Jaskier had been enjoying a splendid evening out in the city – the Beaclairois are celebrating something or the other tonight, and in Beauclair, celebrations always mean fires and wine (gods, so much wine) and dancing and singing, food and drink and music and merry company aplenty. Jaskier, of course, had drunk, had sung, had played and had danced, but at last, well after midnight, his friends scattered back to their homes and, as he caught himself yawning, he decided he ought to follow suit.
Which meant setting off on the walk from the city to Corvo Bianco, the estate that Geralt received from the Duchess and that they now both lived at – when Geralt was not dragged away by one of his contracts and when Jaskier was not giving lectures at Oxenfurt or in Novigrad, managing Rosemary and Thyme – since Anna Henrietta was so grateful to Geralt for dealing with The Beast that terrorized the duchy that she generously decided to forgive Jaskier enough to let him live unharmed on her land.
The walk was nothing unusual for him. A strong, grey gelding named Pegasus shared the Corvo Bianco stables with Roach for quite some time now – a horse that Jaskier chose (with Geralt’s great help), bought and named and that was a great, dependable companion to him every time he had to head north, for business or teaching – but there was no reason to subject the animal to standing around for hours somewhere on the outskirts of the city meanwhile his owner was being merry if Jaskier was perfectly capable of making the way on foot. It helped him to stay in shape, with this settled way of life he and Geralt found themselves in.
So he walks. He’s got a bit of a buzz going on, but that’s okay – he knows the dirt road back home like he knows the back of his hand, like he knows his own shoes. The summer night air is pleasantly cool on his flushed skin. The sky is mostly clear and the stars and the moon give more than enough light for Jaskier to avoid stumbling over any stray rocks. Far behind him, he can faintly hear the continuing celebrations, music and laughter.
It was a damn shame that Geralt wasn’t there to enjoy the festivities with him – they’d get drunk, and Jaskier would make Geralt dance with him, and they’d make out in some dark alley – but his last contract made him miss the festival. He had probably returned sometime this evening and was way too tired to go searching for Jaskier in the city. No matter: Jaskier will find him sleeping, or waiting, in their bed, and he’ll huddle in close to his sturdy chest, and then, in the morning, he’ll wake Geralt up with his mouth on his cock, to give him a proper welcome.
Jaskier thinks about the day to come – he will definitely want to sleep in, since it’s already very early rather than very late, but Geralt, fresh off the hunt, probably won’t have any problems with that. They could have breakfast in bed, or maybe, they could pack it up, take a blanket and have a picnic on the hill, basking in the sunlight and watching the work on the vineyard. And he’ll most definitely play Geralt the song he finally finished a few days prior; he has inkling Geralt will like this one.
He’s thinking, until he notices another set of footsteps accompanying his own.
A shiver goes down his spine, and his heart drops right into his gut. Is he being followed? Yes, he and Geralt both acquired a fair share of powerful enemies during their lives, but he thought most of them dead or not invested enough to follow them to Toussaint of all places, where they led a very different life – they retired, didn’t that automatically nullify all conflicts that were not about making the best wine in Sansretour Valley or winning the Annual Bardic Competition?
Maybe it’s just another harmless celebrant walking home.
Except there aren’t many houses this way. Only three, one being Corvo Bianco – and Jaskier knows the owners of the other two and their families good enough that they’d catch up to him and chat, not stalk behind him like – like this. There are other houses, other settlements, of course, but they are rather far, and not even the drunkest of drunks, if they live so far away, drink so far into the night if they are going to be returning home on foot.
Jaskier reminds himself not to panic. He breathes in, breathes out, and decides to test his theory. He stumbles a bit, swears, rights himself, mutters something about fucking shoelaces, stops and bends down as if to relace his boots.
The footsteps behind him stop as well, instead of passing him. Whoever (or, whatever, Jaskier thinks with a heavy gulp) is walking behind him is most definitely following him.
Fear grips him like a vice. He suddenly feels very sober. The air is colder than it was.
