fine is the fact that his cheek is suddenly being poked at by a very pesky finger.
“You have such… lovely features. Nicely defined jaw, pretty plump lips, very expressive eyebrows,” Jaskier lists off, index finger dragging over every attribute he names, “and don’t even get me started on your eyes.”
It’s easy to ignore the feeling sneaking up on him when Jaskier nearly pokes one of out his eyes out.
The witcher growls warningly as he snatches Jaskier’s hand away.
The younger man laughs, “oh, Geralt. All bark and no bite.”
“Want to test that, bard?”
“Want to test that, bard?” Jaskier mimics using his Geralt Voice™.
Geralt has half the mind to let the bard trip and fall on his ass right here. Despite the temptation, he doesn’t.
“You’re so pretty,” the bard sighs. It comes off a little sad.
“And I’ll say it again. So pretty. So so pr—”
“You really never stop talking,” Geralt observes, and it was meant to be an insult but it came off a little… fond.
Jaskier goes on as if Geralt had said nothing at all, “the prettiest hair and the prettiest eyes. Why are you allowed to look so pretty? It hurts to look at you sometimes.”
Jaskier gasps, clutching at his chest as if all the air has been knocked from his lungs. “Now why would I ever want to do that?”
Dramatic idiot, Geralt reminds himself even as he feels another layer peeling away. The universe is testing him, mocking him and his emotions.
Getting the door open proves to be a challenge with Jaskier draped over him but Geralt makes it work. He even manages to remove the bard’s jacket and boots, all while the man in question continues to wax poetry about Geralt’s never-ending prettiness.
“Pretty even when you’re covered in monster guts,” Jaskier giggles, “pretty even when you’re grumpy. Prettiest when you take care of Ciri. You smile. You have such a pretty smile. You should smile more.”
He gets Jaskier situated in bed, making sure the pillow is properly fluffed before pulling the covers over the bard.
“So pretty all the time. Wanna be pretty for you, too.” Jaskier mumbles sleepily, eyes hardly open.
Ignore it. It doesn’t mean anything.
“Go to sleep, little lark.” Geralt whispers, combing a loose strand of hair away from Jaskier’s face.
Jaskier snuggles deeper into the blanket, eyes fully shut now as his head lulls to the side.
There’s a hint of a smile on his face, a flash of a thing. “My pretty witcher,” he murmurs.
And that one… he simply can’t ignore, not with the accompanying warmth that spreads through his limbs at the words.
It doesn’t matter whether it’s real or not. It doesn’t matter that Jaskier would never say this while sober.
Geralt can hold onto this, can’t he? He can have this, even if he can’t have anything else.
My pretty witcher. Jaskier’s witcher.
