Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The only small mercy of the situation, Geralt thought as he gritted his teeth and struggled harder, was that Jaskier wasn't awake to see it. He'd been knocked out by a vine whipping him in the head, which had seemed like an accident at the time but now, he suspected, was because the--whatever it was, the mass of plants and vines acting as one, had been interested only in Geralt and wanted no interference.

True, if Jaskier were awake, he might be able to help him escape. But it seemed unlikely, as the vines were strong enough to hold Geralt fast and move him as they pleased--and were Jaskier awake, he would see.

The way things were going, Geralt could think of nothing worse.

The vines snaking around his legs wrenched them further apart as he felt the fabric at his waist finally give under another vine's insistent tugging. There was no room left for doubt as to their intentions, and it was almost absurd imagining what kind of magic could have created such a creature. Almost, but not quite; he was having difficulty finding the humor in the situation at the moment. He didn't stop struggling--he couldn't--but it continued to accomplish nothing as matters progressed steadily: clothes tearing to shreds, vines snaking around his arms to tug them painfully behind him, and before long the inexorable slide of the slick vines between his spread legs. As a smaller one snaked around his cock, he realized with a dim, almost distant sense of horror that he was--responding.

"No," he muttered, under his breath and then again, louder, "no," but of course it made no difference--not to the progress of the vines, as a particularly thick one parted his cheeks to nudge wetly at his hole, and not to the way his cock quickly swelled under the ministrations of the vine twined around it.

It was hopeless, and he was helpless, and the realization sent a dizzying, unwelcome surge of heat through him, followed too quickly by another as the vine prodding at his ass finally pushed past his resistance with a hard surge, sliding deep inside him all at once and tearing a sound from his mouth that was almost a sob.

Things began to blur, then--perhaps his mind taking pity on him, in the only small way it could. Yet even as he lost himself in the flood of sensations, he remained awake enough to twist uselessly against the vines that held him, and to feel a deep, drowning sense of shame as he clenched helplessly around the vine stretching him open and came harder than he had in years.

If he'd had any dim hope of being released at that point, it was quickly destroyed; the creature's only response to his orgasm was to fuck him harder, the vine inside him seeming impossibly to swell as it slid in and out. The one on his cock didn't let up either, and the slick sensation on his oversensitive flesh made him yelp--a humiliating sound, and one that was quickly muffled as another vine took the opportunity to press inside his open mouth.

There was no further degradation possible. His only hope was that it would tire of him eventually, that it didn't actually want to kill him like this. His eyes closed as he sank deeper and for some time, there was only sensation--the ruthless build of a second orgasm, the physical waves of humiliation that washed over him as he moaned and drooled around the vines forcing his jaw so wide it ached. He came again, whimpering, and it kept happening, and kept happening, until he couldn't remember anything except this--being fucked, stretched, tortured, pleasured, endlessly.

And then he heard a voice.

"Wha," Jaskier muttered, sounding woozy. "What...Geralt...."

His eyes flew open at the same moment Jaskier's did, looking directly at him. If the shame had come in waves before it was a torrent now, slamming him flat, knocking away every other feeling and thought under a steady scream of horror as Jaskier's eyes widened, taking in the sight before him.

Except he could feel something else, because at that precise moment his third orgasm hit, his cock twitching painfully as a few more drops of spend spurted out to join the slippery mess on his stomach. If the gods had had any mercy, he would have died right then. Instead he closed his eyes and only wished for it.

After a second he heard a loud grunt, and a heavy thud, and the vines began to loosen. He almost couldn't credit it at first, but gradually, with each thud, he felt himself start to slip free. He forced himself to open his eyes and saw Jaskier, Geralt's sword clutched tightly in both hands, swing again at the vines.

"Come on," Jaskier muttered, his voice lined with panic, "come on, let go, fucking let go," and either because of his hacking at them, or because they were simply--done with Geralt now, they did. Had he been capable of further shame, the sound the one in his ass made as it withdrew--an impossibly loud squelch that seemed to last forever, leaving him achingly empty at last--would have done it, but there was simply no worse it could get. The abjection was total, and he fell to the ground as the last vines released and lay there, breathing heavily.

He heard Jaskier approach, his footsteps tentative. "Are you--" Okay, he didn't finish, clearly thinking better of it.

Geralt wanted nothing less than to acknowledge his presence, but the fear in Jaskier's voice was too real to ignore. And after all, he wasn't, actually, injured. He nodded, but couldn't make himself open his eyes.

"Oh thank the gods," Jaskier said, letting out a heavy breath. "I...I'm..."

If he apologized, Geralt thought, he was going to have to scream.

But he didn't. He took a deep breath and said, "I'm going to get you some clothes. I'll be right back, okay?"

Geralt nodded again. He waited for the sound of retreating footsteps before pushing himself up to sitting, every muscle groaning as he did. Gods, he was going to be sore for days, enhanced healing or no.

