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A melody sweetly played in tune

Chapter 5

Notes:

Nice consistent chapter lengths-
-haha final chapter go brrrr
(Hope the double-length chapter is worth it)

Chapter Text

She's a heartbreaking fantasy
Golden hair and wicked eyes
Vicious words, but I'll pay no mind
'Long as I'm betwixt her thighs

The fire crackling in the pub hearth was a welcome shield against the chill outside, and Geralt savoured his post-bath ale. No music, either, and he savoured that too; a bard - unfortunately not Jaskier - would be playing in the evening but for now all he could hear was the fire, the clatter of the kitchen, and the low murmur of Gwent players in the corner. Perhaps later he would join in, perhaps not, but resting his feet against the heat of the fire and sipping the heavy ale was all a witcher could ask for after a long day on the road.

He peeled one eye open to search for his bard, finding him safely ensconced in a corner, whispering low to a handsome young man whose eyes were eagerly drinking in everything Jaskier had to offer, his pretty face and elegant hands and unlaced doublet - fully unlaced, the irrepressible tart, all the way to his ridiculous bright green breeches. Geralt grumbled to himself a little, but let his eye drift shut again, keeping an ear out for any sound of Jaskier leaving.

He finished off the ale; a second one appeared as though magicked and he grunted his thanks. As he sat there soaking up the heat a familiar gait strolled past, matched pace for pace by another.

Sniffing in judgement, he would have said no more except that under the dual tones of lust coming from the two men was something worryingly familiar, and his medallion gave the very slightest warning hum against his chest.

Lifting his feet from their rest, he rose and followed the bard to the door.

"Jaskier."

Jaskier shot him a look that said fuck off, Geralt, I'm busy.

The scent of arousal grew stronger now he was closer to the pair of them, but the undercut of copper was stronger too, rising from Jaskier's partner, stale blood from at least two different sources. The dark haired man looked up at him and blanched, before stepping back with his hands raised and a placating smile. "No harm meant, witcher, I was only..."

Geralt took two looming, heavy paces towards him and the lad turned tail and ran, straight out the door without so much as a backwards glance at Jaskier.

"Oh for - Geralt!"

Unrepentant, Geralt folded his arms. Any other man might have been intimidated.

"Right. You, me, upstairs." Jaskier stared at him mulishly. "Now! Or I swear I'll give you a bollocking right here in front of everyone and your reputation will never recover."

Geralt went.

Upstairs, Jaskier slammed the door and hissed at him, half puffed-up cat and entirely pissed off, "What is wrong with you? He was perfectly willing, I was perfectly willing, I could have fucked him twice and been back by morning."

"Not human," Geralt grunted.

Jaskier didn't take the obvious option of yelling back nor are you, and Geralt hated himself a little more for even anticipating that wound.

"Just because a man wanted me to top him, doesn't mean he's not human." It sounded sulky and bitter.

"Not what I meant."

Jaskier scowled at him. "I know that, you absolute prick." He sighed, and added mournfully, "I just wanted to get laid."

Geralt tilted his head. "I could..."

Apparently that was the wrong thing to say.

"I'll fucking get on my back then, shall I?"

Geralt looked at him, bewildered by the sudden return to wild gesticulation and anger, and Jaskier's face darkened further.

"It doesn't always have to be the same way round, you know! You shoving your prick in me. Didn't you ever think that sometimes I'd want to be the one on top? The one doing the fucking?"

The thought of that slammed through Geralt like a potion, a head to toe visceral dismissal of it. "I'm not weak," he snarled, and something in Jaskier's face twisted.

Geralt forgets, sometimes, that they're of a height. He knows his bulk fills a room far more than Jaskier's slimmer frame, but the bard has broad shoulders and solid thighs and is no delicate bird, for all he sings a pretty song.

He was certainly no songbird now, eyes bright and furious, voice low and venomous with all the vocal skill he brings to his performances.

"Do you think me weak, then? When I lie on my back for you, or go to my knees? Am I a weak man, Geralt?"

He hesitated, mind churning. He doesn't think Jaskier weak. Few men would be willing and able to travel with a witcher; fewer still willing to steel themselves to sew up gaping wounds, to turn their back in trust, to accompany him on a hunt and see him in his most monstrous form and not so much as flinch.

And to turn half a continent's minds, to change the view of mutant witchers, that takes strength too.

