#feejays

"Right you are! Seventeen reasons Valdo Marx is, in fact, a doppler masquerading in the skin of a human--"

"I'm not killing Valdo Marx because he stole part of your ditty." Geralt said, tugging a package free from the bag.

"My-- dear witcher, 'A Siren Swan Song' is not a ditty, it's an epic ballad about the last moments of a masquerading monster conquered by your might, thank you very much." Jaskier sniffed. "It's quite popular with the ladies."

"Odd, really," Geralt said, shaking the cloth free from the paper, "Considering I speared that siren through the head and you whined about brains on your trousers for the remainder of the day."

"Yes, well, obviously I omit that particular part. Poetic licence, Geralt. If I spun the tales as you tell them, we'd not have this lovely room, nor dinner in our b-- what in the seven hells are you wearing?" Jaskier's voice squeaked high.

Geralt glanced down at his new sleep trousers. "You're always complaining about my cold feet when we share a bed."

Jaskier made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a snort, bending over from the edge of the bed where he had been perched to inspect the offending garment. "Good Gods my darling witcher, not at the expense of my reputation," and as an afterthought, "Or your stoic dignity!"

Wiggling his toes, Geralt shrugged huge shoulders. "What's wrong with them?"

"What's wr-- Geralt! Do you ever wish to get that lovely cock of yours wet again in your lifetime?!"

Geralt's eyes flashed. "You think my cock is lovely, do you?"

Jaskier flushed a brilliant red. "Oh, stop. All of you is magnificent. You know that."

The witcher grinned, all porcelain pointed teeth. "You said lovely, though."

"I say a lot of things!"

"You do." Geralt agreed, tumbling onto the mattress. He snared Jaskier by the waist, pulling him down. The bard made a cursory show of flailing and protesting as Geralt curled around him snake-like, leeching his warmth.

"Can't believe out of all the things I do say, this is the matter you choose to act upon." Jaskier sulked, as Geralt pulled the blankets over them.

Laughter buzzed at the bard's back, before he felt Geralt's nose at the nape of his neck, snuffling. Jaskier's clean scent was like a sleep-balm. "Shut up, Julek." Geralt instructed, fondly.