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    Summary

    “How old are you, anyway?”

    Yellow eyes flicked wryly up to him. “Old enough to be more than your father, pup. C’mon, start putting your shit away.” The witcher stood, gathering their first pile of things— for the desk and its drawers— and neatly depositing them.

    “That’s not a number.” The bard smiled sweetly, eyes narrow, in the way Geralt said made him look like a little butcherbird: darling but violent-minded. “Don’t get shy now; you don’t look a day over seventy, dear-heart.”

    Geralt reached over and tugged his earlobe for the impertinence. “Cheeky, but close.”

    Jaskier laughed. Everything but his husband’s white hair looked to be late-thirties, perhaps forty; an excruciatingly fit, well-kept forty, but the shallow lines in his face and the fullness of his physique gave him away somewhat.

    “Fifty? Fifty-five? I’m not going to catch a case of the vapors, Geralt.” Jaskier made a point to keep his expression playful, despite the flush of embarrassment that crawled up his neck to color his face. He liked it, and Geralt knew that he liked it, so there was no shame in discussing it. Particularly when it kept the conversation away from why he liked it.

    Series
    Language:
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