But he took too long to answer and Jaskier slumped, the fight gone out of him.

"It's not weakness, Geralt. It's just - trust. And love. And it feels really fucking good, alright?" He shook his head. "I'll go ask the innkeep for another room."

Geralt wanted to speak but the words tangled on his tongue, and instead he gritted his teeth as Jaskier grabbed his pack and left.

At the last second Jaskier caught himself in the doorway, strong arms braced against the frame with his head hanging low, and Geralt's heart leapt. The bard took a deep breath, back heaving, and turned a little to glance at Geralt's mute form, though he didn't make eye contact. The candle light flickered across his profile, and a glitter of misery welled in his eyes. "See you in the morning."

He hadn't realised something so reassuring could sound so very damning.

Fuck.

The room was suddenly very, very empty.

Twenty minutes of attempted meditation seemed to drag like an hour, and eventually he gave up, following his senses to track Jaskier down in another room at the other end of the building. He was alone, and there was a heavy sadness in the air that Geralt could smell even from the corridor.

Geralt knocked politely. "Jaskier."

"Go away." The familiar voice sounded as though Jaskier was speaking into something soft. A pillow, maybe, or just buried in his arms. Muffled and miserable.

"I'm sorry."

No answer.

"Jaskier. Open the door."

"Go away, Geralt."

Geralt thudded his forehead against the wood, guilt nagging at him. "I'm sorry. Please let me in."

Footsteps dragged towards the door, and when Jaskier opened it his eyes were red-rimmed, gaze cast at the floor. "Sorry," the bard muttered. "Didn't mean to shout at you. I was being stupid."

The misery in his face cut deep. "Don't - apologise. I was... look, can you let me in?" Standing in the corridor while he grovelled wasn't exactly how he'd imagined this whole thing going.

The room was just as small as the one he'd left, but it felt as though there was a great distance between them as Jaskier skittered to the other side of it, arms folded around himself, leaving Geralt beside the bed.

He sat down heavily, and the bedframe settled loudly under his weight. "I didn't realise you felt like that."

"It doesn't matter," Jaskier said stiffly. "You have your limits. I should respect that. Just - I know what people think when they look at me. I like fine silks and jewellery, I like pretty words and poetry, and sometimes I bend over for other men. I look soft and, yes, I look weak. But it hurts to know that you think that too. Especially when it's because of you that we only ever do it that way round."

"I don't think that." Geralt tried hard to keep his voice soft, not howling his denial, but it was hard when Jaskier sounded so unhappy and bitter.

"Why not? If that's what you think of men who take that role, why not me?" Jaskier cocked his head to one side, cautious interest bright in his eyes.

This is why he never gets into arguments with the damned bard, he gets talked round in circles and comes away with an aching head and a distinct sense of losing an argument without even understanding what they were arguing about.

"It's different," he said gruffly.

Jaskier's face softened a little. "I'm going to sit down, and I don't want you shoving me into the mattress to avoid talking, alright?"

Mute, Geralt dipped his chin, and Jaskier sat warily beside him. Not close enough for their legs to touch, even when he leant forward to rest his elbows on his spread knees and cup his chin in his hands. They didn't make eye contact, both staring at the rough wooden floorboards.

"I like to look after my partners. Make them feel good, make them love every single second, whether they're fucking me or if I'm in them." Geralt opened his mouth to speak but Jaskier cut him off. "And yes, I really fucking love topping. I lie on my back for you but that doesn't mean that's how I always do it, and even if I did that wouldn't make me weak. I won't ask you to do it, but I will solemnly request that when I've found a lovely gentleman who's good enough to allow it that you don't interfere, just because you don't think I'm able to look after myself." It looked like it almost hurt him to add, "Or we'll have to stop all of this."

Geralt's gut lurched. "I - you can. With me."

Jaskier looked at him, all sharp summer-sky eyes and jaded optimism, then shook his head. "You don't want that. That's fine. But don't you dare think less of me, because you're the one who's making that decision."

He felt his jaw clench, but forced it to relax. "I want to." And he realised, with a sudden rush of clarity, that it was true. He didn't want to see that naked hope turn to disappointment as it had for Eskel. He could offer a little vulnerability. Be weak, though he was starting to think that maybe it wasn't weakness after all. "You'd... make it good?"

