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The Fairy Woods

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The sky was already getting dusky and pink — like roseate ink? As the sun began to shrink? Hmm — when they stopped for the night. Luckily, Geralt was a consummate camping expert, so by the time Jaskier had said so, taken a piss, complained about another night out in the woods, and stomped to the river and back to refill the waterskins, there wasn’t anything else that needed doing. Geralt had built up a fire, laid out dinner (smoked fish and bundles of some kind of root, wrapped up in leaves then river mud), and had hooked Roach’s tack over a nearby tree branch. Roach was concentrating on her dinner of oats, flicking her ears back and forth as she let Geralt run his hands over her.

‘You’re losing weight,’ Geralt said eventually, dissatisfied.

‘Do you think? But it’s true; I am wasting away, what with all this walking,’ Jaskier said, and sighed, sitting down with his lute. ‘Isn’t it terrible? I’ll have to get my breeches tailored again, and re-sew the buttons on my doublet. Soon I’ll be nothing but skin and bones. I won’t have the strength to carry my lute. I won’t have the strength to go on! You’ll have to carry me.’

Jaskier looked beseechingly at Geralt, but Geralt had bent over to pick Roach’s hooves. ‘Still,’ Jaskier continued, ‘I’m flattered you noticed. Been keeping a keen eye on your faithful companion, have you? I daresay you’re worried about me. Fear not! I’ll struggle on until the last. In fact—’

Geralt sighed loudly.

‘In fact,’ Jaskier said, ‘I will strive to rescue you from your fears, and eat enough to keep myself happy and hale. It’s a sacrifice, I know, but—’

‘The only fear I have is you’ll sacrifice all our money eating pies,’ Geralt said.

Excuse me.’ Jaskier put on his best outrage. ‘Here you are talking about feeding up Roach while planning on starving me?’

‘Roach is useful,’ Geralt said, and patted her withers as he moved to check another of her feet.

‘Oh,’ Jaskier cried, and strummed his lute a bit for the effect. ‘The indignity! The cruelty! I, your loyal friend and companion, who serves you and your good name—’

‘Jaskier,’ Geralt said. He’d paused in scraping muck from Roach’s feet.

‘Asking for nothing but a scrap of crust to eat and a single word of appreciation—’

Geralt dropped Roach’s foot and stood. ‘Shut up,’ he said. ‘I can hear something.’

Jaskier shut up, though only to listen, too, and only for long enough to decide that he couldn’t hear anything except the same trees and wind he’d been hearing all day. He did notice Roach’s ears upright and alert, though, facing the same direction as Geralt was facing, and mentally congratulated himself. He was becoming quite the observant and skilled adventurer.

‘Well, what does it sound like?’ he asked, very reasonably.

Geralt grimaced. ‘I’d know if you stopped yapping for once,’ he said, and strode to the other side of the camp, towards the sound. ‘It’s far away.’

‘A good thing, then? Unless it sounds like the seductive cry of a woman in need of some strong masculine company, or perhaps even a nearby hall filled with festivities, partaking in which are beautiful multiple women—’

Geralt, without saying a word, picked up his swords, slung them over his back, and walked off into the woods. Jaskier put down his lute and scrambled to catch up.

‘Whoa! Whoa! Geralt! Must we? We were just about to eat and here I am, wasting away, and — and Geralt, are you okay?’ Jaskier crashed through the underbrush after Geralt, which was normal, except that Geralt was crashing forward too. It wasn’t like he was usually a graceful, silent deer in the forest — maybe a hart, noble and strong — but he didn’t usually just… crash. Plough through on brute strength alone, as if he wasn’t even seeing where he was going.

Geralt didn’t reply, and he was picking up speed, too. He went from a walk to a jog almost instantly, then from a jog to a run; spurred by a sudden fear of getting left behind, Jaskier forced himself to run a bit faster. The fading light made long, dark shadows out of the forest floor, tangles of ferns and branches that tripped him up and sent him sprawling more than once. He realised he didn’t have the breath to shout out to Geralt any more. What about Roach, he wanted to say. What about dinner?

The forest opened up into a clearing filled with tall foxgloves, taller than Jaskier, which shuddered and waved as Geralt ran through them. The flowers batted against Jaskier’s face as he followed, like hands, and then he was back in the forest on the other side of the clearing, panting and wheezing as he wondered exactly when the evening had taken the turn it had. Well, an adventure that Geralt had not yet told him to piss off from was better than sitting around a campfire, usually. Just so long as Geralt hadn’t picked up the witch-y scent of Yennefer or something. And so long as no one came while they were out and stole Jaskier’s lute, or Roach. Or their dinner.

Jaskier’s mood soured, but he couldn’t dwell on it too much. It was fine. Neither Yennefer nor lute-thieves were particularly likely — or at least, if Yennefer’s presence were a constant threat, Geralt acting this way didn’t suggest she was around. Even when acting like a buck in rut around her, he wasn’t this bad. So he had to be… hunting a monster. Or something. He knew what he was doing.

Then the night started to settle in properly, trees forming a tight ceiling and casting deep shadows, and after the third time tripping Jaskier started wondered if he might have been better off sitting out on this adventure. His throat felt rubbed raw from panting, his legs weak and aching, and he’d hurt his fingers catching himself on a gnarly, nasty tree after almost falling. It didn’t feel bad, not broken or sprained, but still. Adventures were much more fun when it was Geralt doing the hard, dangerous work. Would Geralt even stop if Jaskier fell behind? What was he even hearing, anyway?

He almost bumped into Geralt’s back, less because he didn’t see him — they were in another clearing, and the moon was up — and more because his legs were damn near useless after running as hard as he had been, all limp and wobbly. That, and that the ground was so thick with moss it felt more like walking on freshly shaken flock-bed; the springiness made him almost lose his footing. He just about stumbled past Geralt and made use of the moss by throwing himself down on it.

