(Written on discord, for discord)
Jaskier in geralt’s shirt.
Because his own shirt got stained and he refuses to wear it, so he bullies Geralt to borrow one of his. to wear under his doublet or whatever.
Every now and then, when he moves in a certain way, air puffs out from inside his shirt, only, this time it smells like Geralt instead of himself.
And Geralt can’t wrap his head around why the bard is so quiet.
When it’s time for sleep, they are in a small inn, Geralt sees Jaskier wearing his shirt in the dim candle light. Geralt is usually quiet, so he gets away with being a little tongue tied, but slowly he is figuring it out.
Jaskier ends up sleeping in it while his own tunic is being washed, and Geralt finally gets his tunic back, just before sleep the day after, Jaskier having worn it for two days.
When the shirt is returned, Geralt decides that, well, it’s as good as any other, and wears it for sleep.
Only, it smells like Jaskier now.
The bard is also a bit flustered, because holy shit, Geralt just undressed to put on the shirt he just took off.
They go to sleep back to back, because they refuse to stay in one of the sleeping halls but are too cheap to rent one with two beds.
After that it just becomes habit. Jaskier stains his shirt, Geralt hands his over, Jaskier wears it or a few days, Geralt takes over it
Until one day, Jaskier returns in someone else’s shirt, his own drenched thrown over his arm
and Geralt can’t, no he won’t accept that.
So he drags him in close, grabbing the offending tunic just over his waist, putting his nose to that almost bare shoulder.
“Someone threw water out a window.” Jaskier tries to explain, but his voice is all breathy and faint.
Geralt doesn’t reply, just tugs off that unknown shirt, throws it the fuck away, turning to find one of his own to give him.
Technically, Jaskier has a spare, and they both know it.
“I don’t like you in their clothes.” Geralt mutters when he buttons it up for Jaskier.
“But you like me in yours?” Jaskier whispers, and they both pause for a long moment, looking at Geralt’s hands on Jaskier’s chest.
Then they are kissing. There is no hesitation, no thoughts, no nothing
They meld together, the back of Jaskier’s knees somehow meets the bed, and then Geralt is above him, shoving the shirt up to let his hands roam.
From that night on they sleep together, Geralt has his arms wrapped around that waist, lips resting against his bard’s sleep warm skin.
The tunic smells like them now.
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