No reason at all
HELLO! So! This is a pov rewrite of one of my absolute favorite fics ever- Any reason at all by xxenojy/ @witcher-and-his-bard I can't and won't tell you how many times i read that friggin fic, and the Geralt pov has been living in my head rent free until it was written. You don't have to read the original to understand it, though I highly recomend it. It is literally a lot of kissing.
Thank you a billion Alex for letting me write it!!! and thank you a billion to my darling @kuripon who betaread it!!
5k, mostly soft and fluffy but some monster of the week fighting.
On Ao3 here
One.
The thing with bards, or at least with his bard, is that they are romantics.
Meaning, if their state of longing isn’t met with affection, they become needy.
This usually isn’t a problem, because Geralt makes sure that Jaskier’s needs are met by bringing Jaskier through enough towns and hamlets and villages and gatherings in the woods to go around.
But there is this big contract, really fucking complicated, and they have been living out of a tent in the middle of nowhere for a long time.
It has slipped his mind, to be honest, because the creature he is hunting is proving to be a challenge, and up until now has remained just out of his reach.
Geralt is so deep in his head that he doesn’t much take notice of Jaskier dragging his feet, sighing, and pouting as they make their way through the underbrush.
“Geralt, do you think-”
There is some rustling and a sigh.
“That we could head back soon? Sleep at an inn tonight?”
Geralt pays him no mind, pushing on with a singular intent. There are signs here, marks on the trees indicating that they are going in the right way.
There are some more rustling and a pause, indicating Jaskier either fell over or is pouting, and Geralt has no time for either.
“Are you just gonna sit there or are you coming with me?” he shouts over his shoulder, barely sparing a glance back at the bard, who he knows is pouting in the grass.
Another sigh and some muttering that Geralt is pretending he doesn’t hear, and Jaskier seems to give in and get up anyway.
For almost three hours, there is peace, somewhat, in that they keep walking, but without making much progress, and Jaskier’s restlessness is stressing him out.
“It’s just that… I haven’t even kissed someone in weeks. Weeks, Geralt! Do you know what that’s like? It’s torture, utter-”
Geralt stops, and Jaskier doesn’t, walking straight into him with a small huff of surprise. As Jaskier takes a step back, Geralt turns around to face him.
“Jaskier,” he says, as mildly as he can muster. He should have known that was the problem, and out here there is really only one option if he wants any progress made today. “If I kiss you, will you shut up and let me get on with it?”
His eyes are so blue, startled but eager, as they meet his own.
“Uh, y-yes?”
Geralt’s hand moves on its own, reaching for Jaskier’s cheek and leaning in close. Jaskier is barely breathing. This close he can almost hear Jaskier’s heart jackrabbiting in his chest as Geralt kisses him.
Jaskier’s lips are soft under his, soft and pliant. It is so easy to deepen the kiss, to lean closer, to lose himself to it.
Geralt takes a step forward and instantly Jaskier is pressing in tight, their chests touching, warm and real and intoxicating.
He only falls deeper into the kiss when Jaskier moans against him as he parts his lips, breathing it in.
The world around them disappears. There are only the two of them, nothing else matters but the way Jaskier feels against him.
He can’t stop, addicted to the little sounds Jaskier makes when he flicks his tongue, losing himself in the way Jaskier melts against him.
Jaskier’s cheek is warm under his hand, the tips of his fingers brushing against Jaskier’s ear.
Jaskier doesn’t pull back, and Geralt finds he doesn’t either. Instead he tilts his head for a better angle, his other hand now resting on Jaskier’s hip, keeping him close.
The kiss is still slow, but it is gaining intensity. And Geralt finds… he likes that. A little too much, perhaps, because Jaskier feels so fucking good in his arms, so pliant and willing and desperate for anything Geralt gives him.
Geralt wants to give him everything.
Abruptly, he pulls back and lets go.
He feels cold without Jaskier’s weight pressed into him, and Jaskier looks equally as lost as Geralt feels when he opens his eyes to look at him.
His lips are kissed red, his cheeks are flushed, and the way he looks up through his lashes makes Geralt want to shove him against a tree and ravish him.