His hose were probably stained terribly with the amount of plant life he’d torn through, not to mention the dirt from where he’d fallen. The moss was soft and mostly dry under his hands, so he lay down properly on his back, staring up at the stars and Geralt’s dark silhouette. ‘Whooo,’ he said, too winded to say anything else. Geralt didn’t seem out of breath at all. Could track his prey from dusk til dawn, Jaskier thought, but was too tired to carry on. He lay his head down, concentrating on breathing through his sore throat, and trying to ignore the way sweat trickled down his neck.

A few moments passed. He listened to Geralt move about, pacing the clearing. ‘Lost your trail?’ he wheezed, and then swallowed, clearing his throat. Gosh, his voice sounded terrible.

Geralt didn’t reply. Jaskier pushed himself up onto his elbows.

‘What were you following anyway? Must’ve been something important to go haring off after it like that. Yes, I know you’re terribly embarrassed, but—’

Geralt turned to look at him, sharply. His yellow eyes were glinting, and Jaskier froze. His heart pounded, and he knew Geralt could hear it. He’d never felt so much like a small prey animal before.

His throat worked as he tried to muster the courage to say something. Geralt was still looking at him.
The comfortable moss suddenly felt a lot less comfortable. ‘Well,’ he said, though he had no idea what to say next. ‘I, uh. Yes. You lost your trail, very tragic, don’t worry. Let me ride Roach tomorrow and it won’t come up in song, how about that? Extraordinarily decent of me, I know, but as you know by now I am an extraordinarily decent sort of chap.’

He sat up, but as soon as he did so Geralt moved towards him, a couple of sharp, short steps.

‘You are unhappy, aren’t you?’ Jaskier said, feeling himself start to babble, still out of breath. ‘What was it you were chasing, anyway? Nubile young virgins? A unicorn? A herd of unicorns? Do unicorns come in herds? I always thought they were solitary creatures. I think I’d prefer nubile young virgins anyway, especially a herd of them, though a unicorn horn is worth a rather lot. One could buy a lot of trips to some very nice brothels with that kind of money.’

It was fine. He didn’t know why he was being so flighty. This was just Geralt. Sure, Geralt was a little crude sometimes, and his playful rough-housing was occasionally just a touch on the violent side, but he was Geralt. Jaskier’s friend.

‘Uhm,’ Jaskier said, and licked his lower lip. His mouth was dry.

‘Jaskier,’ Geralt said. His voice was even lower than usual, which was an accomplishment, but he didn’t seem to know what to say, either. In the moonlight his hair seemed to glow, but not brighter than his yellow eyes. His body was a black smear of a shadow. He exhaled, slow but hard, and then inhaled, like he was gathering in breath to shout.

Instead he took two long steps to stand between Jaskier’s feet, and before Jaskier could move, knelt down. He leant forwards, placing one hand on the ground by Jaskier’s hip, and with the other gripped him by the back of his neck.

Jaskier tensed up, all at once, frozen still like a rabbit caught under a hunter’s hand.

Geralt leant in and kissed him, hard on the mouth. When Jaskier opened his mouth — in protest or shock, he wasn’t too sure — Geralt deepened the kiss. It was forceful, hot; Jaskier thought distantly that his lips would be bruised tomorrow. His mind had gone blank, like a landscape greyed out in torrential rain.

He put his hands against Geralt’s shoulders, pushing. It was clearly less that he pushed Geralt away and more that Geralt responded to him by moving himself, but he did move, breaking the kiss. He was breathing hard now, Jaskier managed to notice, almost panting, hot and humid on Jaskier’s lips. His hand was still gripping Jaskier’s neck.

‘That’s, uh—’ Jaskier said, and didn’t know what else to say. His whole world had turned upside down, dizzyingly, disorientatingly fast. ‘Maybe — well usually I expect to be bought a drink first, or at least—’

Geralt pushed him down onto his back. ‘I’ve bought you plenty of drinks,’ he said, not sarcastic or wry like he usually was, but darkly humorous. It sent a cold, awful feeling down Jaskier’s spine, as if he’d just realised his lucid dream was actually a nightmare.

‘I think,’ Jaskier said, as Geralt moved his hand from the back of his neck to his throat, coming to rest over his sternum, ‘uh, actually, I think we should maybe hold on just a moment. Not that I’m very much against this, but I think something is happening here and I’m not sure you’ll appreciate it in the morning if things, uh. Happen. In fact I think there’s definitely something weird happening and I really don’t want to—’

Geralt’s hand was very large, Jaskier had time to think, feeling the size and weight of it on his chest, before Geralt kissed him again.

‘Sorry, Jaskier,’ Geralt said, still so close Jaskier could feel the movement of his lips against his own. ‘But I’m not taking no for an answer.’

There wasn’t really anything to say to that. Geralt’s eyes were bright but his pupils almost eclipsed the yellow, and Jaskier couldn’t bear to look at them more than a split second. He closed his eyes, squeezing them shut. His hands were still on Geralt’s shoulders, leather armour cold and dry, but pushing was like pushing against a stone wall. He pushed anyway, until his arms shook and he was panting with the effort, and all it achieved was Geralt getting bored of it, taking his hands and pinning them above his head, effortless.

‘Geralt,’ Jaskier bleated, as Geralt used his free hand to unbutton Jaskier’s doublet. ‘Wait, please.’

‘Why should I?’ Geralt said. Doublet unbuttoned, his hand pushed inside, only Jaskier’s chemise between it and bare skin. Jaskier tried to squirm and twist away; Geralt trapped one of his legs under his own, stretching him out like cloth on tenterhooks. ‘You fall into a different bed at every chance you get. Why not mine?’