There was silence beside him, and suddenly he was terrified that he'd said the wrong thing, that he'd managed to fuck it up after all. But when he glanced up at Jaskier there was only an aching softness in his face, and a hand carefully sliding across the space between them to rest, warm and heavy, on his thigh. "Darling, I would make it the absolute best you've ever had."

A snort of laughter leapt out of him, and though Jaskier looked mildly affronted he didn't move his hand away. After a long silence, long enough that he expected Jaskier to start fidgeting or humming, although he didn't, Geralt moved his own hand to touch the one on his thigh, tangling their fingers together.

"Now?" Geralt bit out, and it was only witcher control that stopped his hand from going clammy where it gripped Jaskier's.

When he looked up from their hands, Jaskier's face bore a terrible softness. "Doesn't have to be now. Doesn't have to be ever." He smiled a little, eyes still impossibly kind. "Can I kiss you?"

His answer was an armful of witcher, Geralt taking full advantage of the offer, one that was still novel despite being fully part of their last few trysts.

Jaskier opened willingly under his tongue, under his hands, and soon enough the bard was on his back on the mattress, dishevelled and panting.

When they paused for breath, hands roaming, Geralt buried his head in the crook of Jaskier's neck and muttered, "Now. I want to try now."

A quick bitten off gasp, then, "Are you sure?" Geralt growled a little, and Jaskier's hand patted his back hastily. "Right, right, of course, yes. Um. Well. That's good."

Geralt growled again, and Jaskier pushed at him. It was probably much like trying to shove a mountain, and Geralt didn't move an inch. "Well how am I supposed to react?! Half an hour ago I thought you were going to leave me for being a pushy little shit and now you're offering to lie on your back for me, it's a lot to take in."

Pushy little shit, that sounded parroted from someone else's cruel lips. And leave? "Jaskier..." He peeled himself away from the bard's lithe body, but Jaskier didn't meet his gaze. "It means that much? That you'd risk..."

Jaskier's mouth worked a little, forming words and discarding them, and then finding the right ones. "Your respect means that much." He blinked and looked away.

Geralt rolled off him. Jaskier's heart rate tripled, and Geralt grabbed for him exasperatedly. "Get the damn oil, bard."

A blinding smile lit up Jaskier's face and he scrambled for his bag. When he turned back Geralt already had his shirt off and was working on his breeches.

"Oh," he said stupidly, mouth hanging a little.

"Get back here," Geralt grunted, as his breeches hit the floor.

"Mm, I quite like the view actually." Jaskier leant back on the low table, suddenly back in control. One by one he slid his rings from his fingers, dropping each of them on the table with measured carelessness. The metallic clatter of the first made Geralt almost jump, a suppressed shiver, despite watching the bard's every movement as though preparing to strike.

"Jaskier," he snarled, as the last ring hit the surface, and Jaskier sauntered closer, hips shifting enticingly, lifting his chemise in a well-practiced double-armed move to reveal that leanly muscled chest. When he was close enough, Geralt surged up and caught him about the waist, dragging him back down to the bed. "You're a pain whichever way round we do this."

"And you're just as glorious," Jaskier murmured, gentling fingers down the bulge in Geralt's smallclothes. "Take these off, lay on your back?"

"You too," Geralt frowned, suddenly nervous, or at least the witcher equivalent of it. He didn't want to be the only one naked. Jaskier shot him a quick smile and squirmed out of breeches and smallclothes without a murmur of protest, and after just a second to examine the rest of him Geralt dragged off the last of his own clothes.

Jaskier raised his eyes to the ceiling with a whine. "Sweet Melitele give me strength, I can't believe you're going to let me fuck you."

"I won't if you don't hurry up!" Or I'll back out and then I don't know what'll happen, was his very quiet addition, but at least Jaskier seemed to get the message, nudging Geralt's legs apart and settling himself on his knees between them.

His cock, previously very interested in the proceedings, had flagged a little with his nerves, but Jaskier wrapped his ever-willing mouth around it and set to, licking and sucking with avarice. He pulled off for a second, just long enough to say hoarsely, "Tell me to stop and I will, but otherwise I'm just going to go for it. Okay?"

Geralt grunted agreement and let his head fall back down, ignoring the sound of a cork leaving a vial, ignoring the slick wet sound of Jaskier rubbing his fingers together to spread the oil, and then trying and failing to ignore a warm hand easing his legs a little further apart.

He could feel his face pinking at the shame of it, of having his legs spread wide and the bard's clever hand tucked between his buttocks, and prepared himself to hate it.

