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    Summary

    “This is unbearable,” Jaskier says pitifully, squirming around on the cool grass next to Geralt. “Melitele’s tits, Geralt, what have we done to deserve this heat?”

    Geralt squints over at him, blinking against the brightly shining sun. Jaskier’s sprawled out on his front, feet bare and the legs of his trousers pushed up as far as they’ll go, pouting face glistening with sweat. His shift is clinging to his back and shoulders, sticking to his narrow waist, and Geralt quickly averts his gaze, looking back up at the cloud-free sky.

    “Geralt,” Jaskier whines, again, and pokes at Geralt’s chest. “Geralt, do something.”

    From the way Jaskier flails and splutters when Geralt picks him up to drop him in the nearby stream, that isn’t what he’d had in mind.

    Or; five times Jaskier manages to keep (on) his clothes, if not his dignity, plus the one time he lays himself bare.

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