“Darling! Darling, wait up, you know I can’t keep up with Roach— oh don’t look at me like that, horsie, we know you do it on purpose!”
Roach flicks her tail in either annoyance or greeting; likely both, but she accept the apple he holds to her lips with a crunch. Geralt slips off of her, running a hand down her mane; it’s incredible that Jaskier’s managed to come this for north this early into the warmer season.
“Jaskier,” he smiles lopsided, a singular fang pressing into his bottom lip. His friend Jaskier, after too long— the poet pulls him into a tight hug, and Geralt gives it back with only a moment’s hesitation to fit his hands around the bard’s waist without damaging the lute that hangs off his back.
He holds him tightly, having learned over a series of years how much of a gentle squeeze his human friend can take. Jaskier makes a high sound of delight in his throat before pulling back with a grin; Geralt mimics the motion, helpless to the draw of his friend and—
Jaskier’s lips are soft against his. Never chapped, not his singer, and he smells of mild chamomile and lavender this close. Geralt’s hand comes to cup his cheek, a gloved thumb smoothing up the soft curve of his bard’s cheek.
The poet pulls back with a surprised noise, cheeks flush and lips pink despite the light pressure of their chaste kiss. “Geralt— Oh, Melitele, I was just— I was—”
“Jaskier.” Geralt’s voice is soft, like half-molten cream-ice on a hot evening, and is just as sweet and contenting. “Jaskier, you fool, kiss me again.”
His eyes widen and lips part; Geralt finds that they’re impossibly softer the second time.
Roach idles to the side of the trail to hide her pleasure. It took them long enough, she thinks.