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Jaskier has learned some things these past few years, no thanks to Geralt. Despite his insistence that the many mythological creatures in Jaskier’s ballads weren’t real, they’ve run into sylvan and elves, kikimora, drowners. More than that, he’s coaxed Geralt to tell him of vampires (bruxae and fleder and alps), and werewolves, and griffins. And Jaskier has learned the name of each of Geralt’s potions: Cat to make his eyes wide and black to see in the dark, Thunderbolt to make him too fast and too strong, Swallow to make his wounds heal up almost as soon as they open. White honey when he’s taken too many at once, although he will swear, time and time again, it’s never too much, never enough. Jaskier has watched him spit black bile, his skin cold and pale as snow, too many times not to know exactly how these things work, whether Geralt likes it or not.
Jaskier has lost count of the times he’s run away from something he can barely pronounce the name of, and how many songs he’s written about things his audience will sooner grow wings than they’ll ever see. And so what if he embellishes? It’s not like he actually follows Geralt on most of his hunts, since he’d rather like to keep breathing.
Tonight they’re in a smaller town than usual, an overgrown settlement, really. The inn has two rooms, and the tavern on the other side of the building has a small dining room and a hearth. When Jaskier had offered to play that evening, the keeper had merely shrugged. Jaskier is honestly not even sure why they have as many as two rooms, and is not surprised to see the layer of dust around the doorknob of the one they’ve been given.
The first night they ever wound up in an inn together, a few days after meeting in Posada, Jaskier had been surprised when Geralt had not requested his own room, and followed Jaskier up the stairs that evening. He’d undressed down to his trousers in silence before pulling out a small jar of something out of his pack and unscrewing the top. Then he seemed to notice Jaskier standing in the doorway.
“Don’t tell me you’ve just now learned the concept of personal space,” he had said dryly, before rubbing whatever it was onto some of the scarring on his arms and torso.
Jaskier couldn’t come up with anything witty to say, too distracted by the ripple of muscles in the pale candlelight, and then it was too late to do anything else but get undressed himself. “Do you need help?” he found himself asking.
“No,” Geralt said, somewhat strained, doing some kind of complicated acrobatics to reach spaces on his back and shoulders.
So Jaskier did the most sensible thing he could, plucking the jar out of Geralt’s hand and climbing behind him on the bed. Geralt had made an irritated noise, one Jaskier would learn he made every time someone tried to do something nice for him, like wash his hair. The salve in the jar smelled earthy and medicinal, and even after such a short time Jaskier recognized it from the way it lingered around Geralt, underneath the onion and horse and adventure.
The most surprising thing, though, was when Geralt settled once they were done, pushing Jaskier down beside him when he tried to get out of bed. “You’re small,” he said simply.
“Small!” Jaskier had spluttered, indignant, but he’d still rather sleep on the bed than the floor. “Bear’s small compared to you,” he couldn’t help but mutter before rolling over.
Now, after a good few years of traveling with Geralt, Jaskier doesn’t even ask, he just gets one room. He lets Geralt’s raised eyebrow do the talking if anyone questions their arrangement. Sometimes, only one of them ends up using the bed anyway, if Geralt is out all night on a hunt, or Jaskier is out all night on a hunt of his own.
When they’d arrived in the village this afternoon Geralt had stopped first at the noticeboard. There had been only one posting, a faded piece of paper barely hanging on before Geralt ripped it off to read it in the fading light. He’d made a noise to himself, and nodded, before heading towards the only inn. Contracts had been few and far between lately, thanks to a spell of harsh rains keeping them off the roads and holed up in whatever shelter could be found, sometimes for several days.
Jaskier prides himself on his ability to brush off Geralt’s caustic empty threats and bad temper, but all men have their limits. If he has to spend one more night sleeping in the dirt on top of it, Jaskier’s frayed patience might just snap. He’s given up on his hope of anything resembling a bath, but there will be hot water at least, and hot food with real seasoning, and a fire. The temperature’s been dipping lately, and he’s yet to replace the cloak that was ripped to tatters by barghest claws. He would, as soon as they travel to a town even resembling civilization, which with Geralt, could be weeks. He pushes down the stray thought of convincing Geralt towards Oxenfurt and letting the fine food and wine spoil them.
Usually Geralt will go straight for the bar, but tonight he follows Jaskier to their room. “No bath, I’m afraid,” Jaskier comments while they survey the small, dusty chambers, a lumpy mattress likely stuffed with straw, cobwebs in the corners. At least there are plenty of blankets on the bed, although they look as though they’ve seen better days.
