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Fuck or Live

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“Yes,” Jaskier said desperately, “but surely there must be some loophole in the definition. With hands, perhaps. Over clothing?”

“You really want to risk your life to find out?” Geralt growled incredulously.

It had been five days since Jaskier had been cursed to celibacy under pain of death. And it was just his luck, just his luck, that this came right after Geralt had finally pulled his head out of his ass and admitted his love for Jaskier.

Well, not in so many words, but there had been a near-death experience and a shaking kiss. Perhaps a confession - I can’t lose you, don’t you dare die on me - that Jaskier heard while woozy from blood loss. Geralt refused to either confirm no deny the last.

They were just about to be happy. More importantly, they were just about to fuck.

But it seemed that the jealous Fae who wished to sweep Jaskier into her own kingdom had had some life to her yet.

“I would die for it, you know.”

“Jaskier, it’s only been a week.”

“My, this feels familiar,” Yennefer sighed. “Helping two love-sick imbeciles fall into bed. Alright, which of you can’t get it up?” She looked from Geralt, who was steadily staring at the wall just behind her right ear, to Jaskier, who looked like he was about to blow his top. “Both?” she offered with a smirk.

“It’s … it’s not like that!” Jaskier sputtered. “This is a life-or-death situation!”

“And yet,” Yennefer squinted at him, “I find myself uninterested. This is far beneath my talents, so you’d best give me a reason to help you beyond appealing to my better nature, which, I assure you, is strained quite thin these days.”

“The curse is Fae made,” Geralt muttered. And that, at least, seemed to pique Yennefer’s academic curiosity.

“I want a second opinion!” Jaskier shouted as they stormed out of Yennefer’s tower. People were looking at them.

“No.” Geralt sighed shortly, scrubbing a hand over his face. It had been … well, humiliating the questions she asked. And though she had been clinical about it, there was the nagging suspicion that at least a few had not been strictly necessary.

Like, do you love him, then? and why, for the love of Melitlele, HIM?

Fuck if Geralt knew.

“She didn’t even help, Geralt,” Jaskier sniffed, thankfully quieter now. “Wait a month and it should go away on its own? A. Month?”

“I’ve waited for longer,” Geralt said quietly, sliding a look at Jaskier.

“Oh,” Jaskier said, surprised, “well, that’s … sweet.” He squeezed the strap of his lute, ducking his head. “I was, um, fucking other people though.”

“I know,” Geralt said, long-sufferingly.

Words have power among the Fair Folk, and the petty Fae had left her terms purposely vague. She had referred to the act both as tumbling and taking to bed, which caused Geralt to forbid all physical contact of the horizontal variety, up to and including clothed bed sharing.

“Yes, but what if you fucked me standing up,” was one of the first things that Jaskier had offered, to no avail.

Geralt was willing to pin him to a tree, kiss him senseless and bite red, angry marks all over his neck and chest, grinding their cocks together through their braies as Jaskier sobbed into his mouth. But he always pulled away while they were both still hard and panting with need.

“At least let me suck your cock!” Jaskier yelled after Geralt as he disappeared stiffly into the woods.

It was going to be a long month.

“It’s so much colder without you next to me,” Jaskier said mournfully. They had bet usage of the bed on a game of gwent, and in a rare turn of events, Jaskier had lost.

Celibacy was surely making his brain rot, he decided mulishly. 

“I offered you the bed,” Geralt grunted in the dark.

“No, no … you won it fair and square,” Jaskier sighed dramatically, pulling the camp blanket around his shoulders. “I just …”

Wanted to feel Geralt’s body against his own, hard and warm. Wanted to hear the beat of Geralt’s heart and bury his face in the scent of Geralt’s skin. Wanted to wake with Geralt’s face as the first he saw.

Jaskier also really, really wanted to get railed.

“Fuck this,” Jaskier muttered, wriggling his pants down his thighs just far enough to fish his cock free, his body heating under the blankets.

“Jaskier,” Geralt groaned, when he caught wind of what Jaskier was doing.

Jaskier began babbling as he stroked his cock, his voice whisper-quiet in the dark as he moaned about what he wanted to do to Geralt, what he wanted Geralt to do to him. Spread him open and lick him until he squirmed. Fuck him raw and make him drip with it. Oh fuck, oh-

Geralt was touching himself too, his breath harsh in the darkness. Jaskier could near the muffled sound of his friction and launched into a passionate monologue on how wonderfully he would worship Geralt’s cock, once he was able to get his mouth around him.

Jaskier came with his hand wrapped tight around the head of his prick, catching his spend to avoid dirtying the blanket. As he panted, feeling his heart slow and his limbs loosen, he heard Geralt follow him with a bitten-off groan.

“How much longer?”

“17 days.”


“‘m pretty sure it’s bad for you,” Jaskier said, his words slurring warmly into his ale. 

Another casualty of the damnable curse. It wasn’t safe for both of them to be intoxicated, as with their inhibitions lowered they had come dangerously close to … well, coming, the last time. Upon a coin flip, Geralt was forced to play the sober companion this night.

At least a drunk Jaskier was fairly adorable.

And, more importantly, easy to beat at gwent. 

“What’s bad for you?” Geralt asked patiently, sliding the pile of coin over to his side of the table. He wasn’t as much fleecing Jaskier as holding it for safe-keeping, really. Melitele knew the man didn’t need yet another pair of beribboned hose. 

“Abstinence,” Jaskier scowled. He looked at his empty tankard, then made a vague hand gesture. “‘f you go without too long … builds up. Bad for you.” 

“Hm,” Geralt said. “Convincing.” 

