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Geralt can't quite recall when this… obsession of his started. He realised he had one about a week ago, when they were at an inn somewhere in the middle of nowhere in Redania, when Jaskier finished peeling off the last piece of clothing - his smallclothes, and wasn't that a sight - before slipping into the bath.

That had been the moment Geralt realised he had been watching Jaskier undress for weeks now.

Geralt doesn't give a damn about clothes most of the time, as long as they're sturdy and functional and don't inhibit his ability to move. Jaskier, on the other hand, cares about clothing and fashion almost as much as he cares about music, and while his wardrobe is limited by the constraints of 'whatever fits in a satchel and one saddlebag', he makes the most of it. In a very literal sense, because Geralt discovered quickly that there are surprisingly many layers to Jaskier's get-ups.

First come smallclothes. Jaskier's are usually soft linen or silk, indecent in their lack of fabric used. Where Geralt prefers a loose cut to them, Jaskier's hug his shapely arse and… other parts of his anatomy that Geralt tries hard not to think about. Jaskier ties them with ridiculous little bows that make Geralt picture opening them with his teeth.

Next are the socks. When they're in the North, Jaskier wears proper trousers, and so often opts for regular socks, sensible things made out of sturdy wool. In the summer, he'll exchange them for silk stockings, but still - he's covered, preserving Geralt's sanity.

When they go south, things change. Unfortunately. Beauclair requires hose and a ridiculous style of trousers called slops that has become all the rage there, meaning Geralt as to stare straight ahead as they travel or risk being distracted by the way the hose clings to Jaskier's shapely legs.

Above the waist, Jaskier wears a ridiculously intricately decorated chemise. He has different colours, he has embroidered ones, ones with lace and beads and ruffles. And he wears all of them undone so far down Geralt has to acknowledge the bard's hairy chest and his desire to rub his cheek against that hair every time he looks at his companion.

Jaskier's doublets are extravagant things, each alone costing about as much as Geralt's entire kit put together. Depending on which one, that's including the swords. The first time Geralt was present when Jaskier paid his tailor, he felt like he was having a stroke.

Just as the chemise, Jaskier's doublet is rarely done all the way up. On the road, it never is, Jaskier complaining that it's too warm and too restrictive and there's nothing like a gentle breeze felt through a comfortable shirt, isn't there, Geralt? The Witcher is generally too busy ignoring the bard to reply to inane comments like that one.

In an apparent bid to get mugged the moment he sets foot on the road, Jaskier tops it all off with rings and necklaces and that distracting little pearl earring he got in Oxenfurt over the winter.

"You look like a pirate," Geralt had told him upon their reunion in the spring, and Jaskier had laughed and given him a roguish grin.

"Why, that's the intention, darling," the bard drawled, cocking his head just so to make the pearl bounce. Geralt wanted to take it between his teeth and tug, just a little.

All in all, Jaskier is a glittering, expensive package, wrapped in silk and gemstones, and Geralt gets to watch him unwrap himself, like a present just for the Witcher, every time they have the coin to afford a room and a bath.

Now, Jaskier is reclining against the edge of the tub, one foot resting on the side of it as he scrubs at himself idly with a rag. The scent of lavender hangs in the air, just a touch in consideration for Geralt's sensitive nose. Geralt wants to know what it smells like on Jaskier's sweat-slick body, after the Witcher has worn out his delicate human constitution.

He loses himself in idle daydreams, his hands stilling where he's supposedly sorting herbs, and it's Jaskier's voice that breaks him out of his reverie.

"I can feel you staring at me," the bard says softly, and a mandrake root snaps in two in Geralt's hand. He grunts, annoyed with himself, but Jaskier just chuckles. "You've been doing that a lot lately," he continues. "You watch me dress in the mornings, then undress in the evenings. You always have this expression on your face, like you want to throw me to the ground and plough me senseless."

Geralt's mouth opens, then closes again. The bard is far too perceptive.