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likecastle · 4 years

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In which Jaskier cuts Geralt’s hair

Well, folks, I was inspired by Geralt’s slightly wavier wig in the new S2 promo photos to write a story in which Geralt finally gets some proper haircare and it brings out his natural curl pattern. This somehow turned into 7,000 words of Geralt musing about his own terrible self-image and Jaskier tenderly negotiating a haircut.

Credit for Geralt’s 3-in-1 shower products goes to @exrayspex, with my thanks for their enthusiasm about this exceedingly soft concept!

I’d like to put this up on AO3 at some point, but the title has me stumped, so if anyone has a suggestion, please let me know.

“When are you going to let me cut your hair?”

Geralt snorts, incredulous. “I’m not.”

Jaskier fixes Geralt with a pleading look. The streaks of peacock blue Jaskier recently added to his hair really bring out the color of his eyes—all the better to beguile him with. “Come on, Geralt, don’t you trust me?”

“No,” Geralt says, trying without much luck to keep his attention on the TV screen. Suddenly he has to fight the urge to tuck a stray strand of his hair behind his ear.

“It would look so nice if you just took proper care of it,” Jaskier wheedles.

“It doesn’t need to look nice.” Geralt can feel his shoulders creeping up towards his ears, and he wishes Jaskier would look at something else besides him. “It’s just hair.”

“But—”

Geralt jabs the remote in the direction of the TV. “Are you going to let me watch this or do you want to go home?”

“Fine, you grouch,” Jaskier says, returning his attention to the screen.

It must not hold Jaskier’s interest, though, because he can feel Jaskier’s gaze returning to him periodically throughout the rest of the film—which in itself isn’t all that unusual, since Jaskier watches even movies he really likes with one eye on his phone. Except that when Geralt meets his gaze, Jaskier’s looking at him with a wistful, almost sad expression. Geralt doesn’t let himself wonder what might be on his mind.

Later, Jaskier yawns wide and says he’d better be going if he doesn’t want to fall asleep at the wheel on the way home. It’s just a dramatic excuse not to help clean up, Geralt knows, but he can’t help smiling at the way Jaskier rubs at his eyes, smudging the faded remnants of his eyeliner. Geralt walks him to the door, and for a moment Jaskier just stands there on the porch, looking at Geralt thoughtfully.

When his hand reaches up, Geralt freezes. He thinks for a moment that Jaskier’s about to cup his cheek and drawn him down—but he just takes a strand of frizzy hair that’s come loose from Geralt’s ponytail and twists it around a finger.

“I thought so,” Jaskier says, with a private little smile.

Geralt’s sure Jaskier must be able to hear the way his breath’s gotten jammed up in his chest. “Thought—?”

“Nothing.” Jaskier digs his hands into the pockets of his jacket and starts down the front steps. “G’night, Geralt.”

As Geralt tidies away their takeout containers and empty beer bottles, his mind keeps wandering back to Jaskier’s offer. He knows Jaskier’s just trying to be nice—or trying to fix him, the way he tried to “liven up” Geralt’s wardrobe early in their friendship and tried to set him up on dates after he split up with Yen last year. But the options he tries to push on Geralt—the overpriced bomber jacket Jaskier bought him that’s still sitting at the back of his closet, the gorgeous chestnut-haired nurse Jaskier introduced him to—always seem to reflect more about Jaskier’s idea of Geralt than they do about Geralt himself.

Because the thing is, he’s not brash and stylish like Jaskier, who’s all eccentric colors combinations and flashing rings that accentuate his expressive hands. Jaskier knows how to construct an outfit that tells the world exactly who he is at any given moment, from his ever-evolving hairstyles to his painstakingly-sourced vintage clothes. Geralt, on the other hand, is just—nothing, an absence of style. His idea of a good outfit is one he can forget he’s wearing, one that will make everyone else forget him when he’s wearing it. His relationship to his appearance is as estranged as his relationship to his ex-wife. Being in his body, making use of it when he’s lifting weights or hammering a nail or swinging Ciri up in his arms—that makes sense to him. But thinking about his body is the opposite of that. He doesn’t like being looked at, even by himself. He avoids the mirror on his medicine cabinet as much as he can and starts feeling close and queasy if he so much as looks at himself in a dressing room mirror.

Before he goes to bed that night, he shakes his hair out from his ponytail and makes himself take a long, hard look in the mirror. All he sees is the sallow, tired-eyed face of a man who can hardly remember how to smile anymore, a face scarred from carelessness and creased from years of worry. His dull white hair, which Jaskier had twisted so carefully around his finger, is somehow greasy and dried out at the same time, limp around his face but bristly at the ends. He can’t find any sign of the potential Jaskier seems to think is there. He suspects it was never there in the first place—a mirage visible only to well-intentioned flatterers like Jaskier—and he feels foolish for looking.

No, Geralt decides, he’s not going to let Jaskier cut his hair, or do anything else to him. Better not to bother at all.

The next time the topic of Geralt’s hair comes up, he’s brought Ciri into Jaskier’s salon for an emergency haircut. Ordinarily, Yennefer handles things like haircuts and clothes shopping, but Saturday night, Ciri emerged from the bathroom with the front her hair lopped off somewhere around her eyebrows and a dawning expression of anxious regret on her face. Geralt had reassured her that everything would be OK, while texting Jaskier frantically for help and silently panicking about what Yen was going to say when she came to pick Ciri up on Sunday night. Thankfully, Jaskier was able to squeeze Ciri into his schedule this afternoon, and he promised to fix Ciri up.

So now Geralt is sitting awkwardly in the waiting area, hunched on a squeaky vinyl-upholstered chair. He’s been to Jaskier’s salon plenty of times—to meet him for lunch or a post-shift drink, to drop off something he left at the house or to give him a ride home—but he rarely does more than stand uneasily just inside the door. The relentless pop music and the echoing acoustics never fail to overwhelm him, as does the muddle of scents—clouds of different hair products and the pervasive smell of something sharp like ammonia. The abundance of mirrors unnerves him, too. Nobody can possibly need to see so many views of their own reflection, can they? Between the curious patrons peering at him in the mirrors and passersby staring in through the plate glass storefront, Geralt feels like he’s on display. And to make matters worse, he keeps catching glimpses of his reflection, his own hunted expression looking back at him from unexpected angles.

Ciri, at least, is having a great time, chatting happily with Jaskier as he snips away at her hair. The last time Geralt took Ciri for a haircut, it was at one of those children’s salons where the chairs looked like toy cars, and now here she is, sitting beside grown women almost like she’s one of them. It scares him, sometimes, to think of her growing up—more than sometimes. There are so many ways the world can fail her, and he can only do so much to protect her. There’s going to come a time when she’s going to get into some kind of trouble he won’t be able to bail her out of, and he’s not sure what he’s going to do with himself when that day comes. But for now, at least he can pay Jaskier to fix her disastrous home-brew haircut.

“What d’you think, Dad?” Ciri calls, and he looks up to see Jaskier removing her cape with a flourish. When he turns Ciri’s chair around to face him, Geralt’s heart catches in his throat. How grown up she looks, he thinks, but what really makes his chest ache is how much she’s coming into herself—becoming someone with her own unique taste in clothes and books and music, who won’t compromise about the bullshit dress codes at school and is brave enough to try something new even if the results are atrocious. He doesn’t know where she gets it.

“You like it?” he asks, not trusting himself to say something that won’t embarrass her.

“Yeah, I guess,” she says with a shrug, and hops down from the chair.

“We could do yours next, Geralt,” Jaskier offers, sweeping up the little blonde fragments of Ciri’s hair from the floor around his station.

“Ooh, yeah!” Ciri grins up at him. “I bet Jaskier would give you a really cool haircut.”

“I’m sure he would,” Geralt says mildly. He doesn’t want to quash Ciri’s enthusiasm or impart his own discomfort to her. It’s one of the things that keeps him up at night, the fear that he’ll pass down all his insecurities. He tries so hard to keep that shit buttoned up, to shield her from his own shortcomings—and he knows it’s inevitable that he’s just going to mess her up in other ways, but he wants to do better for her, has to do better. “Maybe some other time.”

“So you’ll consider it!” Jaskier says triumphantly, coming over to tell the receptionist the total for Ciri’s cut.

Geralt notices Ciri looking at herself in the big mirror behind the front desk, fussing self-consciously with her new fringe. Jaskier must notice, too, because he gives Ciri a big hug and says, “You look great, kiddo. Right, Geralt?”

“Definitely,” Geralt says, surrendering his credit card to the receptionist to pay a frankly staggering amount. He tips a hundred percent.

“You should take him up on it,” Yennefer says that evening when Geralt concludes the story of Ciri’s haircut by telling her about Jaskier’s offer to cut Geralt’s hair.

Geralt blinks in surprise. “Really?”

She glances back to where Ciri is waiting for her in the car. “Jaskier did a good job. She and I are going to have a serious conversation later about when to ask for permission and when to ask for forgiveness, but I have to admit it suits her.”

“It does,” Geralt agrees. He realizes he doesn’t know what it would be like, to feel his appearance suited him. He’s never tried, really, to make his exterior reflect his interior, wouldn’t even know where to begin.

“Besides,” Yennefer says, gesturing to his haphazard ponytail, “you really do need to start taking better care of yourself, now that I’m not around to make sure you’re presentable anymore.”

Geralt’s eyebrows shoot up, a smile twitching his lips. “Is that what you were doing? Looking after me?”

Yennefer lifts one hand to tug a lock of his hair, the gesture so similar to Jaskier’s that it makes him shiver, for some reason. “No, but somebody ought to.”

He ducks his head, hoping to hide the ache that washes through him—a longing for something they both wanted but never quite managed to find together. “If you keep Ciri waiting much longer, she’s gonna make a break for it.”

“She would, too,” Yennefer says affectionately. “Take care of yourself, Geralt.” She surprises him by brushing a kiss against his cheek, then turns to go.

Geralt waits until Yennefer’s car is out of sight before he goes inside. As he loads the dinner dishes into the dishwasher, he thinks again about Jaskier’s offer. He’s never been good at asking for things, let alone holding on them once he has them, but it’s been especially hard since he and Yennefer split—even the littlest things feel like they require an effort it’s not worth making. It’s so easy to tell himself he doesn’t need anything—a fancy haircut, a new jacket, a reassuring glance, a gentle touch. But sometimes, maybe, it’s enough to want them.

Wiping soapy water off his hands, Geralt pulls his phone from his pocket and texts Jaskier. Does your offer to cut my hair still stand? Only if you’ve got time.

OMG YES!!! comes the immediate reply. I can be there in 20. Then, a moment later, Jaskier amends, Shit wait make that 40 need to run to get some supplies

Geralt huffs out a laugh. Have to get up early tomorrow. This weekend?