Instead, he turns and walks away.
“That was…” Jaskier says from behind him, seemingly still gathering his wits.
When he finds them, he stumbles to catch up. “Geralt! Where did you- That was… very good, you know. I didn’t take you for someone who would be so-”
Jaskier thought it was good too.
“What?” he asks instead of giving in to his traitorous heart.
“I just didn’t think you got a lot of practice, is all,” Jaskier says, still a little dazed.
WIth a snort, he decides to take it as a compliment, because the bard is ironically enough still not very good at that flirting thing, and turns back to where he last saw a footprint.
askier knows of some of Geralt’s comings and goings, even if Geralt doesn’t tell him about every fucking encounter, as a certain bard feels the need to.
The bard remains slightly dazed at his side throughout the rest of the trek, until he decides it is time to make camp.
Geralt stays outside their tent until Jaskier has fallen asleep, trying to push the memories of the kiss out of the way for what he really needs to think about.
Two.
“I need you to be my husband.”
Geralt expected something after Jaskier received a letter of invitation a few days ago and has been pretty much vibrating in his clothes ever since.
He didn’t expect a proposal, however. Lately, they’ve been moving towards the coast, with the ground becoming rockier, the air cleaner, the landscape more bare.
It’s refreshing to not have to be in the woods all the time, but it also means cover is scarce if the weather turns against them and the inns just happen to be few and far apart.
They usually are, but they don’t always allow for witchers.
“They won’t let in anyone who’s not family, but they could hardly refuse my husband entry now, could they?”
Jaskier’s smile is wide and bright, so focused on Geralt that he isn’t watching where he’s going and stumbles over a small rock protruding from the dirt.
Geralt tries very hard not to smile, but something must show anyway because Jaskier squints at him and jabs his elbow into Geralt’s ribs.
“Terrible husband. Don’t laugh at my misfortune!”
Their stay at the coast is calm. As calm as a witcher taking on contracts can be, but there is always something cleansing about going to see the ocean.
The thought of bringing Jaskier to Skellige tickles his mind; the thought of the two of them exploring the land, watching the waves crash against the cliffs and listening to the folklore that Jaskier will absorb like a greedy little sponge.
Their travels bring them to the borders of Temeria, almost crossing into Kerack when the weather betrays them, leaving them with just enough time to find an inn.
As per usual when the weather is bad, rooms are expensive and it is easier to share. Geralt hears Jaskier haggling, and they finally agree on a room with one bed.
After they’re passed their keys and served their dinner and are sat down to eat, Geralt bursts Jaskier’s bubble.
“I’m not sleeping on the floor and I am not sharing.”
The bard pouts into his stew, but doesn’t disagree, which sets off an alarm in Geralt’s head.
His suspicions are proven right when Jaskier graciously offers the bed while changing into his sleeping tunic, only to climb right in after Geralt instead of pulling out the bedrolls and get comfy on the floor, as he was supposed to.
“Hush, my love. You’re my husband, remember? You can hardly deny me the warmth of our marriage bed so soon after our nuptials.”
Geralt tries to scoff, even if it comes out more as a laugh, and then Jaskier snuggles close and presses his cold feet against Geralt’s calves.
Instead of pushing him off the bed, which would be the reasonable response, Geralt enjoys the closeness of his supposed husband.
They wake up closely entwined. Nothing new there, but waking up first allows Geralt to watch the bard sleep, to watch his fill without being teased.
There is something youthful about the bard, even after all these years. The spark of life that refuses to be snuffed, that ever-present will to be everywhere and do everything.
The way Jaskier wakes up to notice him watching, smiling and inching closer makes him feel soft.
“Good morning, husband,” Geralt mumbles, and oh, the sound Jaskier makes at that, hiding his face against Geralt’s tunic.
“Nooooooo, too early for my sexy witcher husband. Don’t do this to me,” he whines, and Geralt snorts, attempting to sit up.
“Noooo,” Jaskier whines again, reaching for him, making grabby hands even as Geralt puts his feet on the cold floor. “Too early to be without my sexy witcher husband. Five more minutes please.”