Roach and their bags were just over the crest of the hill; there was no reason for Jaskier to take almost ten minutes to return with a bundle of clothing tucked under his arm--no reason except kindness, and Geralt couldn't thank him for it, and knew he didn't have to. Absurdly, Jaskier turned his back as Geralt dressed, something he hadn't done even before they'd been lovers. Another silent gift.

When they got back to where Roach was waiting, Jaskier swung up into the saddle without waiting to be told. A powerful pang of twin emotions almost wrenched Geralt apart--a new depth of humiliation that Jaskier knew full well why Geralt couldn't ride at the moment, and an even deeper wellspring of love for him for knowing and not caring.

"Tomorrow," Jaskier said, "what do you say we come back here and burn this place to the ground?"

"Sounds like a plan," Geralt said, and they set off.

--

He didn't, actually, want to go back in the morning. But the thought of leaving the vine creature alive was worse, so he forced back the shudder that threatened to overtake him as they crested the hill--though from the soft glance Jaskier shot him, he didn't do a great job of it.

When he'd taken the job, they'd told him something in the forest was killing people. There'd been no mention of--violation; apparently the thing simply had a taste for witchers. It was just a monster that stole lives, like any other, and if he wanted the pay he'd been promised--and to live with himself--he needed to end it.

The reports had all been of deaths in the middle of the night, and sure enough, as they approached the little glade with the morning sun shining down, not a vine even twitched. The fire took surprisingly quickly, for how swampy the place was. It only needed a half dozen torches before the whole thing was ablaze.

"Good riddance," Jaskier said, with real hatred in his voice.

They stood a safe distance and watched the vines blacken and crackle and spit until only ashes were left. He'd worried a little about if it spread, but there seemed to be some invisible barrier around the area, and the fire eventually simply died out on its own. Geralt supposed something about this job had to go right.

There, he thought, it's over. And for the rest of the day, it seemed like maybe it actually was.

Walking leisurely toward the next town with Jaskier, after a quick stop to be paid, he could almost forget about the whole ordeal. By evening he felt able to ride again, though his muscles still ached, and by nightfall he was looking forward to slipping into their shared bedroll as he always did, and drifting off to sleep with Jaskier tucked securely against him under his arm.

They made camp, and Jaskier strummed away at something or other while Geralt built the fire and cooked, and they ate, and Jaskier leaned comfortably against him and told him stories about the constellations until he started yawning too much to continue. The events of the previous night seemed almost entirely like a dream, which continued until he was lying down and drifting off to sleep, at which point he thought--the words so clear in his mind that his neck prickled as if someone were there next to him, speaking them: You liked it.

It woke him like a bucket of cold water to the face.

Jaskier dozed on in his arms, which was a relief, because his body was abruptly prickling hot all over. On one level it wasn't true--he could still taste the sour dread and fear in the back of his throat that had flooded him the whole time, could still feel the revulsion that had seized him at the thing's first touch. And yet...

It wasn't so much the orgasms that horrified him. Bodies were malleable, responsive, and above all stupid; they did what they were told. It was the deep pit of heat that had settled in his stomach as the vines had tightened around his arms and legs. It was the way his cock now sprung rapidly to attention as the memories turned over in his mind, as he relived the sensation of being truly, utterly helpless--of being used, splayed open, humiliated.

Being seen. As he replayed the moment he'd locked eyes with Jaskier, his hips jerked forward without warning, rubbing his now-aching cock against Jaskier's warm back. He froze instantly, but Jaskier only mumbled something in his sleep and shifted slightly.

Slowly, with an abundance of caution unmatched since the last kikimora he'd slain, he inched away from Jaskier and, once he was free, rolled over. His hand nearly flew to his cock, and he sunk his teeth brutally hard into his lip to keep quiet as he thrust up into it, breath hissing hard through his nose.

Jaskier had seen him, and for a second--for half a second, just long enough to brand the thought indelibly in his mind, Geralt had imagined what might have happened if he'd done something very different. If instead of grabbing Geralt's dropped sword and attacking the vines, he'd simply...watched. Moved closer, maybe.

Stretched out a hand to pet Geralt's stretched and swollen lips, or dragged a finger slowly down his dripping chest, through the mess of spend Geralt had left there. Or if he'd said--

He didn't get a chance to imagine the words; probably wouldn't have been able to anyway. Instead his mind froze as he came, shaking.

He wiped his hand in the grass, barely able to breathe from disgust. Surely he couldn't sleep after that, but his body responded to satisfaction the same way as it almost always did--with an easy descent into rest that lasted until morning.

--

It happened twice more over the next week. All day his mind would be clear; then at night, if he couldn't distract himself sufficiently to fall asleep, he would end up jerking himself off miserably and coming hard enough to turn his spine to liquid thinking about what Jaskier could have said and done to him while he was unable to resist, or even protest.

(It turned out, given a little time to prepare, he could imagine the words quite well.)

It was half of what drove him to approach Jaskier after a week had passed without a single errant hand or casual kiss. If he could just--remind himself what normal sex was like, and what Jaskier was like, and how good the two were together. Maybe he could put the thoughts out of his mind.