All booked up this weekend but I’m off on Tues so I can come over to your place in the pm if that works for you

He’d hoped to give himself a few days to cancel, just in case he changes his mind, and in this respect Tuesday’s almost no better than forty minutes from now. But he does like the idea of doing this at home, instead of in the salon. He types out OK and hits send before he can think better of it.

Don’t chicken out before then

No promises, Geralt answers.

Jaskier responds with a string of emoji that Geralt finds completely inscrutable, but which make him smile nonetheless.

Jaskier arrives on Tuesday evening with a six-pack of cold beer and bag crammed full of supplies.

“I thought you were going to cut my hair, not outlast a siege,” Geralt says, trying to ignore the way his stomach twists with nerves over this impending ordeal. He should have cancelled. He should never have said yes to this ridiculous idea.

“Oh, none of this would be remotely useful in warfare,” Jaskier replies. Then, contemplatively, he says, “Well, maybe some of it. But first, I thought we could have a drink.”

“So you can cut my hair drunk?” Geralt asks.

Jaskier rolls his eyes and brushes past Geralt into the kitchen, dumping his bag into an empty chair at the table. “So you can relax a little for once. And so we can talk.”

Geralt feels the knot of anxiety in his stomach tighten even further. “What is there to talk about? It’s just a haircut.”

Jaskier lets out a long-suffering sigh as he rummages around in Geralt’s cutlery drawer in search of a bottle opener. “Geralt, have you not listened to a single word I’ve said about my job?” He pops off the caps of two bottles of beer and hands one to Geralt. “No, don’t answer that, I know you haven’t.”

Geralt takes a sullen sip of his beer, but he doesn’t dispute the accusation.

With a nod of his head, Jaskier gestures for Geralt to follow him into the living room, and flops down on what Geralt has come to think of as his side of the couch. Geralt sits at the other end, turned to face him. “You need to know what you want going into this, or you won’t get good results.” Jaskier fixes him with a gaze that makes Geralt take another swallow of his beer. “Have you ever given any thought to what you like, or don’t like, about your hair?”

“Not . . . really,” Geralt mumbles, wondering how angry Jaskier would be if he called this whole thing off now.

“Well,” Jaskier says patiently, “why do you keep your hair long? I always assumed it was because you liked how it looked, but I’m realizing now I’ve never asked about it.”

Geralt takes another sip of his beer and tries to think of answer that’s not Because I do. He’s worn it long since high school, when it was primarily something to hide behind. It felt like a kind of fuck-you, an off-putting choice to keep people from looking too closely at him—and to help him forget about other people, too. “It’s easier,” he says finally. “Don’t have to get it cut every few weeks, and I can keep it out of my face.”

“OK, that’s good to know.” The calm, encouraging tone Jaskier’s taking should feel condescending, but Geralt finds he doesn’t mind—or maybe it’s just the beer starting to relax him a little.

“You don’t always tie it back, though, do you?” Jaskier goes on.

Geralt shakes his head. “When I’m working, yeah, but the rest of the time . . .” He shrugs. It depends—on who he’s around, how comfortable he feels with them, hell, how hard the wind is blowing. Sometimes he can’t stand the feeling of it in face, and sometimes the pressure of the hair elastic at the base of his skull is enough to make him want to rip it out.

“Can I . . . ?” Jaskier gestures to Geralt’s hair, and Geralt inclines his head. It’s inevitable that Jaskier will have to touch him if they’re going to go through with this, so there’s no point in being shy about it. Jaskier scoots forward on the couch, and Geralt holds very still, letting him reach back and undo the tie holding his hair back. A sheet of frizzy white strands spills around his bowed head, almost obscuring Jaskier from view.

He can feel Jaskier, though, running his fingers through his hair. The touch makes Geralt’s scalp tingle and a shiver runs through him that he tries and fails to suppress.

“OK?” Jaskier asks, and Geralt nods.

“You’ve never told me when you went grey.” Jaskier’s voice is hushed, almost as if he’s afraid of startling him. He continues to card his hand through Geralt’s hair—with professional curiosity, Geralt realizes, but the touch is so gentle it also feels like a reassurance. Geralt closes his eyes, grateful to be shielded from Jaskier’s view.

“Started in high school,” he says. It’s been a long time since he thought about how, when those first thick streaks of white were coming into his dark hair, kids at school would call him skunk and Cruella de Vil, shit he knew better than to respond to but that just made him even more self-conscious. It occurs to him now that most of his memories of being looked at—really noticed—are colored by other people’s derision for things he can’t help. “It was all like this by the time I was twenty-one, twenty-two. Someone told me once it’s genetic, but . . .” He shrugs again. He’s got no one to ask about a family history of premature graying, no photos of distant relatives to compare himself to.

Gentle fingers tuck his hair back behind one ear, and Geralt looks up to see Jaskier smiling at him. “I would pay good money to see pictures of you in high school. I bet you were so surly.”

“You wouldn’t have liked me,” Geralt says “I was insufferable.” Miserable and ungrateful and roiling with self-righteous anger all the time, hardly able to string a civil sentence together.

Jaskier rewards him with a snort of disbelieving laughter. “You’re insufferable now and I like you just fine.”

This is true, Geralt thinks. His anger has banked down somewhat since those days, but he’s no less difficult to be around, and Jaskier’s never seemed to mind his rough edges. If he’s being honest, he wouldn’t have been able to appreciate Jaskier in those day. His constant talking and absurd jokes would have grated on Geralt’s nerves, back then. They did when he first met Jaskier, in fact. He tried, for a long time, to keep his distance, sure that there was nothing he and Jaskier could possibly have to say to each other. But Jaskier kept turning up, kept surprising him, kept being kind to him for no damn reason. Geralt’s glad he did.

“So,” Jaskier says, pushing the conversation back in his desired direction, as he always does, “what I’m hearing is, you like wearing your hair long?”

Geralt considers, taking another swallow of his beer. Liking doesn’t figure into his thinking much, but it’s not just out of habit that he keeps it this way. “Yeah.”

Jaskier’s nod is solemn. “Anything you don’t like about it?”

Again, Geralt has to give this serious thought. “There are, uh . . .” He gestures to the wiry flyaways that tend to form around his head by the end of the day. They tend to tickle his face unpleasantly as he works, which is irritating when he doesn’t hand a hand free to brush them away.

“Yeah, it’s a little dry,” Jaskier says. “But we can fix that up.” Geralt knows exactly how soft Jaskier’s hair is, and he can’t imagine his own ragged hair could ever come close. “Anything else?”

Geralt shrugs.

“OK,” Jaskier says, “enough with the interrogation. I think I’ve got everything I need.”

Jaskier gets up and retrieves another beer—not for himself, but for Geralt. Jaskier’s fingers brush his as he hands over the bottle, and it gives him the same little shiver that he felt when Jaskier was combing through his hair. “D’you want me to tell you what I’m thinking, or just surprise you?”

Geralt’s gut instinct is to make Jaskier tell him what he’s got in mind, so that he has the option to veto it and put this whole thing to a stop. But he thinks of Jaskier’s teasing question the first time they talked about this—Don’t you trust me?—and how he’d said no when the answer is really yes. So he takes a deep pull of his beer and says, “Surprise me.”

The look of glee on Jaskier’s face is worth the knot of dread that immediately forms in Geralt’s stomach. He takes another drinks and reminds himself that it’s just hair. It’ll grow back.

“You’re not gonna regret it, I promise,” Jaskier says, and then his warm hands are urging Geralt up and off the couch.

It takes them a while to get everything situated to Jaskier’s liking—the bathroom is too cramped to accommodate a chair, so Jaskier has Geralt drag one into the kitchen, covering the floor in newspapers to catch the stray clippings. Then Jaskier sends Geralt to wash his hair while he sets up the rest of his supplies. When Geralt comes back downstairs, his hair soaking into his t-shirt, there is a truly staggering array of equipment spread out on the counter, Jaskier’s own little traveling apothecary kit, with everything from dangerously sharp scissors to brightly-colored bottles of product to some kind of instrument that looks like a bowl full of dull spikes, which Jaskier says attaches to his hair dryer.

“Rule number one,” Jaskier says, grabbing the towel out of Geralt’s hands. “No more regular towels on your hair. Your hair deserves to be treated with care.” Geralt snorts, but the towel he hands Geralt is pleasantly soft, with finer knap that’s soft as fleece in his hands. “And don’t rub at it,” Jaskier scolds. He steps closer, wrapping his hands around Geralt’s to guide him, his hand moving in a gentle squeezing motion. “That’s good,” he says, and Geralt feels his cheeks flush.

Once Geralt’s hair is toweled dry, Jaskier maneuvers him into the chair, and combs out his hair with a wide-toothed comb. Jaskier is exceedingly careful not to yank on the knots, but even so the gentle tug sets his skin tangling. Geralt knows his scalp is sensitive—he can remember fighting back tears while Vesemir struggled to brush out his unruly hair as a kid—but it’s never felt like this before. Of course, that might have something to do with the fact that ordinarily, when he finally breaks down and subjects himself to a trim, he just asks Eskel do come over and cut it with the kitchen scissors. Even with someone he trusts as profoundly as he does Eskel, it’s still an uncomfortable ordeal that makes him unaccountably tense. But this isn’t painful, or unnerving at all. It’s . . . nice, embarrassingly so. He can’t help wondering what it would feel like if Jaskier were to drag his nails along his scalp—and then he has to force himself not to think about it, because even the thought of the sensation sends a shudder through him.

Thankfully, Jaskier is busy fiddling with his phone, and a moment later he puts on a playlist he likes to call Geralt’s Sad Dad Rock mix. Geralt appreciates the background noise—familiar songs he can tune out if he wants to, quiet enough that the music’s not intrusive.

“OK,” Jaskier says, snapping a cape around Geralt’s throat. His hand comes to rest on Geralt’s shoulder and he leans in to speak almost directly into Geralt’s ear. “Ready?”

Geralt suppresses another chill and says, “As I’ll ever be.”

Jaskier gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze and gets to work. Geralt’s grateful for the lack of mirrors, because it means he doesn’t have to see what Jaskier’s doing, but at the same time it leaves him without much to go on—just the touch of the comb, Jaskier’s hands carefully repositioning his head, his fingers pulling this or that lock of hair taut to snip at them with the scissors. Eventually, Geralt closes his eyes and lets Jaskier’s voice wash over him. Jaskier often accuses Geralt of not listening to him when he talks, but in truth it’s easy to get lost in the lilting cadence of his speech, like hearing a song but not its lyrics.

“. . . and the thing is,” Jaskier’s saying, though Geralt lost the thread of his rambling long ago, “the more you do it, the better your results will be. You just have to help them along . . .”