How did he not notice he was being followed? He was a fucking spy once, godsdamnit, and he spent most of his life running around with a witcher, he should have noticed, he should have been more aware of his surroundings – shit, now he remembers a man-shaped shadow following him on his way out of the city, always just right in the corner of his eye –
He keeps walking. Maybe, if he doesn’t give away that he knows, he’ll make it to Corvo Bianco, where Geralt and his swords are. Or at least to the big house where a wealthy merchant and his family live – the closest thing he and Geralt have to neighbours – they are nice enough to keep him safe until the morning light – whoops, he has just missed it. Who is he kidding – the thing behind him sounds at least humanoid, but that does not mean it will stalk him forever. Where an ordinary monster, or an animal, would attack as soon as possible, sensible beings simply bid their time and wait for the perfect moment to strike. Sooner or later, it will leap at him, and then gods help him.
The uncertainty is killing him. Is it a human, coming after him because they feel slighted by him or Geralt in some way? Is it a monster, picking him just because it lusts after blood and Jaskier was just unfortunate enough to cross its path in the middle of the night with not a living soul around? He wants to know. Fuck, he needs to know – needs to know if he should run or fight or plead. He’s going to turn around. He’s going to take a look at his stalker and then he’s probably going to book it. Just beyond this next turn of the road, he’ll be able to see the vineyards of Corvo Bianco, bathing in the moonlight, and the lanterns lit at the gates, and maybe, if he runs fast enough, he’ll get close enough that someone inside will hear him scream – if, of course, he screams loud enough.
Jaskier gathers all the fucking courage he has and looks back over his shoulder, at his stalker.
His darling witcher sees much better at night than he does, but there’s enough light for Jaskier to take note of the important details. Two legs, two arms, no horns or wings or tail. Big, definitely too big for Jaskier’s silly little boot dagger to intimidate him. The moon catches on his long white hair. The most terrifying thing about Jaskier’s stalker is his eyes. They glow a golden glow in the dark, and the pupils are slitted, like a cat’s.
Not a human, not a monster. Something between, or rather both at once. A Beast like no other. And in that moment, Jaskier knows he has to run. So he does.
He takes off as fast as he can. Logically, he knows there is no way his feeble, squishy body can outrun the Beast – his legs are strong and fast from travelling the Continent back and forth again and again, but the Beast is stronger and faster than even the strongest and fastest men. But there is nothing else to do but try, except, of course, lying down on his back in surrender and praying for the best. But Geralt taught him to run in case of danger, run and hide, so he’s going to run and then hide and maybe he’s going to survive.
The vineyard comes into the view, and above it, a little higher on the hill, so does Corvo Bianco. Jaskier would breathe out in relief, if he had any breath to spare. As is, he hears the Beast run after him, so he pushes himself to run even faster, to reach the safety of the densely-planted grape plants. His lungs burn and his legs ache, but he makes it. He slips between the rows and continues upward, to home. To Geralt, to safety.
He progresses a little slower now, having to weave between the slim trunks of the grape plants, but that means the Beast moves even slower, since it is bigger than him, so he has an advantage. He focuses on his breathing – tries to even it out, to breathe quietly, but there is too much adrenaline coursing through his veins. His heart is beating like a war-drum, hard enough that Jaskier worries it will leap straight out of his chest and sprint to Corvo Bianco without him.
He stumbles over a stray root and he cannot help the “Fuck!” that escapes him. Behind him, leaves rustle, and he quickly picks himself off the ground, just for a weight to slam into him and pin him down. A warm, living, breathing weight. Fuck.
“Caught you, little bird,” the Beast growls into his ear. Its voice is deep and gravelly and its breath is hot on Jaskier’s neck. “Thought you could run from me?”
Jaskier’s face is squashed into the rich soil of the vineyard. His breaths are coming short and desperate. His body hurts under the Beast’s weight. And yet he tries to shake his head no. He had hoped, but didn’t really believe it – despite what some people say, Jaskier is pretty accurate when estimating his abilities. Why is he even answering? There’s a primal part deep inside of him that believes that if he appeases the Beast somehow, it will let him go, or at least be nicer about whatever it is going to do to him.
The Beast chuckes above him – a deep, sinister sound that makes the hair on Jaskier’s neck stand up. “And yet you tried. How awfully brave. The little lark tried to outrun the big bad wolf.”
Jaskier swallows. “What do you want with me?” he asks, voice small. He needs to know. Needs to know. There’s no way for him to fight in any way – the Beast is much bigger and much stronger and much faster than him, and he has one hand uncomfortably pinned under his own body and the Beast holds the wrist of the other in a steel grip, pushing it into the ground.
