After the fifth woman is sent on her way—smiling, if a bit tenuously—Geralt is asked to leave the brothel.
It’s better this way, he tells himself. He’s low on coin as it is. He grunts a word of agreement and pulls on his trousers. He tucks himself up into the waistband, squeezing his eyes shut as he does.
Really, he should count himself lucky. Geralt has never been accused of lacking stamina, but this is a new level, even for him. Even before visiting the brothel, he’d taken himself by hand no less than a dozen times. His cock, by all rights, should be raw. Even he should be dehydrated. Instead, he feels invigorated, if a little desperate. His skin is sensitive, and the cloth and leather of his clothing make him stop, mid-step, and bite back a groan. He barely makes it to the door without making a mess of himself.
Roach lets out a little huff, as if she can’t believe he’s gotten himself into this situation. “I know,” he mutters. “I should’ve known.” He looks around. It’s the middle of the night, in Oxenfurt. He sighs. “I know. I know.”
Her whinny sounds almost amused. He walks slowly, shaking his head. He has two options, and neither is ideal: the first, Shani, will refuse to help when she hears how it happened, and the second is going to laugh his ass off.
At least the subsequent song should praise his prowess. Maybe the next brothel won’t charge as much.
~ ~ ~
“Jaskier! Open the door.”
Geralt slams his fist against the wood. It’s a strong door, firmly locked. Maybe he’s finally learned some self-preservation. “The bloody hell?” He hears the bolt sliding back.
Maybe not. Without so much as a cautious peek, Jaskier throws it open, wearing nothing but loosely-tied linen braies. “Jaskier.”
“Geralt, what the fuck? It’s…” he looks around. “It’s the middle of the night.”
“I put Roach in the stables.”
“Okay…” His eyes narrow. “Are you pissed?”
“What? No.” Geralt shifts his weight, wincing.
“Are you injured?” Jaskier’s voice raises in pitch with the question.
“No?” Geralt isn’t actually certain. Does a three-day erection count as an injury? He tries, and fails, to contain another groan.
Jaskier’s eyes, bright blue in the moonlight, widen. His eyebrows lift at the sound, and his lips part.
Geralt curses himself for noticing. “Do you have to look at me like that?” he growls.
Jaskier takes a step back. “Come in, Geralt. Welcome to my home.” He gestures, and then closes the door. He doesn’t bolt it. “It’s isn’t much, I will admit, compared to a few of my… recent… and not-so-recent abodes.” As he talks, he lights a candle, and then a lamp, and stokes the fire. It isn’t warm outside, though Geralt wouldn’t call it cold. He supposes Jaskier may feel different. “It’s only the two rooms, you see. This is where I do most of my day-to-day business. There’s a woman who comes and tidies—the Academy sends her over. She brings food, most days. Are you hungry? No? And then of course le boudoir. Not that it resembles anything at all like you’d see in Toussaint, but I do my best.” He chuckles. “Have a seat and I’ll pour us something. I haven’t seen you in a while, Geralt. I thought you were still off, you know, with Yennefer.”
“I see. I say, are you really not injured? Because you’re walking all funny, and the way you sat down just now, I’d swear... Do you need a good soak? There’s water just out back and I can fill a tub in no time. It’s no trouble. It’d be just like old days, right?”
Jaskier sniffs. “No, I see you’re right.” He sniffs again. “Geralt, you… scamp. I know where you’ve been.”
“You don’t know a thing.”
“Oh, but I do! I would recognize that… pungent aroma anywhere. Is that… I think I even know who you’ve seen.” He pauses. “Actually, did you—have you been bathing in perfume, Geralt? It’s a little difficult to ignore, now that I’ve noticed it.”
“I’m sorry to drop in uninvited.”
“Geralt, really, you know you never need an invitation. Especially when it’s you I have to thank, really, for this position. I mean, if it weren’t for my ballads—mostly about you—the Academy would know me only as a distinguished alumnus.”