He can see why Jaskier’s clients like him so much, how nice it is to fall into the pattern of someone else’s words, especially when that someone has as nice a voice as Jaskier. He’s often grateful for Jaskier’s conversation, which fills silences Geralt didn’t even realize were empty until he came along.

When Jaskier says, “OK, you’re all done,” Geralt is surprised by how quickly the time has passed. “We can just leave it at that and just let it air dry, or . . .” Even though he can’t see Jaskier, he can picture the hopeful expression on his face.

“What?” Geralt asks, twisting around in the chair to look Jaskier in the eye.

Jaskier bites his bottom lip, looking almost nervous. “Or I could show you how to style it. If you wanted. Nothing over the top, I promise.”

Geralt thinks it over. On the one hand, there’s no way he’ll ever bother repeating anything Jaskier shows him how to do, but on the other hand, he wouldn’t mind having Jaskier’s hands on him a little longer. “All right.”

“Really?” Jaskier’s eyes go wide. “Nope, never mind, I’m not gonna second-guess this. No take-backs! You’re committed now.”

Which is how Geralt finds himself being hustled back upstairs and into the bathroom. Jaskier pulls back the shower curtain and is about to start issuing instructions when he lets out a squawk and staggers backward.

Geralt looks around in alarm, expecting to see a giant spider in the tub. It’s only belatedly that he realizes he’s thrown an arm out in front of Jaskier, as if that will protect him from whatever nonexistent threat he was reacting to. “What?”

“Geralt, for shame!” Jaskier exclaims, pointing to the bottle of 3-in-1 shampoo/conditioner/body wash on the edge of the tub. “Is that yours?” He says it with all the breathless horror of someone discovering a murder weapon.

“Uh . . .” Geralt has the distinct feeling he should try to deny it, but there’s no point in trying to pretend. “Yes?”

And then Jaskier is laughing, but it’s warm with delight, not mocking or cruel. In fact, he looks up at Geralt with such fondness that Geralt almost can’t bear it. “Oh, you poor man,” Jaskier says between gusts of laughter. “No wonder your hair is so dry!”

“. . . It’s efficient,” Geralt mutters in a half-hearted attempt to defend himself.

“It’s like washing your hair with dish soap. But don’t worry,” he adds, pressing a hand to Geralt’s chest, “I’ll get you sorted out and then your hair will be so soft it’ll be completely irresistible.”

“Hmm,” Geralt says dubiously, but Jaskier just grins at him.

“OK, this next part is going to be a little awkward. Ordinarily you’d do it by yourself in the shower, but I’m gonna take a wild guess and say you’d rather not jump in the shower with me right now.”

Geralt very much does not acknowledge the wave of heat that rolls through him at the thought. “Probably wouldn’t fit, anyway.”

“Eh, I’ve made it work in smaller spaces than this,” Jaskier says, with such casual confidence that Geralt’s mouth goes dry. “But luckily, you’ve got one of those detachable showerheads, so we should be just fine. Might be easier, though, if you, uh, take off your shirt off.”

Geralt’s already come this far, and, besides, it’s not like Jaskier hasn’t seen him without his shirt on before. As Geralt strips off his shirt, Jaskier puts a towel down on the floor and beckons him to kneel down at the edge the tub. He’s careful to get the water to a comfortable temperature before he puts a warm hand on Geralt’s bare back, guiding him to lean over, his head bowed.

The routine Jaskier directs him through is more complicated than Geralt could ever have anticipated. There’s a thick, dark purple shampoo that Jaskier instructs him to use only once a week—he has another shampoo he’ll give Geralt to use at other times, but really, Jaskier insists, he should only be washing his hair a couple of times a week, anyway. Jaskier shows him how to rub the shampoo into his scalp only and let the water draw it down through the rest of his hair. The pressure of the spray on his scalp makes his skin tingle, as does the press of Jaskier’s body against his side. When Geralt doesn’t apply the conditioner to Jaskier’s liking, he adjusts Geralt’s hands with his own, smoothing their joined fingers through Geralt’s slippery hair. And when it comes time to rinse the conditioner out, he shows Geralt how to cup the water in his palms and press it into the wet mass of his hair.

“You’re doing great,” Jaskier tells him, and Geralt is grateful his face is hidden behind ropes of his wet hair.

Finally, Jaskier pronounces himself satisfied and turns off the water. Now that they’re done the task of washing his hair, Geralt’s awkwardly aware of his chest dripping with water in the cool air of the bathroom—and of Jaskier standing less than an arm’s length away from him.

Jaskier, on the other hand, is nothing but professional, rubbing a series of products into his hands and then smoothing them over Geralt’s hair. After each application, he gathers Geralt’s hair in his hands and presses it up toward Geralt’s scalp, just like they did with the water. It’s a bizarre motion, like nothing Geralt’s ever seen before, but it seems to be having the desired effect, because the strands of hair hanging down in front of his face are slowly forming into thick coils, and Jaskier keeps making little satisfied humming sounds with each new application. Jaskier finishes by wrapping Geralt’s hair up in another one of those extra soft towels.

“And now we wait,” he says, hopping up onto the sink.

Geralt pulls his shirt on again, careful not to disturb the towel on his head, and he might be wrong but he thinks that he catches a little disappointed frown cross Jaskier’s face, but it’s gone before he can be sure.

“Thanks for indulging me,” Jaskier says. “I know you don’t really like this kind of stuff, but I’m having a great time.”

“It’s not as bad as I thought it would be,” Geralt replies. But that sounds worse than it did in his head, and he hastens to add, “I mean—it’s nice—when it’s you.”

Jaskier’s smile is something Geralt can’t quite get to the bottom of—fond and wry and maybe a little sad, too. “Well, I’ve been dying to do this pretty much since the moment I met you, so, you know, thanks for that.”

It’s strange to think Jaskier has been harboring private aspirations where Geralt is concerned. But then Jaskier’s always been full of surprises when it comes to him—immune to his ill temper, amused by his rudeness, tenacious enough to bully his way past his silences. He’s never understood what Jaskier sees in him, and he often feels he offers a poor reward for the hard work Jaskier puts in to being his friend. Because it’s not easy, Geralt knows. Plenty of people have decided Geralt was too difficult to get to know, or too prickly to stick with. Even Yennefer, who’s loved him better than he could possibly deserve, struggled to make inroads against Geralt’s defenses. It never seemed to matter how much he loved Yennefer, he could never bring himself to relax around her. He was always on tenterhooks, waiting for the other shoe to drop—until, in time, it did, a sort of self-fulfilling prophecy. He can’t blame Yennefer ending things. She wants things he doesn’t know how to give. He couldn’t figure out how to change himself into the sort of person she deserved.

“D’you want another beer?” Jaskier asks, nudging Geralt’s knee with his bare foot.

He wouldn’t mind another drink, but he’s loathe to puncture the peaceful little moment that’s grown up between them. “Let’s just stay here.”

Jaskier nods, and a moment later Fleetwood Mac comes on over Jaskier’s phone speakers—one of the only bands they can agree on—and Jaskier treats him to an inspired rendition of “Dreams,” his voice turned otherworldly by the chill acoustics of the bathroom tiles. Geralt watches Jaskier dance on his perch on the edge of the sink and wonders, with an ache in his chest, what it would be like to be so uninhibited, so comfortable in his own skin. He can’t imagine it, but sometimes he feels like he’s maybe just a half-step closer to knowing when he’s around Jaskier.

When the song fades out, Jaskier hops down from the counter and says, “OK, time for the last step.”

Jaskier sticks that torture device attachment onto his hair dryer and lets Geralt’s hair down from the towel. Jaskier lets him stay seated, and starts drying his hair. He doesn’t pull Geralt’s hair taut with a brush, as Geralt has seen Yennefer do when styling her own hair. Instead, he gathers it up a section of hair in that little torture device accessory and holds the dryer still, letting the air work around the strands. Geralt closes his eyes against the noise and sensation of the air against his scalp. It lasts a long time, Geralt bracing his arms on his thighs as Jaskier moves the hair dryer around his head. The noise of the dryer makes conversation difficult, and Geralt feels strangely distant from Jaskier all of a sudden, even though he’s standing so close Geralt could press his face to the soft flesh of his stomach if he wanted to. He knots his hands together between his knees to keep himself from just reaching out and pulling Jaskier close.

When Jaskier finally switches off the hair dryer, the silence it leaves feels big. It’s probably just the heat from the hair dyer, but Geralt feels flushed and a little rubbed raw.

“All right,” Jaskier says, fixing him with a considering look. “Let me just . . .” He reaches out and grips Geralt’s hair in both hands. He doesn’t so much tug as gently crush the strands, but the pressure is enough to make Geralt’s mouth fall open, and he doesn’t exactly make a noise but something happens in his chest like his lungs kickstarting. Jaskier glances down at him with an inquisitive smile. “Sorry, too hard?”

It’s all Geralt can do to shake his head.

“All done,” Jaskier says. When he lets go, Geralt immediately misses the touch. “Wanna take a look?”

Geralt stands up and turns to regard himself in the mirror. To say he doesn’t recognize himself would be an overstatement, but the sight of his reflection is a surprise. The cut doesn’t seem all that different in terms of length, but the ragged edges are gone. The dingy white of his hair has turned a gleaming silver, and it hangs around his face not in its usual lank tangle, but in softly curling waves. It’s almost . . . pretty, a word he’s never associated with himself in his entire life. The new brightness of his hair makes his face seem clearer, more open somehow, and the gentle curls offset the hard lines of his face in a way that make his features look almost delicate, or in any case less roughly hewn than usual. He reaches up to touch it, and to his amazement, it’s just as soft as Jaskier promised it would be. Maybe not as soft as Jaskier’s own hair, but much nicer than he can remember it ever feeling before.

“You like it?” Jaskier asks, and in the mirror, Geralt can see he’s looking at him with a hopeful expression. It makes something twist in his stomach—longing, and at the same time a rejection of what he wants, the certainty that he can’t possibly hang onto anything nice for long enough to enjoy it.

“You know I’ll never go to all this trouble,” he says, gruffly, and immediately regrets it when he sees Jaskier’s smile slip from his face.

“No, I know,” Jaskier says, and starts packing up his supplies. “I just wanted to try it. I’ll still leave you all the products, just in case you change your mind, or—”

“Jaskier.” Geralt swallows hard, and puts a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder. “I—”

Jaskier looks at him with such a searching expression that Geralt hardly knows how to look at him. He’s never known someone who’s so much all the time, expansive and loud and demanding and generous and so goddamn bright.

