Chapter Text
It's been two weeks since that horrible wretch of a mage falsely seduced him. Wandering hands on his chest and muttered words of adoration had distracted him from that distinct crackle and the faint scent of ozone.
He should have known better.
Should have seen it, or sensed it. He knows mages. Knows what they're capable of, their temperaments and egos. It wasn't until she was uttering about how he needed to learn to be humble, not to try and worm his way into everyone's good graces. Had to accept that people - no one - wanted him, that he noticed what she was.
So, instead of getting laid, he'd gotten cursed.
At least, mercifully, she'd told him the means to breaking the curse, which left him unable to speak, sing, or write.
True hate's kiss. Kiss someone who well and truly hates him. Perfect.
Which is how he now finds himself trudging through the overgrown wilderness, chasing rumors of a white-haired Witcher despite promising on the top of that fucking mountain that he would never bother him again.
He's still angry. Still hurt. His heart aches with every step closer, feels flayed open like a bass being salted for dinner - and now he's hungry on top of it all!
He knows Geralt is going to be angry, annoyed at having to see him again even after the six months that have passed, but it can't be helped.
Jaskier's boots are caked in mud, the soles worn thin - he's pretty sure he's more blister than man at this point, despite his feet being used to years of walking, he's spent quite a bit of time in one place recently. He's gone soft rather quickly, it seems. (That tends to happen when you drink yourself stupid almost every night.)
He's close now.
He can see the smoke of a fire rising from above the trees, just past a village that told him the White Wolf had been staying nearby for the past several weeks, slaying monsters, refusing coin, and only coming into town to sell the parts.
The woods here are dense, he'd curse at the branches smacking him in the face if he could, nature can eat his entire ass, thank you very much.
So maybe he's in a bit of a bad mood. Usually, the dense foliage, verdant and towering, letting through faint rays of sun that glitter on the moss and stones of the ground, would inspire him to compose. Today, he can only feel anger, because if he lets himself feel anything else, he'll remember how heartbroken he is and start weeping like a small child.
So he's angry.
Angry at the branches. Angry at the Witcher.
Geralt hears him approach, of course he does. He's a Witcher, and an extra special one at that. The thought irks something in him that wants to taunt, "Ooh, so special, such a special boy," but again, that would be childish. And he can't talk.
When he reaches the clearing, Geralt is there, sitting on a log facing away from him, hunched over as though trying to make himself smaller. Jaskier is half expecting him to growl or threaten him. Instead, he gets a quiet, "Bard?"
It's a question, and Geralt doesn't even bother to look at him or use his name. It makes Jaskier seethe.
He rounds the log the Witcher is sitting on, stands glaring down at him with his hands on his hips. Geralt keeps his eyes locked on the fire. Doesn't lift his gaze. It would hurt, would break his heart if there was anything of it left to break. He hates that Geralt hates him so much that he can't even bear to look at him, or say his name.
He might as well get this over with. Might as well bite the rapier, so to speak, and get out of Geralt's hair before the Witcher decides to tear him a new set of holes.
He steps forward, into Geralt's space, winds his fingers into that glorious white hair, which is looking and feeling worse for wear - all of Geralt is, really. He's dirty, unshaven, looks ragged and worn and dishevelled. He ignores that observation and yanks back on his silver locks until his head is tilted the way he wants it to be, leans down, and kisses him.
Jaskier normally isn't the type to kiss people who don't want it. Consent is important, and he'll cut the balls off anyone who says otherwise, but this is important. Geralt won't forgive him, but he already hates the bard, so there really isn't much lost there.
Then, hands are on his waist, tugging him closer, and a tongue is in his mouth and - Geralt is kissing him back. He's confused as all hell but not complaining, he's not an idiot!
Well, not that kind anyway.
When they break apart, Geralt is looking up at him with furrowed brows, confused. Not angry.
"Mm, not... that I don't... why?"
Jaskier rolls his eyes and opens his mouth to speak - nothing. No sound. All that effort wasted. Geralt doesn't even hate him enough to break a fucking curse.
"Jaskier?"
He shakes his head, fighting back tears, unsure how to explain to a man who hates him but doesn't hate him enough why he's just assaulted him.
Jaskier flops onto the log next to Geralt and gestures vaguely, makes a talking motion with his hand, then an X with his arms.
"Can't talk?"
At least Geralt is smart; most Witchers are, in Jaskier's experience. They solve murders, chase monsters. They have to be good at reading between the lines, but only if those lines aren't emotions.
"Mm," Geralt looks him over, pulls his pendant from his neck and holds it up to Jaskier, "Magic. Curse?" Jaskier nods. Geralt swallows, "The cure is... a kiss?"
Jaskier nods again, sighs.
"From... what? Usually it's true love." He sounds oddly hopeful. Fidgets in a way that Jaskier has never seen. Jaskier shakes his head, ponders how to explain this absolute clusterfuck.
If Geralt didn't work, there's only one other option anyway.
Valdo Marx.