A Little Life

Geralt/Jaskier

It is so easy, touching Jaskier, now that the crack in Geralt has been thrown open.

"I could get used to this," he chirps, right in Geralt's ear like nothing has happened, like he's whole and happy and unbroken, like he's unafraid. Geralt thinks he could get used to it, too - wonders why it took this long for him to touch Jaskier, to see him, to hold him like this. There are arms wound around his shoulders and legs locked around his waist and lips everywhere, everywhere, as they stumble back down that dark hallway and through the keep together.

"Stop," he says next, just as they reach that blasted staircase, and Geralt does.

"Kiss me again. Right here, so I know you mean it," and Geralt does that, too.

He lets Jaskier down gently onto one leg, keeping a hand hooked under his other knee to stop him bouncing around on his fragile ankle. The other splays between Jaskier's shoulders, keeping his warm skin from connecting with the stone wall Geralt crowds him up against.

Geralt is untethered, fighting for control. He wants this to be slow but here is Jaskier, as Jaskier always is, setting the pace for both of them. He presses their foreheads together for a moment, both of them breathing raggedly into the sliver of space that separates them.

"I mean it," he rasps, and Jaskier's smile blooming before him is enough to shatter the last of his restraint.

It is so easy, the way their mouths fit together, the way Jaskier opens so beautifully for him, the way their bodies draw toward each other. It is so easy, like breathing again, like walking in the sun, to lift Jaskier once more into his arms and turn away from those looming stairs.

"Witcher, if you do not take me to bed this instant-"

"My bed," Geralt rumbles into his neck, "is closer."

That, miracle of miracles, quiets the bard until they are tucked safely into Geralt's own chamber. Jaskier remains plastered to Geralt's lap as they tumble into the bed. The fire is lit and Jaskier does not flinch, does not stop kissing the spot where an impossibly slow pulse jumps up to meet his lips.

Geralt's hands fly up, still warm from casting the sign, and he hesitates.
"You can," Jaskier whispers, pulling back to meet Geralt's gaze. There is a tightness in his jaw, a knitting between his brows that wasn't there before, but his eyes are soft. "You can. Touch me."

The tips of his fingers connect first, and the skin beneath them prickles all over with gooseflesh.The touches are feather-light but eager, mapping out the new cracks and ridges in his skin. Jaskier's writhing ceases and his breath begins to come in little puffs against Geralt's shoulder, but the witcher does not stop. He strokes along Jaskier's spine, gentling him, naming each new line beneath his hands. Brave. Foolish. Beautiful. Stubborn. Capable. Innocent. Alive, alive, alive.

"You're trembling," Geralt murmurs, tucking his chin into Jaskier's neck.

"Am I?" he replies, huffing out a gasp that doesn't quite pass as the laugh it was supposed to be. Geralt just hmms beneath his ear.

"Lie down with me?" Geralt entreats, and he hears Jaskier's heart stutter. The answer is just a breath.

"I don't want you to stop."

"I won't. Come with me."

Geralt pulls him down into the bed and arranges Jaskier between himself and the slowly dying fire until every line of them is curled together. His hands resume their stroking, petting down the slope of Jaskier's hip while his lips ghost along the bard's shoulders. He kisses a knotted scar where the flesh must have been particularly unwilling to knit together, and Jaskier's breath shakes. Another, and Jaskier makes a soft, mournful sort of noise that has Geralt pulling him impossibly closer.