‘This isn’t a bed! I don’t think you’re thinking straight and—’

Geralt let go of Jaskier’s wrists so he could work on his laces with both hands, but it didn’t change anything; Jaskier’s shoving and clawing at Geralt didn’t move him an inch. Real panic was starting to creep into him, seeping up like water soaking into clothes from damp ground. He couldn’t push Geralt off. He couldn’t make him get off. He couldn’t get him to do — or stop doing — anything.

It was just part of who they were that Geralt was stronger and faster. He could do anything he wanted to Jaskier, but he didn’t, because he didn’t want to, and Jaskier flattered himself as having seen that the moment he’d laid eyes on him. For all Geralt’s bark and bluster and reputation, Jaskier had known he was safe.

Except now he wasn’t.

‘Geralt,’ Jaskier said, still uselessly pawing at Geralt’s hands. ‘Geralt, please stop.’ His voice broke for the first time since boyhood. He’d always been proud of his voice, and that it was betraying him now felt unreasonably devastating.

‘Lie still,’ Geralt said harshly, as he sat back to tug off Jaskier’s shoes, and after that, with Jaskier's laces untied, stripping away his hose was effortless. Jaskier lay still, though he was shaking hard, his whole body, from chattering teeth down to his now-bare feet. The moss was cool under his skin, pleasant, except for the way it was wrong. There shouldn’t be moss against his bare skin; Geralt shouldn’t be kneeling over him, breathing ragged, as he frantically tugged Jaskier’s doublet then chemise off his plaint body.

With Geralt kneeling above him, Jaskier could see that he was erect, his cock a visible bulge that would have been extraordinarily funny and the source of endless ribbing in any other scenario. As it was, it only cemented the understanding that this was real, and of what, exactly, was about to happen, when Jaskier had not quite believed before. Geralt ran his broad, calloused hands over Jaskier’s body, half stroking and petting him, half holding him down.

A wordless noise crept from Jaskier’s throat: a tight, keening sound, awful. He heard it first and only after realised it was coming from himself, and the humiliation of it made tears spring into his eyes, compounding the shame. ‘Can we—’ he said, and jerked as Geralt cupped his cock and balls, fondling them gently. ‘Can we not? Please — Geralt?’

‘You’ll be fine,’ Geralt said, and tugged at Jaskier’s limp cock. The friction made a tiny spark of arousal flicker into life, and Jaskier whimpered, trying — utterly uselessly — to push away Geralt’s hands. Geralt swore, and knelt back, starting to strip away his own clothes as if they were on fire. ‘Just calm down,’ he said. His face was flushed; so was his chest. ‘I just need — fuck. Fuck.’ He groaned, and palmed at his erection through his breeches, grinding down on it.

It occurred to Jaskier, belatedly, as Geralt stripped naked, his erection already full, that this was not natural. He thought, surprising himself by his own steadiness, that clearly this was either Geralt under the influence of some kind of magic, or something that wasn’t Geralt but pretending to be. Though, it wasn’t like he could do anything about it either way. Geralt wasn’t physically holding him down any more, but he knew without question that the moment he tried to run he’d be brought down, and there wasn’t any escape.

Geralt put a hand on Jaskier’s belly, just beneath his ribs, and held him down as he knelt between his legs. His cock was — well, Jaskier knew it was large even unerect, but apparently it grew not insignificantly, too.

It was a shame, Jaskier thought, a little distantly, a fair amount hysterically. For years he’d been invested in seeing and appreciating Geralt’s erect cock, and now? This was a bad end for so much fantasy and masturbation material. A minor detail, really, in the grand scheme of things, but it was still deeply unfair.

Whether it was Geralt or not had strong implications for the aftermath, though. The thought of that — of Geralt turning away, of everything being over — no, better not think of that. He didn’t want to think of that, so he wouldn’t.

In fact, it was surprisingly easy to not think about it. The fear of what was happening now, right now, Geralt pinning him down on the forest floor, his body over Jaskier’s, blotted out everything else. On his back, Jaskier felt small, and vulnerable, exposed in the terrible sort of way where it’s to someone you don’t want looking.

Geralt lifted his shoulders with one hand, completely effortless, and hauled Jaskier upright until he scrambled to get his his legs beneath him and was sitting. Then he tilted him forwards, his hand punishingly hard and unyielding against Jaskier’s neck, until the tip of his cockhead bumped against Jaskier’s lower lip.

‘Suck,’ Geralt said, breathing hard in a way he never really did. ‘Unless you want to be fucked dry.’

It wasn’t a threat — Jaskier didn’t think it was a threat. Whatever was affecting Geralt wasn’t making him evil or cruel, just — just not really getting that Jaskier didn’t actually want it, maybe. His voice was rough with impatience, but also humorous, as if it were a joke.

Jaskier opened his mouth and dipped forwards, taking the head of Geralt’s cock in between his lips. Geralt’s hand covered the back of his head and eased him down, and if Jaskier hadn’t done this much before he still knew more or less what he was doing. Closing his eyes, he could sort of just focus on the physical task at hand.

There was a pain in his chest, like a cramp.

Geralt’s cock was thick and heavy on his tongue, opening his mouth up wide. He tasted of sweat and musk. Jaskier’s jaw started to ache after only seconds, and now that Geralt’s cock was in his mouth, all his previous knowledge and wits deserted him. He couldn’t move, either to pull back or take Geralt in deeper. When Geralt’s hand on the back of his head, broad enough to cradle the width of his skull, pulled him in and forced his cock deeper into his mouth. It hit the roof of his mouth and then slid back, until it touched up against the soft flesh at the start of his throat.

