Ok. That's a weird idea but Delicate Sensibilities Geralt looses his mind when Jaskier does a reversed strip tease and put in his leggings slowly and a delicate doublet and chemise for a formal event. Geralt just dies when Jaskier ask him to do his laces I just love Delicate Sensibilities Geralt soooooo much! 💜
“Give us a hand, will you Geralt?” The voice drifts over the top of the changing screen.
Geralt takes a breath and steels himself. He has faced down fiends and selkiemores, wraiths and basilisks, and he’s never yet been bested in a fight by man, beast, or witcher.
Surely, surely, he can handle one bard dressing for a courtly banquet.
“Come on, help me out, these laces are a nightmare!” He can hear the pout in Jaskier’s voice, and he’ll never hear the end of it if he doesn’t assist.
“Fine!” he says, perhaps a little too sharply, walking over while trying not to look behind the screen.
“You’re the best,” Jaskier says, emerging in a loose silk shirt and mercifully full trousers. He has an exuberantly decorated doublet in one hand which he thrusts at Geralt. “It’s far too complicated for me,” he says with a self-deprecating smile.
Something twitches in Geralt’s jaw, but he shakes out the garment and holds it open for Jaskier to slide into. As he threads each arm through the sleeves, the fabric catches and pulls tight around his biceps. They are, now Geralt is regarding them up close, rather lovely biceps, full and ample, soft mounds curving in graceful arches. As he adjusts the sleeves he gives Jaskier’s arms a little squeeze, and oh, they’re pleasantly firm as well. Interesting.
He smooths down the fabric over Jaskier’s shoulders and oh, those are rather nice too. Neat triangles of muscle stretching from his neck to the tops of his arms, thick and inviting, just the right shape and at just the right height to be delicately nibbled on.
Geralt shifts uncomfortably. He has no idea where that strange thought came from.
“Now lace me up, will you?” Jaskier asks, flashing him a smile over one shapely shoulder.
Geralt frowns at the strange fluttering sensation he’s experiencing and concentrates on the back of the doublet. It has an elaborate criss-cross of different colours of ribbon running over and under one another, designed to shape the garment. He starts slowly, tugging on a deep red ribbon and pulling it tighter, adjusting the fit, pulling again. Then the next, a lovely bright blue which matches Jaskier’s eyes, and then onto the ivory white ribbon atop it.
As he gently pulls each one into place the fabric of the doublet pulls tighter, accentuating Jaskier’s waist more, each tiny adjustment pulling the garment closer and closer to Jaskier’s body. With each tug, Geralt feels his own chest constrict.
“Come on, tighter than that,” Jaskier says with a roll of his eyes. “I can’t very well go on stage looking like I’m wearing a paper bag.”
Tighter still seems almost scandalous, and Geralt’s heart is hammering now but he does as he’s told. The ribbons are satiny in his hands, cool where they twist around his fingers, and as he pulls each one into place he’s exquisitely aware of Jaskier’s breathing, the rise and fall of his ample chest, the tiny hitch when Geralt lets his hands linger too long.
“There,” Geralt says, when he’s laced Jaskier as tight as he dares. He smooths the fabric flat with his hands, feeling the soft undulations of Jaskier’s waist beneath his fingers. “Now you’re perfect.”
Jaskier turns and smiles, so bright it’s dazzling, and Geralt’s heart leaps and he has the feeling that he’s been caught in a trap.
“You’re too kind,” Jaskier says, and looks up from under his lashes. “Now you can help me with these trousers.”
He turns around and lifts the bottom of the doublet to reveal the delicate laces holding up his trousers, pulled into a delightful little bow sat atop his pert bottom.
“Everything look good?” he asks, and it’s barely audible over the blood pounding in Geralt’s ears.
Sweat pours from his brow. The room spins. The bow stares at him, taunting.
“YESIT’SFINEEVERYTHINGISFINE,” he barks.
Thank the gods, Jaskier hides the accursed bow back under his doublet and turns around. “Just one more thing I need before I go perform,” he says, stepping closer. Geralt stands stock still, not trusting himself to move.
Quick as a flash, Jaskier leans in a plants the softest kiss on his cheek. “For luck,” he says, grinning, before grabbing his lute and leaving.
The moment he’s out the door, Geralt collapses onto the nearest bed with a hand to his chest. Never mind the hideous monsters and the dangerous contracts, it was that damned bard that was going to be the death of him.