“What I should have said,” Geralt says, against the tension threatening to stop his throat, “is that I wouldn’t have tried this if it weren’t for you. It’s . . .” He’s not sure how to answer Jaskier’s question. Does he like it? He looks so unlike himself that he honestly doesn’t know what to make of it. He can’t tell if it suits him or not, because he still isn’t sure what that would mean. But he likes the idea that Jaskier’s uncovered this version of him, that this might be how Jaskier sees him in his mind’s eye. “I’m glad we tried it. Thank you.”

“I am, too,” Jaskier says, quietly. “Even if you never do it again, I’m glad you trusted me enough to try. And for the record?” The twist of his lips is almost pained, but it’s a smile all the same. “You look fucking gorgeous.”

Geralt ducks his head, his shoulders inching up. “Jaskier . . .”

“No, I’m serious, Geralt.” Jaskier sounds annoyed, almost angry, all of a sudden. “I know you don’t care about superficial stuff—”

“That’s not—”

“—but take it from someone who spends a lot of time looking at people and doing my best to make them look as good as I possibly can: you’re objectively really fucking good-looking.” Jaskier lets out a harsh, reckless laugh. “And if you don’t care about my professional opinion, I also happen to think you’re the most attractive person I’ve ever met in my entire life, so there’s that.”

“I—”

Now that Jaskier’s started talking, he can’t seem to stop. “You’re the most incredible person I know, Geralt,” he says, in a breathless rush, “and I’m not talking just about your looks—although you are genuinely so ridiculously handsome that it’s really not fair. You’re kind for no reason and incredibly devoted and, OK, sort of a dick sometimes, but also so goddamn careful with other people and so fucking hard on yourself, and I just—I wish you could see yourself the way I do. I wish I could show you, even for just a second, because—”

“You did,” Geralt says. Jaskier stares at him, stunned into silence, and Geralt takes the opportunity to continue. “You do. Not just tonight.” He’s breathing hard, and he tries not to think about how dangerous this feels, like standing up on the top of a tall ladder or walking the line of a roof that might collapse under him at any moment. “When I’m with you, I feel like I could be that person you see in me, maybe. I just . . . don’t know how.”

Jaskier laughs again—softer this time. “You dummy,” he says, “you already are. You’ve just got to believe it.”

“Oh, is that all,” Geralt says.

“Yeah, no big deal,” Jaskier says, waving one hand dismissively. “You’ve got me to convince you, after all.”

“Oh, yeah?” Geralt can’t help the smile spreading across his face, despite the shivery feeling still simmering under his skin. “How’re you gonna do that?”

“Well . . .” Jaskier takes a step towards him, and then another, settling his hands lightly on Geralt’s hips. “I’d probably start a little like this . . .”

The first touch of Jaskier’s lips on his is like a breath of clean air after a storm, and Geralt can feel something that’s been knotted tight inside him for a long time unfurling itself. It doesn’t feel dangerous anymore, that buzz under his skin transmuting into a golden glow. He knows it’s not as simple as it feels—he can’t expect Jaskier to change him with a single kiss—but for the first time in a long while, something feels purely, unequivocally good, and he wants more of it.

In time, Jaskier’s hands creep up Geralt’s sides to his back, even as Geralt’s own hands drift down past Jaskier’s waist. When Jaskier’s hands slip into his hair, Geralt wrenches himself free with a shiver. “You’re going to undo all your hard work,” he says, teasingly.

“D’you really care?” Jaskier asks, and scratches his nails along Geralt’s scalp, wringing a whine from deep in Geralt’s chest that should be embarrassing but isn’t.

“Not really,” Geralt gasps, his whole body pressing closer against Jaskier’s. “You can always do it again.”

Jaskier’s smile is wide as he bends to kiss him again. “That’s what I thought.”

#the witcher #witcher modern au #geralt #geralt of rivia #jaskier #yennefer of vengerberg #cirilla of cintra #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geralt/jaskier #gerlion #some background yennalt here #i've got 99 problems and aus are all of them #hairdresser!jaskier #i can't believe i wrote modern au witcher fic and still wound up writing a bath fic #the witcher fandom loves baths apparently #somebody please help me title this thing #i need a title that isn't when the rain washes you clean you'll know

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rockets-obscure-omnibus · 2 years

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Not me getting my hair done at a salon for the first time in a year and coming up with a new geraskier au

#jaskier is the hairdresser #Geralt is the touch-starved client who keeps coming back every two weeks for a trim #this is gonna turn into a five plus one fic for certain

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toss-a-bard-to-your-witcher · 4 years

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I got a hair cut today so, welp, here it is. The hairdresser AU nobody wanted but ya’ll needed:

Geralt usually cuts his own hair. He keeps it pretty long so it’s easy to just snip off the tip when it gets too long. But Yennefer keeps fucking pestering him about it, to just for fucking once in his life go to a hairdresser, please. Geralt eventually gives in, he’s so weak, but he does argue that he absolutely doesn’t wanna small talk. Yennefer just smiles at him and says she knows just the guy.

And, you know, in a way she was right. Geralt did say that he didn’t wanna small talk and he should definitely have said that differently and he was definitely going to murder Yennefer later. From the moment he steps into the salon, the man just fucking talks so much and for the first ten minutes, Geralt considers just leaving. But Yennefer is right; Geralt doesn’t need to talk. Jaskier quickly discovers Geralt isn’t much of a conversationist, so he just fills out the silence on his own, be it talking or humming and towards the end breaking into song, like he was in a fucking musical. But he’s good at his job. He’s actually pretty amazing, Geralt has to admit (but he won’t tell Yenn that). When he’s washing Geralt’s hair, his fingers rub into his scalp gently and soothing and he’s using something that smells very nice and later Geralt is definitely going to smell his own hair and be reminded of him. Jaskier talks about a bit of everything, sometimes commenting on how soft Geralt’s hair is when properly taken care of, and it almost feels like Jaskier is petting him, but what does Geralt really know about going to the hairdresser. He does a very nice job of cutting it to a nice shoulder length and when Jaskier asks him how he likes it, Geralt admits it does look softer. (He can’t see much difference in the actual cutting compared to what he usually does himself, but something stops him from telling Jaskier that.) Geralt can’t help but smile fondly to him when he leaves the place.

Later, when Yennefer asks how it went, and Geralt has decided to not murder her, Geralt just hums and shrugs. Yennefer smirks knowingly behind his back and checks the millions of texts from Jaskier telling her how fucking hot that dude she sent in was and how soft his hair was and how much he really wanted to just braid it, and she just sends him his number.

#the witcher #the witcher netflix #the witcher modern au #modern au #hairdresser au #i would say im sorry #but am i really???#probably not #geralt/jaskier #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #geralt x jaskier

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humbled-bard · 4 years

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You know how sometimes Geralt's wig hair is wavy and sometimes it's straight?

Does Geralt just...get a blowout every once in a while? Does he get Jaskier to do it for him? Just wash his hair and then blow it out nice and straight?

#now i want a fic with jaskier as the most Extra hairdresser ever #geraskier #witcher #the witcher

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karolincki · 2 years

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There's a spider in my room (and it is really big)

Summary: Jaskier isn't a man who gets easily scared, so he should never have a problem with helping his daughter with anything, right?

Rating: t

Warnings: none

Wordcount: 1309

Written for my beloved @kingeomer happy birthday dear!

It was inspired by this post by @darkverrmin

Read here or on Ao3

Jaskier wasn’t a man who got scared easily.

He wasn’t scared of spiders or insects, he braved any heights and neither dogs or needles worried him in the slightest.

In his childhood he stood up against evil kings and pirates, he fought dragons and monsters. His most important act though and the one he was proudest of was that he stood up to the bullies on the playground who pushed Yennefer into the dirt. He attacked them with his wooden sword and threw mischievous glances at Yennefer when they were brought in front of the principal.

In his teenage years he wasn’t scared to do all the dumb teenager shit one could possibly come up with. He snorted any powdered substances he and his friends could get their fingers on, he climbed up the side of their school, and one time he broke into the principal's office to prove that Stregobor was embezzling money from the arts program.

At university he probably did more than one inadvisable drunken dare. Stealing the trophies off of Valdo and bringing them back with new embellishments, flirting with Professor deVries and somehow not getting his head bitten off, and jumping naked into the fountain, just to name a few. In his second year he channeled all that energy into helping an activist group, with whom he got into trouble with the police on the regular. But he just couldn’t let injustice stand. He would brave any repercussions thrown his way to help others in need.

Still, his greatest success had been when he had dared to approach the scary looking grad student when he had been nothing but a wee little freshman. Geralt, who featured in every freshman's wet dreams, with his bleached hair and an undercut, and always wearing a leather jacket, no matter if it was summer or winter, truly was a sight to behold. His emotional support cat Roach only helped his popularity. She sat on his shoulder when he walked over campus and Jaskier had immediately fallen in love when he had seen them for the first time. He had tried to shoot his shot the very first opportunity he got, but Geralt liked to hide in his lab, so that wasn’t an easy task. When Jaskier finally managed to approach him, Geralt had blushed horribly, but he said yes. It might have been because Roach had come to Jaskier for pets. He wouldn’t question Geralt’s decision making.

He admits he had been nervous when he had asked Geralt to marry him, but the smile and kiss he was rewarded with made all the worries disappear. Together with Geralt he became the proud father of a little girl and braved all the weirdnesses of fatherhood. He had delt with temper tantrums in the shopping isle and subjecting his hair to the biggest torture known to mankind: the suprisingly strong hands of a six year old girl. Ciri had no regard for customer comfort when she played hairdresser.

When Ciri had first come to them, she had been a shy girl, easily scared at night. The first few weeks she had slept every night in their bed, but under their care Ciri had grown into a strong and confident twelve year old, unafraid of anything, just like Jaskier had been. So it was rather surprising to be woken up by her at 2 am.

“Dad? There is a spider in my room.”

“What?” Jaskier opened one bleary eye. She hadn’t really woken him up for a stupid spider of all things?

“There’s a spider in my room and it is really big.”

Jaskier groaned into his pillow. He didn’t deserve this treatment. “Fuck, fine. I’m coming.”

When he managed to push himself up he saw Ciri looking at him with big round eyes. She didn’t look very scared like he expected her to, more like she was about to be a little shit.

“Swear jar, dad, we don’t use those words.”

Jaskier’s jaw fell down. “You little menace,” he hissed, “if you wake me up at ass crack in the night –”

Behind him Geralt groaned, an arm patting the empty space beside him.

Ciri giggled. "Quick, before the kraken gets you."

Jaskier huffed a laugh and pressed a kiss to Geralt's temple, while expertly dodging the wandering arm.

Outside of the bedroom, Ciri grabbed Jaskier's hand. "I'm sorry for waking you."

"It's alright princess, I will always come to help you."

"I would have woken up dad, but you know how deeply he sleeps."

Jaskier scoffed. He knew exactly how "deep" his husband's sleep was. Geralt had been pretending to be a heavy sleeper ever since they first had gotten together. But he wouldn't destroy Geralt's ruse now.