Jaskier gagged, hard, and wrenched away. He didn’t get far; Geralt shifted his grip so fast Jaskier barely even registered him moving, and gripped Jaskier’s face with both hands, holding his jaw open with his thumbs like wedges. It didn’t hurt, and he didn’t shove his cock further than he had before, but the loss of control sparked panic all up and down Jaskier, running hot and cold like a fever.

This was in order to get Geralt’s cock wet, right? Jaskier pressed his tongue to the underside of the cock, trying to coat it in saliva, trying not to taste it and feel its texture. The bumps and ridges of it, the bulge of its head, the salty taste of precome. Even though it didn’t touch the back of his throat again, he still wanted to gag.

Geralt pushed him off. His chest was heaving. ‘All right,’ he said, rough, as if he were the one who’d just had his mouth fucked. ‘On your back,’ he said, as if it were an order, as he pushed Jaskier down onto his back. Jaskier didn’t struggle. He’d gone all limp, the fight gone out of him. He didn’t know how else to react.

‘So, uhm,’ Jaskier said, as he let himself be manhandled. ‘How about I just suck you off? I can practice more. Do what you like. I’ve been told I have a talented mouth—’

Geralt’s hands were as strong as iron as he lifted Jaskier’s leg, bending it up and back until his knee was close to his chest. Jaskier’s free leg kicked, his heel scuffing against the moss, and his hands gripped fistfuls of it, tearing it up from the ground as Geralt stroked his flank. ‘Uh,’ he said, more noise than word. ‘Ah—’

‘Just relax,’ Geralt said. He groaned, low and breathy, and pressed his fingers to his own mouth, wetting them. Jaskier closed his eyes then, letting his head fall back onto the moss, and flinched when Geralt’s — not his fingers, his cock — nudged up against his hole. The thought of how large Geralt’s cock was branded itself in his mind, not just long but thick, too.

‘Relax,’ Geralt said again, and even if he couldn’t see, Jaskier could feel him leaning over him, pressing him bodily down into the ground. His cock was hot, way too big, thick, like a bludgeon. Jaskier took a ragged, gasping breath in and tried to relax as Geralt pushed forwards, and in.

It hurt; he couldn’t relax. He squirmed, and tried to bite back a pathetic little whimper but couldn’t. The pain was sharp, tearing, even though he knew he wasn’t actually being torn apart. Geralt wouldn’t do that to him.

His bent leg had, at some point, come to rest against Geralt’s body, knee bent over his shoulder. As Geralt leant down Jaskier’s leg bent further, and his hips and back arched up. Tears prickled his eyes at the pain, and he gulped down breaths. If Geralt could be stoic and manly in the face of pain, then so could he.

He couldn’t. The pressure and pain built, sharper and sharper until it was as if he were being pierced by knives, and he blurted out: ‘Wait! Please—’

It was reflexive more than anything, and he took a moment to realise Geralt was actually waiting. His body moved as he panted, but he wasn’t pushing in any deeper.

‘So,’ Jaskier said, like the word had been punched out of him. ‘I’m — I’m good with being fucked but how about we agree to do it slowly? Or maybe, only go half in, how about that? Shallow. That’s still good, isn’t it? A good — a good shallow fuck.’

His voice was pathetic. He was aware he was begging, squirming on the end of Geralt’s cock, but he couldn’t stop himself either. Now he’d found his voice, he couldn’t stop it.

Geralt hushed him, petting him like he soothed Roach when she’d been startled.

‘You’re just awfully large in that department, and I’m sure it’d be just as pleasant for you to not — not, you know, go in the whole way. How about that? I’ll lie here and, uh, do what you want, and you only fuck me with half of that cock of yours? Just half is still good, right?’

A spasm squeezed through him, making him clench down, twisting his guts, and rendered Jaskier voiceless from the pain. He wanted to cling to Geralt, but he also couldn’t bring himself to, so he did his best to cling to the ground instead.

Through the roaring of blood in his ears he thought he could hear Geralt groan, low and stuttering. ‘Stop tensing up,’ he said. ‘Bear down. Let me in.’

‘You’re not going to put it all in, are you?’ Jaskier tore up clumps of moss and reached around for more. Panic fluttered in his chest. It suddenly seemed incredibly important that Geralt didn’t fuck him with the entire length of his cock. He could manage some of it, but not all. The whole of it was too large. It’d tear him in two. ‘Just half. A compromise?’

‘No,’ Geralt said, and adjusted his arms on either side of Jaskier’s head. ‘You’ll be fine.’

‘I don’t think—’ Jaskier said, and yelped as Geralt nudged his hips forwards. Even with his eyes closed the world tilted beneath him, dizzying. His fingers digging into the moss felt weak, numbed. He gulped in air, feeling himself clamp down hard around Geralt’s cock, which nonetheless was withdrawing to the base of the head and then pushing in an inch or so, setting up a steady rhythm.

‘Geralt?’ He should stop speaking, he knew, because as much as the pain in his hips and needling down his spine hurt, the way Geralt was ignoring him hurt too. ‘Geralt, could you, ah, stop? Just for a moment. You can carry on later, I promise, but — I feel sick.’

The nausea that had started as a low, cold feeling in the pit of his bowels had spread, crawling up into his guts and stomach. It melded with the pain, swelling and peaking with the cramps that still tore at his insides.

Jaskier gagged, and pressed his hands over his mouth and eyes. He could feel Geralt’s cock pump into him, edging deeper and deeper, pushing around his guts to make room. He didn’t trust himself not to say anything more without throwing up. Cold ran through him, then heat, then cold again, playing with his body as effortlessly as Geralt was.

He yelped when Geralt thrust hard, and then sucked in a harsh, wet breath. Distantly, he knew that he ought to be breathing deep and slow, to soothe the nausea, to relax and make the penetration easier. His whole body felt disjointed, not his own, a useless, miserable ragdoll. When would it be over? He could barely tell how long it had been. Though it wasn’t like he knew how long it generally took Geralt to come, whether in a wet, willing body or a tight, pathetic, unwilling one.