Geralt is a terrible sexy witcher husband and does not return to bed.
They reach the borders of Lettenhove by late evening. The closer they get, the worse Geralt feels about the entire thing. Big gatherings have never been his thing, and with Jaskier not only being nobility, a viscount, but meeting his family, and as his pretend husband at that?
A lot of things to unpack there, and that never was his strong suit.
By now, Jaskier looks exhausted; fair, since they have been traveling most of the day.
It doesn’t seem to matter though, because when they get closer to the bridge crossing, he corrects his posture on his horse and takes on the look of ‘I Have A Title And You Do Not’ that he effectively wields to get his way from time to time.
The guards still stop them, and even though they give Jaskier a friendly smile, Geralt immediately receives a scowl.
“Your invitation was for one, Master Julian,” one of the guards reminds Jaskier as he dismounts.
“You’d hardly deny my husband entry,” Jaskier says, and the guard gives him a skeptical look.
“The viscount isn’t married.” Which is a bit funny, because isn’t that something the viscount himself should know better than a guard?
“I understand your position, truly,” Jaskier says placatingly, “but I’ve been away for some time, and in that time I found myself not only betrothed but married to a man whom I love very much and whom I wish to bring home to introduce to my family.”
Lungs subjected to bardic training are truly impressive. Being told Jaskier loves him does something interesting to his insides, but he pushes it down in favor of looking the part.
The guard doesn’t look convinced, giving Geralt the usual once over rife with disdain, and Geralt can see Jaskier’s hackles rise.
Geralt slips off Roach’s back and sees Jaskier’s hand start to rise in agitation, so he wraps his arm around Jaskier’s waist.
“It’s fine, love,” he whispers into his ear, and the way Jaskier just melts into him makes Geralt brave.
“It’s not--” Jaskier starts, but he trails off when Geralt presses two fingers under his chin, tipping it up so that they are looking at each other.
“Go alone. I wouldn’t want you to miss your sister’s party on my account. You can introduce me another time.”
It is not only for the guards' benefit that Geralt smiles so openly. Jaskier is always quick to jump to his defense, always so keen on having Geralt treated right.
He doesn’t really mean to, or maybe he does, but he finds himself leaning in, and he feels Jaskier’s breath catch as their lips brush together.
Jaskier’s lips are warm against his own, but his nose is cold as Geralt pulls him closer, kissing him properly, pressing their bodies together.
It doesn’t seem like Jaskier has caught on yet, but Geralt can’t stop. He leans in closer, fingers twitching at Jaskier’s waist, because he wants to be closer still.
The kiss deepens, and Jaskier gives a quiet, intoxicating little noise then Geralt touches the seam of his lips with his tongue. Jaskier seems to be holding back, but Geralt can’t.
Since this morning, he’s been thinking about how the tunic would feel under his hands as he traces Jaskier’s sides, and now he can actually do so. Up under the doublet, all the way up to the chest, and then back down to settle at the dip of his waist.
It is getting a little hard to catch his breath, and when he nips at Jaskier’s lower lip, Jaskier gives in, throwing his arms around Geralt’s neck and kissing him hard.
He completely forgets about the guards until one of them clears his throat, and Jaskier startles back and out of his arms.
Right.
He might have overdone it some. Jaskier smoothes out his rumpled clothes. Geralt should probably smooth out the situation.
“Apologies,” he says, sounding breathless to his own ears. “It's been… some time since my lord and I have been together. He keeps so busy I don’t see him most often, and we were hoping to get to the palace and to our room.”
Half truths are the best lies, and it works as intended.
The guard that cleared his throat makes a strangled noise and steps aside, not even looking at them as Geralt takes both the horses’ reins and tugs them forward to cross the bridge.
Jaskier is silent as they pass the horses to the stable boy, says barely a word as they are guided to their rooms, and nothing until the doors are closed behind them.
There, Geralt is thanked for his quick thinking and for getting them out of the messy situation, and Geralt is not one to confess he might have lost himself to the act.
The party is mostly fine.
Jaskier’s family is exactly as he imagined them.
Three
It is a beautiful night.