Geralt’s mouth twists briefly in displeasure, so fast that Jaskier might have missed, and he drops his pack on the table. He pulls out the case of potions and opens it, examining its contents. So it’ll be one of those nights, where he pockets a handful of concoctions and returns in the small hours of the morning, strung out and hyper-focused. Jaskier considers suggesting they move on to a less miserable place, but he doesn’t even know yet what the contract says. In a poor town like this, though, whatever it was, Geralt would have little to show for his efforts by the time they left. There’s no point in Jaskier even trying to busk, unless he’s looking to get covered in old vegetables and bread, which he’s had enough of to last a lifetime already.
“Sit,” Geralt says while he sorts through the potions. “We need to talk.”
“Okay,” Jaskier says slowly, and sits. He’s discovered, over time, that it’s best to let Geralt share on his own terms, unless he’s being particularly self-sacrificing or just a complete horse’s arse.
Still, Geralt takes his time, holding up jars towards the light, following some order in his mind that Jaskier couldn’t begin to follow. Finally, when he’s been quiet long enough that Jaskier thinks he’s playing some kind of joke on him, he abandons his work at the table and leans against the wall instead.
“Sex curses aren’t real,” he says, apropos of nothing, and looks Jaskier directly in the eye as he says it. Jaskier feels oddly like he’s facing one of his tutors, and he’s so thrown that he almost forgets to comment on the subject matter.
Almost. “Sex curses?” he repeats, ignoring Geralt’s unimpressed look. “Uh, good to know I guess? I don’t think I have a song about it, but I’ll remember that?”
Geralt crosses his arms and nods towards the table. There’s a folded up piece of paper there, and Jaskier recognizes it as the notice from earlier, and he scans through the scrawled handwriting.
“Seen this before,” Geralt continues while Jaskier reads. “Small village, bored husbands who can’t keep it in their pants and try to blame it on a curse when they get caught.”
Jaskier folds the paper back up. The description was vague enough, men being “overcome with lust”, no rhyme or reason. “Could it be succubus?” he asks, and can’t help but roll his eyes and mouth along when he says “Not real.” “Why are you helping them, then?” he asks.
“I’m not ‘helping them,’” he says, in a brusque way that means he’s offended. “At least five men affected, and that notice is old, so maybe more. Maybe it’s passed. Could be something else. Could be nothing.” He shrugs.
Jaskier’s visions of compensation disappear into the wind. “Right. Great,” he mutters, and wonders if they have enough coin to even get a meal downstairs.
“One other thing,” Geralt says, and he hesitates in a way Jaskier hasn’t seen before.
“Go on,” Jaskier drawls, half expecting to hear that they’re going to go ahead and spend a few weeks here, just for fun.
“If there is something that’s making these men ‘lust crazed’,” and the way he says it is so clinical and devoid of feeling he could be talking about the weather, “It might not do anything to me at all.” He hesitates again, and Jaskier is overwhelmed with the urge to beg him to get on with it. “Or it might, and be worse. A lot worse.”
Jaskier is not expecting that, to say the least. “I’ll make sure not to take advantage,” he blurts, the first thing that comes to mind, and tries to ignore the flush that creeps into his cheeks.
“You might have to,” Geralt says simply, no expression on his face except the tense line of his jaw. “Whatever you have to do to keep anyone from getting hurt.” The words are loaded with scenarios Jaskier can’t bring himself to consider.
“Oh,” Jaskier says, short and surprised. “Well. That means you too, doesn’t it?” and he brooks no argument, “Don’t worry, Geralt. You said it yourself, sex magic, or whatever this is, isn’t real anyway.” But he can’t help adding, “If it is real, I call top!” He can tell by the look on Geralt’s face that he’s sorry he ever said a thing.
Geralt leaves him to eat the disappointing tavern meal alone. Jaskier is certain half the time that the witcher doesn’t eat like he should, or sleep, but on a night like tonight he can hardly blame him. He spreads the dry chicken and wet vegetables around his plate more than he eats them, drinking the watered-down excuse for ale for a while and then giving up completely. He finishes the ale, because even tasting like piss it’s not worth the waste, and drops a few coins on the table.
It’s been two hours at most since Geralt left, and Jaskier could do something, could play, or write, or take stock of his meager belongings. Or he could take as much advantage of a jar of hot water and a (tattered, old) cloth and then just go to bed. He does that, not knowing that in just a few hours, he’ll feel exceptionally grateful for the power nap.