When they reached Ciri's room, she stopped. Jaskier raised a questioning eyebrow at her.

"I'm not going back in while that spider is still in there. I'll block the exit, make sure it doesn't escape."

Jaskier snorted and patted Citi on the head. "Sure, you do that and I go dispose of that monster."

The lights were turned off in Ciri's room, so he flicked the head light on. He couldn't see a spider though. He looked into every corner, but no spider was to be found.

"Ciri, are you sure you saw a spider? I can't find –"

His breath caught in his throat as he finally spotted it.

—

Geralt was a light sleeper, but he hated talking when being sleepy. Therefore, ever since his childhood, he either only grunted his responses or just pretended to be asleep. It just felt more comfortable.

Tonight he had woken first from Ciri's light footsteps when she had gone to the kitchen. The grumbling helped with shooing Jaskier out of the room. He had been insanely pleased with the kiss he got. Jaskier should hurry up more, he wanted his husband back in his arms.

There were low murmurs in the hall, then silence. Suddenly he heard Jaskier rushing back.

"Geralt, Geralt darling, wake up," Jaskier said, his voice strained and slightly higher than usual. The bed dipped where he climbed on.

Geralt sighed. "Is it big?"

"Monstrous."

Geralt lifted his head from where he had buried it in Jaskier's pillow.

"Really, I've never seen one as huge as this one."

"Fine, I've got this."

He heaved himself out of bed and dragged his feet over to Ciri's room. He was sure that he looked like death warmed over, he just didn't do well without sleep.

Ciri stood beside the door, peeking into the room.

"It moved again. It's in the corner now."

Jaskier came running up behind him and pressed one of their biggest bowl into his hands.

"You're gonna need it."

Geralt just rolled his eyes at the theatrics of his family. He went into the room and froze.

In the corner to his right sat the biggest spider he had ever seen. It was hairy and so big he could see it's eyes and fangs. The bowl had not been an exaggeration. It might even be a bit small. He turned around to look at Jaskier and Ciri. They looked at him with big hopeful eyes and he knew he had to do this.

Slowly he crept forward. And then all hell broke loose.

The spider started moving towards him. Ciri screamed, Jaskier screamed, Geralt definitely didn't scream. In panic he threw the bowl on top of the spider as soon as it reached the ground. It hit the ground with a loud clang as it covered the entire spider. Jaskier rushed past him and slammed a heavy book on top of the bowl.

Heavy breathing, then silence.

They listened to the faint sounds of legs scratching against the bowl.

"What do we do now?"

"Call the exterminator in the morning."

"Can I sleep with you guys?"

"Yes...yes, of course princess."

#witcher #geralt #ciri #jaskier #karo writes

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jaskierswolf · 3 years

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Hello, dearest Wolfie 💜 I come before you with this prompt: hair stylist Jaskier (netflix) with Dandelion (book). Maybe they’re strangers at the salon, maybe they’re friends or roommates in the house bathroom or home salon? Dandy’s particularly sensitive to touch/hair pulling and might accidentally moan while Jask is massaging his scalp 👀 Can get as horny you as you want it to

This fic comes to you courtesy of vodka... so apologies for errors? I did try and proof read.

1.5k of smutty bards.

CW: 18+, masturbation, hair pulling kink, talks of blow jobs and anal,

Dandelion squirmed in his chair feeling strangely nervous. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust his roommate, because honestly if anyone could cut hair well it would be Jaskier, but he’d never let anyone except his hairdresser cut his hair before. Unfortunately with lockdown rules, that was no longer an option and Dandelion’s hair was getting ratty at the ends, despite his meticulous hair care routine. It was making him irritable and he’d kept snapping at Jaskier over the smallest of things. He knew he was being a bastard but it wasn’t his fault. He missed people and going outside. He missed their gigs and even their shifts at the coffee shop. Fortunately, Jaskier seemed to know him better than he knew himself at times and the brunet had marched him into the kitchen and pushed him down into one of the chairs, demanding that he sit still whilst Jaskier got the scissors.

Dandelion pouted whilst he waited. He didn’t appreciate being told what to do but Jaskier was right. He desperately needed a hair cut. His hair was now halfway down his back instead of sitting just below his shoulders. He whined and covered his face with his hands.

“Right, got everything!” Jaskier announced as he bundled back into the room, arms full of bottles from their bath room. “I’ve always wanted to play at being a hair dresser.”

Dandelion sighed and raised an eyebrow at his friend. “If you want to wash my hair then we’re going to the bathroom. You can put those back,” he gestured to the shampoo bottles with a flick of his wrist. “I’ll go for a shower first.”

Jaskier snorted and put his hands on his hips, tossing his fringe from his eyes. “We are doing this properly! I get to wash your hair too.”

They stared at each other for a moment, almost identical blue eyes glaring at each other across the room, until Dandelion sighed dramatically. “Fine, but afterwards I am cutting your fringe. It’s driving me mad! You keep messing with it!”

Jaskier pouted back at him. “You. You don’t mean that.”

“I do, now come on my dear, before I change my mind.”

The move to the bathroom did nothing to calm Dandelion’s nerves. If anything it made it worse. Jaskier kept fiddling with the edge of his shirt and moving the shampoo bottles about as Dandelion sat at the edge of their bathtub.

“Let me know if the water is too hot or too cold or. or… whatever,” Jaskier muttered as he pulled the hose off the wall.

Dandelion nodded, leaning awkwardly back so his head was mostly over the tub. He heard the spray of water running and Jaskier ended up squatting awkwardly in the bath behind him, trying to avoid the water beneath his feet.

“Maybe I didn’t think this through?” Jaskier stammered with an awkward laugh.

“Jask,” Dandelion sighed. “Get on with it.”

The water was hot, prickling against his scalp; just how he liked it. He hummed happily at the sensation and he felt the weight of his damp hair shift as Jaskier made sure his whole head was wet through. God he’d missed this. Yes it was more awkward with the weird set up they had in the cramped bathroom instead of the specially made sinks at the hair dressers but he’d always felt pampered. He enjoyed the luxury of someone else washing his hair. It felt intimate, almost sensual.

It didn’t help that his scalp was unbelievably sensitive, always had been, great in the bedroom, less great when getting his hair done, but he’d always managed to keep his reactions under control.

Until now.

Jaskier’s fingers dragged along his scalp, working the shampoo into the roots of his hair. His entire body immediately felt like it was on fire and he let out a low moan.

Jaskier froze.

Dandelion’s eyes flew open.

Nobody said a word for what felt like forever, until Jaskier started to massage his scalp, slowly, tugging gently at his hair to run the shampoo through to the ends. It felt heavenly, Dandelion closed his eyes once more and let himself enjoy the sensation. Jaskier had long musician’s fingers, just like him, and they were magical. It was less of a hair wash and more of a head massage now and Dandelion couldn’t help the breathy moans that escaped his lips.

He was hard by the time Jaskier turned the shower back on to rinse out the shampoo. Neither of them mentioned it but Dandelion knew that Jaskier had noticed. It was too obvious how much he’d been enjoying it for Jaskier not to have noticed.

Jaskier repeated the process with the conditioner, spending more time running his hands through the tips of Dandelion’s hair this time, making sure the conditioner had properly covered them, but the gentle tugs at Dandelion’s hair were like sweet torture. Until he felt Jaskier’s fingers back on his scalp, firm pressure on the most sensitive parts of his scalp.

Dandelion moaned again, unable to help himself. “Jask,” he gasped, voice hoarse “please.”

Jaskier hummed. “Please what, darling?”

“I… I want.”

Jaskier chuckled and his fingers brushed the tips of Dandelion’s ear. He shivered and squeezed his eyes shut tight. Jaskier just pressed a kiss to his forehead, the bastard was really taking advantage of the situation but… Dandelion had been lusting after his roommate for months so he wasn’t complaining.

“What do you want, sweetheart?” Jaskier cooed, pulling a fistful of Dandelion’s hair just hard enough that he could feel a shiver of pleasure down his spine.

Dandelion just whined, his tongue heavy in his mouth, words but a distant memory. He just needed, wanted, desired…

“Do you want my hand on your cock?” Jaskier asked, his voice a husky whisper in Dandelion’s ear as he fingers continued to press against his scalp. “or perhaps you’d prefer my mouth?”

Dandelion moaned, a low guttural moan that should have been embarrassing in its desperation but he was too far gone. “Yes.”

“Touch yourself for me,” Jaskier’s breath tickled his ear “imagine how good it would feel to have my mouth, warm and wet around your cock?”

Dandelion scrambled to unzip his trousers. He gasped as he finally managed to get his cock free, spitting on his hand before slowly starting to stroke his length. It wasn’t nearly as good as having Jaskier’s pretty pink lips around him but with Jaskier’s voice in his ear and his fingers rubbing into his scalp, Dandelion was a wreck. Every time Jaskier’s fingers moved in his hair he felt like the room was on fire, his heart was thundering in his chest and his skin was itching with the heat of his arousal.

He thrust up into his hand with a gasp, biting his lip.

“How long would it take before you’re begging me to fuck you?” Jaskier nipped at his ear, a sharp pain that only heightened his pleasure as he ran his thumb over his slit. “Or would you prefer to cum in my mouth?”

Dandelion could picture it so clearly, Jaskier kneeling at his feet, Dandelion’s cock in his mouth, the contented hums as he sucked and licked at the dick, every sound vibrating around Dandelion until he came down Jaskier’s throat, the brunet would swallow up every last drop, and the smirk on his face, so bloody smug like he’d won the fucking lottery.

God he would be so beautiful.

Dandelion keened, fucking into his own hand, wishing it were Jaskier’s but not wanting to lose the sensation of Jaskier’s fingers running through his hair. He pumped himself harder, feeling the familiar pull as his orgasm draw near, warmth flooding his body, moans and wordless cries falling from his lips.

“That’s it, darling, cum for me…” Jaskier purred in his ear, another tug at Dandelion’s hair.

Dandelion whined as he came all over his hand, collapsing forwards, his clean hand pressing against the cool tiled floor. Jaskier’s voice coaxed him through his orgasm, cooing praises in his ear, hands still loosely in Dandelion’s damp hair.

“Bloody hell…” he muttered as he came back to his senses.

“Fuck, Dandy, if we could record the noises you make, we could make a million pounds over night,” Jaskier whispered, sounding almost as fucked out as Dandelion felt. “You’re so beautiful.”

Dandelion hummed, feeling rather too blissful to answer.

“Let’s finish rinsing your hair then I’ll cut it for you,” Jaskier pressed a kiss to his temple “and then, well, I’d like to take you to bed?”