Cramps rolled through him, nausea painting the whole inside of him. His body felt unbearably weak. He’d only ever felt this bad once before, a few years ago when he’d fallen ill, at the peak of his high fever. His whole body at once rebelled, wanted to rebel, but could only lie there and be used. The pain had eased off somewhat, no longer dagger-sharp in his guts, but the sickness, the waves of fever and chills, hadn’t abated.

Geralt’s thrusts were deep, sickeningly so, but Jaskier was terribly aware that he couldn’t feel his thighs against his own, or the knock of his balls against Jaskier’s arse. How much more of him was there left? Would he carry on pushing deeper until he ruptured Jaskier’s guts, beating and bruising and tearing his insides apart? The rigid, uncompromising length of Geralt’s cock made Jaskier moan miserably through his teeth, feeling it rearrange the shape of his guts to accommodate it.

In a sudden, effortless movement, Geralt gripped Jaskier’s leg that was still on the ground and lifted it to sling over his shoulder, mirroring his other leg on Geralt’s other shoulder. He bent Jaskier almost in two, and in the next hard few thrusts his thighs finally brushed Jaskier’s, and he finally fully sheathed himself in one long, slow thrust.

He was breathing hard. His skin was scaldingly hot, though Jaskier couldn’t tell whose skin was slick with sweat. Maybe both of theirs. ‘Fuck,’ Geralt said, finally. ‘Fuck. That’s good. Knew you could do it.’

Hearing his voice, absurdly, made tears spring into Jaskier’s eyes, and drip down his face.

‘See?’ Geralt was saying, deep and low, like he was pulling the words from the base of his chest. ‘Told you you could take all of it. You feel so fucking good on my cock. You’re so tight. Bit more practice and I’ll have you bouncing on my cock like you were made for it.’

‘Please just get on with it,’ Jaskier said, in a voice he didn’t recognise as his own.

Geralt bent his head low, like a workhorse pulling the plough, and his groan was thick with pleasure and arousal. He withdrew, and the tugging friction made Jaskier gasp and squirm, feeling like his insides were leaking out. The nausea crept up to squat in his throat as Geralt started thrusting, making his whine hollowed out and reedy, rocking with his body as Geralt jolted him with the impact of each harsh thrust.

Geralt came, jerking his hips as wetness spilled deep inside Jaskier, spurts of it, and shouted hoarsely, a garbled string of praise and profanities. ‘Good, that’s good — fuck, you slut, Melitele’s wet, maiden cunt couldn’t feel better—’

The words trailed off, and his hips slowed to unsteady rocking, squeezing out the last of his orgasm deep in Jaskier’s arse. He was still deep inside Jaskier when he stilled entirely, and Jaskier counted his breaths. Almost over. Just needed to wait for Geralt to pull out, then all this would be over.

Geralt didn’t pull out. He wasn’t losing his erection, either, his cock staying thick and hard. Jaskier tried to stop himself wriggling, and mostly succeeded. Maybe this was just what witchers were like. He probably just needed to wait a moment more. A niggling fear crept closer as more and more seconds ticked by, but he pushed it away as best he could. Ignore it. It was fine. Just needed to wait.

When Geralt did pull out, the absence of his cock made Jaskier feel empty inside, his hole trying to clench down on nothing there. His hips felt bruised, aching deep in the bone. Something wet trickled down and out of his sore, bruised hole.

‘Right,’ Jaskier said, and ignored how wobbly his voice was for ploughing on. ‘Right. That was, uh. How about we go back, now? You know, make sure no one’s made off with Roach. Or my lute. I’d be forced to make you buy me a new one if that happened, I hope you realise.’

Not that he wanted to walk all the way back. He sincerely hoped Geralt wouldn’t just off and leave him, because he would definitely get lost.

‘Geralt?’

Geralt sat back on his heels. His cock bobbed, stiff and erect between his thighs, and he grasped at it, yanking it roughly. ‘That wasn’t enough,’ he said, through gritted teeth, and Jaskier’s stomach dropped.

He thought, for a moment, he was going to be sick. Then he scrabbled backwards; Geralt caught him by the ankles and hauled him back in.

‘No,’ Jaskier said. ‘No. No, I already — you’re under a spell, some kind of magic. Focus, you need to break it—’

‘Just let me fuck you,’ Geralt said. ‘That’s all I need. Stop being such a little bitch about it.’

‘You already did! You did and it didn’t work so let’s try something else.’

‘Why are you being so difficult?’ Geralt grunted, and twisted Jaskier around, still on his back but now with his head between Geralt’s knees. ‘Anyone would have thought you’d jump at the opportunity.’

‘This isn’t an opportunity,’ Jaskier had time to say, before Geralt’s thick cock was pressing up against his lips. Reflexively, he opened his mouth and let him in.

Geralt pushed down, his cock sliding over Jaskier’s tongue. ‘No teeth,’ he said, on a hard breath out, then inhaled through his teeth. ‘You’ve got a whore’s mouth,’ Geralt said. ‘Fuck.’

Geralt’s cock was no easier from this angle; Jaskier choked and gagged on it as it nudged up against his throat, and for a terrifying second he thought Geralt would continue shoving and fuck down his throat. It didn’t happen, and when Geralt withdrew to start thrusting in short, shallow little motions, Jaskier did his best to close his lips and use his tongue. Maybe if he did it well enough Geralt wouldn’t need a third fuck. And he wanted this over and done with. His eyes watered.

The humid, close air was suffocating; Geralt’s cock in his mouth and thighs around his head kept him in place. When Geralt put his hands on Jaskier’s hips, pinning him down, Jaskier didn’t realise what that meant until Geralt’s mouth enveloped his cock.