“Hmm.” Geralt shifts again. It’s becoming increasingly difficult to ignore the throb. He waits until Jaskier is half-turned, pouring wine, and he adjusts himself. He sucks in a breath as his waistband rubs against the head.
“Geralt.” Jaskier purses his lips. “I heard that. Something is wrong.” He hands Geralt a glass and stares at him as he takes a sip from his own. “Talk to me.” He sits across from him and stares.
The light is warm. It flickers, and the shadows play across Jaskier’s skin. Geralt is always surprised when he sees him like this. He’s a bard, so he isn’t built for a fight, but he’s lithe and strong from years on the road. He’s strong from the past years by Geralt’s side. It’s easy to see he takes care of himself, even now that he’s spent the past few months in Oxenfurt.
It’s Jaskier’s turn to shift in his seat, as if he knows Geralt is watching him. His chest moves with each breath.
Geralt’s cock throbs. He groans. He can’t help it.
“I was with Yen until just a few days ago.”
“She kicked you out again?”
“She left you again?”
“Ah.” Jaskier rolls his eyes and takes a long drink. “So you tried to drown your sorrows in a brothel, but it didn’t work.” He has that cheeky look that gets under Geralt’s skin. It’s as if he knows exactly what Geralt’s thinking and is so terribly amused by it.
Geralt glares at him. “It isn’t that simple.”
“No? Why not? This isn’t the first time you’ve split up.” Under his breath he adds, “It probably won’t be the last.”
“This is the first time she’s actually cursed me.”
Jaskier frowns and looks taken aback. “She cursed you? Yennefer? How are you still standing, I wonder? She’s the most vicious woman I’ve ever met—and I’ve known a few women scorned.”
“I’m not standing.”
“Touché.” Jaskier toasts him and takes another lusty gulp. “So, what is the curse?”
“I don’t know, exactly.”
“Riiight.” Jaskier leans forward. “Well, what are the symptoms? I’m sure we can find another sorceress or someone who will be able to lift it.”
“I think I may be able to just… wait it out.”
Jaskier lifts his eyebrows. “Wait? How long has it been?”
“And what are the symptoms, again?”
Geralt sighs. He leans back and, ever-so-slightly, spreads his legs. He brings his hands to either side of the… problem.
Jaskier laughs. Laugh, actually, isn’t the best descriptor. He tosses his head back, neck exposed in a long line, and guffaws. “She cursed you with more virility? Why? Does she want you to sleep with someone else?”
“I don’t know! I thought everything was… as fine as it ever is.”
“As it ever is?”
“You know what she’s—we’re like.”
“Yes, I do. I don’t, however, know why you… Never mind.”
“Well, I do. Or anyway, I have. She’s always going to be connected to me because of that whole fiasco with the djinn and you.”
“And me? What the fuck did I have to do with that?”
“The whole reason I went back in there to begin with was because of you.”
“Well I didn’t ask you to find a bloody djinn!”
“I know!” Geralt’s chest heaves with his breath and he has to grip himself as his cock twitches. He’s so fucking annoyed; only Jaskier is able to rile him up like this. “I shouldn’t have come here.”
“You’ve been carrying that around for three days?”
“Mm.” Geralt hoists himself up out of the chair. He’s starting to sweat. “I’m going to… I need to… Fuck.” Annoyance really shouldn’t have this effect, but nothing about the whole ordeal is particularly sensible.
“Oh Geralt,” Jaskier sighs. “Take the bedroom. Just, try not to get it all everywhere.”
“I’m not going to go…” he grips himself again. “Ah, fuck.” He can’t help but rub. Jaskier’s eyes widen as he watches. He’s blushing. “I can’t just do that in your bedroom, Jaskier.”
“I’m not bothered. Clearly you have more need of it than me.”
“You didn’t even bolt the front door.”
“It was bolted when you weren’t here.”
“You need to bolt it now.”
