Since the Witcher is ser in the past, there was probably no eyeliner as we now it today, so imagine jasper creating her first kind of eyeliner and patents it, making stupidly rich
“you created this yourself?” geralt inquires,
they’re sat by the fire under a starlit sky - it’s quiet, with only roach’s soft snorts and chuffs breaking the silence. it’s a peaceful night, perfect for jaskier to finally get his way and decorate the witcher’s face with his paints and powders.
however, he had never expected the process to be so,
and honestly, having a quiet bard by his side unnerved him and so, geralt had been powerless to resist disturbing the peace. judging by his songbird’s unimpressed expression, he probably should have suffered with the discomfort.
jaskier narrows his eyes and bats at geralt’s shoulder - his adjusts his grip on his kohl-holder and sits back, “i thought i told you to stay quiet?” he admonishes, before he sighs at the sight of geralt’s smudged make-up. he laps at his thumb and presses it to the crease of the witcher’s eye.
“please acknowledge the irony of you telling me to be quiet,” geralt murmurs softly, blinking as the bard attempts to fix the little mistake.
“what was that?” jaskier cocks his head mockingly, blinking widely as he cups an ear, “you want to walk around with only half your face prettied up? you want people to laugh at your single raccoon-eye? you want to have the shame of–”
“cease,” geralt begs, shaking his head as he huffs out a laugh. he reaches out and tucks his irritable bard to his chest, pressing an apologetic kiss to the crown of jaskier’s pretty head, “i promise, i shall behave.”
“liar,” the bard snipes back, but he cranes his neck back and brushes his lips against geralt’s jaw, nipping at it before he pulls away, “now - sit still and let me finish. you are going to look divine after i’m finished.”
“so you keep saying,” geralt says with an indolent arched brow.
his words get him another light smack to the shoulder, so he dutifully sits back and closes his eyes. there’s a small moment of silence, of stillness, but then his bard leans across the space between them and presses the kohl to geralt’s eye again.
it feels strange, having something bluntly hard being dragged across his eyelid, but jaskier had promised that it was perfectly harmless - he had also promised a lot of life-changing sex once he had finished, so.
a lot of promises being thrown around.
“to answer your question,” jaskier begins quietly, one hand pressed to geralt’s cheek as the other slowly decorates the witcher’s eyes with black smudges, “i did create this, yes. i– i wasn’t allowed to use my mother’s belongings and, well. no one will sell me kohl either - who would want to be known as the vendor who sells to, ah, undesirables.”
his fresh floral scent becomes tainted and bitter,
geralt frowns and reaches across the blindly grasp at jaskier’s knee.
“if you want make-up, i can get you–” but his words are cut off with a swift kiss, soft and sweet, but full of appreciative affection.
“you’re sweet,” jaskier hums, pressing another kiss to geralt’s pursed lips, “but i don’t need to buy make-up anymore. i have quite the lucrative business in producing my own - if anything, those vendors should be begging to purchase my products.”
geralt hears the pride and smells the spicy-sweet joy which rolls of his bard’s body; his eyes maybe closed, but he knows jaskier is smiling broadly and his has him squeezing the bard’s knee with a pride of his own.
“i suppose that explains your ability to afford such an… extensive wardrobe,” he says, biting back a smile when jaskier flicks him on the ear.
“that better be a compliment,” the bard warns, before he withdraws his hand. geralt thinks he’s finished, but then he feels hesitant, gentle fingers trace his lips and he knows the bard is about to paint them next. he doesn’t think his own painted face will be as… pretty as the bard’s, but it seemingly makes jaskier happy, so again.
geralt is content to push down his own anxiety.
“of course,” the witcher replies warmly, which has the bard pointedly sighing and tapping at geralt’s mouth, “apologies.”
jaskier merely hums and there’s a small beat of nothing,
but then a paint brush touches geralt’s lips, sweeping cool paint across his lips. he… really wants to talk, to say something, to ask more about jaskier’s past with make-up and dresses and people who didn’t appreciate him enough. he wants to learn names, he wants to suture wounds, he wants the bard to never doubt his own worth again.
he’s not allowed to move his lips,
and it’s inherently frustrating.
he wonders if this is how jaskier feels, when geralt asks him to hold his tongue. idly, he muses on whether he’d be more lenient in allowing the bard to babble in the future - but then, with sombre awareness, he realises that he most definitely will not.