The other half was just missing him. After only a year of sleeping together, traveling with Jaskier for a week without fucking left Geralt in a state uncomfortably close to yearning. It was as if he still needed a reminder that he could touch Jaskier now, that he could do more than sit next to him and share a fire and sleep chastely pressed together for warmth. That Jaskier wanted him to, which he wasn't acting like just at the moment. Outside of sleep, he hadn't done anything more intimate than pat Geralt's arm all week.

Not that Geralt didn't understand why, or wouldn't have done the same. But it just meant it was up to him to initiate matters, and that was what he did, planting a soft kiss of clear intent on Jaskier's throat as he settled behind him on the bed in their room. He backed it up with an exploring hand up his chest, tracing a path through the soft curls.

"Mmm," Jaskier hummed lazily, sounding delighted. Then he paused, and looked back at Geralt. It was only the ghost of a frown that danced across his face, but it was there. "Are you sure?" he asked.

The thought flashed across his mind that Jaskier could make him beg for it, and he struggled not to clench his jaw from arousal, knowing it would be misinterpreted. Instead he leaned forward a few inches and pressed a firm kiss to Jaskier's mouth, licking a little until his lips parted.

"Yeah," he said simply, and meant it.

For a while it was just easy and good, the same as always. They kissed and touched until Jaskier was letting out pleased little sounds, and started to rock his hips back and forth between Geralt's thigh and the hand squeezing his ass. It felt only good and right to hold him, and surprisingly--or perhaps not--Jaskier didn't push for more, just shoved down his tangled smallclothes so he could rut against Geralt's bare skin with his own.

Jaskier liked kissing but he really liked having his throat bitten and sucked, in the right spots, and when Geralt felt him getting close he moved to do just that, enjoying the stream of whimpers and full-throated moans as Jaskier worked himself closer and finally came, spilling hot and wet between their bodies.

Geralt felt it hit and drew in a sharp breath. Jaskier's eyes snapped open, pupils still huge.

"Can I suck your cock?" he breathed, and--as if he needed to--added a fervent, "Please?"

"Fuck," Geralt said, voice rough in his throat. "Yes."

Jaskier smiled and crawled down his body, shuffling backwards a little awkwardly. One hand came to rest on Geralt's hip and the other wrapped around the base of his cock as Jaskier's mouth took him in, and he let his head fall back, breathing faster.

That was when the thought came, and like before, the words were as clear as a bell ringing: He could hold you down.

Jaskier did that, occasionally, if Geralt slipped and fucked his mouth a little too hard or deep, but it was always just a reminder that Geralt willingly heeded. Of course Jaskier couldn't actually hold him down, not even if he had wanted to.

But the thought, and the image, were impervious to reality. In his mind Jaskier pinned him down with cruel hands and swallowed him to the root, dragging orgasm after orgasm out of him until it hurt. Until Geralt had to beg him to stop--and he wouldn't--

Geralt came with a half-strangled cry and an unspeakable wave of self-loathing. He didn't push Jaskier away afterward, but it was a near thing; he felt like he had, in some obscure way, tainted the other man with his thoughts.

But Jaskier wouldn't understand, and Geralt would sooner die than explain it to him. So he acted normally, as much as he could, and Jaskier didn't seem to notice anything amiss.

"I missed you," Jaskier murmured sleepily in his ear. Despite himself, Geralt clutched him a little tighter.

"Yeah," he said, around a sudden tightness in his throat. "I...yeah."

--

Slowly, he came to a sort of hateful accord with this new obsession. The thoughts rarely bothered him during the day, as they traveled, taking jobs here and there, pausing in inns and taverns when they found them for Jaskier to ply his trade and earn some coin. It wasn't even every night that he thought about it, because he was nothing if not practiced in self-denial. Nor even every time he and Jaskier fucked, for that matter.

But it was often, and once the train of thought started there was no stopping it. He stopped resisting eventually, though that didn't stop the hot thrum of shame that pulsed through him every time, inextricable from the arousal itself. If he was fucking Jaskier at the time, it was easy enough to hide; one passion much resembled another, after all. If he was alone, as he often was--curled at the edge of the bed, his back to Jaskier's sleeping form, stroking himself frantically with his lips pressed together hard enough to keep any sound from escaping--it was even easier.

He had long, long practice hating himself, not just for the things he'd done but for what he was--cold, empty, cruel, incapable of love, and most of all inhuman. He was long accustomed to it. But this was different.

If someone had done it to him, he thought, he could have raged. If some person had forced themselves on him, and watched, and taken pleasure in his humiliation, then he could have hated them, and killed them, and concentrated on feeling that instead. But the vine-creature had just been a monster, devoid of intelligence or real intent, and burning it to ashes had brought no conclusion. He was just left with the new and unbearable knowledge of the things he wanted, and worst of all could never, ever have again.

That creeping, hateful disappointment was why it took him almost a month to ask Jaskier to fuck him again. It had been a regular habit, before; Geralt had never put much store in the notions some men had that getting fucked made them less of a man, that it was a weak, submissive act. It felt good, that was all, and he trusted Jaskier enough to let him, so they did, about as often as they did anything else.