The skies are clear and the forest is quiet, Roach grazing among the trees. They have made camp in a little meadow with soft grass and surprisingly few rocks and twigs.
Geralt can hear Jaskier sigh over and over again across their little camp, sometimes scratching his head absently, sometimes tapping his chin as he tries to work out a melody.
Apparently he is attempting to compose a romantic ballad, something something peasant woman as a knight, something something a princess behind held captive in a tower.
This is not an unusual routine, so Geralt pays him very little mind. One of his tunics is torn in the armpit, again, so Geralt has taken out his mending kit to repair it.
No need to waste a perfectly good tunic because the seamstresses were too scared to take his measurements properly.
Then Jaskier flops back in the grass dramatically, arms outstretched and his lute resting on his chest, balanced precariously.
“What’s wrong?” Geralt asks, pretending he is not watching the bard from the corner of his eye.
“How am I supposed to write the most romantic ballads the continent has ever heard when there is so little romance in my life?!”
Geralt snorts, focusing back to his sewing when he almost attaches his sleeve to the patching. Jaskier gives an offended huff and props himself up on his elbows to look at Geralt properly.
“Do you know I can’t even remember what it’s like to be kissed?”
Wow. Thanks.
It’s only been a few weeks since he did a wonderful job of being a fake terrible sexy witcher husband (even if they are most assuredly not talking about it and the Bridge Incident).
Geralt lifts a skeptical eyebrow but says nothing, trying to free himself before the bard notices. He is left in peace for several seconds, until Jaskier speaks up again.
“Perhaps you could help?”
“What could I possibly do to help?”
There are a few things coming to mind.
“I have it on good authority that you’re an excellent kisser and … maybe we could do it again. For research purposes, you see.”
Jaskier wants Geralt to kiss him again. Wants Geralt to kiss him, specifically. So he probably lied about the not remembering how it felt, huh?
“What?” Geralt can’t help but to smirk, basking in the feeling of being wanted. “Your memory isn’t good enough for you?”
“Please Geralt, it will help.”
He sounds so earnest, and honestly? Geralt absolutely doesn’t mind kissing him again. Especially since this was the first time Jaskier has specifically asked Geralt to kiss him.
So he simply cuts the threads connecting him to his patchwork (he can continue later) and rises to his feet. Jaskier sits up straight and watches him approach, knees propped up.
Geralt nudges them apart to stand between them.
Jaskier holds his breath when Geralt bends low, cupping his cheek as he pulls Jaskier into a soft kiss. He doesn’t allow himself to get lost again, keeping the kiss gentle, cradling Jaskier’s warm cheek.
Geralt hums, nudging Jaskier’s knee with his leg, inching closer before catching himself and pulling back.
“Good enough?” he asks, and Jaskier looks a little dazed, his lips still parted invitingly. He wants to touch them.
But before he can do anything, Jaskier nods solemnly and Geralt steps back. The night air feels cooler now without Jaskier close, but he returns to his mending.
Jaskier has pulled himself together, bent over his composing book and writing frantically, tongue sticking out distractedly. It seems like a kiss really did help.
Four
The devourer puts up more of a fight than Geralt anticipated. He finds himself backed into a corner, the sword wrenched out of his grip and laying out of reach in the grass behind it.
Which is exactly why he told Jaskier to stay at camp, and therefore it was, naturally, completely ignored.
Jaskier dashes out the tree line, catching Geralt’s attention only a second before the devourer spots him.
Something in Geralt’s chest constricts at the sight of him, but there is little he can do when the monster turns and rushes towards the bard.
Jaskier manages to kick the pummel of the sword, but it doesn’t get close enough to Geralt before he has to turn and run.
Geralt doesn’t think. He dives after the sword, watching with horror at how the devourer closes in on Jaskier, cutting off his path, and sending him flying sideways into a tree.
Lunging forward, pure instinct rage and something he refuses to call fear guiding his movements, the devourer’s attention is back on him.
From the corner of his eye he notices Jaskier sitting up, which is a relief even as it just makes him angry but determined to finish this sooner than later.
It swipes at him, and he dodges, feints, slashes. The fight takes another few minutes, until he finally overtakes it, thrusting his sword up, piercing through the soft underside of its jaw.
