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Geralt loved watching Jaskier dress. This was somewhat unusual since people more commonly took greater pleasure in watching their lover un dress, then again, Geralt had never been considered the conventional type. That wasn’t to say Geralt took no pleasure in seeing his lover laid bare, but there was something particularly captivating about watching Jaskier get ready. It was a form of sorcery so utterly beguiling Geralt was helpless to avoid falling under the spell of it.
And tonight was a rare treat.
They were in Oxenfurt, the two of them. Jaskier had been awarded some accolade or another from the university and had invited Geralt to attend the reception alongside him. Ordinarily, Geralt hated these sorts of functions. He was mindful to make a show of expressing his reluctance and while he still was not looking forward to exchanging pleasantries with the academic elite of Oxenfurt University, Geralt was looking forward to Jaskier’s preparations. Being on the Path limited Jaskier’s choice of dress. Only so many things could be carried when one traveled as much as they did, but here, in his personal apartments, Jaskier had access to an entire arsenal.
The process was a meticulous one. Great care went into Jaskier’s decisions of what he wore for an evening. Many things had to be taken into consideration. The season and its current fashion trends, where the event was being held, and the statuses of those in attendance. Colors, textiles, accessories. Not much made it past Jaskier’s deliberation. Geralt lacked the knowledge of such things, but Jaskier never failed to seek his opinion on something or other. Did Geralt prefer he adorn his ears with the sapphire studs or the aquamarine teardrops? Clothe himself in the damask jerkin or the brocade doublet? Trim himself with the boots or the slippers? And a little thrill would unfurl at the base of Geralt’s spine each time as he was asked; it crept up his every vertebrae like a sudden chill as he watched Jaskier don his choice. All night he would catch the glint of the stones in Jaskier’s ears or hear the scuffle of his shoes as he danced and take pleasure in knowing that Jaskier wore them for him.
“Which do you prefer?” inquired Jaskier now, holding up before Geralt two ensembles. The first was a doublet of burnished gold silk, smooth and supple enough to look as though it had been cast from the precious metal itself. Scalloped pickadils trimmed the seams of the shoulders and hem of the waist, their curves adorned in freshwater pearls. There was a matching set of trousers with their seams adorned in the same ornamental trim. The second ensemble was a study in scarlet. The bodice was a rich velvet, cut close in corseted style to accentuate the figure. In contrast, the sleeves were sheer and billowed out in elegant arcs before cinching once more at the wrist with gold filigreed cuffs. Geralt was expecting a pair of sinfully tight trousers, but instead Jaskier held up a skirt.
The gender of clothing was of no constraint to Jaskier. The bard would just as easily wear a skirt as he would trousers. It earned him praise and disdain in equal measure; he beamed under the praise like a flower turning towards the sun while he attributed the disdain to jealousy since not all could cut a figure in a corset quite like he could. Geralt was inclined to agree. Geralt thought Jaskier beautiful in all things, but he liked when Jaskier wore skirts. He especially loved the feeling of the material pooling around his wrist while he slid his hand up the length of Jaskier’s perfectly toned leg.
“The red one.” Geralt coughed, suddenly feeling the skin beneath his collar prickle with heat.
With a fiendish smirk, Jaskier purred, “I was thinking just the same, darling.” Trousers would have surely been better received by the conservative scholars of Oxenfurt’s governing board, but Jaskier was never one to adhere to what was pertinent. He liked for his name to be the one on everyone’s lips and cared nothing for the methods that got it there.
The glimpse of Jaskier’s bare flesh as he divested himself of his chemise still made something stir low in Geralt’s belly, but it was when Jaskier began to swath himself in that lush velvet that Geralt’s pulse truly began to race. Red was a good color on him. Jaskier looked good in all colors, of course, but there was something particularly striking about the contrast of the vibrant shade against the glow of his skin.
Glancing at Geralt over the curve of his shoulder, Jaskier cooed, “Give me a hand, won’t you, my love, and lace me up?” Confronted with the flutter of those dark lashes, Geralt would have been helpless to refuse even if he wanted to. It took him no time at all, so practiced were Geralt’s fingers, and all the while he took as great a pleasure in threading up the ribbons as he would in pulling them back out later.
As he fixed the loose ends into a bow, Geralt took a moment to press his nose to the nape of Jaskier’s neck and drink in the scent of him. He had yet to put on any perfume so his skin carried no smell other than his natural musk; bright and soft like orange blossoms. Geralt could not resist taking a playful bite at the soft flesh of Jaskier’s neck, sweet like ripe fruit, and the breath of laughter it earned him had Geralt practically drunk with devotion. Oh, the things he would do just to hear the sound again; the fire he would walk through, the mountains he would climb, the beasts he would fell.