But what he'd felt with the vines inside him--that had been weak and submissive, the way he'd squirmed and mewled as the vines had forced their way inside his body and stretched him wider than any man's (or woman's) cock ever had. It felt dangerous to let himself indulge again knowing what he'd want from Jaskier, now, and what he certainly couldn't have.

Still, the urge kept returning, until he convinced himself that maybe it would be all right--maybe with Jaskier really there, smiling and gentle and real instead of the unspeakably vicious mirage in Geralt's imagination, it would just be like it used to. And he missed it.

What he hadn't expected, but really should have, was that Jaskier seemed skittish about the idea. The first time Geralt drew his hand, which had otherwise been wandering quite extensively as they kissed, down to cup his ass and gave it a helpful squeeze, Jaskier stiffened against him. Just slightly, for a moment, and he hid it well, but it happened, and Geralt didn't press further.

He knew Jaskier liked doing it, had years of evidence that it was, in fact, one of his favorite things they did together. So he could only assume that Jaskier was being cautious with him, and the thought was infuriating. It made him feel helpless in a way that didn't send delicious heat shivering through his body, but just left him cold, and not a little angry.

So a few nights later, when they were kissing in bed again and his hand had found its way to Jaskier's steadily rising prick, he licked a slow stripe up the side of Jaskier's neck, right where he liked it best, and took a moment to enjoy the throaty gasp of praise that earned him before murmuring, lips brushing the shell of his ear, "I want you to fuck me."

For a second it seemed to work. Jaskier's cock jumped in his grip and he let out a strangled "Oh--" Geralt licked him again and followed it with a soft bite, worrying the tender skin between his teeth, and felt his body heat up, anticipating.

When Jaskier shifted away from him, though, he went cold all over. "I don't--I'd rather not," Jaskier said, his voice unreadable. "Not tonight. Is that okay?"

There was a smell of anxiety in the air now, unmistakable and sour. He'd never smelled it during sex before. Jaskier had never been reluctant about anything they did, or anything Geralt wanted. And he was still hard--harder than before, even. Geralt let him go.

"Sure," he said, keeping his voice steady. "What do you want?"

"I think...I think I'm tired," Jaskier said. He was only looking at Geralt in quick glances, like a scared rabbit. "Could we just sleep?"

"Sure," Geralt said again. The sour scent shifted to the yeasty bread smell of relief, and he didn't understand. But he thought he might know.

It was too bad to think about directly, though, so he let Jaskier spoon comfortably into his arms, and eventually, despite his misgivings, fell asleep.

When he woke some time later, the room still dark, his arms were empty and Jaskier lay a foot away, his back to Geralt and his arm moving back and forth unmistakably. So were the sounds he was biting back, probably inaudible to human ears, but not to Geralt's. Still sleepy, not thinking, he reached out on instinct, feeling only warm and dozily eager to join in.

At the first touch of Geralt's hand, Jaskier hissed in surprise and jerked away so hard he almost rolled off the bed. Geralt slowly dropped his hand to the mattress in the empty space between them, and--fully awake now--thought, oh. Of course.

Of course Jaskier didn't want to fuck him. Why would he? He was obviously disgusted, as well he should be. Geralt was used, filthy and weak--the sort of man who craved being powerless, who loved being violated.

Utterly undesirable, anymore. He didn't blame Jaskier at all. But--gods, he'd hoped--Jaskier hadn't seemed to care. He'd seemed to want Geralt just as much as he always had. He'd put on, Geralt thought with bitter admiration, an amazingly good show of it.

"Stop it." Jaskier's voice pierced through his thoughts, sounding...plaintive? He'd turned his head to look at Geralt, and now he rolled over to face him, though he didn't move closer. "Fuck, stop looking like that. It's not--"

He broke off, and let out a soft wordless sound so unutterably miserable Geralt couldn't help but meet his eyes.

"It's not you," he said finally, in a small, shamefaced voice, face twisted with what Geralt couldn't quite process as guilt, because it didn't make sense. What else could it be?

"I keep having these thoughts," Jaskier said, spitting the last word out hatefully. "About--about finding you--like that, when it happened, and I didn't want to then, I swear, it's just--now, when I think about it. I want to--to do things. Bad things. And--" He stopped, looking like he was fighting something, then blurted out, "It turns me on so fucking much."

It wasn't the conclusion Geralt was bracing for at all.

"You hate me now," Jaskier said, the words at this point rushing out of his mouth. "Of course you hate me, I'm sick, I'm awful, I'm sorry. I won't--I'll leave," and he swung his legs out of bed and started to get up, shoulders hunched in obvious agony.

"Stop," Geralt said without thinking. Jaskier instantly froze in place, not looking at Geralt.

He'd thought the last thing he wanted, the absolute last thing in the world, was to confess his pathetic desires to Jaskier. But it turned out the actual last thing was to let Jaskier keep feeling like this.

