Jaskier's last thread of reluctance and sense fled him as Geralt took him by the chin. Only a moment passed after Geralt asked his question before Jaskier, ill advised and driven on instinct, pressed forward and crushed his mouth against the Witcher's. Geralt tasted of sweat and blood and some strange tang--a potion, anger? He didn't focus on it.

To call Jaskier handsy in this moment would be a vast understatement--Jaskier's hands immediately set to task getting under Geralt's shirt, moving without their usual deftness but with an overabundance of enthusiasm. He reached for skin contact like he needed it to live, like he couldn't breathe without it, and in his desperation all but shoved Geralt back against the wall.