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Roach isn’t the only thing Geralt tells him not to touch.
Don’t touch my bag when Jaskier tries to get some bandages.
Don’t touch my food when his own has run out.
And of course, his favourite, don’t touch me.
It’s a fucking struggle though, Jaskier thrives off of touching people— it’s not like Geralt hates being touched, oh no, the bard’s seen him tackle his brothers and roll around in mud like they’re cubs— it’s certainly not that he dislikes being touched he just… he just doesn’t trust Jaskier enough to let him.
So when Geralt invites his touch, Jaskier’s heart nearly stops. It can’t be real, he can’t be trailing his fingers down Geralt’s chest, he can’t be leaning forwards, fire warming his side as the witcher’s quiet breaths warm Jaskier’s face… and yet, here they are.
He gasps when he sees the witcher’s scars, his body much like the aftermath of a war, a battlefield pocketed with missing chunks of flesh, raised bumps of badly healed skin…
Jaskier aches to touch, to kiss, to adore.
“Touch me, Jaskier.”
And Jaskier does.