The last part came out as a question, a slight crack in Jaskier’s voice. Dandelion shook free of Jaskier’s grasp and turned to face his friend. Jaskier’s cheeks were flushed, the pink trailing down his neck and beneath his t-shirt where there was just a tease of dark chest hair peaking out at the neckline. Dandelion grinned and pulled his friend into a kiss, licking into Jaskier’s mouth and biting at his bottom lip as he pulled away. “I would like nothing more.”

______

Tag list: @frances-the-red @thecomfortofoldstorries @elliestormfound @honeysuckletook @bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher @hailhailsatan @dani-dandelino @artistsfuneral @kittynannygaming @selectivegeekwithstandards @thecomfortofoldstorries @fontegagrilledcheese @anythinggoesfandoms @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde @veritasrose @trickstermoose67 @nonegenderleftpain @kueble @justjess94 @skai6 @damatris @wherethewordsare @dapandapod @mayastormborn @jaskierslastbraincell

#the witcher #jaskilion #jaskier x dandelion #jaskier/dandelion #nsft #wolfie's witcher writing #suddenly-a-twilight-blog

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dwintu · 2 years

Text

I posted 2,568 times in 2021

170 posts created (7%)

2398 posts reblogged (93%)

For every post I created, I reblogged 14.1 posts.

I added 269 tags in 2021

#dwintu - 104 posts

#tag game - 30 posts

#q - 29 posts

#ask - 28 posts

#jjk - 18 posts

#good omens - 16 posts

#omg - 14 posts

#esc21 - 11 posts

#prev tags - 10 posts

#genshin impact - 9 posts

Longest Tag: 139 characters

#he literally hasnt set us any homework for the past 5 months but he now wants too see all the homework that he never actually told us to do

My Top Posts in 2021

the emotional whiplash of having The Amzing Devil on shuffle and going from fair to the horror and the wild

97 notes • Posted 2021-08-14 12:06:32 GMT

microdosing on physical affection by going to the hairdressers

129 notes • Posted 2021-07-19 16:34:02 GMT

MERRY I FOUND ONE OF YOUR POSTS ON INSTAGRAM @a-kind-of-merry-war

143 notes • Posted 2021-10-02 17:40:05 GMT

hi please do me a favour and reply to this with songs that remind you of jaskier :))

200 notes • Posted 2021-04-24 18:46:33 GMT

reasons i relate to geralt:

"hm"

needs a nap

sad

in love with yennefer

would die for jaskier

would die for roach

Tired™

doesnt like weird men who speak in riddles

"shit"

feel free to extend

800 notes • Posted 2021-01-21 14:52:21 GMT

Get your Tumblr 2021 Year in Review →

#my 2021 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review

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scarlettwitcher · 4 years

Text

Úlfur Minn Part Two

Request: by @laneygthememequeen: Hello lovely! I just saw that youre open to requests and are itching to write something for soft boi geralt! If you’re open to it, can I request a geralt x reader where reader seems like super innocent but is like an actual warrior/badass and he’s just like in awe. Or maybe where the reader is in like a dress for some reason and she usually doesn’t wear dresses because they’re inconvenient for fighting and ends up having to fight in the dress. take care and I hope you have a wonderful day💖

Summary: After Jaskier is finally able to convince Geralt to be his bodyguard for Pavetta’s betrothal dinner, shit goes down and Geralt has to make the decision of whether or not he should tell Y/n how he really feels.

Characters: Geralt, Reader, Jaskier, Calanthe, Eist, Mousesack, Pavetta, Duny, mentions of secondary characters in the show.

Word Count: 3140

Warnings: angst, fighting, mentions of blood, cursing, slight fluff, canon typical warnings

Author’s Note: HOLY CRAP! The love I got for this series was crazy! Thank you all for your support. I’m getting this part out earlier than I usually do since I am going to be busy tonight. I really hope you guys like part two as much as part one. As always, shoutout to my home girl @queenxxxsupreme for being the amazing human she is for helping me! My requests are open, so challenge me and make me write angsty fluff. My taglists are also open so just send me a message if you’d like to be on any list! Happy reading and as always, feedback is always welcome! Love all y’all!

Previously on Úlfur Minn...

“You're not a prude Y/n.” You stood and took a deep breath as you walked around the room with pensive thoughts clouding your head. “Look, I was able to get you a rather beautiful dress and I might've bedded a hairdresser...She agreed to help.” You frowned at Jaskier as you quickly shook your dress.

“Dress? Oh no, no, no. I don't like dresses. You know this Jask.”

“You're gonna have to deal with it Y/n. If Calanthe can wear a dress, then so can you.” You groaned loudly at him as he laughed softly. You nodded at him to show you the dress and thus, you all prepared to attend the dreaded event.

Now...

If you weren’t so occupied trying not to trip on your dress, you would’ve noticed the way Geralt was staring intensely at you. He would never say it to the Bard but the dress he picked for you was perfect. It was a deep red, almost maroon color with a tight corset in the middle. The neckline plunged dangerously close to your chest and the shoulder straps we're hanging to the sides of your arms, the long sleeves skin tight until they reached your hand where it attached to a ring you placed around your fingers. The hairdresser had curled and picked up your hair on the sides, with small jeweled clips holding your hair up. And for jewelry, you opted to wear a small simple necklace Geralt had given you years before. He couldn't help watching you every second he had.

Jaskier walked in and watched everyone before nodding towards Geralt. “Right, so stick close to me, look mean and pretend you’re a mute. Can’t have anyone finding out who you actually are.”

“Geralt of Rivia, the mighty Witcher!.... And Y/n of Skellige!”

“Oh, shit.”

Mousesack walked towards the three of you and smiled widely. “I haven’t seen you since the plague.”

“Good times, Mousesack.”

Mousesack started laughing as he looked at Geralt, shaking his head. “I’ve missed your sour complexion. I feared this would be a dull affair, but now the White Wolf is here, perhaps all is not lost.” He looked at Geralt’s clothes and frowned. “Why are you dressed like a sad silk trader? Geralt looked at Jaskier with irritation.

“What?”

“And Y/n, darling! Where have you been hiding yourself?” You blushed softly and shrugged as you hugged Mousesack tightly. He pulled back to look at you but kept you in his arms. “You always get more beautiful every time I lay my eyes on you especially with that dress." Mousesack took a second to let his eyes wander over your form and you felt yourself cowering just a bit under his gaze, your cheeks flushed.

You could never get used to the way men looked at you. "My oh my, thank the gods for it.” You blushed darkly and giggled as you shook your head.

“It's nice to see you too, Mouse. It's nice to see you never change.”

“Don't tell me you've been traveling with this grumpy man.” You giggled as you looked at Geralt. The way he was looking at you and Mousesack confused you. He looked…. angry, almost jealous.

“He’s actually great company. I enjoy traveling with the Witcher.” Mousesack looked at you before looking at Geralt and then returning his gaze to you, a knowing smirk appearing on his features.

“ Witcher, walk with me.” With that, you took your leave with Jaskier as Geralt watched you walk away. He grunted quietly at Mousesack before reluctantly following him, not wanting to part from you. From the moment you entered the room, the men’s eyes were following your form. He didn't like the way they looked at you. Eyes full of lust and admiration. In Geralt's mind, only he could look at you so but he could never act on his jealousy. He had to step back and watch you alongside everyone else.

“....gen crown for years. A tad rough around the edges, but they’re of the earth. Like me.” Geralt's mind quickly caught back up to the conversation, listening to Mousesack as he spoke.

“Old and crusty. How long before this horse trading is done? I find royalty best taken in…” Geralt looked visibly uncomfortable as he watched all of the royals with caution. “small doses.”

“I wouldn’t count on leaving before dawn. These suitors will vie all night for Princess Pavetta’s hand. Marrying into this monarchy is a mighty prize. Who wouldn’t want to be king of the most powerful force in the land?”

“Hm. So, which one of these little shits is your coin on?”

“Come with me, there’s much for you to see. It’s not a fair bet. That red-headed scanderlout over there, Crach An Craite, will marry Pavetta. The Lioness has already arranged it with the boy’s uncle, Eist Tuirseach. No one would dare make a move on an alliance that powerful.”

Geralt's eyes drifted to Eist before a small smirk painted his lips.“Handy with a blade.” But soon it dropped and was replaced with a scowl as he watched the man make his way to you, watching you laugh at something he said. “And with women, too.” Mousesack followed where his sight was set and laughed, shaking his head.

“All an act. Queen Calanthe refused his proposal three times after King Roegner died, despite the two of them gliding around each other like courting swans.” Geralt watched as you finished speaking with Eist and made your way over to Jaskier as he was cornered by one of the lords. You immediately moved in front of Jaskier, defending him from the lord. The lord grabbed your arm roughly and pulled you away from Jaskier. “No, no, no. She was not living in her husband’s shadow again.” Geralt watched angrily and left Mousesack hanging as he made his way over to you and Jaskier. He reached you first and checked you over silently for a moment before moving to Jaskier’s side.

“Something about you reminds me of a scoundrel I once saw fleeing my wife’s chambers!"

“Um, well…”

“Drop your trousers.”

“What?”

“I didn’t get a proper look at the little shit’s face, but that pimply arse I’d remember anywhere.”

“Well… uh, uh… Ah, Geralt.”

“Forgive me, my lord. This… happens all the time. It’s true, he has the face of a cad and a coward. But, truth be known… he was kicked in the balls by an ox as a child.”

“Well, that’s…tr- true.”

“Apologies.” The lord pulled out a coin with shaky hands and tossed it at the bard. “Here, drown your… sorrows on me, eunuch.” The lord turned to look at you and nodded softly. “And praise you for… sticking with this bard.” You looked at the man wide eyed as he walked away.

“Oh, wow. Thank you. Thank you so much. First of all, you hog all the fanfare, then you go and ruin my courtly reputation.”

“I saved your life. You’re on your own from here on. Try not to get any daggers in your back before dawn.” Geralt took a step back and you joined his side. It was the safest place for the night and you had noticed how uncomfortable he had been since the beginning. You slowly reached up and held his arm as he looked down at you. He clenched his jaw, watching your sweet eyes try to read his. Your presence alone was all the comfort he needed. He grunted at you and moved a tad bit closer to you as his eyes drifted back up to watch the lords. Some were watching the both of you and Geralt glared at them. He felt you shuffle next to him and he knew you hated the attention and decided to distract you and keep your mind off of it. “You look...nice.”

Your eyes snapped up to look at his, wide with surprise. “R-really?” Geralt nodded as he reached up to push a stray strand of hair behind your ear. He bit his lip before moving to look away from you.

“Thank yo-”

“You lie, you little shite! You never faced so much as a bad meal in your life, never mind a manticore.”

“I’ve had manticores thrice as fat and ugly as you perish under my steel!”