Jaskier doesn’t wonder any more about Geralt’s solo escapades, doesn’t worry over imagined wounds, or what Geralt will do if he needs help. He certainly doesn’t fret over what Geralt thinks he will accomplish this late in the day, with nothing to go on but a worn piece of paper. The innkeep didn’t have anything to say about the notice, except that it was true, and the drunk in the corner said the same. They’re both men, with twin looks of shame when Geralt speaks to them, like they’re worried someone might guess at their secret. Jaskier wonders, not for the first time, at Geralt’s assurances that whatever’s afflicting these men, however brief, isn’t even real.
Of course, Jaskier has never needed a reason to give in to his carnal desires, never needed to excuse away his attraction to someone he shouldn’t be wanting. He’s only lucky that Geralt is too mired in self-loathing to catch on that someone might be desiring him. With anyone else, the feelings are usually mutual, anyway, and Jaskier’s left town before he faces any real consequences. And when he was a boy, he was too stubborn to blame his desires on anything but his own insatiable heart.
There’s probably no such thing as a sex curse, Jaskier decides, his last real thought as sleep takes him under. Magic has all sorts of strange rules and limitations.
He doesn’t sleep long enough to dream, but when the halting, strange exhales in the pitch dark room wake him, it doesn’t seem real. For a moment it puts him in mind of a wild dog, or a wolf, or something else worse, and he’s too frozen to move. Then his eyes adjust, slowly, and he makes out the shadowed but familiar frame, hair wildly haloed around his face. Jaskier barely registers the noise of his armor hitting the floor, and Geralt is still wrestling out of his clothes, frantic.
“Geralt?” he asks, a whisper. Geralt only grunts, and there’s the slap of his shirt hitting the ground after he tears it off his head.
Finally Jaskier’s eyes have adjusted enough that he can see that Geralt is stripped to his trousers, and in the pale light from the window, his face seems to be unnaturally shiny. “What happened?” Jaskier asks.
“Hut,” Geralt manages, before picking up the discarded water basin and upending it over his head. “Fuck,” he mutters before shaking off slightly, shuddering. “Cursed bracelet. Burned it.”
Jaskier thinks he must be washing off the debris, until his eye catches his erection peaking out of the trousers low on his hips. Molten heat travels down his spine and his cock throbs once, and he wishes for his own bucket of tepid water. He’s seen Geralt’s dick before, difficult not to, living the way they do, but it’s usually engaged in something reasonable, and not just standing there for Jaskier to stare at.
“I take it,” Jaskier says delicately, “That there was a sex curse.”
“Tried to warn you,” Geralt grunts, and unsubtly adjusts himself.
“You said it wasn’t real!” Jaskier cries, lighting the candle at the bedside. He pulls off his chemise and throws it aside.
Geralt’s nose twitches, like he’s scenting something. “What are you doing?” he asks suspiciously as Jaskier stops right in front of him.
“I said I’d help you,” Jaskier shrugs, “Let me help you.” He starts to undo his laces the rest of the way, tugging the trousers down his hips.
Geralt allows it, and allows himself to be backed to the wall. “Should’ve known,” he mutters, one hand on Jaskier’s hip, their foreheads almost touching.
“What now?” Jaskier breathes against his lips, starting to stroke his cock, slow, and apparently Geralt has been keyed up long enough that the head’s already wet, hips jerking.
“This is the one time you come in handy,” he says, and Jaskier doesn’t even have to be able to see him clearly to know he’s smirking. Just for that, Jaskier picks up his pace, twisting his wrist up in a way he knows he likes, a way he’s wondered if Geralt would like, too.
Geralt does like it, dropping his head against Jaskier’s shoulder, muffling a moan into a bite right underneath his collarbone, and spends into Jaskier’s hand. Then he jerks back, looking at Jaskier with horror and pushing him just too hard, enough that Jaskier stumbles back. “Fuck,” he says.
“Geralt?” Jaskier asks, worried that Geralt has forgotten how he got there. In the light, Jaskier can see there’s fresh sweat on his forehead, although he isn’t breathing any longer as if he’d just finished a race.
“I could hurt you,” Geralt’s teeth are clenched.
Jaskier tries to ignore the way his cock twitches again, neglected, at the idea of Geralt losing control. “If you must know,” he drags his pants down and off. “I want you too.” He’s sure he’d be blushing if his cock wasn’t already so flush and hard, leaking just from Geralt’s noises of pleasure.