"What happened," he said. "What happened to me. I liked it."

"Geralt," Jaskier said, his voice gentle, "just because you responded physically, it doesn't mean--"

"No," he said, cutting him off. "I liked it. I liked--that I couldn't--that it made me." He paused, uncertain whether to keep going, and then kept going anyway. "And I think about it too."

"About...what happened?" Jaskier asked, still frozen.

"About if you hadn't helped. If you'd just watched. And said...things."

Jaskier sat down finally and turned toward him, looking at him so, so carefully. "Cruel things," he said slowly. "Terrible things."

The relief was so overwhelming that Geralt physically sagged. "Yeah."

Still moving like he was afraid Geralt might spook, Jaskier reached out a hand and cupped his face. Geralt immediately pressed his cheek into the touch, eyes closing with the sheer relief washing over him.

"Fuck," Jaskier said, sounding a little hysterical.

"Yeah," Geralt agreed. "Come back?"

Jaskier slid closer, arms wrapping around him, and Geralt held him back, and felt his racing heartbeat gradually slow back down.

"Um," Jaskier said eventually, forehead pressed against his. "Does this mean...do you want to..." He swallowed audibly. "We could do something like that."

"Like what?" Geralt said, heart picking right back up.

"If you like...being treated that way," Jaskier said. "Being spoken to like that. I would be...amenable, sometimes."

His mouth felt dry. "Are you sure?"

"I've been thinking about it for...a while. Since. Well." There was still an ugly slither of guilt in his voice, but he met Geralt's eyes. "I want it if you want it."

"...yeah," Geralt said, feeling like was stepping off a cliff. "But not tonight."

Jaskier made a wild sound that was mostly a laugh. "Gods, no, not tonight. Tonight I need you to hold me in your arms like a very delicate flower, if you don't mind."

Geralt gladly obliged. The sudden reprieve from the primal fear he'd been carrying at his center left him feeling relaxed in a way he hadn't known in weeks, and he fell back asleep a few minutes later.

--

At the next good-sized town they stopped in, Jaskier vanished midday on unspecified business. "Just wait here for me," he said, so Geralt did. There was a wild shine in Jaskier's eyes, and his heart had been beating faster than normal, and Geralt tried to rein in the thrill of anticipation that filled him without much success.

Sure enough, an hour later Jaskier returned to their room at the inn holding a coiled length of rope. It was the good stuff, Geralt could tell--smooth to the touch, almost shiny. The dim room seemed abruptly very bright.

"We passed a roper on our way into town," Jaskier said, shifting back and forth from foot to foot. "So I thought...tonight?"

Geralt nodded, not quite trusting himself to speak.

"Okay," Jaskier said, a smile spreading across his face. "Okay. Good. Well." The hand holding the rope tightened its grip and a blush began to creep up his throat. "I'll just...put this away." He tucked it neatly under the pillow on his side of the bed, and Geralt could breathe a little easier.

They headed downstairs to eat supper, then, and Jaskier took out his lute and played a few surprisingly successful tunes--capping the evening's performance, of course, with a rousing round of "Toss a Coin." It didn't fetch him as much as it would have if Geralt had just finished a job, but his presence for Jaskier to gesture at while singing always helped.

("Just sit there and look noble and tragic," Jaskier had instructed him, years ago, and Geralt had to admit it worked every time.)

When the door to their room closed behind them, though, the spell of normalcy was broken. Jaskier didn't make him ask, thankfully; just went straight for the bed and pulled out the rope, and walked back to where Geralt was waiting, abruptly unable to move.

"Tell me," Jaskier said, a hint of pleading in his voice. "If it goes too far. Do you promise you'll tell me?"

Geralt nodded, and then, because it felt like he should, spoke. "Yeah. I promise."

Before his eyes, Jaskier seemed to undergo a transformation. His eyes darkened; he took a deep breath and seemed to get slightly taller, even as he tilted his head languidly. "Well then," he said, "why don't you undress," and it wasn't a question.

He'd stripped in front of Jaskier countless times--for sex, even--but this felt different immediately. Jaskier wasn't taking anything off himself, for one thing. He just stood there, and watched with a faint smile as Geralt removed first his armor, then his shirt and trousers. He could feel his cock stirring as he took them off, and when he stepped out of his smallclothes he realized, with a dizzying sense of dismay that sent heat racing down his spine, that he was already mostly hard.

"Eager, I see," Jaskier commented. Geralt pressed his mouth shut tightly and breathed. "Get on the bed. On your back."

He obeyed--and fuck if thinking of it that way didn't make him even hotter. Jaskier did shrug off his doublet then, but that was all, and he followed Geralt onto the bed, rope in hand.

"Hands up against the headboard, there you go. Hold them there for me." Rope encircled Geralt's wrist, as smooth and comfortable as he'd thought it would be. It wouldn't even leave marks, unless he struggled. "Now, I know you could get out of this," Jaskier said, as he tied a surprisingly solid knot--more the work of a sailor than a bard. "But you won't, will you? You don't want to."