He expected a prod directly at his entrance, but instead an oiled hand slid from the base of his cock where Jaskier's mouth still lapped eagerly, firmly over his taint, over that tight knot and then further back in a slow smooth stroke, and then forwards again, a steady sweeping move that felt almost hypnotic, the span narrowing each time until it was just the smallest movement back and forth over his hole and his breath was catching with almost pleasant anticipation. Then, when there was barely any movement at all it picked back up again, nudging very lightly at his entrance, dipping and sliding out again, barely anything, but enough that he could feel it tugging at the rim, easing him open a little more each time.

"Jaskier," he bit out, and was that him? That rough broken whine?

Blue eyes met his. "Want me to stop?"

Geralt shook his head.

"More, then?"

He couldn't say it. Couldn't bring himself to nod. But Jaskier - clever Jaskier, handsome Jaskier - must have read it plain as day on his traitorous face, because he eased his finger inside, slick with oil, easy as anything, certainly far smoother than it had ever been with Geralt's finger and Jaskier's arse, though he felt himself clench around the intrusion.

"Oh," he said, eyes wide as he stared at the ceiling, and it was that not-him voice again, that urgent breathy sound. He knows Jaskier's hands as well as he knows his own and there was no way Jaskier's finger was that big before it was in that most intimate of places, but when he looked down there was nothing but Jaskier's mouth on his cock and the curl of three fingers and a thumb, and it was just that other finger that was inside him.

"Fuck."

Jaskier's face twisted in a wicked grin. "You like that?"
Geralt grunted and closed his eyes again. Jaskier twisted his finger and he had to bite his lip at the delicious intensity. He's never been vocal, in bed or out, but -

"Ah! Fuck!"

His hips bucked without him being at all involved in the process; his face burned even redder as his cock jerked against his firm belly at the beautiful electric shock that ran tendrils from his arse to his cock, straight up his spine and down to his toes, all at once.

He caught a glimpse of Jaskier's teeth as he grinned wide, and then had to cover his face with an arm as Jaskier crooked his finger again and again.

"Fuck, yes, fuck, fuck, fuck-" He couldn't seem to stop himself from cursing over and over, any more than he could stop his hips twitching and bucking into that white-edged pleasure. The pressure built as Jaskier stroked and curled, and then there was a hand on his cock and he was suddenly coming so hard he couldn't breathe.

*

When the darkness lifted there was a stickiness on his belly and Jaskier lay curled against his side, one arm flung over his chest. When he turned to look at his bedmate, Jaskier lifted his head and gave him a crooked smile, sly and smug and sweet. "Hi."

"Hi," he croaked. His throat was sore, his mouth dry.

"Okay?"

He swallowed, throat clicking, and reached out for a waterskin left carelessly near the bed to take a deep gulp before speaking. "It's always like that?"

Jaskier chuffed out a laugh. "That was just one finger. It's even better with a cock."

Geralt looked down, past the soft muscle of Jaskier's arm, and he could see him still half hard against his hip.

"I could, uh. I could go again. If you wanted to try... that."

Jaskier blinked, face carefully blank, but Geralt heard his heart jump. "I'm fine, we don't have to. You don't have to."

He offered a smile, lopsided and sleepy. "I want to."

There was a long wait and then Jaskier said, in a strangled voice, "Yes. Please."

Geralt hummed, and let Jaskier turn him onto his front, spreading his legs a little, though his face burned at quite how vulnerable he was making himself.

Jaskier's heavy breaths behind him were warm, even on his heated skin. He jumped at the feel of a hand on his arse, and Jaskier whispered an apology. The touch was reassuringly heavy, no light brush against his skin that might tickle, and it eased his arse apart.

A slick finger pressed carefully against him, sinking back inside, not as tight as before. He knew this time the pleasure it could bring, and it was easier not to tense against it. A second finger was more of that alien feeling, but Jaskier's hand was gentle against his back, soothing him, and then there was that lightning feeling again and he cursed into his pillowed arms.

"Alright?"

"Mm, yes."

Jaskier laughed at him, not unkindly; Geralt's voice was absolutely ruined, low and rusty.

The fingers left him and he bucked a little, chasing the feeling, and then forced himself to still. It was embarrassing to be so needy, even with Jaskier - especially with Jaskier.

Then there was something at his entrance, huge and blunt, and he tensed, feeling his shoulders rise up.