“Jaskier…” Geralt hesitates, and his hands are clenched as hard as his jaw.
“You won’t hurt me.”
The words barely have left his mouth when Geralt says “Fuck me,” demanding, and claps a hand over his own mouth in shock.
“Oh darling,” Jaskier drawls, smile curling around his lips, “I will take such good care of you.” He has to take himself in hand, has to stroke a few times, already feeling like Geralt’s words will make him explode. He knows, at least, that his desperation doesn’t show on his face. Not yet.
Still, he hesitates when he reaches Geralt again, because if Geralt is not completely on board with this, well. It’s just not worth it, even if he’ll have to watch Geralt suffer for it. He doesn’t miss how Geralt’s eyes are glued to his hand as it moves up and down on his cock, lazy, and his mouth hangs open just a little. Jaskier would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy watching Geralt lose his tightly wound composure, but. “You’ve been so good,” he purrs, unable to stop himself from putting on a little bit of a show. “You have to keep talking to me, okay? Tell me if something is bad, or hurts.”
Geralt exhales harshly through his nose and catches Jaskier’s wrist, not stopping him, but moving with him. “You can’t hurt me,” and his voice is wrecked, and his cock is still hard, straining against the mess on his abs. Jaskier has to stop, gripping the base of his cock hard, and Geralt mistakes it for hesitation. “I’ll tell you,” he says, almost a whine.
Jaskier has to kiss him, then. He doesn’t have a choice but to tangle his fingers in Geralt’s damp hair and crush their lips together. Geralt’s mouth parts immediately, and Jaskier tries not to let himself melt as his world narrows down to nothing but their tongues and teeth, his heart beating “finally, finally,”.
If he can just get through this without confessing his love, he’s sure they’ll both survive the night. But it is so hard to keep the praise from spilling out, from giving voice to his treacherous thoughts, because this is what Jaskier does, he tells his lovers how good they are, how they please him, and he’s so sure that Geralt will take it the wrong way. Like moments ago, when he thought Jaskier was, what, punishing him? for not knowing how to navigate having sex with your travel companion because your dick’s been cursed.
Jaskier drags himself back into the moment, and it’s not hard, when Geralt is making little noises of desperation into Jaskier’s mouth, and Jaskier takes a gamble, and pulls his hair, just a little. Geralt groans and his hand clenches around Jaskier hand around his cock, so hard that Jaskier sees white and is so very close to coming, just like this. He has to stop again, holding himself, breathing.
“You’re a damned tease,” Geralt breathes, his eyes flashing, “I want you to fuck me.”
“Fucking-” Jaskier groans, strangled, “If you keep...doing this!” he gestures wildly, “I will not be able to.”
Geralt just growls at him, and then the bastard picks him up and drops him on the bed. He brackets Jaskier’s hips between his knees and leans back, jerking himself off a handful of times before he comes, hard enough that his spend splashes across Jaskier’s chest, up to his collarbone. He immediately scratches his fingers into the mess, rubbing it into Jaskier’s hair and skin.
“Are you marking me?” Jaskier asks, and tries not to make it obvious that he’s very much into the idea.
“We need oil,” Geralt says instead of answering, as if he expects Jaskier to get up and do something about it. He’s running his hands up and down Jaskier’s chest now, calluses catching every now and again. His eyes are all black with just a hint of amber shining through, as if one of his potions is just starting to take effect.
Potions, Jaskier thinks, on the table. Geralt had left them there earlier, and there must be something there they can use. And quickly, because Geralt is starting to get a look in his eye like he’s thinking about just sitting on Jaskier’s cock right there. Which, Jaskier finding hard to not just let him, because he is but one man and this whole ordeal has been testing the limits of his patience. “Table!” he squeaks when Geralt scoops up a handful of come and starts to reach behind himself.
Geralt pauses, looking unimpressed. “Bed’s better.”
“No you oaf,” he rolls his eyes, exasperated. “On the table, there must be something we can use.”
Geralt glances over, considering. Then he reaches over, and in an impressive feat of stretching grabs a bottle off the table and rips the stopper off with his teeth.
“Wait!” Jaskier shouts, sitting up and snatching the bottle out of his hand. “This won’t burn my skin off, right?” He brings it close to his nose and sniffs delicately, pleased that it doesn’t smell of anything at all.
“You’d know by now,” Geralt says flatly, and shifts his hips. “Jaskier,” he says, impatient.