Jaskier froze, then swallowed messily as saliva trickled from his lips down his cheek, drawn out by the push and pull of Geralt’s cock. Geralt’s tongue licked around his limp cock, and he sucked, hard; Jaskier whimpered around Geralt’s cock and was dizzyingly grateful for Geralt’s hands on his hips. Without them, he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t have bucked up to fuck into Geralt’s mouth.

He still hurt, the pain lingering and sending sharp reminders every time he moved too much. The pleasure, though, of Geralt’s wet mouth, his tongue, the suction, the friction of his rough lips — Jaskier could feel himself grow hard, arousal pooling into his belly, heating him up. He moaned around Geralt’s cock, even as it spread open his mouth uncomfortably wide, and couldn’t tell if he wanted to push Geralt off or pull him down deeper.

He shouldn’t — he didn’t actually want this — he was still in pain from Geralt fucking him. The pain and pleasure mixed together into something delirious, pulling Jaskier deeper and deeper in. His face was wet with saliva; his throat stung. Gulping in air around Geralt’s cock was difficult, almost suffocating. His tongue hurt. His jaw hurt. He couldn’t even beg for a break to catch his breath and ease the tension in his jaw.

Almost before he knew it he was fully hard, his balls drawing up tight, and if he could beg it’d be for Geralt to carry on. His guts, having been bruised and churned by Geralt’s cock, now tightened up and throbbed with unreleased arousal. Geralt’s mouth was punishingly relentless. Jaskier clawed at Geralt’s hips and thighs, trying to shove him away just so he could breathe, or maybe sob, or beg. He didn’t want to come; he didn’t to be pinned down and the orgasm torn out of him whether he wanted it or not.

And he didn't want it. The crawling terror of his complete vulnerability, that whatever Geralt wanted to do to him he could, and would. Powerlessness, and having something taken by force, made to act, forced to act. The violation of his body taken and used. Having his own body betray him and enjoying it was somehow worse than being hurt.

Stop, he mouthed around Geralt’s cock, for all the good it did. Please stop. He only really succeeded in choking himself, and the pressure and pleasure kept building and building.

He was about to come, and if his hips were jerking up into Geralt’s mouth as much as Geralt’s hands on his hips allowed them to, that was because up into his mouth was the only way Jaskier could move. He groaned, the sound torn from him, muffled by Geralt’s cock but still unbearably loud. He felt himself go faint with the strength of his arousal, until the build-up broke its dam, and his orgasm ran like lightning through him, and it hollowed him out as it left, pouring from him and taking half of him with it. Waves of pleasure strummed through him, each more exhausting than the last, until all he was left with was the trembling afterglow, and Geralt’s cock still in his mouth. He was boneless; it was all he could do to pant around the girth of Geralt’s cock.

Geralt came shortly after that, shouting as he spilt hot come into Jaskier’s mouth, over his tongue and the roof of his mouth, salty and sour. He pulled out just quick enough as Jaskier gagged, teeth finally able to snap shut.

Jaskier gasped and tried to roll away, turning his head to spit, unable to fully get the slimy, salty come from his mouth. Even though Geralt wasn’t touching him any more, he didn’t have the strength to try to escape. He wanted to. Maybe even he could escape and get Roach and ride away, find help, and be the hero who rescued the witcher, except that he couldn’t. He just couldn’t.

When Geralt made a frustrated sound, a snarl of anger, Jaskier couldn’t even manage to be surprised as he found himself hauled over, pushed onto his front. His hips were lifted until his knees found unsteady purchase beneath them, and a hand pinned him by the nape of his neck to the ground.

‘It’s still not enough,’ Geralt said, low and terrible, rough with anger, or maybe arousal. ‘Fuck. Fuck.’

He pushed into Jaskier, bottoming out on the third harsh thrust. Jaskier whimpered into the moss, pressing his face down to try cool his skin on the dew. He thought about licking some of the moisture up, in case it could help clear the cloying taste and stickiness in his mouth, but there wasn’t enough. It wet his lips, at least.

How much longer, then? The thought of Geralt fucking him until he died — and that would happen, because Geralt was a witcher, and he could outlast Jaskier like that — stuck in Jaskier's head like a burr and wouldn't leave.

What magic was there that'd make someone do this? He knew dozens of ballads about love potions, or curses of unquenchable lust. Were there monsters that could do it? Probably, but as much as he liked to pretend, his actual knowledge of monsters was limited. Elf magic? Elf magic could do whatever the song or story needed it to do. And thinking was hard when he hurt all over, and something in the long, deep thrust of Geralt's cock made dirty pleasure creep back into him.

His back was bent sharply, hips being pushed forwards as Geralt's hand on his neck stopped his spine from straightening out. His throat and chest were crushed uncomfortably against the ground.

‘Geralt?’ he said, struggling to get enough air to speak. Each of Geralt’s thrusts punched the breath from him. ‘Can — can you maybe let me up? Keep fucking by all means, but uh, less holding me down? Maybe?’

‘Bard,’ Geralt said, and it sounded so normal that for a terrible moment Jaskier thought he was back to normal and this would all stop. ‘Shut up, will you?’

Jaskier’s cheek was crushed awkwardly into the ground. Maybe it was the new slickness that made the deep, rough thrusts easier, and therefore lessened the pain, that allowed arousal to build back up. It seeped into Jaskier’s guts and hips, taking a hold of his insides, making him moan faintly. He was dizzy. The nausea from earlier had abated but was now back, swimming in his throat and up into his head. The music was so low and steady, and Jaskier so caught up in his own misery, that by the time he finally registered its presence he wasn’t even surprised to hear it.

