#jaskier likes

The day Jaskier finds out, Geralt returns to their room on the third floor of the inn. He is exhausted, but warm and clean after a visit in the baths. One might even say content, if you were so inclined. 

The contract is finished and paid for, the food edible and a soft warm bed awaits.  Geralt enters the room he shares with Jaskier and finds the bard sprawled on the wooden floor. He is writing, scribbling, or possibly doodling in a notebook. He lies on his stomach, feet up in the air, swinging them back and forth. His tongue is peeking out between his lips and it sparks something small and warm in Geralt’s chest that he’d rather not examine too closely.

He shuffles past Jaskier to his bed and sits down heavily on the bed with a thump. Geralt stretches, arms high up in the air, his old and soft linen shirt rises up and lets in cold air over his lower abdomen. 

The scratching of pen and paper stops but he pays it no mind. If Geralt got a coin for every time Jaskeir lost his train of thoughts he would be a rich man.

He grunts, one arm bent behind his neck and twisting his back just so. A yawn attacks him from out of nowhere and his mouth opens wide, jaw almost cracking. 

Then there is a gasp from the floor in front of him.

Fuck.

Geralt's mouth snaps shut and his eyes dart towards the bard on the floor. Only, he is not on the floor anymore. Jaskier is scrambling to get up, long limbs everywhere, towards Geralt. Three fucking cockatrice around a maypole, this is not good.

“Geralt!” Jaskier breathes, and no, bard no, go away. 

Geralt presses his lips tightly together, hiding his reasons even though it’s already too late. He glares at Jaskier, hoping to deter him, but when did that ever work. Jaskier walks straight up to him, like always, and gets right up his face. His heart is already beating fast but with every step Jaskier takes towards him it grows a bit heavier. 

This is it. This is when Jaskier finally decides he’s had enough. One thing too strange about him and his friend leaves him forever.

“Geralt, you have fangs!” Jaskier exclaims, putting both of his hands on Geralt's face. “No I don’t” Geralt mutters, making an effort to show as little teeth as possible. Jaskier actually chuckles at that, and it’s only Jaskier in this world that would find this funny. It eases some of that tight coil in him, and shoots a small jolt of that something through his veins.

And then Jaskier lets his thumbs stroke his cheeks softly. A deep, burning flush stains Geralt’s face, ears, and neck and that bloody bard just smiles wider. 

“Yes you do, darling witcher. Is this why you are so tightlipped all the time?” Jaskier muses with a knowing glint in his eyes. Geralt glares up at him, trying to hide his embarrassment and worry.

“Don’t need another reason for people to run away from me.” He mutters, incredibly self aware. 

He really doesn't want Jaskier to leave him, but he doesn’t want his pity either. Jaskiers thumbs come up under the soft skin right under his eyes and Geralt has to fight back a shiver. 

“I would never run from you, Geralt.” Jaskier mutters, as if he read his mind. “May I see them?”  There is a glint in Jaskiers eyes, something that absolutely doesn’t help Gerlats flush.

“Why?” Geralt asks, and Jaskiers smile turns into a sly smirk. His right thumb finds the corner of Geralt’s mouth and pushes a little.

Fuck.

“Because they are hot.”

Fuck.

Geralt’s hands are on his legs, fingers twitching with nerves. There are very, very few in this world he would allow this close to his face. Very few he would trust not to run for the hills, or to plant a knife in his back. 

Even fewer that sparks that hot coil of something inside him. That odd kind of hunger.

Instead of replying, he opens his mouth. Jaskier absolutely beams and he leans in close to study his teeth. His fangs.

“That’s amazing.” Jaskier says, breath hitting Geralt’s face as he says it. 

He tips Geralt’s chin up with one hand and lets the thumb of the other run across his upper lip to let him see clearer.

“They look sharp.” Jaskier comments, as if his fingers don't shoot electricity through Geralt. “May I touch them?” 

Geralt can use words. Sometimes. Just not… right now. Fuck.

All he can do is hum and lift an eyebrow, giving Jaskier his best Im-so-unimpressed-face. Jaskier grins and apparently takes that as a yes.

“Open up.” He says, and lets that thumb slide over his teeth. And when Geralt reluctantly opens a bit more. Jaskier is standing very close now, placed right between Geralt's knees. It’s unreal, it’s strange, so to anchor himself Geralt grabs a hold of the fabric of Jaskiers pants. No other reason at all.

Jaskier presses the meat of his thumb against one of Geralt’s fangs, and then looks up to meet his eyes. His own lips are slightly parted, a blush tainting his cheek. That spark is there, making Geralt’s head spin.