“G-Geralt?” Jaskier murmurs, poking at the Witcher’s cheek. Geralt giggles and lets his head loll against his bard’s shoulder comfortably. He likes this. He could stay tucked up against Jaskier’s side forever. He nuzzles even closer and starts to purr.
Jaskier basks in the Witcher’s warm, rumbling sounds for a moment before pulling back to look at him. “My love, have you gotten into catmint again?”
“N..No?”
“Are you sure?”
Geralt makes grabby hands for the tankard of water on their bedside table and Jaskier carefully hands it to him. The Witcher sniffs it, recoils, and hands it back. “It’s in the water.”
“Added or naturally?”
“Naturally. Probably a patch in or near the well.”
“Sorry, darling. Anything we can do to fix it?”
“Nah,” Geralt giggles again. “It’s nice.”
“Yeah,” Jaskier smiles softly, carding his the fingers of his right hand into Geralt’s soft, snowy tresses. “It is.”
---
Geralt is exceedingly tactile when he’s under the influence of catmint. Jaskier has learned this over several long and confusion years. Now, it seems, the Witcher is eager to lay hands on every possible inch of Jaskier’s lavender-scented skin. The white-haired man snuffles softly into the crook of Jaskier’s hip and the bard jerks at the tickling sensation. “Geralt!”
“Yes, my lark?”
“That tickles, love!”
“Good,” the Witcher grumbles, doing it again and again until Jaskier is writhing and giggling. Tears are gathering in the corners of his eyes by the time Geralt finally pulls away. “You can get me back later, bard.”
“You know I’m going to,” the younger man threatens. “You terrible brute.”
“Delicate flower,” the Witcher retorts. “Let me feel your skin, my love. You’re so soft.”
“Hmm,” Jaskier hums contently. Geralt’s hands are roaming over his chest and arms, feeling him for any bruising or breaking. He can tell that he remains uninjured by the happy little huffs that his Witcher releases. “I need to invest in some catmint.”
