Chapter Text
The witch didn’t die easily.
Her den was a tangle of swamp bone and spell smoke, curling with old rot and something sweeter underneath, ripe fruit, honey left too long, the stench of temptation turned sickly. Geralt stood over her corpse, chest heaving, silver blade dripping black ichor that steamed where it hit the wet ground.
She had clawed at him as she fell. Not to fight, to touch. Her hand had curled around his wrist with a grip like wire, pulling herself up enough to get her mouth close.
The whisper still rang in his ears. “From now on…your pleasure belongs to someone else.”
He’d felt something crawl under his skin as she said it. Magic. Old. Precise. Not meant to kill.
No, meant to linger.
He’d spat and tossed her corpse into the mud, expecting it to fizzle like all dying curses. It didn't. Not at first. Not that he could tell.
He left without another word.
The tavern in Sodden was too loud, too hot, and full of the kind of people who recognized a Witcher but didn’t know what to do about it. He grunted for his ale, found a seat in the corner, and tried to ignore the thud of his heartbeat when he heard the first familiar note on the lute.
Jaskier.
He’d missed him more than he cared to admit.
They hadn’t traveled together in a few months. Letters passed. Songs overheard in passing. He thought it would be easier, less complicated. It wasn’t. Now, with the bard backlit by firelight, hair a little longer, sleeves rolled, smiling as he sang, Geralt felt something coil low in his gut.
He didn’t stay to say hello. He couldn’t.
He left the tavern before the set ended and waited in the woods, pacing like a man possessed. His cock was already hard. Fuck. Stupid. He stripped off his armor piece by piece until he was bare to the waist, the cold forest air doing nothing to calm him down.
He leaned against a tree, spat in his palm, and wrapped his hand around himself.
“Just once,” he muttered. “Get it over with. Get you out of my head.”
The image of Jaskier, laughing on stage, those lips, the way he looked when he was flushed from performing, tunic stuck to his back, the shape of his mouth when he said Geralt, it burned behind his eyes.
He pumped his fist faster. It wasn’t romantic. It was filthy. Furious. He was panting within minutes, hips jerking, precum slick down his knuckles. The pressure built fast and hard, too fast…and then…
Nothing.
No release.
His body clenched, drawn tight like a bowstring, and held. His cock twitched violently, but no orgasm followed. Not ruined. Not dry. Just denied. Like something had grabbed his spine and said: Not yet.
He cursed, snarled, tightened his grip and tried again. No good. His balls ached. His thighs shook. Still no relief. He dropped to his knees, panting, forehead to bark, his own sweat stinging his eyes.
“Fuck,” he gasped. “Fuck. Fuck.”
By the time Jaskier caught up with him near their camp, Geralt was fully clothed again, fire already started, face set in stone.
“There you are!” Jaskier grinned. “You didn’t even let me finish my second verse. What’s the rush, hm? You looked like you were about to come out of your trousers.”
Geralt flinched.
Just a little. Just enough.
He turned away too fast, hoping the shadows would hide it.
“What’s that?” Jaskier teased. “Don’t tell me I make you blush now. You look like you need to come already.”
He said it so casually. Just a joke. A flirt, maybe.
Geralt froze.
Then his breath hitched.
And then…he shook.
His body seized, hips jolting forward without permission, a guttural sound clawing its way out of his throat as heat ripped through him. His cock throbbed violently inside his trousers. He came hard, untouched, soaking his pants with brutal, endless pulses, every muscle locked tight. The firelight flared gold across his clenched teeth, sweat beaded forehead, and wide, wild eyes.
He held his breath until it passed. Until he could move again.
Jaskier had already wandered off toward the stream to wash up, humming to himself.
He didn’t see it.
Geralt exhaled. Shaking. Horrified.
“Shit.”