“Under your bullshit, more like. How many stings has it got, then?”

“Two.” You felt Geralt huff a snort next to you and you smiled before whispering. “Are you going to say anything or should I?”

“You? The Y/n wants to say something in a room full of lords?” You mock glared at Geralt and bit your lip.

“Hah! Go away and shite! It’s five. I know.”

“Don't taunt me Úlfur minn. I would when it comes to defending those I deeply care about.” You whispered. You didn't notice the way your words took hold of Geralt's heart and the way he looked at you, too busy at watching the lords argue.

One of the servants alerted Queen Calanthe of Geralt's presence and noticed the both of you in the corner, whispering and laughing with each other. She smirked and dismissed the servant.

“I’ve actually killed one.”

“You-” Before the men could fight, Calanthe’s powerful voice echoed across the room, commanding the attention to her. “Enough! We have a renowned guest here tonight. Perhaps he can declare which esteemed lord is telling the truth.” Everyone’s attention had turned to Geralt and unfortunately, you. You cowered under everyone's gaze and Geralt moved enough to be able to shield you behind him. He hated the way the men looked at you as much as you did.

“Neither.”

“Are you calling me a liar, old man?”

“Aah. The Butcher of Blaviken bleats utter nonsense.” Geralt felt the way you tensed at the title and he knew you were about to defend him. Geralt looked up and caught Jaskier’s eyes. Jaskier shook his head softly as his eyes drifted to you. Geralt swallowed thickly as he clenched his jaw. He slowly reached his arm behind him, out of everyone’s view for you to hold. You held his hand gently as he spoke.

“Perhaps the lords encountered… rare subspecies of manticore.”

“Perhaps our esteemed guest would like to entertain us with how he slayed the elves at the edge of the world?” There were loud cheers and even some men raised their mugs towards Geralt.

“There was no slaying. I had my arse kicked by a ragged band of elves. I was about to have my throat cut when Filavandrel let me go.” Everyone groaned as they looked at the Witcher in disbelief.

“But the song..”

“Yeah, the song.”

“At least when Filavandrel’s blade kissed my throat, I didn’t shit myself. Which is all I can hope for you, good lords. At your final breath, a shitless death.” Geralt raised his cup towards the room as he heard you snort behind him. “But I doubt it.” You couldn't help yourself and you lost yourself to a fit of giggles and Geralt found himself smiling as he took a drink of his ale.

“It would have been your blade at Filavandrel’s throat had you been there, Your Majesty. Not that any elven bastards would crawl from their lair to meet you on the field.” Calanthe’s eyes left the rather intimate scene in front of her to briefly glance at Eist before they returned to Geralt. She smirked as she watched him be protective of you. She found it interesting and wanted to know more.

“Any man willing to paint himself in the shadow of his failures will make for far more interesting conversation this night. Come, Witcher. Take a seat by my side while I change.” Geralt tensed next to you but you rested a hand on his back before whispering for only Geralt to hear.

“Go. Don't worry about me Úlfur minn.”

“Hm.”

You watched as Geralt was escorted to the Calanthe’s royal table. He kept his eyes on you as he sat. You looked around nervously. One of the lords approached you and tried to flirt with you. You were kind and respectful but tried your best to not lead the man on. “Damn this cursed thing. I’d as soon see this night out in armor.”

“As would I.” Geralt grunted out as his eyes never strayed away from you.

“Indeed. Tell me how does a witcher finds himself at my daughter’s wedding feast dressed like a…?” Calanthe laughed before nodding towards you. “And with such a fair maiden like her?”

This made Geralt look away from you and at Calanthe but chose to ignore the latter part of the question. “I’m protecting the bard from vengeful royal cuckolds.”

“Hm! Idiots, the lot of them. Still, I’m glad of your company, which could prove handy. I have no doubt blood will spill here tonight.”

“Ah, save the good Queen’s breath. I’m not for hire as a bodyguard.”

“You were hired just so by the bard.”

“I’m helping the idiot free of his coin.”

“And he’s the idiot? I’m simply saying, surely if all goes to hell here tonight, I can count on you to strategically remove certain irritants that may present themselves? I’d do so myself, only I’m bound to uphold an artifice of decorum and… fairness."

“Hey. I can’t help you.” Geralt’s eyes returned back to you. You were now alone as you looked around the room, feeling lonely. You always hated being alone at events when both of your guys got occupied. You couldn’t go with Jaskier and Geralt was busy with the queen who didn't invite you to sit at the table with them. It was enough to tell you you weren't welcome. You looked up and your eyes locked with Geralt’s. You watched how his face softened as he looked at you.

“So perilously direct. As Queen, I could command it.”

“If I were one of you subjects.”

“I could torture you so very slowly into compliance.” Geralt looked away from you and at Calanthe as he smirked and you easily could've taken it for heavy flirting.

“Her Majesty will do as she wishes. I’m not for turning.”

“Oh, come now. Everyone has their price.” You felt a painful tug at your heart reminding you that he wasn't yours. He was only making sure his friend was okay. As you looked away, Geralt's eyes were back on you and he willed you to look back at him. Calanthe saw this and licked her lips, about to comment again on you when she was presented with Lord Peregrine of Nilfgaard.

You had decided you didn't want to watch anymore of the queen’s shameless flirting. You looked around for Mousesack and made your way over to him as Jaskier started singing one of your favorite songs. You tripped over the dress as you cursed quietly. God, how you hated dresses. Geralt felt his jealousy punch him straight in the face as he watched you laugh at something Mousesack said, obviously teasing you about your dress as he grabbed it, holding in his fingers. You were too innocent and wouldn't have noticed the intense flirting Mousesack was trying to do with you. It was one of the things he loved about you. You were always so innocent, everything was constantly going over your head. He knew it was due to how you were raised and ever since he met you all those years ago, he wanted to protect that innocence.

“How much more of this peacocking must I endure? This… All this because male tradition demands it. If I were a man, I could simply tell the whole lot of them to fuck off, declare outright who Pavetta should marry and have done with it. Or, better yet, let the poor girl decide her own fate.”

“Something tells me this isn’t the first time you’ve navigated the vagaries of male tradition. In fact, I’d wager you thrive on it.”

“Spoken as one who has navigated his own share of fools. Speaking of.” Calanthe pointed towards you as she watched Geralt glare at the druid who held your attention.

“Hm.”

“Tell me, Witcher, why are there so few of you left?”

“Hm.” Geralt sighed as he looked down at the table, knowing that distracting himself with conversation with the queen was better than to watch you with someone else. “It is no longer possible to create more of us, since the sacking of Kaer Morhen. Tell me, Your Majesty… why do you risk your life on the battlefield when you can rest on your throne?”

“Because there is a simplicity in killing monsters, is there not? Seems we are quite the pair, Geralt of Rivia.”

Geralt only grunted in response as he took a large sip of his drink. The silence was interrupted by a knight fighting a few guards at the entrance. Geralt watched with a scowl as the knight made his way to the center of the room, getting down on one knee.“Forgive my late intrusion, Your Majesty, and for the misunderstanding with your guards. Please! I come in peace. I need but one moment of your time. I am Lord Urcheon of Erlenwald and I have come to claim your daughter’s hand in marriage.”

“A knight… of no renown… from a backwater hamlet… who dares to enter my court without revealing his face?” You glared at Calanthe’s words. You didn't really like the queen but at the moment, you couldn't contain your detest with her. She was hardly ever kind and it bothered you to no end.

“I apologize, Your Majesty. A knight’s oath prevents me from revealing my face until the sounding of the twelfth bell.”

“Bollocks to that.” Eist took a step forward and tugged off Duny’s mask, dropping it in disgust. Everyone gasped as Calanthe stared at Duny, repulsed.

“Witcher, kill it.”

“No.”

“Whatever the price.”

“This is no monster.”

“I order you.”

“This knight has been cursed.”

“You’re as useless as the rest of them. Slay this beast!” Two guards stepped forward but Duny easily beat them as he turned back to Calanthe with desperation.

“Lioness of Cintra, I come to claim what is rightfully mine! Pavetta. By the Law of Surprise.” Before anyone could speak more, more guards appeared and attacked Duny. He carried himself easily as he defeated the guards around him, slashing at them. But as more guards entered the room, he became overpowered and was hit roughly in the face. He fell and rolled onto his back as he stared up at the guard holding a large axe over his head. He panted as he stared up at the guard with fear as he dripped blood from his lips. You growled out in anger at the queen’s disregard for the man’s life. You ran and grabbed his discarded sword as you stood over Duny. “NO!” The guard swung the axe and you swung the sword at the same time, cutting it in half as the axe fell into Duny’s hands. You swung your sword again, slitting the guards throat. He looked at you and nodded, before getting up and looking at all of the guards that surrounded the both of you. Geralt growled in anger at you for putting yourself in such a compromising position. You looked over at him and shook your head, telling him it wasn't the moment for him to scold you. He made his way to your side, almost hovering over you.

“Kill them all!”

Forever Tags: @iwantthedean @authoressskr @sorenmarie87 @reigningqueenofwords @goldenolaf25 @giftofdreams @winchesterprincessbride @chelsea072498 @kitchenwitchsuperwhovian @itakeawfultoawholenewlevel @fictionalabyss @gabby913 @angelkurenai @sea040561 @sleepylunarwolf @smoothdogsgirl @carryonmyswansong @feelmyroarrrr @evyiione @supersassyprobablysad @sofreddie @sis-tafics @nitelotus @trexrambling @dancingalone21 @manawhaat @mermaidxatxheart @winchest09 @ellen-reincarnated1967 @mrswhozeewhatsis @just-another-busy-fangirl @lovebodymindstuff @backseat-of-deans-67chevy @chook007 @akshi8278 @evansrogerskitten @bringmesomepie56

The Witcher Tags: @alwayshave-faith @ayamenimthiriel @queenxxxsupreme @stretchkingblog97

Úlfur Minn Tags: @laneygthememequeen @saint-hardy @uncoolcloudyhead @katiejmac @justlovetoreadfics @writingthingsisdifficult

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king-finnigan · 4 years

Note

Ok so you know those fics where Geralts hair is damaged by a monster and Jaskier fixes it? Modern au, but Geralt still hunts monsters and lives with his platonic friend (crush) jask. One night he comes home and his hair is wrecked so jask helps him cut it but he realizes too late that the clipper doesn’t have a guard. This would 11/10 help me cope with how my sister did the same thing to me :( lol

I now have an incredibly drastic short side cut and a guilty sister. Luckily we aren’t going out so it will grow lol. I just feel like that’s something (messing up clippers) Jaskier would do.