It twitches once more, but makes no move to rise again, so Geralt simply steps over it to get to Jaskier, dropping to his knees.
“Are you hurt?”
Jaskier shakes his head, but Geralt sees right through it.
“Let go of your shoulder.”
It could have been worse. There are no visible injuries, he doesn’t seem concussed. A bit dazed perhaps, but nothing permanent.
“I think it’s dislocated,” Geralt hums, brushing his hand gently over the shoulder.
“What does that mean?” Jaskier frowns.
“It means I have to put it back into place for you.”
“I…no, I don’t think so. Can’t it just go back on its own?”
Jaskier cradles his arm close to his body, wincing as he does, and Geralt smirks at his reluctance.
“It won’t, it has to be put back or it’s going to continue to hurt and be useless.”
“Please-,” Jaskier starts to say, but Geralt cuts him off.
“Last week, you threw yourself between me and a harpy, and just now you tried to fend off a devourer, and you don’t want me to put your shoulder back into place?”
Jaskier immediately shakes his head stubbornly, his lips pressed tightly in a thin line. Looking at his lips sparks an idea though.
Without warning, Geralt closes the distance between them and presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth.
The angle is just a little off but Jaskier turns into it with a soft gasp, drawn in as Geralt hoped he would be. Geralt kisses him deeply, allowing himself a moment to drag a hand through Jaskier’s hair and down the back of his neck.
For the distraction, he tells himself, but the strands are soft between his fingers, his ears warm.
Then he grabs Jaskier’s arm firmly, pushing it hard back in its socket.
Jaskier pulls back abruptly, hissing and swearing until he notices the worst of the pain has subsided. The way he squints at Geralt has him smirk smugly.
“You used me-,” he splutters, affronted, and Geralt can’t help but huff a little laugh.
Still, even as Jaskier whines and complains and mutters, he lets Geralt take his arm and wrap it so it will have proper support. All the while, his hands itch to reach out and touch again, to feel those lips underneath his own.
Five
The castle is dark and quiet, the shadows dark and consuming. Somewhere in these halls there is a bruxa, and the king was very clear that the hunt should be kept under wraps.
Geralt was seemingly invited as the friend of the famous bard Jaskier, hired to entertain for a weekend.
Problem with that is that Jaskier is a trouble magnet, and there is no way he is leaving him alone with a beautiful being set on eating people given Jaskier’s recent habit of throwing himself in front of monsters.
Which is why, despite the king’s strict instruction, Jaskier trails behind Geralt through the halls.
The last drained body found was a guard, his neck torn open, and just the mere thought of that happening to Jaskier - no.
Geralt peeks around a corner, just about to take a step forward, when he hears the clatter of boots further ahead.
Probably more guards, unaware of their presence, so instead Geralt takes a step back. It makes Jaskier walk straight into his back, but he keeps blessedly silent despite the surprise.
The guards seem to have picked up on something though, their steps coming to a halt, so Geralt pushes Jaskier up against the wall to hide in the shadows of a small alcove.
The bard looks surprised, but lets himself be manhandled easily. Geralt slides a hand over Jaskier’s mouth to keep him quiet. Jaskier goes pretty much limp, relaxing into the witcher’s hold. It’s a strange feeling, but there is not much time to reflect on it.
“Be quiet,” he whispers, so close their noses are almost touching.
Jaskier nods his understanding, but then the guards actually seem to be moving towards them.
Geralt doesn’t think, just presses closer against Jaskier, hiding the bard with his own body, and Jaskier gives a little sound, the quietest of moans, and fuck.
In the silence of the hall, it seems to echo. Jaskier bites his lip, but it is too late. The guards definitely heard them, voices quieting and steps speeding up.
Jaskier is looking up at him through his lashes, and the way they are pressed together it only makes sense. Right?
Geralt tilts his head, capturing Jaskier’s lips with his. It’s hard not to go too far; he is toeing that fine line of what is pretense and what is real.
He allows himself to kiss Jaskier like he wants to, like he has dreamed of. Jaskier responds in kind, his arms snaking around Geralt’s waist, hands skirting across lower back and down over his ass.