Holding still and pliant, allowing himself to be moved and bound, Geralt slipped into a strange state of mind. It wasn't relaxation--he was acutely sensitive to every touch of Jaskier's hand, and his heart was, if not quite racing, still faster than its usual slow pace. But the air seemed thicker; things seemed to happen slowly. When his hands were both tied, Jaskier pushed one leg back, bending him in two until the sole of his foot was pointed halfway at the ceiling.

He felt his face start to heat up, knowing exactly how exposed he was. He was fully hard by now, aching with need. Jaskier finished tying the next knot and ran his thumbnail up the underside of his erection, pressing just hard enough to make Geralt shudder.

"Other leg, please," he said, sounding almost polite.

It had been easier to let Jaskier move him; to do it himself was a struggle, and he couldn't hold back a soft rush of breath as he moved his left leg into position.

"So cooperative," Jaskier said, with an approving gaze that made his stomach flip over with something halfway between nausea and fierce arousal. He tied that leg too and sat back, looking Geralt up and down appraisingly.

That strange sensation grew stronger. It was almost meditative, except there was nothing quiet about it. He lay there folded in half like a toy, all dignity vanished, and his gut positively boiled with shame and hunger; every inch of his skin prickled with heat. And yet the longer Jaskier looked at him with that assessing gaze, the easier it became to stop thinking so damned much.

"You do look good like this," Jaskier said. "All the most important parts, right here in easy reach." He stroked a thumb over Geralt's exposed hole and Geralt jerked in surprise, heat rushing to his face. "And so sensitive. Oh, I'm going to enjoy this. I have so many lovely plans for you. We might not even get to all of them tonight."

Usually when Jaskier talked to him during sex--which was most of the time--it was praise, or pleas, or stupid jokes, and always--always--it felt like he was sharing something with Geralt. Giving something to him for them to share together, but now his voice was purely self-satisfied, offering nothing to hold onto. It would have been almost frightening, but it was feeding something inside Geralt, something that craved exactly this: humiliation, and disregard, and even the stirrings of fear.

He couldn't do anything, so he lay still and watched, breathing fast and shallow, as Jaskier rummaged through his bag for the oil, then eased his trousers down just enough to release his erection and stalked across the bed toward Geralt.

The thought of Jaskier fucking him almost fully clothed, while Geralt lay naked and splayed and available felt like a punch. He twisted in the ropes without meaning to, then did it more as the feeling of the tight knots sent a bolt straight to his cock.

He could get out, he knew. If he pulled hard enough, it was well within his strength to simply tear the knots free. But Jaskier was right; he didn't want to. He just wanted to feel them, to sink into the illusion that he was truly helpless again, and remember how it had felt.

"That's going to leave a very nice set of marks if you keep struggling like that," Jaskier said. "Or is that what you want?" He sounded quite interested in this prospect. "Would you like to look at your wrists tomorrow and be reminded of how you let me tie you up and fuck you, and how you squirmed and wriggled through it?"

Geralt stared at him, panting now. After a moment, Jaskier reached out and, without warning, landed a quick hard flick to his cock. The yell that tore out of him was almost as much surprise as pain.

"I asked you a question," he said, quite pleasantly.

Some distant corner of Geralt's mind was able to marvel that he really hadn't thought Jaskier had it in him. The rest of him, although it seemed utterly impossible, managed to rasp out, "Yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes, I--I want it."

For a second he thought, with a delicious thrill of horror, that Jaskier was going to make him repeat the whole thing. But he only smiled.

"Wriggle away, then." He uncorked the oil and poured a generous quantity into his palm, then stroked it up and down his cock. He leaned forward, one arm planted by Geralt's head, and lined himself up, just barely pressing in. "Ready, darling?" he said, voice dripping with terrible solicitousness.

Geralt opened his mouth, not at all sure what he was going to say.

"Never mind," Jaskier said, and with one thrust seated himself so deep Geralt stopped breathing for a second. "I don't actually care."

The sudden stretch burned terribly, beautifully, just like before. He stared up at Jaskier and drew in a deep, unsteady breath, waiting.

"Mmm," Jaskier breathed, pulling out slowly, then slamming in again. "Mm, could be tighter," which was blatantly untrue but sent a nasty thrill through Geralt anyway. "I think taking those vines might have ruined your pretty little hole."

The sound that escaped him was beyond humiliating--wavery, high and shocked. He bit his lip, though it was too late.

Jaskier's eyes narrowed, and then there was a hand on his chin, pulling. "Oh no you don't. I want to hear you, open up."

With a shivering reluctance he opened his mouth, but Jaskier didn't remove his hand. Instead he pushed three fingers in, not deep enough to gag him but enough to make him moan at the sudden fullness.

"That's what you like, isn't it?" Jaskier said, real warmth slipping into his voice. Like he wanted to give Geralt what he wanted. "To be filled up and fucked at both ends?" He grinned, stroking Geralt's tongue. "You certainly looked like you liked it before."

Geralt groaned and licked at Jaskier's fingers, loving the way it made his breath catch and his steady thrusts stutter.

