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Geralt stared at his outfit on the bed. It wasn’t something he’d ever worn before but the rules of the party were clear. He had to wear a dress. Yennefer had smirked at his obvious discomfort when he’d asked her for help, but enchanted one of her gowns so it would fit him. She’d even offered to help Jaskier dress for the occasion but the bard had waved his hand and assured her he would be fine. Geralt sighed and pulled on the silk black dress. It had a split up one side that looked stunning on Yennefer but Geralt wasn’t really sure it was for him. He grumbled, muttering to a non-existent Roach as he fiddled with his stockings and garters, thankful for the practice he’d had over the years at undoing them, although attaching them was a whole new challenge. Lastly, and most importantly, he strapped a holster to each of his thighs.
They were attending the party for a reason.
Geralt preferred his swords but silver daggers were less conspicuous. The rumours were that the Countess was a werewolf and she’d been terrorising the villagers on her land every full moon. It was a tricky contract and Geralt was hoping it would end peacefully. As far as the Countess was aware Geralt was here as a companion to Jaskier who had been enlisted to attend the affair as a lutist.
“Geralt?”
Geralt smirked. Jaskier always knew when Geralt was thinking about him. It was strange how often the bard appeared just as Geralt’s mind drifted. He grunted loud enough for Jaskier to hear him. Jaskier’s head popped around the door, blue eyes lined with dark black smudges, red paint staining his lips. Geralt’s mouth went dry as he took in the sight before him. It was easy to forget just how muscular Jaskier’s arms were, hidden under puffy sleeves but now, in his white silk sleeveless dress… all Geralt could think about were Jaskier’s arms.
His tongue felt heavy, words stuck in his throat.
He tore his gaze away only to be distracted by the plunging neckline that revealed the dark chest hair underneath. It was incredible, Geralt thought, he’d expected to feel less masculine wearing Yen’s clothes, but seeing Jaskier in his dress, no one could deny the raw masculinity exuding from Jaskier. It made him wonder why he’d been so worried. It wasn’t his clothes that defined him as a witcher, not even his medallion. It was his skill and his heart.
And the silk did feel nice against his skin, much softer than his armour.
Jaskier’s eyes darkened as they roamed Geralt’s body. Geralt felt his cheeks heat up, feeling oddly exposed in front of his bard who had seen him in far more vulnerable positions over the years.
“Gods… you look…” Jaskier trailed off with a lick of his lips, as he moved slowly into the room, never breaking eye contact.
Geralt swallowed, Jaskier didn’t need to finish his sentence, Geralt knew how it ended. Looking at Jaskier, the soft silk flowing around his legs… Geralt knew.
Jaskier’s hand slid under Geralt’s skirt, fingers tracing up his thigh. Geralt’s breath hitched as Jaskier’s fingers caught the leather holster. “Ready for tonight, love?”
Geralt nodded, Jaskier’s breath was tickling on his lips but he didn’t move.
Jaskier’s lips ghosted over his, and the bard winked as he pulled back, pulling up his own skirts to reveal the jewelled dagger that Geralt had gifted him last summer. It was strapped above a lacy white garter that Geralt wanted to rip from Jaskier’s body with his teeth. He groaned and closed his eyes as Jaskier dropped his skirt. “Just in case, darling.”
“Fuck, Jask.”
Jaskier’s face was a picture of innocence, except the slight twinkle in his eyes. “Shall we go then?”
Geralt growled, stalking from the room, the long skirt of his dress billowing out behind him. The quicker they could get this over with, the quicker he could get Jaskier out of that dress and into his bed.