#milesmain

It’s all so new between them, it still feels very delicate. Geralt can feel it in the way Jaskier’s hand frames his face, in the way his lips explore but don’t intrude. It’s sweet and exciting and it tugs at his heart in a way nothing has in a very long time, and every waking hour of every day he’s incensed with the knowledge that he can have this, that Jaskier is not walking away, that this is theirs to have. 

So in between all the couch-sitting, couch-sliding-off, there are many kisses. Stolen, some, when the other isn’t looking — like when Jaskier laughs at the cheesy dialogue of whatever rom-com is running in the background, and Geralt’s heart swells with a love that feels infinite, and he just has to kiss the grin off his face. Sweet, like when Geralt comes back from the kitchen with more popcorn and Jaskier thanks him with a gentle kiss to the forehead, almost like an afterthought. That’s what excites him — the fact that words, glances, almost everything can be reduced to a single action, a single kiss.

Like now, the movie completely and utterly forgotten as they kiss and kiss and kiss. Geralt doesn’t know how it started, or who did; all he knows is that Jaskier tastes like salt and butter and that he smells a little bit like the candle they burned a while ago, and that his hair is soft under Geralt’s hands and that he sighs into Geralt’s mouth from time to time, and it feels like heaven. 

Jaskier’s hands begin to wonder, too. They reach for Geralt’s face, then his jaw, then lower, lower, lower, tickling his sides. Geralt gasps, unbidden, as Jaskier’s fingers begin slowly opening the buttons of his shirt, teasing, his touch making Geralt’s skin erupt in gooseflesh. 

There’s a soft moan — Geralt couldn’t say who’s mouth it belongs to, lost in the feeling as he is — as Jaskier rocks forward, abandoning his seat on the couch to plant himself more firmly onto Geralt’s lap. The kiss grows more heated, their tongues meeting again and again, and suddenly, it becomes too much. 

Geralt gently taps Jaskier’s thigh as he pulls back a bit, and is relieved to see Jaskier’s mouth curl into a small smile. 

“Too much?” He asks Geralt, and there’s no condescendence in his tone, nothing but plain curiosity. 

“Yeah,” Geralt nods, letting out a small laugh. He can feel his face burn a bit, his cheeks warm to the touch. “Sorry.”

Jaskier sits back on his haunches and playfully swats Geralt’s arm. “No saying sorry. I’m glad you let me know.”

Geralt nods again, looking down at his hands. The ever-present feeling that he’s ruining things by not being enough is trying to make itself heard in his mind, but he closes his eyes and tries to focus on the nice things — the feeling of Jaskier’s skin against his, their hands locked together, the pleasant butterfly buzz in his stomach, the loving shade of blue in Jaskier’s eyes that tells him everything he needs to know. 

“I know,” he says out loud, and Jaskier smiles at him, squeezing his hand. “Could you come here anyway?”

Jaskier goes, of course, never in his life turning down cuddles, and it settles something in Geralt’s skin, the way they fit together so perfectly: the way Jaskier’s hair tickles his chin and how his arms can wrap around him like a blanket, warm and inviting. 

On the screen, Sally’s blue eyes are shining with tears. 

“I love you,” Jaskier says against his arm. “I can’t believe you distracted me during Harry’s big speech, though.”

Geralt nudges him. “He tells her he loves her even though she gets cold when it’s seventy degrees out,” he tells him. “And that he wants to spend the rest of their lives together.”

“Hmm,” Jaskier says thoughtfully. “Now that would be something, huh?”

His face is shining as the credits roll.

Geralt loves him to bits.