"Oh, that's very good," he said softly, and the words and the tone were like lightning in Geralt's belly, making him whimper again. "Fuck, I wish I could take your mouth too."

There was real wistfulness in his voice; it was mirrored in Geralt's thoughts. Before he could let himself think twice about it, Geralt closed his mouth around Jaskier's fingers and started to suck on them, letting his tongue slide back and forth over the calloused tips.

"Oh," Jaskier breathed, "oh, you good boy," and the noise Geralt made at that was unbearable in his own ears, even muffled around Jaskier's fingers.

But he kept making it, and kept sucking, and Jaskier kept looking at him and fucking him and it didn't take long at all before he felt a climax nearing.

Please, he tried to say, but of course it was unintelligible, just a mess of garbled syllables and wanting that made him flinch.

Jaskier raised his eyebrows. "What was that?" Geralt stared at him, desperate, and he finally chuckled and pulled his fingers out of his mouth. "Go on, darling. What do you need?"

"Please," he said again, his voice sounding rusty. "I need..." There was a particularly hard thrust then, somehow even deeper, and he almost swallowed his tongue. Finally he managed, "Please let me," and couldn't get anything else out.

"I don't know," Jaskier said thoughtfully, and Geralt almost sobbed. "Part of me wants to tell you not to come. You'd like that, wouldn't you? Letting me use you solely for my own gratification, no care for you at all."

He made an inarticulate pleading noise, shivering. Gods, the idea was unbearable, but he knew he would. The thought of Jaskier just leaving him like this, taking his pleasure and leaving Geralt unsatisfied and wanting, was somehow both the worst thought in the world and the best.

"But part of me," Jaskier went on, with a slowly spreading smile that promised nothing good at all, "wants to see just how many times I can make you. What were you at when I found you being fucked by those vines, hmm? It didn't look like your first."

"Th--three," he gasped, trying and failing not to stammer. Three, and it had hurt--

"You're going to give me four," Jaskier said, in a voice both pleasant and utterly decisive, and Geralt came with a cry, untouched.

Jaskier's rhythm broke and he stilled as Geralt clenched tight around him. His jaw tightened, and Geralt could see him holding himself back. "Fuck you feel so good," he muttered, devoid for a moment of artifice or performance. He leaned forward and planted a messy kiss on Geralt's open mouth; Geralt kissed back frantically, as best he could. "So sweet," Jaskier said softly, and nipped gently at his lower lip, and the simple affection rocked him to his core.

Then the moment was over, and it was almost a relief. Jaskier slid two fingers through the mess on Geralt's stomach and pushed them into his mouth, and he sucked at them eagerly, almost choking when Jaskier suddenly started to fuck him again.

"One down," he said, his voice a little strained, "three to go."

Geralt began to lose track then, fading into a peculiar state where he was hyperattentive yet almost sleepy. He felt every touch, heard every word, moaned weakly at the really nasty ones, the ones that dug into him, unearthing secret reserves of shame he'd thought exhausted. But it was all rather blurry, except the flashbulb moment of his second orgasm, this one with Jaskier's hand stripping his cock in fast, efficient motions. This time he did pull Jaskier over the edge with him. The feel of Jaskier shooting hot and wet inside him satisfied something deep and primal, and he hazily wished he could keep it inside him forever.

He frowned as Jaskier's softening cock slipped out of him, feeling a ridiculous sense of loss. Jaskier laughed. "Don't worry, sweetheart," he said. "I'm going to take care of you."

There was a pause, and then Geralt felt something pushing into him--fingers, slippery and arrowing directly for the spot inside that made his exhausted cock start to fill again.

Then Jaskier's other hand wrapped around him and started to stroke. It was too soon and it hurt a little--more than a little--and he couldn't even flinch away from it.

Geralt almost told him to stop. The word hovered in his mouth for a long, long moment. In the end it wasn't stubbornness that decided for him, some bullheaded need to see the matter through. It was just...good, he realized, down deep beneath the pain and sweat and bone-deep exhaustion. He didn't want it to end, not now, maybe not ever.

He tugged at his bonds as hard as he dared, dimly aware that his face was hot and wet with tears, and let Jaskier slowly, unrelentingly push him over the edge one more time.

As soon as he came again, everything stopped--the hand on his cock vanished, the fingers inside him withdrew. He gradually became aware of Jaskier's voice, sounding almost drunk-- "So good," he murmured, "oh, sweetheart, that was so good, you're so beautiful," almost cooing over him as he panted his way back to awareness.

When Geralt finally managed to focus on him, he was watching him with equal parts fondness and concern. "Geralt," he said, and after all the lovely cruel words Jaskier had given him tonight, it sounded impossibly gentle. "Enough?"

This time he didn't have to think about it. He swallowed, and shook his head. Jaskier's eyes softened even more and a rush of--something passed between them.

"Then I think you owe me one more," he said, and bent his head to take Geralt into his mouth.

