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The door to the room opens and closes gently, and Jaskier listens as Geralt's nearly silent steps move towards the bed. His stomach knots up; he doesn't look up from his notebook.
"Jaskier."
He squeezes his quill until he thinks it might break. His eyes burn but he doesn't blink. Maybe if he doesn't move he can just...disappear.
"Come here."
No, he thinks vehemently, but his hand is setting down the quill and his body is pushing up from the chair, his feet moving him towards the bed. He tries to fight the pull in his blood, in his bones, in his very being to obey the command, all to no avail.
It's always to no avail.
He shall have the gift of obedience—the perfect son.
Fucking fae.
He keeps his eyes somewhere between Geralt's sharp jaw and the naked expanse of his chest, trying not to watch him lazily stroke the hard cock between his thighs. The anxious knot in his stomach cinches tighter and his skin tingles with the heat of a heavy golden gaze.
Geralt tips his head, his expression relaxed, considering him. Precome glistens at the tip of his cock as he strokes his fingers over it, smearing it down his thick length. Jaskier swallows thickly and looks away.
"Strip for me," he commands softly.
His fingers immediately go to his chest, undoing the buttons of his shirt while his mind screams No! Fuck you! But his mouth remains closed, the pull of a command from earlier still lingering around him.
'Be silent but for your moans until I tell you otherwise,' Geralt murmurs with a kiss to the corner of his mouth, a cruel joke of tenderness.
And then he's gone, and Jaskier is left there in their room, unable to speak, unable to sing, allowed only sounds he wouldn't want to make anyway. Muted without a gag.
He drops his shirt to the floor and lets his trousers fall after it, then stands there bare and exposed. He'd try to run, to escape what he knows is coming, if he thought he could get out the door before Geralt stopped him in his tracks.
That humiliation isn't worth it.
Instead, he lowers his gaze and tries not to feel the weight of Geralt's eyes dragging over him; tries to ignore the sparks that skitter over his skin and the way heat coils in him despite the trepidation.
He doesn't want this—he's never wanted this—but his body has never listened to him.
There had been a time when they'd first met that he'd thought that Geralt, being a witcher and knowledgeable about things far beyond what humans could ever hope to be, could help him. Could help him find the fae that cursed him so he could ask to be uncursed, or could help him find a mage or someone powerful enough to do it themselves.
It had brought him so much joy and relief to meet a real, honest-to-gods witcher in that shitty tavern at the edge of the world, no matter what the stories said of them being monsters. Stories are so often wrong about the truth of things—he's a bard, he knows that well enough.
But the best stories—the most believable stories—are always based on a bit of truth.
Gods, how naive he'd been.
"Come here," Geralt commands again, voice still soft, as he settles deeper into the bedding, "and ride my cock until you come."
He hates how he shudders with something other than just revulsion. His body moves forward automatically, climbing onto the bed and crawling into Geralt's lap with none of the resistance he wishes he could put up. He burns with shame when three of Geralt's fingers push into his hole with the same lack of resistance, still loose and open from that morning when Geralt had him on his hands and knees taking his cock from behind.
"Always so open for me," he murmurs gently as he spreads and curls his fingers inside him; he pushes them deep and rubs into his prostate insistently, making him cry out, his toes curling involuntarily. "Let's get you on my cock where you belong."
There's no fight in him as he kneels above Geralt's lap, as his hand reaches down to take that thick cock and guide it into himself. A choked off moan escapes his lips as he sinks down, speared open on the girth stretching him too wide, too much. It hurts, it always hurts, but he can't stop, can't take a moment even to adjust, because he wasn't told to.
He breathes heavily once he's seated with Geralt's cock fully inside him, Geralt's hands gripping his hips. A moment is all he's allowed before that pull in his blood has him rising slowly and sinking down again, then again, and again, increasing his pace until he's bouncing in Geralt's lap in forced earnest.
Their skin slaps together obscenely, the sound filling the otherwise quiet room and mixing with the low grunts and groans Geralt lets spill from his throat as Jaskier rides him. His grip on his hips only gets tighter, and he starts thrusting up when Jaskier sinks back down, matching their rhythms and making him moan every time he hits his prostate.
"Look at you," he pants. Jaskier's thighs burn, his body coiled with heat and the need for release as he grinds down on the cock inside him, their bodies rocking together. "So fucking pretty like this, sweetheart. Slut like you was made for taking witcher cock."