“But you’re here now.”
Geralt shakes his head.
“Fine. I’ll bolt the door.” He hands Geralt a soft, clean cloth. “Do you need some oil?”
“It’s in a vial in the top of the cupboard.”
~ ~ ~
Geralt can hear Jaskier breathing. Even without enhanced senses, it would be difficult not to hear him. He never realized what a loud breather the bard is. “So,” Jaskier asks. “How many is this, anyway?”
“Somewhere… around… hngh… thirty, I think.” He spends again, into the cloth. He’s covered in sweat, even stripped out of his clothes. His body doesn’t soften, despite the release. He looks around Jaskier’s room.
It’s surprisingly simple, even with a pair of paintings, a plush rug, and an absurdly ornamented bed. It smells like Jaskier, and his cock throbs again. “Mmmmm,” he moans.
“Another already?” Jaskier asks. “Tell me what happened. Maybe we can figure something out.”
“Figure what out?” Geralt strokes himself. “She lit some incense, blew it at me, laughed, and then stepped through a fucking portal.” He slicks up with some of Jaskier’s oil, despite himself. It makes a wet squelch in his fist.
Jaskier makes a small sound, which makes Geralt grind his teeth. He feels like his skin is going to split like overripe fruit. He fucks up into his fist.
Jaskier has never made his feelings about Yen a secret, so Geralt isn’t surprised by the strain in his voice. “So you think she cursed you to feel… aroused… for a certain amount of time? Or…”
“Or what?” Geralt’s voice is tight. He grunts.
Geralt hears Jaskier’s long exhalation through the bedroom door. “Or a certain number of… you know.”
“I don’t know.”
Jaskier is quiet for a moment. “Orgasms, Geralt.”
“A certain number of orgasms.” Jaskier is breathless. Is he embarrassed?
“Yes orgasms. I mean I don’t know which.”
“Why would she curse you like this?”
“Because she was angry.”
“She’s angry all the time. Has she done this before?”
“No.” Geralt uses both hands. He strokes his length and toys with himself. He crawls over and leans against the door so he can hear Jaskier better.
“Well, I guess you have to just keep going then, right?”
“Mmm.” Geralt spills, again. “Mmnf…”
~ ~ ~
“This isn’t working,” Geralt complains.
“You mean it doesn’t feel as good?” Jaskier’s voice is hoarse. Another day has passed; they barely ate. Geralt tried, but the only thing driving his body is lust, and food doesn’t suffice.
“No,” Geralt answers. “It still feels… It feels good.” He’s exhausted, but still needs it. If anything, the desire is stronger. His senses are even more attuned to his surroundings than usual. He feels like he hears every breath Jaskier takes. He can smell him. Tonight, their clothing situation is reversed: Jaskier is mostly dressed, while Geralt wears little beyond his undergarments.
“Maybe you just need a good night’s sleep.”
“I slept some last night.”
“I’m not taking your bed. I might… I don’t want you to have to deal with that.”
“I’m sure I’ve done far worse myself than you could do in one night,” Jaskier laughs. “Even with your magical dick.”
“It isn’t magical.”
“It is uniquely magical, actually. More than usual.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“I mean, uh, just that, well, you—you’re enhanced, right? Heh. This isn’t the first time I’ve overheard you in the act. It’s just the first time I haven’t heard a woman with you.”
“Usually it’s the other way around.”
Jaskier has the good sense to look bashful. “I suppose I can get a little noisy.”
“You recite poetry.”
“Not in the act! That’s the opening number, Geralt.”
“You could learn a little. Maybe that’s what this is about. Maybe it’s a lesson to be a more thoughtful lover.”
“I’m very thoughtful.”
Jaskier snorts. “Sure.”
Geralt just glares at him.
“Geralt, please. You couldn’t sweet talk a lover if you tried. You’re just lucky you’d never have to.”