Jaskier’s hand reached up and carded briefly through Geralt’s hair, the rounded edges of his nails scraping against Geralt’s scalp in a way that sent a shiver down his spine. For a moment, Geralt believed Jaskier was going to indulge him, allow him a taste of what was to come, but within the next breath he pushed Geralt back with an impish grin.
“We’re behind schedule enough as it is,” he chided, “and I’ve not even done my makeup yet.” With a flourish of his skirt, Jaskier swept himself into the chair before the vanity and began arranging his various oils and pigments.
Make-up was a regular affair with Jaskier. Some days it was just a bit of rouge. Others it was a full production. Jaskier was a handsome individual – perhaps the most handsome Geralt had known, which may or may not have been a biased opinion – and had no true need for any of it. But he liked it and Geralt was not one to stop him. Through the reflection of the mirror, Geralt watched as Jaskier took up his thinnest brush, pressing it between his lips to ensure a clean, precise point. With a deft flick of his wrist, Jaskier drew winged lines of kohl at the corners of his eyes sharp as the edge of any blade. The blackness of it illuminated the blue of his irises, electrifying it like a strike of lighting. All night those eyes would find Geralt through the mass of the crowd piercing him with the same lethal precision as an arrow.
Fingers flitting over the handles of his brushes, Jaskier took up a new brush with broader, squared-off bristles. He hummed jauntily to himself as he dipped the brush in a familiar pot of color. Geralt found himself leaning forward on the balls of his feet. Jaskier played coquette and pretended not to notice Geralt’s anticipation in the mirror as he brought the brush once more to his lips. In the wake of the brush, color stained Jaskier’s mouth. He followed the dips and curves with broad, deliberate strokes. When finished, Jaskier turned and lifted his chin, inspecting the quality of his handiwork in the reflection of the mirror. Satisfied, he finally glanced back at Geralt through said reflection. Jaskier smacked his lips together in imitation of a kiss and it made Geralt’s heart flip behind his ribs.
Jaskier was customarily generous with his affections, but he was especially so when he painted his lips and Geralt wore the shapes of Jaskier’s mouth like badges of honor. Like favors tied to the end of a jouster’s lance. It was a custom made color, Jaskier once explained, mixed especially for him by a cosmetologist in Novigrad. One could travel the whole world over and never find the exact same shade. A deep currant red with the barest hint of apricot complimentary to the warm undertones of Jaskier’s complexion. Its presence on Geralt’s person presented the irrefutable truth that Jaskier had been the one to lay claim to him and the thought of that alone was enough to make Geralt shudder with exhilaration.
Between one breath and the next, Jaskier had risen from his seat at the vanity; the hem of his skirts whispering against the floorboards as he sauntered across the room to stand before Geralt. Jaskier smoothed his hands over the swell of Geralt’s chest. Smirked with his teeth sunken into the tempting curve of his lower lip. He looked tremendously delighted with himself as he slipped his fingers between the buttons of Geralt’s collar and one by one released them.
The breath hitched in the back of Geralt’s throat and his heart thundered with anticipation as Jaskier’s hands spread apart the fabric, exposing the hard ridge of his throat. Geralt groaned at the sensation of Jaskier’s warm, damp breath ghosting over his skin. Jaskier fluttered his lashes blithely as if he had not the faintest what it was he was doing. Oh, but he did. None could undo Geralt in the way Jaskier could. Geralt was reminded of this as Jaskier leaned forward and pressed his painted lips into the hollow of his throat. A flush blossomed over Geralt’s face spreading all the way to the shells of his ears and the line of his hair.
Drawing back, Jaskier blew a cooling breath over Geralt’s feverish skin, encouraging the paint to dry. The contrast between the warmth and the chill made Geralt shiver and break out in a rash of gooseflesh. That seemed to satisfy Jaskier for his smirk spread further over his colored lips. Geralt could not contain the whine that wriggled up the back of his throat as Jaskier began closing his collar once more and refastened the buttons.
“Hush now, darling,” He soothed, caressing the backs of his knuckles over Geralt’s cheek, “The night is still young and there will be plenty of time for me to show everyone who you belong to. For now, allow for this one to be our little secret.” In place of words, Geralt could only nod dumbly. He stood fixed and obedient as Jaskier finished buttoning him up and smoothed out the wrinkles in the fabric. Jaskier playfully tapped a finger against the tip of Geralt’s nose before gliding back to the vanity to finish his make up.
With Jaskier now properly dressed and made up, the spectacle of his preparations was nearing the end. Padding over to the cupboard, Jaskier flung open the doors to reveal shelf upon shelf lined with all manner of shoes. Boots, slippers, turnshoes, and pikes. All materials and colors, both decorated and plain. Jaskier stood there deliberating for a moment, tapping the end of his finger against the bow of his lips, before reaching a decision and pulling out a pair of black boots. He made a stop at the dresser and snatched a pair of coordinating stockings before returning to Geralt and pushing it all into his hands.