“Get on your front,” Jaskier instructs. When Geralt gives him another unimpressed look, he gives him one right back. “We’re doing this the right way or not at all.” He pauses. “Have you, ah, done this before?”
“Yes.” Geralt moves finally, knees bent, resting his forehead on his arms. It’s not exactly what Jaskier wants, but it’ll do.
“You said you’d tell me,” Jaskier reminds him, warming some of the oil between his fingers and ignoring the urge to rut right up into him. He’s wondering a little, if sex curses are contagious. “Are sex curses contagious?”
“They aren’t supposed to be real,” Geralt mutters, and thrusts his hips back. “Get on with it before I change my mind.”
“Demanding,” Jaskier scolds, pleased, and he waits until Geralt starts to complain again, before teasing one finger at his hole. Geralt’s complaint turns into a wild moan, and Jaskier, pleased with his reaction, slips his finger all the way in. “Good,” he murmurs, petting Geralt’s side.
Geralt seizes up suddenly, moaning again, and comes. “Melitele’s tits,” Jaskier curses, “That’s, what, three? Are you okay?” He hasn’t even come once and he feels like he might pass out.
“Four,” Geralt says into his arm. “Once right before I destroyed the bracelet.” He clenches around Jaskier’s finger, shuddering. “Not okay, move.”
Jaskier rubs his lower back as a sort of apology, and adds another finger. “I’m going to eat you out after,” he decides, “You’ve earned it.” He’s surprised and pleased the way Geralt responds to that with enthusiasm. His body seems to welcome Jaskier in, already relaxed, and he allows him to fuck him with three, and then four fingers without any more complaints.
Jaskier had not expected Geralt to be so loud. He’s spared enough thoughts of what this might be like, sometimes when Geralt is right there on the other side of the campfire. He’d be demanding, yes, and beautiful, of course, but the way his cries fill the room is a delightful surprise. Like finding an inn with both a feather bed and a hearth, the kind of luxury he never expected but always secretly hoped for.
Still, Geralt is still hesitant to say too much, as if it’s not obvious as his voice breaks over his name again and again. Jaskier loves his name, of course, the name that he chose, and to hear it said with such open desire so many times at once is intoxicating. Geralt doesn’t have to say anything else, and Jaskier knows with terrible clarity that he is ruined for anyone else as long as he lives. He hovers over the precipice for just a few moments too long, his cockhead just breaching his hole, trying to commit every inch of Geralt’s skin to memory. Geralt doesn’t blush, doesn’t turn red with exertion, but the skin stretched around Jaskier’s cock is flushed. His hip is warm underneath the pads of Jaskier’s fingers.
“Jas-ki-er,” Geralt breathes his name into too many syllables, his head thrown over his shoulder, eyes hooded. Another desperate plea.
Jaskier is fortunate that it won’t take much to make Geralt come again, because he is never going to last. “Say it again,” he demands, fucking him finally, and Geralt does, throwing his head back. Jaskier slumps forward with the force of his backwards thrust, reaching around to tangle his fingers into the leather cord around his neck. “You’re so tight,” he groans. He pulls out as slow as he can manage, and shoves back in too fast, delighting in the way Geralt moves with him. He sets a sporadic pace like that, stroking Geralt’s cock in counterpoint, determined to see him come first.
Geralt doesn’t disappoint, and after a few minutes he rips twin holes in the mattress and thrusts up so wildly he almost throws Jaskier off. Jaskier holds fast to his medallion and to his cock and the hot spurt of seed into his palm sends him over the edge.
He eats Geralt out as promised. Geralt is breathing little shallow pants, as close to exhaustion as Jaskier’s ever seen, promising that it’ll just take one more, one more, keep fucking him, please. Jaskier licks over his swollen hole, tasting the strangeness of the oil and himself, pushing it all back in with three fingers around his tongue. Geralt’s not as frantic now, head pillowed into his forearms, his face and hair soaked with sweat. There’s the faintest imprint of a wolf on Jaskier’s hand, pressed into the meat of Geralt’s ass to spread him open.
When Geralt comes again, his sob is like the sweetest music to ever grace Jaskier’s ears. His own cock is hard again, just on the edge of pain as he strokes himself to completion pressed up against Geralt’s loose, wet hole.
He just barely misses Geralt as he collapses onto the side of the bed. His whole body is shaking, and he wishes he could conjure up a cool mug of water with just his thoughts alone. Geralt is trembling hard enough to shake the bed.
Jaskier strokes his back, ignoring the small sound Geralt makes at his touch. “What do you need?” he asks, determined to see him through the rest of the curse. He’d be lying though, to say it wasn’t a relief when Geralt shook his head. “Think it's over.”