Geralt ignores the thrilling little shiver that courses through his body at the mixed praise. Does he think I’m attractive? He shakes his head. He doesn’t even try to hide it as he squeezes himself to repress his urges.
“Right. Let’s just try to get some sleep.”
Geralt nods. “I’ll just…” he starts to stretch out on the floor by the fire. His braies are all but ruined.
“Don’t be an idiot. I’m not going to make you sleep, in that state, on the floor, when there’s a perfectly good bed in the next room.”
“Your bed.” His voice breaks up.
“Yes, my bed, which I designed personally with a master carpenter from Vizima—don’t look at me like that—and it’s large enough for both of us, as you saw yesterday, I’m sure, and a few maids beside.”
“What? It isn’t like we haven’t bunked together on the road before. How is this different?”
“Because I wasn’t overwhelmed by an insatiable lust before!”
“Geralt, I promise I’m not the least concerned for my virtue. It would be stupid to waste the space simply because you’re cursed with…” he eyes Geralt, “gods below, I don’t think I’ve ever seen it in action before.” Jaskier’s cheeks darken into a deeper shade of pink. “All the same.” His lips curve into a slow smile. “I can take it.”
Jaskier just chuckles. “Come on. Let’s get some sleep and try something else tomorrow.”
“You know I don’t have to sleep, Jaskier.”
“Yes, but you can. And meditating clearly hasn’t helped you find satisfaction. Besides, I do need sleep.”
Geralt gingerly follows Jaskier back into the bedroom, which reeks of sex and heat. He wonders if Jaskier can smell it.
Jaskier strips down to nearly nothing and throws himself into bed. He stretches, pulling in a long breath. “Mmm.” He must not smell it, then.
Geralt blows out the candles before he eases himself into the other side.
~ ~ ~
Jaskier’s bed, unlike the rest of the room, smells like him still, and not Geralt’s spend. Geralt burrows into the linens, allowing himself to enjoy the softness. It’s a feather mattress, and the bedclothes are finely made. He tries to resist rocking his hips into the cushion.
He knows he’s sweating all over the place and leaking through his pants.
Sleep is fitful, when it arrives, but it does happen. When Geralt awakens, he’s stretched out on his back, still rock hard, with Jaskier’s ass pressed against his hip. It’s that frosty edge of the morning, just before dawn, and Geralt can tell they’re in a warm cocoon. He tells himself he should stoke the fire before Jaskier wakes and freezes. He’s already stirring, wiggling backward a little, nestling closer.
It isn’t the first time they’ve woke like this, but it is the first time Geralt has felt like he could come undone with a mere look. He thanks whatever forces have preserved him by keeping Jaskier’s eyes closed. He thinks what it would be like, just now, if Jaskier turned and fixed him with that ice-blue gaze. Even the most innocent look—gods, especially an innocent look—would have him rutting against him like an animal. Geralt can feel his chest rising faster. He opens his mouth to breathe, attempting to keep himself quiet.
His cock throbs. He wants. He needs release. He reaches down and squeezes himself, thinking it may hold the desire at bay, but the touch just makes him ache.
Jaskier pulls the blanket tighter and sighs in his sleep, so Geralt releases his cock and reaches over to draw the covers up over his shoulders.
Jaskier lets out a satisfied little hum in his sleep and clutches Geralt’s arm.
He’s strong in his sleep, Geralt thinks. He turns to accommodate him. He must be colder than I thought. He knows he isn’t the warmest bedmate. He lets his chest press against Jaskier’s back.
Jaskier presses back further, and Geralt realizes what a terrible mistake he has made.
His cock is perfectly cupped by Jaskier’s ass.
In his sleep, Jaskier makes another satisfied sound; this one makes Geralt’s cock twitch against him, and in response, Jaskier seems to wiggle, as if trying to take him.
Geralt decides he should probably extricate himself from the bed.