"Hey, it's okay, we can stop, you don't have to." Jaskier's voice crooned in his ear, and he shook his head, stubborn.

"I want to."

He nudged back, shifting his hips just so, and then the pressure at his entrance grew until suddenly, with a little grunt, Jaskier's cock was inside him.

"Oh," he said. "Oh, oh, oh-"

He could feel Jaskier shaking above him, trembling.

"Okay?"

He nodded, and then Jaskier's trembling was his own trembling as that impossible stretch grew and grew, tight and hot and so, so good.

When Jaskier's weight finally rested on him, splayed across his back, he let out a heavy gasp, half a sob. Jaskier flinched, but Geralt grabbed for his hand, twining their fingers together, though the muscles in his back required to lift his head and free his arm were apparently very much connected to his arse. "It's good, it's good, just -" Just a lot, the unexpected physicality of it, and the surge of emotions at the trust he's placed in the man above him, behind him, in him.

He squeezed too tight, breathing through the too-much ache of it, and eventually it eased enough for him to turn his head and speak, though he kept his eyes steadfastly on the jut of his knuckles where his fingers angled towards the sheets. "Can you - earlier, you touched -"

Jaskier kissed his shoulder. "Want me to try and find your prostate?"

He nodded sharply, too embarrassed to speak, and then Jaskier rocked his hips and he suddenly couldn't gather the brainpower required to form words even if he wanted to.

Instead all he could manage was little bitten-off noises into the pillow as Jaskier eased out and back in again, impossibly slow, impossibly thick and hot, impossibly good.

Jaskier's breath was hot against him, his weight a reassuring anchor holding him steady even as the relentless pleasure curled against his spine every time Jaskier's cock rubbed so slowly against that perfect, perfect spot.

He moaned, head buried in his arm, and Jaskier's voice echoed his, louder as always.

"Fuck, Geralt, you sweet glorious man, you feel so good, you're perfect. Oh fuck, oh you're so tight, so hot, oh, Geralt-" and his hips stuttered harder, and then Geralt felt a flood of heat and he was suddenly aware that Jaskier's come was in him and the bard was still coming, and then there was a hand sneaking under his hips and stroking his cock, and yes he might already have come harder today than he ever had but that wasn't enough to stop him coming a second time with Jaskier's cock in his arse and Jaskier's spend deep inside and Jaskier's familiar weight above him and Jaskier Jaskier Jaskier.

*-*-*-*-*

From his scrunched up perch on the chair, Jaskier watched Geralt sleep, heart aching and lip bitten raw to keep from crying. He'd not enjoyed fucking so much in months, being able to give that to his witcher, kiss him like his life depended on it and then take him so slowly he thought the stars might burn out around them before it ended.

Geralt had been so good, so kind to offer that when it wasn't what he wanted. But now it was over.

He could kick himself; of course once would never be enough, not now he'd finally had a taste of what he could have if he was anything other than a quick lay, and that was if Geralt didn't get rid of him altogether.

Maybe if he was more muscled, or if he didn't talk quite so damn much, Geralt's complained often enough... but no. He is what he is, just a simple, cowardly - weak - bard, with nothing to offer but clever fingers and a talented mouth. He should have been grateful for anything at all, and instead his neediness had ruined everything.

*-*-*-*-*

This time when Geralt woke it was to a bone deep satisfaction and a clean coolness between his legs, and no bard draped across him.

He didn't jerk upright or cast fruitlessly about the bed, but instead calmed his suddenly pounding heart and sent his senses about the room. To his relief he heard the familiar thud of Jaskier's heart and his familiar sex and satisfaction post-fuck scent. No fear, but not as much warm happiness as he might have hoped.

"Come back to bed," he growled, twisting to see Jaskier curled up on a chair, face inscrutable where his chin rested on his knees but a telltale red swell to his lip. Dressed, which was unexpected.

Oh, Geralt thought. Of course. Who would want to lie with a witcher if he wasn't the big strong monster hunter everyone thought he was. He tried to keep his distress from his expression, determined to at least not show this weakness too.

Jaskier unfolded under Geralt's gaze, feet dropping to the floor, though his shoulders were still hunched. "Are you sure?"

Sleep addled and unexpectedly miserable, Geralt blinked at him. Jaskier looked away as he carried on, clearly resolved to see his script through. "I appreciate that you... did that for me. But I know it's not your thing. I get it. I'm sorry I asked you for it, I won't ask again."