it would probably unnerve his bard anyway,
jaskier doesn’t like it when geralt changes himself to make other people happy.
so he quells his urge to speak and he waits patiently for his bard to finish. the brush tickles against the bristles above his upper lip and the paint feels wet on his lips. geralt wonders how long the make-up will last on his face - although, chances are it will be instantly kissed away.
then he feels the brush leave his lips,
and feels the soft wisp of bristles against his cheeks,
against the tip of his nose,
before it drifts across his chin, his collarbones, down, down, down–
“i don’t think make-up goes there,” geralt says, his eyes flicking open as his lips slowly curl up. his bard impishly smiles and bats his own kohl-rimmed eyes, twirling the brush around nimble fingers.
“and what do you know about make-up?” jaskier purrs, placing down his brush to lean forward eagerly, his blue eyes roaming geralt’s face with undisguised desire.
“i know that,” geralt begins, before he averts his eyes awkwardly, hunching his shoulders slightly as his mulls the words over in his mind - he’s not used to giving compliments, especially ones to… special people, “i know that it looks,” he tries again, “good on you.”
and the bard gasps lightly, his hands pressing to his own chest as his cheeks flush; the colour is faint under the pink blush, but geralt can spy the natural colour in his songbird’s face.
“darling,” jaskier sighs happily, cocking his head as he leans on his haunches, “you wickedly charming man.”
which draws forth a shy smile from the witcher - he’s never been called charming from a human before. sure, vesemir used to bemoan his arrogant charisma when he had been younger, but… it’s still a new concept for him.
he flicks jaskier a heated look, considers the thought which floats to the forefront of his mind, and says, “what,” he pauses, shifts uncomfortably under the bare awed gaze, “what does it look like? on me?”
wets his lips,
and leans forward to cup geralt’s face with revenant hands.
“my darling,” he says, his voice delicately hushed, “you are beautiful.”
the witcher blinks, snorts and ducks his head, “i’m hardly–”
“no, no,” jaskier is quick to interject, rising to sit on his knees as his fingers trace cheekbones and curl behind ears, “don’t you dare tell me i’m wrong - not about this.” and he shifts closer until his heated body settles against geralt’s, half-splayed across his lap with his arms looping around the witcher’s neck.
“jaskier,” geralt husks out, his eyes greedily eating up the brightly shining adoration in his songbird’s eye, “julian.”
“the dark kohl around your lids - it’s like the coal beneath a blazing fire,” jaskier says, his thumbs gently stroking the delicate skin beneath geralt’s eyes, “your gaze has never burned hotter, has never scorched my soul deeper. goodness, the odes i can write in honour of your golden stare - it’s pure, wild beauty. molten lava, liquid gold - fuck, nothing could compare to your stunning eyes.”
and geralt blinks, speechless and flattered and bashful.
but jaskier isn’t finished.
“your lips,” he says, before he bites his own as desire drips thickly from his words, “they’re practically carved from marble, so perfectly formed and deceivingly soft,” a curious finger traces the outline, careful not to smudge the paint, “this colour looks obscene on you - paired with your white hair and amber eyes, the sweet blush on your cheeks? oh, how this shade of red just looks– it honestly makes me want to ruin you. i want to see the colour smeared across your face, your throat, your chest. i want it streaked across your nipples, your cock - you would look positively celestial.”
“jaskier,” geralt murmurs as the bard presses their lips together again - the kiss is sweetly innocent, but he feels himself choke on the love which pours into him. he gathers the bard into his arms and allows their tongues to dance together, their teeth to clash and nip,
breaths are stolen,
fingers tangle into hair,
and his songbird purrs as their bodies slot together in the most enticing way.
“with or without make-up,” jaskier says breathlessly, between kisses and wistful sighs, “you’re the most gorgeous creature on this continent - i don’t know what i’ve done to deserve you, but i won’t ever cease earning you.”
the witcher hums, words fleeing him as his breath catches in his throat. he wants to tell the bard that he’s wrong, that jaskier deserves the world and more, and it’s geralt who needs to worker harder in earning the songbird’s love,
but… he doesn’t know how to communicate that. so, instead, he presses their lips together and allows his songbird to smear the red paint across his cheeks, allows jaskier to indulge in his little fantasy from before, and hopes that tomorrow, he will wake up with red smears across his whole body.
they tumble to the ground,
and the fire crackles besides them,
but nothing leaves geralt feeling warmer,
than jaskier’s all-encompassing love.