Jaskier opened his mouth, then closed it, blowing a raspberry. “I’d die for it, you know,” he said plaintively, grabbing for Geralt’s hand. 

“I know,” Geralt said, feeling strangely tender as he rubbed his thumb across Jaskier’s knuckles. “It’s just one more week.”

Six days, 4 hours and 28 minutes, but who was counting?

“Book a room, Geralt, for as long as we can afford,” Jaskier panted, the flush high in his cheeks after they had parted from yet another desperate kissing session which only served to torture them both. “In two days, I’m going to wreck you. We’re not getting out of bed until neither of us can stand for a month.” 

“We’re not getting out of bed … until we can’t stand?” Geralt asked dryly.

But then he thought of how he’d nearly lost a hand to a Endrega drone the other day because Jaskier was wearing tight pants and had been so fucking distracting because he just kept falling

“Three days.” 

A week.” 



Jaskier drew in a long breath and released it, kneeling on the camp blanket in a facsimile of the meditation stance he’d seen Geralt do many times before. 

“Last night,” Geralt said from beside him.

“Yep,” Jaskier said, keeping his eyes stubbornly closed. 

“Can’t sleep?” 

“Can you?” Jaskier cracked open an eye to see Geralt lounging on his own camp roll in an infuriatingly delectable fashion. Every fucking thing the man did made Jaskier want to suck the cock right off his body. 

Twelve hours. Twelve damnable hours, then they would see that witch one last time and fucking consummate this thing. In the front lawn of her tower, if necessary. 

Jaskier breathed in. Breathed out. 

“You know what I realized?” Geralt asked musingly. Jaskier was beginning to understand his annoyance when Jaskier chattered through his practice. “We could have just gone our separate ways this month.” 

Jaskier blinked, turning to Geralt, who shrugged. 

“Would have been less tortuous, maybe,” he said.  

“I don’t care about that,” Jaskier scowled. “I mean, I care … but I’d rather suffer my unvented frustrations with you rather than,” he made an empty gesture, “not have you at all.” 

Geralt was silent for a long moment. “I see,” he said finally, sounding oddly strangled. 

“What about you?” Jaskier asked, at last giving up the half-hearted attempt at meditation. He unspooled his legs and lowered himself onto his camp roll, which had been placed a polite, but friendly distance away from Geralt’s own - separated by Geralt’s swords, just in case either of them got a little grabby during the night. “The curse was only placed on me, you know,” Jaskier said, pulling the blanket up to his chin as he turned his face to the stars. “You were well within your rights to … take others into your bed.” 

“Maybe,” Geralt said. “Didn’t want anyone else, though.” 

It was what Jaskier wanted to hear, but he was still irrationally pleased to hear it, pressing his palms over his face and holding the heat of his cheeks in the cold night. 

“So are you ready to repeat what you said while you thought I was dying …?” 

“No,” Geralt said hurriedly, turning away on his side. “I don’t remember anything.” 

Jaskier banged on the door to Yennefer’s tower with enough force to scare a flock of birds from the nearby bushes. When she didn’t respond immediately, he stepped back and cupped his hands over his mouth.

“Come out, Yennefer!” he shouted, “I know you’re in there!” 

Jaskier,” Geralt hissed, because Yennefer could easily decide to turn Jaskier into some disgusting animal, and then were would they be?

The door of Yennefer’s tower creaked open ominously but Jaskier didn’t hesitate before barreling inside. Geralt followed, only a hair more sedately, up the twisting stone staircase to find Yennefer on the top floor, sipping tea in her robe with an irritated look on her face.

“You better have good reason to be disturbing me at this hour,” Yennefer said, narrowing her eyes. “Considering that both of you have blood still in your bodies, I’d say you don’t.” 

Jaskier huffed, putting his hands on his hips. “Are you kidding me? Have you forgotten?” 

Yennefer blinked blankly, her gaze sliding from Jaskier to Geralt. “Oh,” she said, in a manner that made Geralt’s heart sink. “Oh … the fae curse?” 

“Yes the fae curse!” Jaskier shouted, “what other curse could it be? It’s been a month down to the minute, now-”

Yennefer laughed dryly, her gaze skittering away. “Oh dear,” she said. “I didn’t think you’d actually believe me.” 

“I … what?” 

“Fae curses expire the moment their caster perishes. I was just messing with you,” Yennefer said evenly, sipping at her tea. She glanced at Geralt critically. “I really thought you would get a second opinion.” 

That was, Geralt thought, as close to an apology as they were ever going to get. 

Jaskier’s expression was breathtakingly thunderous. “You-” 

Geralt picked Jaskier up and slung him over his shoulder, catching Jaskier in the middle of launching himself bodily at Yennefer, absorbing his clawing and kicking as he dragged them out of the room. Yennefer waved her fingers at them as they departed. 

“-me down Geralt, I’m going to kill her, I’m going to kill her-” 

“Jaskier,” Geralt said through gritted teeth, “you know what this means.” 

Jaskier’s struggles slowed. “Geralt,” he whispered, “how far is the inn?” 

“Not far,” Geralt said, wondering if it was safe to set Jaskier on his feet. He decided to risk it once the tower door closed after them, and immediately received an armful of Jaskier, pulling his mouth down for a desperate, hungry kiss. 

Groaning, Geralt pinned Jaskier to the wall of the tower, biting at the line of his neck as Jaskier panted. 

“You know what’s even closer?” Jaskier moaned, his eyes flicking to the front lawn.

Yennefer opened her tower window and bespelled an ice-cold torrent of water upon their heads as soon as Jaskier made the suggestion. 

Though dripping wet, they did make it to the inn room in one piece, and they did not leave it for a week.