Once again, the bard had his head spinning. "What?"

"I'm saying - it's fine. You'll top, I'll bottom. That's it. We don't even have to kiss if you don't want." His face was carefully blank but Geralt could hear the lie in the distressed gallop of his heart.

"I'm sorry," he said gruffly. He wasn't quite sure why, but it seemed the thing to say.

Jaskier crumpled in on himself even further. It was a wonder such a tall man could look so small. "Right, then. I'll, ah. I'll go. I'll sleep in your room and you stay here?"

"Stay? Please?" Weak, he's made you weak, this has all been a mistake - but the hope in Jaskier's face at his words was enough for him to want to embrace his weakness.

But the flare of hope faded all too quickly into misery. "I can't. I can't lie there with you and know you'll cast me away, lie there and know it's going to be the last time we kiss, the last time you let me run my fingers along your chest, the last time I can be gentle with you when that's all I want to do, I can't, I'm sorry." Jaskier's voice cracked and he looked away.

Oh.

Fuck.

He's - fuck, he's been so stupid.

"Fuck."

Geralt hauled himself out of bed, striding naked across the room to stand in front of Jaskier's miserable form and grab his shoulders, silver-scarred fingers tight against the silk chemise. For once he would speak, plain and clear.

"It was good. I want to do it again." Well, probably, but Jaskier's great shining eyes made him want to remove any chance of doubt. "Get back in bed so we can fucking cuddle. Got it?"

"You didn't hate it?" The hope in his eyes was awful, and Geralt could only ache with guilt that he might have been the cause of such distress.

"No."

"You don't hate... me?"

Geralt let go to smack him lightly on the arm at his foolishness, then regained his grip. "No."

Jaskier's eyes searched his, flickering uncertainly from one side to the other, and then a great smile spread across his face, warm and bright as a sunrise. "You liked it and you still like me and you might maybe do it again?"

"Yes, bard. All of that."

"Oh." Jaskier was practically vibrating under his palms, and after a long minute where his eyes filled, terrifyingly, with tears, he burst from his chair and leapt open armed at Geralt, who stumbled back under the fresh assault.

Grumbling a little, Geralt wrapped his arms around Jaskier's back, hoiking him up until strong legs clamped obediently around his waist, even as a damp face buried itself in his neck.

Carrying Jaskier back to bed - no mean feat even for a witcher, the bard being deceptively heavy - he seated himself carefully, running one hand through Jaskier's tousled hair and the other one holding him close while he shuddered and wept. "Sorry," Jaskier gasped out between waves, "Bit of an overreaction." Geralt secretly agreed, but Jaskier added, "I've just been thinking about this for so long," and burst into fresh sobs.

At long last, the flood of tears slowed to a trickle and finally ceased. Jaskier leant back to wipe his face with a silk sleeve, and then when that was too saturated to do him any good shifted out of Geralt's arms to track down a handkerchief. Geralt let him go, a little bewildered, and once his face was dry Jaskier turned around to smile at him, though it was pale and wan. "Oof. Sorry. Again."

As Geralt opened his arms to invite Jaskier back, he was suddenly struck by the image of Eskel, staring at him across the training grounds after a bout, mouth twisted in amusement as he asked, "Again? High stakes?"

Jaskier settled in his lap and the image vanished, tear streaked red eyes replacing witcher yellow. Easing the chemise over Jaskier's head and squeezing him tight against his own bare chest, Geralt ghosted his lips over Jaskier's forehead. It must have been terrifying for Eskel to ask that, and how much more terrifying would it have been for Jaskier to proposition a witcher, a monster who could snap him in half without a thought. "You're not weak," he whispered into the mussed hair. "You're strong. Very strong."

"And good with my hands," Jaskier ventured, in a wobbly voice.

"Yes, and good with your hands."

"And my-"

"And your mouth." He slapped a hand over the aforementioned mouth before it could open again. "And your cock."

Jaskier's eyes shone warm with mirth above the curve of Geralt's hand, and he pulled it away to knuckle away a last tear streak staining Jaskier's cheek and neaten the bard's hair into some semblance of its usual style. "There," he said gruffly. "All better."

"All better," Jaskier echoed softly, and curled even closer.

It wasn't all better, but it was a little better than it had been, and more importantly there was hope for tomorrow.