The Beast sniffs at him – at his neck. He wonders if it can smell his fear the way Geralt can. It sniffs at him for a long time, and then it licks a broad strip up his skin and grinds its hips against Jaskier’s ass with intent and he’s suddenly gripped with terror. “What do you think?” the Beast drawls, mocking him.
Fuck, gods, no.
Jaskier inhales sharply, a scream already scratching at the back of his throat, waiting only to be let out, to give form to Geralt, help, help, anyone, please help –
“If you scream, I’ll kill you,” the Beast says simply, and when it grinds into Jaskier again, he can feel its hard arousal pressing between his cheeks. “I asked you a question, bard. What. Do. You. Think. I. Want.”
He thinks about playing dumb, but he quickly discards the idea. It would only aggravate his attacker further, and Jaskier would rather like for all his bones to stay unbroken and all his limbs intact. “You want to fuck me,” he whispers into the ground, and he cannot help the way his lips tremble, or the way his eyes start stinging. “Please don’t,” he adds, even though he suspects it is in vain.
The Beast laughs, close enough to Jaskier’s ear that it makes him wince. “I will,” it says. “Don’t worry, you’ll enjoy it, you little whore. Heard you spread your legs for anyone that asks, so don’t waste my time by playing coy.”
Anger flares up in Jaskier. The days of his sleeping around were long over, so that was all filthy slander, and this monster has no right to speak like it knows him. “I don’t,” Jaskier starts, and squirms to try and throw the Beast off. It doesn’t budge. “I don’t spread my legs.”
“We’ll see about that in a bit,” the Beast says. It nuzzles its nose into Jaskier’s neck, inhaling deeply. It licks at his jaw, behind his ears, at his throat. “Your scent was calling to me. Couldn’t resist, had to have you. Don’t fight it.”
Easier said than done. He truly has no desire to get fucked by this – this savage monster, he just wanted to cuddle up next to Geralt and fall asleep with his comforting, familiar warmth all around him. He’s scared. Scratch that, he’s fucking terrified – he’s pretty sure that even if the Beast wants him alive, it does not mean that it will treat him nicely. It does not mean it will not harm him further than it already admitted to wanting to.
And the thought he brought this upon himself? By smelling way too inviting? It fills him with embarrassment and disgust.
The Beast sinks its teeth into his neck, and its hands start pawing and pulling at his doublet. It struggles for a few moments, what with pining Jaskier to the ground and keeping check of his hands, but eventually, it pulls the garment off of him. It chucks it into the grape plants, and Jaskier can see it is dirty from how he fell right on his face twice in quick succession.
“Stop,” he blurts out. “Please, stop, I have money, I’ll give you as much coin as you want, just let me go – I won’t tell a soul, I promise – “
“I don’t want your money, little bird,” the Beast growls, “I don’t want anything you are thinking about offering me. I just want you, and I’ll get what I want, whether you like it or not, so don’t struggle too hard or I’ll be forced to hurt you. Understood?”
“Understood,” Jaskier squeaks, and he feels his eyes fill with tears.
“Good,” the Beast says. It grinds its hips down into him. “Glad to hear you finally say something sensible.”
It takes both of his wrists in one hand and pins them down above his head. It reaches under his waistband with the other and, having grabbed the hem of his thin embroidered chemise, pulls it over his head. It doesn’t take it off completely, instead turning it into a makeshift binding for Jaskier’s hands, tying his wrists together with a complicated knot on the cloth. It has almost no give, when Jaskier tries it – it’s just loose enough that he can still feel his fingers. The Beast then sneaks its hands under him and blindly tears at the laces of his breeches. It pulls his pants down just below his knees, not bothering with taking them or his boots off.
The air is cold against Jaskier’s skin and the ground even more so – it lost all of the heat that accumulated in it during the sunny day at least a few hours ago – and the bard shivers, not sure if it’s because of the cold nipping at him or because of the stifling fear he feels.
He hates the helplessness that grips at him, but he’s too afraid to try and put up a fight. What good will fighting do him, anyway? The Beast is big – huge, really – and heavy. It’s probably strong enough to snap his neck with its bare hands, and its reflexes are lightning fast. There’s nothing else for him to do than to lie here and let the Beast take whatever it wants from him; be quiet and obedient and hope to escape any further harm – even though the thought of being compliant in his own rape makes him feel sick.