“You’ve already been such a big help, but I require your assistance one last time.” Jaskier perched himself on the end of the bed and lifted the hem of his skirt exposing his bare feet. Geralt knew Jaskier was experienced enough to put on his stockings and shoes prior to getting dressed which left no doubt in Geralt’s mind that this move had been intentional. Intentionality aside, Geralt was still more than happy to oblige.
Geralt kneeled on the floor before Jaskier. The position was a familiar one and though the context was different, Geralt still felt the heat of something more simmering in his belly. Judging from the way Jaskier’s breath quickened, it seemed he was feeling similarly. Geralt took his time putting on Jaskier’s stockings. He grazed his fingertips against Jaskier’s skin as he worked the silk up the length of each leg and then stroked his thumb over the embroidery, pretending to admire the intricate stitch work. Jaskier sighed and instinctively spread his legs apart as Geralt took a length of ribbon and secured each stocking in place. With an invitation like that, Geralt indulged himself with a kiss pressed to the inside of Jaskier’s knee. Jaskier gasped softly through his parted, painted lips. Emboldened more, Geralt ventured further and pressed his mouth to Jaskier’s inner thigh. The hem of the bard’s skirt tickled where it brushed against his face.
With his head tipping back, Jaskier quietly moaned, “Tempt me not, oh fairest witcher. Please, I know every clandestine corner and secluded alcove in Oxenfurt University. I promise that you will have your fill of me later if you spare me this moment.” And while Geralt could have tipped the scales in his favor as easily as if weighed against a grain of sand, he withdrew. The abstention now would make the indulgence later all the sweeter, anyhow.
Slipping Jaskier’s boots on one after the other, Geralt then threaded and tied the laces with the same deft grace as he had the corset earlier. He stood when finished, offering his hand gallantly to Jaskier who preened. Contrary to the manner in which his clothes were tailored, Jaskier was no small man. Clever cuts and patterns could deceive the eye, but not change the reality. He and Geralt were already of a height, but in those boots with their stacked wooden heels Jaskier claimed the advantage. It put the sumptuous swell of his chest at a slightly more auspicious angle and Geralt ogled him shamelessly.
Looking over the lower rim of his mascara stiffened lashes, Jaskier quirked a brow and smirked, “Liking the view, dearest?” He brought a hand to Geralt’s chin and tipped his face forcing their gazes to meet. Jaskier clicked his tongue and said, “Naughty boy. Need I remind you that my eyes are up here?” While Jaskier’s buxom bosom was indeed a lovely sight, Geralt was just as satisfied getting lost in that smolder blue stare. He must have looked rather besotted for Jaskier chuckled, “What am I to do with you, witcher mine? Never before have I been looked upon with an expression of such pure adoration. That’s quite the compliment seeing as how I’m adored by a great many people. How lucky I am, so spoiled am I by your love.”
Thought crossed Jaskier’s features. His lips puckered into a pout, a common habit when he was deliberating whether or not to do something mischievous. At last, he proclaimed, “Oh, alright, you’ve convinced me. Such a look deserves a bit of reciprocation.” Taking Geralt’s face within the bracket of his palms, Jaskier leaned forward and pressed his mouth firmly to Geralt’s right cheek. Geralt did not need to look in the mirror to know his cheek now what was left behind. He could feel the tacky residue of Jaskier’s lip paint on his skin.
Geralt surged forward, determined to take Jaskier in the cage of his arms. His desire for the bard had grown wild like a fire left unchecked and he needed desperately to satiate the craving. Years of traveling together, however, had attuned Jaskier to Geralt’s behaviors and movements. He danced gracefully out of the range of Geralt’s reach, his heeled boots thumping against the floorboards and his laughter ringing out in peals. “Soon, I promise, soon! Let me have my moment of victory and then I’m yours, all yours, my dearest heart.”
After a quick retouching of his lip paint, Jaskier returned to Geralt and held out his arm. Geralt looped his arm through Jaskier’s and sighed at the smooth caress of the material that made Jaskier’s sleeves. Together they made their way out of Jaskier’s apartments and onto the streets of Oxenfurt. The evening was pleasant, but held just enough of the winter’s lingering bite that they walked pressed into each other’s sides.
“You know,” Jaskier hummed, “I received an invitation for a gala honoring the great artist Hugo Rolek at the end of next week. I’d love for you to accompany me if you’re amenable.” And as if he knew exactly Geralt’s thought process, Jaskier tacked on, “I’ve a new ensemble being finished at the tailors just for the occasion. It’s a spectacular piece; green jacquard with accents of gold and mulberry.” The amusement in Jaskier’s eyes glinted twice as bright when contrasted against the streaks of kohl.
Geralt played his part and grumbled as if there were literally nothing on the continent he would rather do less, but both he and Jaskier well knew the reality- Geralt could not wait to watch Jaskier dress again.