It feels so, so very good. His body, of its own volition, gives a little thrust. Jaskier moans. Geralt lets his open hand find Jaskier’s chest. It feels cool to his touch, and Jaskier shivers. In his sleep, Geralt silently adds. He tells himself to get up.
“Don’t get up,” Jaskier whispers.
Fuck. “What?” Awake.
“I know you’re telling yourself to get up.”
Jaskier’s body writhes a little against him. “I told you I have a great bed.”
“You have a great bed.” His fingers splay against Jaskier’s skin. He hears him suck in a breath.
Geralt waits, but Jaskier doesn’t continue for several moments. “What?”
Jaskier turns his head, and there they are: bright sky blue eyes in the barely-there morning light. Geralt’s body needs. His throat lets out a noisy, half-broken exhalation. In response, Jaskier licks his lips. They’re impossibly rosy in this light. “You know,” Jaskier starts again, “I could try…”
Geralt groans. “Try what?” he asks, somewhat idiotically. He can’t be misunderstanding, but if he is, he’ll never live it down.
In response, Jaskier rocks back against him. He curves his back, feline and languid. He lets out a wanton sound. Didn’t misunderstand that, Geralt thinks. “Let me try,” Jaskier whispers. His hand slips back and grips Geralt’s leg. “I’ll bet I could get it sorted out.”
Geralt is breathless. “Better than the brothel?”
“It’s personal.” He rubs against Geralt. “That’s always better than a brothel.”
Geralt doesn’t think; he lets his hand trail down. He finds Jaskier hard, too, bucking against him. “Hmm.”
Jaskier rolls over and presses Geralt back into the overstuffed mattress. He climbs on top, straddling his hips. His hands are greedy. They track across Geralt’s chest. He follows his fingers with his mouth. When he bites down on Geralt’s nipple, Geralt thrusts up against him, almost losing control. “That’s right, my dear, I know,” Jaskier whispers. He grinds himself down against Geralt, nearly blinding him with urgent need. He licks at the bitemark, soothing it with his hot tongue. He laves his stomach with wet kisses, tracking ever downward. He doesn’t even pause, but strips Geralt out of his filthy braies, tossing them across the room with a huff. And then he’s there, pressing his face against Geralt’s desire, rubbing his cheek against it with a pleased purr before taking it all at once in his mouth.
Geralt grips the bedding and lets out a guttural moan. “Jaskier, I’m going to—” He tries to push back on him, but Jaskier sucks hard, and Geralt can’t hold back. He thrusts his hips forward and releases deep in Jaskier’s mouth.
Jaskier sucks, making filthy sounds of satisfaction as he carries him through it. He swallows it down with a hum. When he pulls off, a sliver of pearly-white escapes from the corner of his mouth. Geralt watches, stunned, as he takes a finger, gathers it, and sucks it clean. “Fuck,” Geralt says.
Jaskier grins at that. Without missing a beat, he strokes Geralt again.
It’s sensitive. Geralt closes his eyes and groans louder. Jaskier’s laugh is throaty. “Look at you, Geralt. Not even a little phased.” He licks his lips. “Mmm. Still hard for me, aren’t you?”
“Shh. I wasn’t asking.”
“You were asking. You directly asked.”
“It was rhetorical.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Why are you even talking?”
“Jaskier,” Geralt growls.
Jaskier smirks, and then takes him back in his mouth. He licks, this time, and gently nips. He takes him deep in his throat and toys with his testes. He’s so fucking loud, like he can’t get enough of it.
“Fuck, Jaskier. You’re—fuck.”
Between messy licks and sucks, Jaskier manages to say, “You’re the one who came here, temptation incarnate, dearest. What did you expect?”
“Looking like you do, with this gorgeous cock just begging to be touched, licked, sucked.”
“Looking like—ah, gods…”
“It would be cruel, mmmm, to keep it from me. I could hear you through the door. Couldn't stop listening and picturing you in my bed, unable to control yourself."