When the Beast tears apart his smallclothes, he can’t help the sob that wrecks through him. Its mouth is on him again, licking and biting on his bare shoulders, nibbling along his shoulder blades, harshly sucking marks into his skin. The love bites and hickeys that Geralt left behind before setting off have faded days ago, and Jaskier wonders what the look on his face when he notices that there are fresh ones on his body will look like. When he finds out that stranger put his claim on his bard.
The Beast slides lower along his body, sitting on his legs – ensuring that he does not try to run – firmly grabbing his cheeks and spreading them. Jaskier feels his face flush at being exposed. Another sob escapes his throat.
Jaskier’s attacker does not hesitate. It puts his mouth straight on him, without any teasing. It licks over his hole a few times before pushing its tongue in and Jaskier lets out a pitiful strangled moan. He can’t help it. It actually feels good, and he hates that, hates that his cock is hard, squished between his body and the ground, twitching with interest. He hides his face in the meat of his arm; he does not want any more of his embarrassing noises to get out.
The Beast’s tongue presses into him, again and again, and then a finger joins in, both pumping in time. And Jaskier, as high-strung he is at the moment, full of adrenaline, his fight-or-flight reflex battling his knowledge that even the thoughts of fighting or fleeing are stupid, forces himself to relax. If he’s tense, he’ll only hurt himself, and that is the last thing he wants. It is also incredibly hard not to relax, because the Beast is nothing if not persistent, working his hole with a skilled tongue and – now two – thick spit-slick fingers.
“That’s right,” It withdraws to say – or, more accurately, snarl – “open up for me. Just like that. I have some oil with me, I’m going to take it out, so don’t wriggle too much, or I might accidentally spill it all over you.”
Jaskier breathes out a sigh of relief. The Beast’s tongue and two fingers might be, as much as he loathes admitting that, pleasant, but he has felt the hard bulge that the Beast hides in its leathers and he was very much dreading the moment he’d be told the Beast was going to make him take it without oil. “Okay,” he whimpers. “No wriggling, I promise.”
“Good boy,” the Beast huffs, amused, and sinks its teeth into Jaskier’s buttocks. Jaskier yelps, but then the Beast is already sitting back on his thighs – so he can’t run, Jaskier’s mind helpfully supplies, so there’s no chance he’ll try to get away. There is some rustling of fabric, a cork being opened, and then there are two fingers, slicked with oil, pressing back into him.
The Beast crooks its fingers inside of him and brushes over the spot that always sends jolts of pleasure up Jaskier’s spine. Today is no exception, and Jaskier lets out a small, but very obvious gasp at the sensation. The Beast repeats the motion, dragging its fingers over his prostate almost violently, again and again and again, relentless, and Jaskier moans and mewls and yowls, his sounds muffled by his arm, and pushes his hips back against the Beast’s hand and clenches and unclenches his fists, bound together above his head, because he really, really wants to reach down between his legs and take his traitorously hard prick in hand and jerk it so fast he’ll sprain his wrist.
Fuck, he’s enjoying it.
He reminds himself – it’s just a bodily response. There are very insistent two – oh, three now – slick fingers in his ass: it is perfectly normal to get hard from that, especially when they move like that. It does not mean he likes this. No way. He does not.
Hot tears spill down his cheeks, and he doesn’t know if it’s fear or misery or the overwhelming feeling of harsh, violent pleasure. Maybe a bit of everything.
“Aren’t you a desperate little thing, bird?” the Beast grunts. It moves up his body to bite at his shoulders. “So open for me. Fuck, I can’t wait to get inside you.”
Even through the haze of pleasure, the brutal reality of Jaskier’s situation starts seeping back in. His throat goes tight with fear. His mind screeches to a halt, before it scrambles and resets and lights all of his nerves on fire with unprecedented urgency. He can’t think about anything besides the weight of the Beast above him and the feeling of its fingers and its hot breath on his skin and the fact that he needs to get away, now.