It drags a shuddering whine out of him when Geralt's hands slide up his sides, caressing over the sensitive skin of his ribs, and he hates—he hates —how gentle, how tender Geralt pretends to be with him. Hates the soft endearment he calls him, the way he touches him that Jaskier would call reverent if it wasn't all a game to him.
It's bad enough when Geralt makes him be an active participant like this—fuck yourself on my cock like you want it—but it's even worse when Geralt treats him like a lover while he does it.
At least, he thinks bitterly, hatefully, he's not being made to lie there and take it while Geralt fucks into him slowly and worships his body like he's making love to him. Like he loves him, deeply and all-consuming.
Those are the absolute worst nights.
The coil of heat in him winds tighter as he continues fucking himself on Geralt's cock. His own cock is red and weeping precome, smearing it over his belly with every roll of his hips. He's getting closer and closer to an orgasm he doesn't want but also desperately does, strung out on the edge of pleasure even as his stomach continues knotting with shame and disgust at himself.
Geralt's grunts have grown louder, his thrusts becoming harder and more erratic as he continues matching Jaskier's pace. His hands stay on Jaskier's hips, not once reaching for his cock—he likes to see him come untouched, likes it to be because You wanted it.
'You wanted my cock that bad, huh, sweetheart? Guess it's true what they say about bards: they're just whores that sing a little prettier. You gonna sing for me like the whore you are, sweetheart? Let me hear you.'
"That's it, sweetheart," Geralt rumbles into his ear, and Jaskier shudders, a moan pulled out of him as his hips work faster, toeing the edge of release. "I know you're close. You gonna come on my cock? I wanna see you come on my cock."
Tears roll down his cheeks as he bounces one, two, three more times on the cock inside him before the coil in him snaps, and he shakes through his orgasm, a loud moan ripping out of him as he pulses come over himself and Geralt's chest.
His body slumps as the haze of pleasure settles into his bones and the pull in his blood slackens, the command fulfilled, but then Geralt is sitting up and lowering him to the bed in a quick, smooth move, cock still hard inside him as he picks up a brutal pace, chasing his own release.
"Fuck," he growls, burying his face in Jaskier's neck, and Jaskier can do nothing but push weakly at his broad shoulders and gasp for breath as he's used, too tired and worn out to put up any fight. He still can't make any noise but moans, and his tears come fresh.
Geralt's lips drag over his throat, his stubble rough against his skin as he sucks marks into it. He moves up his jaw and over his cheek to take his mouth in a kiss. "Open up for me," he commands, and Jaskier whines helplessly and hates himself as his mouth opens to let Geralt lick into him.
He hates himself even more for kissing back even though he wasn't told to.
Blessedly—if there's anything blessed about this—Geralt doesn't drag it out for hours and hours like Jaskier has known him to do; he chases his release like a feral beast, his hips snapping against Jaskier hard enough to push him up the bed on every other thrust, and comes with a groan that's nigh on a roar.
Geralt fills him up until he feels it leaking out around the cock buried so deep inside him he can see it distending his belly the slightest bit when he works up the courage to look away from the spot on the ceiling he'd lost himself staring at. He swallows thickly and realizes he's trembling.
A thumb gently brushes away the tears still rolling down his cheeks, and then Geralt presses a kiss to his forehead. "So good for me, sweetheart. You can talk now."
"Get off me," Jaskier spits as he's released from the earlier command, voice weak and shaking as hard as his body is. "Please."
Geralt hums, pressing a kiss to his lips, then pulls away, his cock slipping out of him with a slick squelching sound. A hot wave of nausea rolls up his throat as he feels just how much of Geralt's come is inside him.
"Clean yourself up and get some rest," he murmurs. "Go visit your friends for a month, then come find me again."
The commands hit and hook into him one after the other like iron shackles. He bites his lip hard enough to bleed as he stands from the bed and goes to the wash basin to clean his own spend from his stomach and Geralt's from between his legs, fighting back more tears and the building panic in his chest.
Go away for a while and then come back to me.
He'll never be free, will he?
"And sweetheart?"
Jaskier grips the washcloth so tight his knuckles turn white as Geralt presses up behind him, slotting his body against his back. His breath is warm against his cheek, and his fingers trail tingling sparks over his hips.
"What."
He knows what.
Geralt brushes a kiss over his cheekbone and gives him their usual parting line: "Don't tell anyone what you do with me."