Jaskier is kissing him back, their breaths mingling as their lips part.
The guards approach quickly. Geralt should probably care more about that, but Jaskier is arching against him. He presses closer still, his thigh now between Jaskier’s knees, and the bard’s hips twitch forward in response.
There is nothing to stop the sound ripping from the witcher’s throat, heat building in his gut, hot and demanding. He doesn’t realize he is hard until he is pushing against Jaskier’s thigh, and shit.
This doesn’t feel like pretend anymore.
Geralt breaks the kiss, tipping Jaskier’s head up and ducks down to kiss and nip at his neck instead.
The guards round the corner just then, walking into each other as they come to a sudden stop when they notice the two of them. Damnit.
“S-sorry, master witcher, we uh- we’ll-..... yes,” the first guard apologizes, grabbing the other by the arm and turning back to where they came.
Geralt can feel Jaskier’s chest heaving under his as they watch the guards leave, his hands having moved from Geralt’s ass to his hips.
The tension in the air between them is so thick that he could cut it with a knife. His eyes are glued to Jaskier’s kiss swollen lips, tracking the movement of the bard’s tongue as he slowly licks them. Fuck.
When the steps are far enough away, Geralt pushes off the wall and puts distance between them lest he does something even more stupid, and immediately feels cold without him.
It’s hard to look at each other; his heart is still pounding hard as if after a fight, the taste of Jaskier’s skin fresh on his tongue.
“Come on,” Geralt whispers, but Jaskier stays leaning on the wall, eyes closed.
“I’m just gonna… need a minute.”
Geralt couldn’t have said it better himself. He nods and turns away, gathering up his scattered thoughts and pushing them down to the back of his mind.
They don’t get back to their room until an hour before sunrise. Jaskier undresses for bed without a care, trousers pooling around his ankles on the floor before he kicks them off, and then he falls into bed with an exhausted sigh. Geralt watches him flop, squirm and worm into place under the blankets with infinite fondness.
Once upon a time, he would have been annoyed with how much space he takes up, how loud he is.
Now, all he wants is to join him under the covers and hold him close.
Fuck, he is in deep.
plus one
The day is a calm one.
They spend the day in Oxenfurt, catching it in the middle of a festival, throngs of people and an explosion of color and invention everywhere.
It's been a while since they could just take their time and enjoy themselves. Jaskier pulls him from stall to stall, hooking a finger around his to lead him along, and Geralt is weak, so weak.
They mill through the crowd, watching the performers on different stages, until Jaskier decides to take a turn of his own.
Geralt stays in the crowd, watching as Jaskier’s eyes stray to him again and again, each time a soft and happy smile spreading on his lips. He looks divine in the sunshine, and the people of the market adore him.
After his impromptu performance, he returns bouncing to Geralt’s side, wheedling for compliments before informing him of all the stalls he saw from up there that they simply must visit.
They share sweet buns, pastries, and Jaskier laughs when Geralt scrunches his nose at the sharp tartness of the strawberry cider. As the day comes to an end, they both feel a little soft around the edges from a combination of the drinks, the mood, and the setting sun.
There will be a firework celebration, so Jaskier leads them to his secret spot on top of a hill with a view over the river. They are alone up here, far away enough that the murmur of people by the riverbank is a pleasant background to the falling night.
Jaskier grabs his hand proper now, guiding them towards a tree.
Their hands fit together nicely as they climb the hill but they have to release their hold when Geralt sits down and leans against the trunk of the tree. Jaskier plops down and settles between his thighs, leaning back against Geralt’s chest, because of course he does.
It is just a little too warm, but Geralt is too comfortable to move, basking in Jaskier’s presence, his smell, the way his hair tickles the side of Geralt’s face. He doesn’t even try to fight the content smile playing at his lips, doesn’t even pretend this is everything he wants.
The sunset is beautiful, shimmering on the surface of the river, and then the fireworks starts. A whistle and a bang, sparks of color falling across the sky.
“Isn’t it gorgeous, Geralt?” Jaskier mumbles, sleep heavy in his voice.