He sees his chance – the Beast isn’t actually sitting on him now, just leaning over him, its mass intimidating but not actively restricting – so he pushes his jittery muscles to work and uses what little self-defence Geralt taught him over the years. With a quick movement, he flips over on his back, brings his bound hands and his legs closer to his centre and then at once pushes with both against the attacker, hitting the Beast in the chest.
Jaskier must have managed to catch it by surprise, since he’s able to scoop himself up on two legs, heart pumping furiously in his chest – he takes off to run, only to fall back on his face again. He forgot his trousers were still bunched just below his knees, restricting his movement.
A hand wraps around his ankle and drags him back. The Beast is fuming, obviously pissed off. Oh, Jaskier should not have done that. Should have just laid back and thought of Geralt. But he’d probably hate himself forever if he didn’t even try.
“You little bitch,” the Beast spits. “I see, I see, this little bird has some sharp claws.” Effortlessly, it flips Jaskier over again, so that he’s lying on his back, staring up at it, and seeing it up close, really seeing it, sends a shiver down his spine. Its face, all sharp features, is contorted into an angry snarl, and its pupils are blown wide, either from the dark or the lust. Jaskier feels himself tremble under its sharp gaze. The Beast must feel his fear – must smell it on him, must see it in his eyes.
The Beast pins him to the ground with one huge hand pressed to the centre of his chest – Jaskier finds his breath coming quicker at the notion that it could crush his ribs without even breaking a sweat – and pulls the other hand back, slowly.
Its look turns questioning, searching; its scowl softens. In the pale moonlight, the mask slips, and the real person under it peeks through. Instead of the Beast, Jaskier meets eyes with Geralt. Geralt, who’s checking in, because he always has a bit of a problem with this sort of thing in particular – he’s amenable to ambush and savagely rape Jaskier anytime he asks for it, kindly indulging his complex little fantasies, but again and again, Geralt hesitates to actually hit him. And Jaskier gets it. He can’t even find it in himself to feel disappointed by these small slips of character (that Geralt usually plays exceptionally well, Jaskier thinks, given the fact he had never been taught how to act) because these moments make Geralt, well, Geralt, and they make Jaskier love his witcher even more. The first time Geralt was supposed to hit Jaskier – really hit him – he safeworded out and they had several lengthy discussions about the matter before attempting again – successfully this time – and even though it has not happened since, Jaskier still half-expects Geralt to use his safeword when he prepares to hit. He knows Geralt finds it a little scary, but also terribly exhilarating, and there is never a way of knowing which emotion will win out.
So Jaskier blinks slowly and gives the tiniest of nods to reassure his dear witcher – it’s still on; I still want it, and if you do too, just do it, or move on if you don’t. I’m okay, we’re okay, it’s okay.
One moment Jaskier feels safe and sound and utterly loved, and then the scowl on the handsome face above him deepens, familiar turns into strange and hostile, and he’s back to feeling helpless and terrified out of his skin.
The Beast slaps him across his face, hard.
Jaskier’s cheek burns with it, and he breathes in a shaky breath and sniffles –
And the Beast, the motion fluidly continuing off of the first one, slaps his other cheek as well, with the back of its hand.
Jaskier’s face rhythmically throbs as the blood rushes through his veins. His skin stings in the cold night air. He’s crying, trying to keep it quiet, but the pain and the humiliation of getting slapped and crying because of it (a cursed feedback loop) are too strong a combination to fight.
He sees the Beast ready another slap – and suddenly he’s blurting out, pushing words out between sobs and hiccups, “I’m sorry! I’m – I’m sorry, I won’t – I won’t do it again, I promise – please don’t – don’t hit me again.”
“Should have roughed you up a bit before getting handsy with you,” the Beast utters. “You wouldn’t be such a difficult bastard about this if I did.” It folds Jaskier almost in half, ducking under the arch of his trousers-restrained legs and tugging them back down to settle them around its waist. It’s so massive the position is a little uncomfortable for Jaskier.
Two fingers prod at Jaskier’s entrance, testing how stretched he is. The touch makes Jaskier shiver. He’s not sure if it’s fear or repulsion or pleasure anymore. It all blurs into one, and all that stays is a sharp, all-compassing, vivid emotion that grips his insides, robs him of breath, sets fire to his blood and empties his mind. His head is usually full of scattered thoughts, brimming with words, bursting at the seams with melodies and lyrics – but right now it is quiet, wordless. Numb and alert at once – he can’t really think, but he can feel and perceive, almost more deeply than he usually does.
