Men like Jaskier don’t love men like Geralt.
No, men like Jaskier love pretty girls whose lips taste of honey and helplessness.
Not men who taste of ash and sorrow.
That’s why when Jaskier tips him a wink as he performs his latest composition, something about supple thighs and languid sighs, Geralt ignores the tug in his chest and the ache that follows. Indigestion, nothing more.
Because men like Jaskier don’t want men like Geralt.
Men like Jaskier want vibrant young ladies, who look like sunshine and smell sweet as a meadow in Spring.
Not men who slip into shadows and emerge covered in entrails, death, and all manner of horror.
That’s why when Jaskier is close, so close that he can feel the heat radiating from his lithe body, Geralt pushes down any ridiculous fluttering in his stomach. He really does need to start eating better, after all.
No, men like Jaskier just don’t need men like Geralt.
Men like Jaskier need women who dance the whole night through, drunk on fruity wine and thoughts of pleasures to come.
Not men who cling to the walls and sit alone, knuckles turned white around a tankard of stale, lukewarm ale.
That’s why when Jaskier silently drops to his knees, a lopsided, drunken smile on his lips and a glint of something in his big, blue eyes that Geralt just can’t place, he mumbles “Sorry.” and moves away. He doesn't need his pity, and of course, that was all this was. Fucking pity.
Because men like Jaskier don’t crave men like Geralt.
Men like Jaskier crave beautiful maidens with ample bosoms and soft, smooth skin who will sing his name to the rafters with every wave of luscious ecstasy. Over, and over, and over again.
Not men who lay awake night after night in darkened rooms, with some kind of emptiness gnawing away at their insides. A void that can never be filled.
That’s why when Jaskier’s sex-strained voice, both raspy and melodious, breathless and beautiful, gasps out Geralt’s name while some lavish belle bounces on his cock on the other side of the torturously thin wall, Geralt gathers together his belongings and leaves before the sunrise. They had spent too much time together. Names familiar to each others lips, that was all.
No, men like Jaskier don’t love men like Geralt.
And they never would.