It throbbed through the air, like the clearing were the body of a lute, the trees its ribs and the ground its back, and all of them within it. For a moment it cleared out the fog and nausea in his head and set itself in their place, and it was all Jaskier knew. The melody was intricate, delicate, like mother-of-pearl, or star constellations. It sucked at him, threatening to engulf him.

There were another few moments before Jaskier realised it wasn’t music as from any instrument, though it sounded like it, but song. Women’s voices.

He turned his head, opening his eyes, and saw two women by the side of the clearing. One was sitting atop a great deer, bare-back, without even a bridle, and the other resting insolently against its broad shoulder. They were both young, with long, loose hair, and were dressed in robes the colour of — he couldn’t quite tell. Pale, regretful, hurting his eyes to look at. They were both watching him and Geralt with something like amusement in their faces. Turning his head away was too great an effort, but he couldn’t bear to look at them any longer, so he closed his eyes tight shut.

Closing his eyes didn’t stop him being able to hear the song, or feel Geralt — the slap of his bare skin against Jaskier’s legs and arse, the girth and stiff length of his cock pumping into Jaskier, inescapable, churning and bruising his cramping guts. The way his balls slapped Jaskier’s skin. The arousal as Geralt’s cock rubbed against some internal part of him.

It occurred to Jaskier, belatedly, that this must have been the music that Geralt had heard earlier. At the same moment he realised that it was what was enchanting him.

The realisation and subsequent rush of emotions hit him like being dropped in cold water. For a moment it overcame the physicality of Geralt holding him down and fucking his limp body, long and deep thrusts, their skin slapping together hard enough to sting. The humiliation that they were being watched, seen, known by others, stung worse. And Geralt was supposed to be immune to this; he was supposed to be invincible. Even if he wasn’t, no one but Jaskier was supposed to know.

And Jaskier was the only one whose singing ought to enchant Geralt. Not that it did.

He couldn’t cover Geralt’s ears; he wasn’t in the right position, and there was no chance he could fight to change that. Too tired, too weak. Too weak even at his utmost strength. He looked at the fairies, one of whom smiled at him, her eyes glittering like rushlight flames, or will-o-the-wisps. Her long hair spilled over her shoulder, wild and tangled. She sang with her partner in perfect synchrony, and it was at once a childhood song he’d known but forgotten, and something entirely foreign, the kind of song rabbits and hares would sing. He could tell it crawled with magic, even though it wasn’t directed at him.

‘Geralt,’ he said. Geralt grunted but didn’t do anything else, save to carry on thrusting, and he didn’t seem to have realised the fairies were there at all. Or maybe he’d known from the start. It’d been their song he’d been drawn to, after all.

‘Geralt,’ Jaskier tried again, word punched out on the crest of one of Geralt’s hard thrusts. The sharp pain was mostly gone, but an old, terrible ache was settling through him, bone-deep. It mixed with the arousal like salt into sugar, and the physical pain crept back over to smother the humiliation and other emotions. He just wanted this over, any way it could. ‘Geralt, there’s — ah — fairies. Could you get rid of them? Please? Then you can carry on, I swear, just—’

Geralt didn’t reply. His tempo changed, though, thrusts longer, his cockhead almost popping from Jaskier before he pushed it back in, all the way, balls deep. Jaskier moaned raggedly, trying to twist to accommodate it, but he didn’t have the space to move beyond tilting his hips up a little. The friction against his abused hole hurt with each long, hard thrust, again and again and again.

Groaning loud in appreciation, Geralt came deep inside Jaskier for a third time, but his cock didn’t soften, and after a moment he carried on thrusting. At least, Jaskier thought distantly, the extra wetness he could feel inside him was helping to smooth the painful friction. It was getting long enough after his own orgasm that his cock was starting to react to the shivers of pleasure building up from the pounding, and Jaskier dug his short fingernails into his palms to try distract himself. It didn’t help.

He couldn’t put his hands over Geralt’s ears, and anyway, he knew already that something like that couldn’t block a fairy song. Moving to fight his way out, to throw something, to do anything to startle the fairies long enough to make them pause singing — that was as impossible as using magic to drive them away. He was a toy, a pet, their plaything just as much as Geralt was, entirely helpless. Useless. He wanted to scream, or cry.

One of the fairies — the one not on the deer — had begun to dance, and she smelt like fire, the aftertaste of righteous anger, and fresh crushed herbs under her feet.

Jaskier opened his mouth as he watched her, and then realised he didn’t want to beg the fairies. It was bad enough to beg Geralt and get nothing in return. To beg someone else and be refused — because why wouldn’t they refuse him? — was too terrible. He couldn’t do it. It wasn’t so much pride as fear, and clinging to the last remnants of his control. He was helpless, subject to their whims and fancies, but if he never asked he couldn’t ever be refused, either.

There weren’t any words left in him, but his mouth was still open, and Jaskier realised he could still sing. Of course, he supposed, very distantly. That was stupid of him to forget. How had he forgot?

He sang Toss a Coin, because that was what rolled off his tongue first.

At the edge of the world, fight the mighty horde,
That bashes and breaks you and brings you to mourn—

Half-way through, distracted by the pain and Geralt’s thrusts setting an awkward rhythm, he slipped into a calendar-poem of farming, though he couldn’t think why, until he remembered that yesterday they’d been following a farmer on a cart singing it to himself. He half-sang, half-recited the verse.

Sow beans peas and oats in ground hot and dry,
When as the new moon appeared to your eye,
Superfluous branches from trees prune away,
And suffer not moss upon them to stay—

At some point Geralt’s pace had slowed. If he’d had the breath Jaskier could have laughed at the thought that Geralt was now listening to him, but he sang on anyway.

They hadn’t followed the farmer for long, and he’d been singing for less than that. Jaskier finished what he’d heard of the calendar-poem, and turned to the next. He remembered the songs and poetry-verse of the labourers, yeomen, husbandmen and their families who’d worked on his father’s land, even though it had been years since hearing them, and he’d certainly not been encouraged to learn. The advice had been different to what the farmers sang here, though. He knew he didn’t remember them wrong.