It almost only hurt. So did the fingers in his ass--four now, maybe, though he couldn't be sure; it was just a blur of heat and soreness and oversensitivity. It was exactly like it was with the creature, only this time it wasn't a mindless magical construct abusing him, but Jaskier doing it on purpose. Taking pleasure in it.

It was so much better.

He struggled and fought, and it did no good, and he didn't want it to. Time passed, or didn't, and Jaskier pulled another orgasm out of him, and he sobbed until it was over, heaving gasps and wretched noises, and then he lay there, feeling utterly, utterly still.

He was only vaguely aware of the ropes coming off, the soft damp cloth cleaning him up, the glass of water pressed to his mouth that he swallowed at first reluctantly, until the first drops went down his throat and he realized how thirsty he was.

"There you go, that's good," Jaskier murmured. It sent a warm rush of happiness through him to be praised, and the usual reflexive disbelief and scorn didn't come. Maybe he was just too tired.

With an infinite gentleness that Geralt had never seen from him--and probably would have refused if he had--Jaskier eased him to the other side of the bed, where the sheets were dry and cool, then lay down next to him. He slung an arm and a leg over Geralt, squeezing him tight, and tugged the blanket up to wrap around them both.

He knew Jaskier liked to take care of him; he could tell from how delicately Jaskier always dressed Geralt's wounds--with a softer touch than Geralt ever bothered with on himself--and how he jumped at every chance to wash his hair for him, or rub his sore muscles, or any other little task. Geralt had come to allow it more and more, over the years, but there was always that tight knot of resistance inside, always the fundamental knowledge that he shouldn't have this.

It was gone now.

"You're perfect," Jaskier said, in a voice just above a whisper. "Do you know that? You are."

He opened his mouth and then paused, not sure what to say.

"It's okay," Jaskier said. "You can just sleep, it's okay." He pressed a soft kiss to Geralt's cheek. "Tell me tomorrow, if you want."

--

He woke up sore, and sweaty, and contented down to his bones. At first he thought Jaskier was still asleep, because he was still wrapped around Geralt like he'd been trying to crawl inside him, but he heard the shift in his breathing when Geralt opened his eyes.

"Good morning, sweetheart," Jaskier said, and yawned, which of course made Geralt do the same. "How do you feel?"

"Fine," he said, and then corrected himself, because Jaskier seemed to need more. "Good."

Jaskier smiled. It was curiously shy, not like him. "I'm glad," he said. He opened his mouth, then stopped and closed it again.

"What?" Geralt prompted.

"Um. Was it good?" Jaskier asked, in a small voice. "Was it what you wanted?"

"Yeah," Geralt said, rubbing slow circles into his back, chest aching fit to burst with softness. "You were good."

Jaskier's face turned pink. "Thank you," he said, "uh, I guess."

"You were very good," Geralt said, venturing a little teasing. "Have you done that before?"

He went pinker still, and grinned. "Well. Not quite to that extent, but yes. It's not something I need, you understand," he added quickly. "It's just...a talent. That a surprisingly large number of people have enjoyed making use of."

The thought of Jaskier sexually dominating his way across the continent was strangely hilarious, and Geralt smiled. It was odd how easy it was to smile. How light he felt, how young.

"Lucky for me you're mine now, then," Geralt said. Jaskier seemed to melt in his arms, all tension vanishing.

"Yes," he said, "very lucky. Now how would you feel about some breakfast?"

"You should bring me some. I don't want to get dressed."

"Bossy." Jaskier kissed the tip of his nose. "But your wish is my command. I'll be right back."

It didn't take long for him to return with two plates, each full of fried eggs, a rasher of bacon, and grilled bread with butter. Geralt smelled it before he even opened the door, stomach growling insistently. After decades of training his hunger was usually quiet, a hum in the back of his mind that he could listen to or ignore as the situation dictated. But right now he was just hungry, and Jaskier took obvious pleasure in watching him devour the whole plate.

"Here," he said, and slid his second egg onto Geralt's now-empty plate. "I think you need this more than I do."

Geralt frowned, but wasted no time in eating it. "Go get yourself some more," he said around a mouthful of yolk-dipped bread. "Don't want you complaining you're hungry in a couple hours when we're in the middle of nowhere."

"I did make quite a bit of coin last night," Jaskier said, "so I suppose we can afford an extra egg, if you insist."

He left, and came back, and when they were done eating they lay in bed some more, although it was terribly late in the morning. It was all quite familiar and yet new--like an old coin now polished and shining, the way it hadn't been in a long time, or maybe ever.

He wouldn't feel like this forever, Geralt knew. The euphoria would fade, and he would remain who he had always been.

But then, he thought with a low blooming hum of pleased realization, they could do it again.

"Come on," he said at last, "let's get a move on, it's late."

He dressed and packed their meager things, and as he did, he picked up the rope where it lay discarded on the floor by the bed and tucked it into his bag, pleasantly aware of Jaskier watching him as he did.

"No sense buying it twice," he said mildly.

"No," Jaskier said, surprised and smiling, "no, I suppose there isn't."