A/n: oh noooo, I’m so sorry to hear that! I hope your hair grows back quickly! Hope this little fic helps lmao. (Also I added a bit onto the story because I have one (1) hobby and I can and will use it in my writing)

Jaskier looks up from his book when he hears the roaring of Roach’s engine outside the living room window. He can’t help the wild grin that spreads across his face, though he takes a moment to gather himself as he walks to the front door – he doesn’t really wanna show Geralt how glad he is to see him after spending the last few days on his own. After all, Geralt’s just a housemate, nothing more. Definitely not Jaskier’s crush. No, sir.

His composure falls when he swings the door open and finds his Witcher in the driveway, his hair a veritable fucking mess. He bursts out into laughter, which earns him a glare from Geralt, who pushes past him, into the house. “Don’t mention it,” he grumbles.

Jaskier closes the front door behind him, leaning against it as he watches Geralt dump his laundry by the washing machine under the stairs, his face as still as ever, the tightening of his jaw the only sign that he’s in a really bad mood. Of course, Jaskier’s never let that stop him.

“So what happened, Witcher? Run into a lawnmower?” Geralt glares at him again, and Jaskier grins. It does really look like a mess – a large chunk of hair missing from the back of his head, some loose strands hanging at random lengths around it.

He sighs, folds his arms in front of his chest. “Alright, I’ve got an idea. There’s no way that’s gonna look good for the next…” he waves his hand a bit “year or so? At least until it grows back to full length, which is gonna take a while. So, what if… I give you a new haircut?”

Geralt looks at him, narrows his amber eyes. “No.”

Jaskier scoffs, leaning his head against the door, looking up at the ceiling. He notices a spider web in the corner and makes a mental note to vacuum it up later. “Come on, Geralt. We both know your hair’s gonna look like shit if we don’t do something about it. And you know,” he shrugs, “maybe it’s time for a new look. You’ve had the same haircut for… what? Sixty years? Don’t you think it’s time for something new?”

Geralt sighs, his shoulders slumping a bit in defeat. “Fine, I’ll go to a hairdresser tomorrow.”

Jaskier scoffs, pushing himself away from the door to start loading in the washing machine. “No, you won’t. You told me you don’t want a stranger with scissors getting anywhere near you, like, a year ago. Oh, don’t give me that look, I actually listen to what my housemate says, unlike some people.”

He straightens again, slams the washing machine door shut. “Look, Witcher, I’ve got perfectly good scissors and clippers in the bathroom. I’m perfectly adept at cutting my own hair and maintaining it, so doing yours would be easy as fuck. Your options are trusting me, trusting a stranger, or looking ridiculous.” He shrugs, picking his book from the living room table, walking up the stairs as Geralt continues staring at him. “Your choice.”

---

A knock on his door startles him out of his concentration. “Yeah?” The door opens a crack, and he sees Geralt’s amber eyes peering at him. “What is it? Changed your mind?”

“Hmm.” The door closes again, and Jaskier can’t help the slow smile that spreads across his face as he closes his laptop and gets up. He finds the Witcher in the bathroom, his hair clean and slightly damp from, presumably, a shower – though still very much a mess.

“Alright, so…” He waves his hand vaguely. “Any ideas? What do you want to do with it?”

Geralt’s frown deepens, and he looks at himself in the mirror. “I don’t know.”

Jaskier sighs, purses his lips. “Alright, let me see.” He moves to stand behind Geralt, carding a hand through the soft locks, assessing the damage. “Yeah, definitely gonna have to go for an undercut, here. Or a crewcut, if that’s what you want?”

“No.”

“Okay, undercut it is.” He takes a step to the side so he can see Geralt’s face in the mirror. “Do you want the top to be, like, the same length as my hair, or like, as long as it is now?”

Geralt seems to hesitate, eyes flickering between himself and Jaskier, probably trying to imagine how he would look with hair the same length as Jaskier’s. Finally, he seems to decide, and nods once. “Long.”

Jaskier grins, pushing past Geralt to rummage in the cupboard under the sink. “Alright, please do take my desk chair from my room, master Witcher, and I’ll be with you shortly.”

He doesn’t miss Geralt’s eyeroll, though the Witcher does as he’s told, walking out of the bathroom, returning with Jaskier’s chair. Usually, he does his own hair standing up, but Geralt is an inch or two taller than him, which would make it hard to do his hair – it’s easier if Geralt sits down. Which is what the Witcher does, before Jaskier even has to ask. He grins again, and moves to stand behind Geralt, hairtie in hand. He gathers the hair at the top of Geralt’s head, tying it up in a messy bun, so he doesn’t accidentally cut it off, before he takes the heavy scissors.

“Alright, we’re gonna have to cut off the longer parts first, before I shave it.”

He sighs, taking a lock at the back of Geralt’s head, before looking up, meeting amber eyes in the mirror. “You ready?” Geralt nods, once. Snip. The lock falls to the ground, Jaskier’s eyes following it all the way down. He sighs again. “Alright, let’s continue.”

---

Before long, the back and sides of Geralt’s head are significantly shorter, and Jaskier lays down the scissors, flexing his stiff fingers a bit, before taking the clippers.

“Hmm. Maybe start with 9 and work our way down? That way we can always cut it shorter if it’s too long.”

Geralt sighs softly, rolling his eyes. “Fine. Just get it over with.”

Jaskier grins. “Don’t like clippers?”

“Too loud.”

He nods, even though he personally enjoys the buzzing of the clippers, enjoys the feeling of them scraping against his head, but hey, to each their own, he supposes. He turns them on, setting them against the back of Geralt’s head. He heaves a soft sigh, before moving the clippers up, and-

Oh, fuck.

He forgot to put the guard back on the clippers. Meaning that those 9 millimeters he planned on leaving on Geralt’s head have turned to… well, 0. He can’t hide the horror on his own face as he looks from the clippers to the bald patch he managed to create on Geralt’s head.

“What did you do?”

He looks up at Geralt’s reflection, at the amber eyes studying his face intently, a storm brewing beneath the surface.

“Jaskier, what did you do?” the Witcher repeats, and Jaskier swallows thickly.

“I, uh… Forgot the guard. And now…” He points at the back of Geralt’s head sheepishly. “No hair.”

Geralt’s jaw tightens, and a muscle starts pulling at the corner of his lips. Usually, when he looks like that, he goes outside for a few hours and comes back home with bloody knuckles and bits of bark clinging to his skin. Except today, it seems, as Geralt deflates in the chair, tension leaving his shoulders. “Fine.”

Jaskier blinks, frowns. “What?”

“I said ‘fine’. Just do the rest like that. It’ll grow back.”

Jaskier bites his trembling lip, guilt flooding him as he sets the clippers against Geralt’s head again.

---

“It’s a bowl cut.”

Jaskier frowns. “No! It’s… a very short undercut.”

“It’s a long bowl cut, Jaskier.”

He chews on the inside of his cheek, fidgeting with his fingers, as he looks at Geralt, who’s staring at his own reflection. “Okay, maybe it is, but… It’ll grow back? Eventually?” He swallows, looks away. “Geralt, I’m- I’m so sorry, I-“

“It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not, Geralt, I fucked up and I’m so s-“

“Jaskier. I said it’s fine.” The Witcher sighs, walking to the bathroom door. “I’m going to bed. Goodnight, Jaskier.” He closes the door a little bit harder than he usually does, and Jaskier flinches.

He sighs, spending the next half hour cleaning the hair from the bathroom floor and brushing it out of the clippers, guilt mulling in his head. When he’s done, he rolls the desk chair back to his own room, sitting down on it heavily. He fucked up, he really did. And there’s no way to fix it, either – Geralt will have to walk around for the next few weeks with, well… basically a bowl cut. A long bowl cut, but a bowl cut nonetheless.

He sighs, leaning his chin on his hand, trying to find some way to fix it, when his eye lands on a crochet hook in his penholder. It’s been a few years since he’s done crochet, but it can’t be that hard, right? He suddenly remembers the box of wool under his bed, and a plan forms in his head.

---

Turns out relearning crochet is hard, and he spends the entire night hunched over his work, pausing and unpausing the tutorial over and over again, clumsy fingers working even clumsier stitches. But by the time the sun rises, he’s done it. He’s managed to make a beanie for Geralt. Of course, he’s not sure if it’s gonna fit – he had to use his own head for measurements and added a few stitches to make it a bit bigger – and the colour is… questionable, but it’s there, in all its uneven and bright yellow glory.

He looks up when he hears Geralt’s door open, and sprints into the hall, nearly bumping into the Witcher’s broad chest. Geralt frowns, looks down at Jaskier’s disheveled clothes, still from the previous day, at the circles under his eyes, and scoffs. “What did you do?”

Jaskier frowns, takes a step back, because being this close to Geralt is making his heart do weird things, and hides his work behind his back. “Why do you always think I’m up to something, Geralt?”

“Because you always are.”

Jaskier nods. “Fair enough.” He sighs, chewing on his lower lip. “Look, I’m sorry for what happened yesterday, I really am. So, I uh… made this. For you.” He holds out the beanie, depositing it in Geralt’s hands, who frowns at the misshapen lump of wool.

“What is it?”

“It’s a beanie.”

“It’s yellow.”

“That’s the only wool I had left.”

“You could’ve just bought one, you know that, right?”

He sighs, rolling his eyes. In all honesty, he did forget about just buying one, but Geralt needs to learn how to appreciate a nice gesture, really. He stretches out his hand, reaching for the beanie. “Look, if you don’t want it, you can give it back.”

His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline when Geralt snatches his hands away from Jaskier’s, clutching the lump of wool against his chest. “No.”

“No, what? No, you don’t want it, or no, you’re not giving it back?”

It’s quiet for a while, amber eyes looking at his face intently. Finally: “Thank you.”

That surprises him even more. “For what? Fucking up your hair or making a shitty beanie?”

Geralt grins, a sight that leaves Jaskier slightly breathless. “For trying.”

Jaskier feels a blush creeping up his cheeks, and smiles. “Well, thank you for putting up with me trying.” Before he can think twice about it, he takes a step forward, planting a soft kiss on Geralt’s cheek. The Witcher merely looks at him wide-eyed, and regret curls in Jaskier’s stomach. He’s about to take a step back to flee back into his bedroom, when Geralt’s hand closes around his wrist, stopping him.

He can only stand there, heart in his throat, as Geralt leans forward, softly kissing him. It’s just a feather-light touch, but it’s enough to leave Jaskier breathless and desperate for more – so when Geralt moves back, Jaskier closes his hand around the back of the Witcher’s neck, pulling him closer again, deepening the kiss this time.

He does have to come up for air, eventually – and regrettably – but the sight of Geralt grinning at him makes up for the lack of kissing. He smiles softly. “You know, Witcher… that bowl cut is actually really growing on me, you sure you don’t wanna keep it that way?”

“Absolutely fucking not.”

#Anonymous #squish answers #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #drabble #the witcher

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