Oh no, even shaking with righteous anger, Jaskier is impossibly pretty. Geralt was never good with words, and still now, twenty years by this man’s side, he cannot find the words. The right words. For how could a few meager mortal words possibly encompass his bard in his entirety?
His bard, who brought so much joy and light and song to the world; his bard, who on the flip of a coin, could run with the wind and indulge in his true fae nature, could level a sizable village in pure anger and grief.
The bard - the fae - is not pretty in a Human way. Nothing about him was Human.
He held more humanity than most, but let it not be said that he is anything Human. He was fae through and through, as Geralt was constantly reminded.
Because his bard was ethereal in a way no mortal tied to the physical realm could ever be.
In those moments, Jaskier wasn’t just pretty.
Geralt still remembered his first impression of the young fae. Even without the warm medallion against his chest, and the tang of magic in the air, the man was just too Other to be Human.
He was completely and utterly Other and ethereal.
Jaskier’s eyes were blue, the bluest that Geralt had ever seen, almost a new colour all on its own. They were so blue they sometimes looked silver, like the full moon on a clear night. His skin was flushed and well weathered, freckles painting his cheeks and shoulders, calluses worn on his strong hands. His hair was a soft brown, gold when the light hit it just right, and was short but long enough to curl around his ears in delicate locks.
Many thought fae were too perfect in appearance. They thought them easy to spot out of a crowd. And they were - they commanded the attention of the entire Continent if they wanted it - but they were not Human perfect.
They were rough and weathered and nature, all bundled into one, and had the aura of something Other and fierce. When Jaskier smiled, others looked to, were drawn in by the old and ancient magic. They would bend over backwards if he smiled hard enough.
But, again, Jaskier was not pretty in a Human way. He was pretty in a way you would worship, but never treat as real or tangible.
Jaskier tumbled in many beds, but no mortal could ever hold onto him for long, could grasp what made Jaskier Jaskier, because he was Other and was too much for a Human. His emotions were too strong, his light too bright, his song too loud.
But while Geralt was greeted with this ethereal visual of his bard nearly every day, he had seen the true fae in Jaskier.
He was not pretty in a Human way; and angry, Jaskier was not ethereal.
Angry, Jaskier was beautiful in the way of being fierce and feral and wild.
He was an unstoppable force.
His ears tapered to sharper points, his canines elongated, his stature grew to loom. His visage went blurry. His eyes burned in the dark.
He stretched and twisted and blurred with magic, just until he was still Jaskier, still held onto the weak strings of Human glamour, but just Other enough that added all together, he wasn’t Human looking at all.
Geralt would be lying if he said it wasn’t a little scary, if not also a turn on.
But he would not be lying if he said Jaskier was beautiful no matter what form, no matter how Human, or Other, he was.
Jaskier was Jaskier, always.
Geralt thought that was beautiful in itself.