‘Yes, you are,’ Geralt thinks, as Jaskier lifts Geralt’s hand off his thighs and twines their fingers together.
Their hands are almost the same size, the tips of Jaskier’s fingers rough from years on working the strings, the back of Geralt’s hand lined with pale scars from uncareful moments.
It doesn’t take long until Jaskier dozes off, turning his head to the side, fingers warm and a little sweaty. It’s not the first time Jaskier has fallen asleep against him.
More than once, Geralt had to carry him back to the inn or the camp or the place they are staying at for the night.
Another whistle sounds, followed by a bang, and the children cheer as it rains golden sparks over them.
The air smells a little like sulfur and other familiar powders, making him think of Lambert and home. Maybe he can bring Jaskier there someday.
They sit there until the last firework has burnt out, Geralt’s ass stiff from sitting so long at the ground.
Geralt would sit there for hours more if it means they can stay like this. An inelegant snore breaks his reveries, and Jaskier frowns in his sleep.
Geralt braves placing his thumb between his brow, flattening it, like Jaskier has done so many times to him.
The frown lets itself be smoothed out, and the bard remains asleep with a squeeze of his hand. He shouldn’t, but he wants to, so Geralt leans over and kisses Jaskier’s forehead. When he leans back, Jaskier’s eyelids flutter and he looks up at Geralt with a sleepy smile.
“Good morning,” Jaskier murmurs, shifting and stretching out. “Sorry I woke up before you could carry me back.”
Geralt gives an amused huff and accepts Jaskier’s help to stand. Truth be told, he wouldn’t have minded carrying the bard back, if he had stayed asleep. Much.
As they return towards the inn, they walk close together. The world is still a little fuzzy around the edges, and the tips of their fingers brush as their shoulders bump together.
Once there, they learn there is only a bed. After so long on the road, a real bed would have been nice, but Geralt will settle for sleeping on the floor.
Jaskier seems to be thinking the same and graciously offers him the bed, but Geralt is tired and Jaskier looks soft, and as soon as he is settled in bed, he lifts the covers and invites him in.
Geralt is not quite ready to let go of their closeness just yet. Quickly, Jaskier discards his clothes and crawls in next to him.
The bed is narrow, and Jaskier’s back is warm against Geralt’s bare chest. It’s nice. Warm. Safe.
Sleep is pulling him in, and it takes a second for him to register Jaskier speaking.
“I had a good night tonight,” Jaskier says quietly. “It’s a shame we can’t do this more often.”
“Mm,” is all Geralt manages, eyelids heavy.
“Did you enjoy yourself?”
“I did.”
The mattress dips as Jaskier turns over, the few inches between them disappearing as Jaskier tangles their legs together. Geralt drapes his arm over Jaskier’s hip, bringing them closer yet, a smile playing at his lips.
He can hear Jaskier’s heart beating, feel his breath against his face. He smells like cider and sweat and hair oil.
“Geralt?” Jaskier asks quietly.
“Hm?” Opening his eyes is too much work. Jaskier's hand reaches up, brushing through his hair.
“Thank you,” he whispers, hand resting at the nape of his neck, fingers playing with the fine hair there.
He tips his head down, and their noses touch. It should be Geralt saying that.
Thank you for being here, thank you for wanting me, thank you for staying, for carrying the world with me.
“Jaskier,” he breathes instead, tilting his chin up and brushing their lips together.
Barely a touch, barely a whisper. Jaskier’s hand in his hair twitches, his breath hitches, and only when he inches forward does Geralt kiss him properly.
There are no guards, no dislocated shoulders, no reasons or bad excuses. Just them. Kissing and touching because they want to.
Geralt’s chest feels tight with it, his heart full. They kiss soft and slow, and Geralt lets himself get lost in it, letting his thumb brush against the bare skin of Jaskier’s hip
Even when Jaskier pulls back an inch to breathe, they don’t part. Geralt kisses his nose, and again on his forehead, and then they settle together, wrapped around each other.
Maybe wanting to is a good enough reason to reach out, Geralt thinks as sleep finally pulls him under.
Maybe they need no reason at all.
