They have been doing this for weeks now.
Dancing around each other. Exchanging not so secret glances. Fingers accidentally brushing against each other when walking. Finding excuses to be close.
"Geralt, can you help me with the buttons on my shirt? I may have had too much wine to open them myself."
An annoyed grunt before large hands get to work, making quick work of the stubborn buttons despite their size.
"Why do you always have to wear such complicated clothes?"
"To give the people something to look at!"
Jaskier stares at him, his eyes twinkling.
"And I hope it's working." The wine must be making his tongue even looser than usual.
Geralt doesn't say anything, but he doesn't break eye-contact, either. His fingers are still fiddling with Jaskier's shirt.
When the last button is open, his hands linger, hovering just above his stomach. It's surprisingly toned.
Carefully, one hand slides around the bard's waist whilst the other finds its way to his cheek.
"Maybe," Geralt finally answers, leaning in so that their foreheads are touching. Their lips are close, so close, and Jaskier is just about to give in when—
"I can't say I haven't been enjoying helping you undress lately."
With each word, Geralt's lips wander further down, ghost across Jaskier's face before settling on his neck and finally, finally kissing him.
It's enough to make the bard whimper, and he grabs Geralt by the hips to pull him closer.
The Witcher doesn't budge though. He is too busy leaving kiss after kiss on Jaskier's neck, slowly making his way to his ear and running his tongue across the sensitive skin.
It's been so long. We don't have to wait any more. Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me.
"Are you sure?" he asks, taking a step forward so that their chests are flush.
He can feel Jaskier's heart beating, strong and oh so loud. Just like him. Geralt can't help but smile.
Jaskier looks up at him, eyes wide. They're so blue, so deep and untamed. So much hidden underneath the surface that is begging him to be explored.
"I've never been more sure."
To Jaskier's forehead. To his temple, one on each side. To his cheeks. To his nose and chin. To the corners of his mouth.
Until Jaskier is a trembling mess in his arms, each ragged breath a silent plea.
Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me.
He would have expected it to be more desperate, that their lips would collide until either one of them pulls back lest he suffocates. But it's not.
It's sweet and gentle and patient, a slow exploration of each other — savouring this moment because gods, it has been a long time coming.
Even though it is their first kiss, Jaskier already knows what to do to earn a very dirty moan. He chuckles when he hears it.
Bastard. For a split second, Geralt wonders.
Maybe he should have waited longer, shouldn't have given in to the temptation just yet. Should have chosen a different moment.
Oh, but those cursed lips—
"Can you help me with my shirt, too?"
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