“Jaskier,” Geralt moans. “I’m going to—hnngh…” Again, Jaskier swallows it down. When he pulls off, his lips are red and slick, and Geralt can’t breathe. He takes him by the shoulders and hauls him up. “Why are you doing this?” he demands.
“You have to ask?”
“Jaskier…” He stares at him. Jaskier stares back. Neither blinks. He brings his hand up and presses a thumb against Jaskier’s lips. Then he lets it trail across the bard’s cheek. “Jaskier.”
His lips feel even better against his own.
Geralt’s heart beats slowly, but it’s nearly a human pace as the kiss deepens. When his lips part, he finds Jaskier’s tongue ready to meet his own. His cock isn’t any less hard, nor is the desire less urgent, but he lets himself take his time with the kiss. When they pull apart for a breath, Jaskier’s eyes open slowly, staring right back at Geralt. His pupils are huge because it’s barely light and, Geralt knows, his body aches, too. He’s just as hard as Geralt, now, and they’re pressed together. Jaskier lifts himself up and in one graceful movement, strips out of his sleeping clothes. “Geralt,” he whispers, “we should… do you want to try?”
Geralt reclaims his lips. He feels his body—not just his cock—respond. His shoulders seem to relax, even as his abdomen clenches. If it was possible to be harder than he was, he’s now there. “Yes. Gods yes, Jaskier.”
Jaskier slicks him up with the oil before he finishes the stream of acquiescence. “Finally,” Jaskier moans. He sucks at Geralt’s bottom lip, and then sucks and nibbles at his jaw and chin, of all places. When he pulls back, though, Geralt decides he’ll never do a thing to disturb that look of joy.
Jaskier tries to take him in without preparation, and he hisses and pulls off quickly. “Jaskier, let me…” Geralt takes the oil and slicks his hand up. He rolls Jaskier over, tossing the blankets to the side. He takes Jaskier in his hand and watches his eyes roll back in pleasure. Again, Geralt’s cock seems to grow even more, impossibly, hard. He’s certain this time instead of coming, he’s going to just split apart and be freed of his body once and for all. He strokes Jaskier for a while, loathe to cut the noises short.
Jaskier murmurs something under his breath, which may be poetry after all. When Geralt slips in a finger, it grows louder. “Yes, Geralt, hnnn my dear, dear heart—like the spark of a star streaking across the sky, but my skin and my spine, and you are the fire, my…”
“Your what?” He pulls out and pushes in, curling the finger and stroking deep. He watches with satisfaction as Jaskier twitches.
“My dear heart, my everything,” Jaskier chokes out. “My love. Need this. Need you, please, need to please you.”
Geralt eases his cock in slowly. It’s been days; he can wait.
It’s been years, he thinks. This has taken years. He’s going to take his time.
Jaskier’s words have broken apart by the time he’s fully seated. He thrusts slowly, gently.
“Geralt,” Jaskier whispers. “You—”
“Yes. Anything you need.”
“You love me.”
“I love you, Geralt. I do.”
“And you love me.”
Geralt stops. It may kill him, but he stops, deep inside of him. “Yes, Julian.”
Julian kisses him, and Geralt isn’t sure if it’s that, but the feeling shifts. Their lovemaking changes. It grows urgent, of course, but somehow more intense, still, and the pace is irrelevant. It may last hours, or it may last minutes. Geralt won’t be able to tell later, but his body feels aflame.
Eventually, Julian is above him, writhing and moaning and taking his pleasure as he should—as he has every right to do.
Words are spoken, but Geralt can’t keep track. He can only feel, and the burning builds and builds until his vision is nothing but light, bright and unrestrained, overwhelming him with pleasure until they both find absolution in each other’s arms.
~ ~ ~
They realize the curse is broken immediately afterward.
Jaskier pouts for two hours.
That’s how long it takes for Geralt to recover his strength.
Later, a basket of food is delivered. It smells of lilacs and gooseberries and has a card reading simply, “You’re welcome.”