He sang a rude ballad about a Nilfgaard empress that he’d learnt in Lyria, whose people found it safer to insult foreign monarchs than their own. Then he sang a song from Redania, the Pontae Chase, about two nobles who’d fought to death over a game hunt gone wrong. It was remarkably easy to separate his mouth and lungs from the rest of him, to let himself sing and the rest of him be unimportant. He probably should have done it from the beginning.

His voice broke a few times, but never mind that. The mingling of his voice with the fairies sounded terrible, like a mule braying over a viol duet, but though it was rather offensive and off-putting to hear himself thus, he couldn’t stop. Especially not now Geralt’s thrusts had shallowed, until he was simply rocking his hips, gentle and slow. Even his hand on Jaskier’s neck had loosened its grip.

When Jaskier looked next, he saw the fairy closest to him bare her teeth in a snarl. She was dancing faster than before, twisting and twirling and stamping her feet, and the moss beneath her had shrivelled and died. He sang louder, easier now Geralt was still, and in her dance she took a step towards him, then another.

For a moment his mind went blank, though he kept singing, because he hadn’t planned this far ahead. He didn’t know what the fairy would do when she reached him. Her voice was louder, harsher, more beautiful; the drone strings buzzing on a wheel-lyre, and if any sound could break his body in two he thought it would be this one.

‘Silence,’ she hissed, but he didn’t stop. He wasn’t entirely sure if he could. The ballads spilled from his mouth, entirely out of his control.

Dancing closer still, Jaskier could smell the burning under her feet. She knelt beside his head, and Jaskier froze, watching her delicate hand reach for him.

Then she screamed, like a tree breaking in two, and Geralt’s body moved in a single, powerful motion. He had a few strands of her hair in his hands, torn from her head, and her skin was no longer bright and smooth but spongy, discoloured, the moulding skin of a fruit.

The song stopped. Jaskier, no longer pinned by the weight of Geralt’s body, rolled over onto his side. His throat and chest hurt; it hurt just to breathe. His hips and arse hurt. His whole body hurt. He pressed his eyes shut and lay still, waiting for something to happen, too exhausted to even think about moving, or helping Geralt. He’d done enough, surely? There wasn’t the sound of a fight, though. Geralt had his swords. He’d definitely brought his swords. What were the fairies doing? They weren’t singing. They hadn’t enchanted him another way, had they? Or maybe Geralt had already defeated them and Jaskier had missed it.

Well, it wasn’t like he needed to be watching every moment in order to be able to write his songs. He wasn’t sure how he’d spin this one, though. It’d have to be good. He’d need to make this one good. Memorable. Two beautiful seductress fairies and the two men who’d happen upon them: perfect. What wasn’t there to love?

‘Jaskier,’ Geralt said, with a rough voice, as if he hadn’t spoken in months. Going by his voice he was still close, probably close enough to touch. The smell of fire still lingered, stinging Jaskier’s nose.

‘Are they gone?’ Jaskier said, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.

‘Yes,’ Geralt said.

Jaskier sighed, too tired for relief. Well. He’d just have to ask Geralt how he did it later. Just not right now. Later. Much later? Did he even want the fairies defeated in his song? Maybe if they turned out to be evil or much too possessive after a while. At dawn, perhaps. Or maybe after dawn they left peaceably for their… wherever fairies lived. In the clouds or whatever. As he lay there, on the soft moss, he toyed with the idea of asking Geralt to leave, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to find his way back without him. And maybe there’d be other things in the woods, worse than fairies.

‘You should get up,’ Geralt said, and there was the sound of fabric, Geralt getting dressed. Yeah. Yeah, getting up and dressed was a good idea, actually. Now that he thought about it the wind was rather chilly, and with his body sweat-slicked, it was uncomfortably cold. He could feel himself start to shake, his whole body trembling.

Geralt’s voice was carefully flat. ‘We should go.’

It was true enough. His lute was waiting for him. And Roach. Well, she was waiting for Geralt.

He needed his lute because he needed music to accompany his new song. This story really did lend itself to manipulation — slot in a rather dirty stanza here, a few word changes there, chop and change at will, and he’d have a song for all audiences. Really, it didn’t get better than this. Jaskier sat up, trying not to wince, and reached for his clothes. Damn, he was still shaking. He wouldn’t be able to play like that. A brisk walk and place by the fire should fix it, though.

When he managed to stuff himself back into his clothes, laces done up more or less neatly, he turned to see Geralt was already dressed. A black and white smear in the shadows, once again. He was facing away into the woods, hand on his hip where Jaskier knew he kept one of his daggers, clearly ready and eager to go. He was also waiting for Jaskier to follow.

‘I think I just got the inspiration for a very popular song,’ Jaskier said, and damn, even his voice trembled. No good. When had it got so chilly? He cleared his throat and swallowed a couple of times.

‘No,’ Geralt said, without turning around.

‘I’m sorry, Geralt, but you can’t stop artistic brilliance. I am but the conduit through which it flows, and it won’t be silenced.’

‘We’re going,’ Geralt said, voice oddly stiff, but it wasn’t a threat, even a petty one.

Getting Geralt to agree with him was unusual, but this victory lacked something. Jaskier tugged and straightened at his doublet. He couldn’t see in the dark, but it was probably filthy. He could feel something wet trickle down his thighs.

The river was close by, and deep and clean. He’d be able to wash tomorrow, get all the dirt and plant stains out. In the meantime, he’d compose. The song would be excellent. He needed to get back to his lute and notebook as soon as possible.

‘Let’s go, then,’ he said cheerfully, and went to follow Geralt back to their camp.