Jaskier drags himself away from the temptation of falling asleep on the spot. For one thing, they’re filthy with dried sweat and come, and another, he feels like he’ll soon die of thirst and he’s not the one who’s been cursed for several hours. He goes for the jug he likes to keep in the room on the nights Geralt is out late, and finds it empty, and their waterskins too. “Going to get water, “ he says gently. Geralt’s grunt is barely audible.
When Jaskier comes back a few minutes later, Geralt is jerking himself off, two fingers plugged in his asshole. The moment he sees Jaskier, blinking owlishly at the door, he orgasms. Jaskier just barely manages not to drop the water. “Still?” Jaskier asks, trying not to let the exhaustion show in his voice.
Geralt pauses and seems to really consider it, but his cock is mercifully softening and he shakes his head. Jaskier had drunk his fill downstairs, and now he makes Geralt drink and uses the rest of the water to wipe Geralt clean. Geralt hisses occasionally from the overstimulation, and Jaskier soothes him, pleased when Geralt starts to fall asleep.
Although Jaskier is usually the one to spread out on the mattress, Geralt is so loose-limbed and sprawled that Jaskier has to coax him to make room. It’s not until Jaskier has drawn the blankets up that he stops to think that maybe he should be sleeping on the floor. Before he can spend too long worrying over it, Geralt rolls over and throws an arm around Jaskier’s chest, tugging him close. Jaskier’s mind wants to worry over all of it, but his body is too far gone, and Geralt is the perfect warmth to lull him into sleep immediately.
***
When Jaskier wakes in the morning, Geralt’s soothing warmth is gone. It wakes him fully, immediately, and he’s helpless to the feeling of his heart dropping foolishly in his chest. He should have known Geralt would run away from the reality of what happened between them as soon as possible. The door shutting must have woken him, but he screws his eyes shut and burrows deeply into the blankets, determined to delay the inevitable as long as possible.
Then the door is opening and closing again, bringing with it the smell of hot food. Jaskier sits bolt upright to the sight of Geralt holding two plates and looking caught and overwhelmed. He hasn’t bothered yet to dress in the armor hastily tossed to the floor the night before.
“Jaskier,” he says, deep and rasping, and Jaskier’s still exhausted cock tries to fill at the memories of last night. He sets the plates on the table, and Jaskier wonders if the oil ever made it back beside the other potions. Probably not.
Geralt leans against the wall, and it feels like a parody of the night before. “Last night was,” he starts, and Jaskier cringes, “Something I’ve been wanting a long time.”
“To be cursed?” Jaskier asks, because the other option is too much to consider.
“No,” Geralt frowns, “For you to fuck me.”
“Geralt,” he whines, shuddering, “For the love of my sanity, please stop saying that.”
Geralt startles as if struck, and Jaskier realizes his mistake.
“I can’t believe I’m the one fucking up this conversation,” he mutters, and tries again. “I’ve wanted to fuck you since we met. I didn’t think you’d let me.”
“No,” Geralt hums in agreement, “I suppose it would have seemed that way.” He stands up. “I can’t promise you anything,” he says, apologetic. “But there’s never been anyone else I would have asked for last night.”
“There’s a reason I renounced my inheritance,” he says plainly. He realizes Geralt may not know, actually, because there are a few things even he refuses to talk about. He can make an exception, this once. “That life wasn’t for me. I didn’t know what I wanted, and now I do, and no one on the Continent could make me give you up.” He stares into Geralt’s flashing, amber eyes. “Not even you.”
Geralt takes a few steps to the bed and Jaskier gets up on his knees to meet him at the edge, crashing their lips together. Jaskier resolves not to believe Geralt the next time he says something isn’t real, and is honestly a little grateful to whomever tried to hide the bracelet away instead of tossing it into the nearest lake. “You’re going to have to fuck me this time, I think,” he says, laughing with delight when Geralt growls and squeezes his ass. The food will probably taste better cold, anyway.
Jaskier stops kissing him just a moment, leaning back and winding his hand around the medallion again. “I love you,” he says, grounded by the way the cool metal bites into his skin. “You don’t have to say anything back.”
But Geralt does, saying, “I love you,” in a voice that sounds dragged from the depths of his body. “I didn’t know how to tell you.”
“That was perfect,” Jaskier pulls him close, “Just like that. Any time.”
“I love you,” Geralt says against his lips and kisses him again.