The Beast must find him loose enough for its purposes, because with a few quick motions it opens its leathers. It pulls out its – frankly massive – cock, hard and flushed angry red, slicks itself with the oil left on its hands.
“Melitele’s tits,” Jaskier breathes as he watches, absolutely transfixed, the head of its cock disappear into its fist and peek out again. It makes sense that the Beast carries a Beast in its trousers, but no one can blame Jaskier for hoping he’d be assaulted with something slightly… smaller. “You’ll tear me in half with that thing, fuck.” Something stirs in him at the thought. For starters, his traitorous erection is definitely not flagging, so that is a thing. But still, gods be kind – “You can’t do this to me. Please don’t do this to me.”
“I can and I will,” the Beast says. “Don’t fret, pretty boy, smaller birds have taken me and walked away in one piece. Or, more accurately, limped away. You will as well.” It slides its dick hot and slick between his cheeks and it momentarily catches on his hole.
Jaskier takes a deep breath and is about to tell the Beast to stop teasing and to just get on with it already, torn between wanting to finally get to it and wishing it would finally be over – when the Beast guides itself with its hand and pushes in.
When its cock breaches Jaskier, it punches all the air out of his lungs. He shuts his eyes tight, to accustom to the stretch, the pressure and the burn, and a strangled moan involuntarily escapes him.
The Beast slaps the inside of his thigh and stinging pain flares up at the impact. “Open your eyes. Look at me,” the Beast demands. “Want to see that pretty blue.”
Jaskier forces his eyes to open. They are wet with tears and his lips tremble as he gazes up at the Beast. Its sharp expression has softened somewhat – slackened with the pleasure of Jaskier’s tight heat – but the Beast is still alert, ever-vigilant after that little stunt that Jaskier pulled, one of its hands holding Jaskier’s hip and the other pushing his shoulder into the ground, like there would be any way for Jaskier to escape with his legs secured around the Beast’s waist with his own stupid trousers. The Beast’s breathing is ragged and heavy, its eyes dark and hungry. Jaskier knows he’ll get ruined tonight.
There is something thrilling, something absolutely exhilarating at the thought. He’s still terrified, of course, but he’s nothing if not a people-pleaser and this, at its core, is, albeit a very twisted, people-pleasing – or rather Beast-pleasing – situation.
“Fuck,” Jaskier groans, with feeling, when the Beast is finally fully sheathed inside him. It’s… a lot to take, but it’s not like he’s not used to taking very similar on nearly-daily basis, so it is hardly a hardship to relax into the sensation, to let himself open up to it – welcome it, even, because he’s weak and the last time he had sex was before Geralt left for the hunt and he was starting to miss it, miss Geralt, and fuuuuck, the Beast knows what it is doing, whether it just wants to embarrass Jaskier, or it wants him to take pleasure from this as well – whatever it wants, the things it is doing to get it are working, and Jaskier is way too weak to resist.
“The tears look stunning on you, pretty bird.” Funny, Jaskier has not realized new tears spilled from his eyes down his cheeks, but now he notices they did spill. He’d like to wipe them, but there’s no way for him to do so.
The Beast grunts and grounds its hips into him. His breath hitches. And then, then the Beast leans down and licks the salty tears off his face with broad strokes of its tongue, rough against the slapped flesh. Oh, Jaskier feels positively dirty. Debauched. Filthy. It’s kind of funny that the thing that drives the feeling home is just a tongue lapping at his tears and not – whatever else he has going on in this situation.
“Knew you’d be a sweet treat,” the Beast growls. It snaps its hips forward in the first powerful thrust. “Tasting so good, smelling so good. What were you thinking, walking ‘round alone, at night – you might just give the wrong men the wrong idea.”
“I was – ” Jaskier’s breath is punched out of him with the Beast’s movement inside him. “I was just walking home,” he insists, watery and weak.
“What you were doing,” the rhythm picks up, pushing Jaskier into the ground, “was asking for it. Waiting for someone to ruin you. Peacocking around all prettied up in bright colours, drunk – can’t really fault me for doing this, birdie.”
“I was just walking home,” Jaskier repeats, voice tiny. Just walking home, to his beloved’s bed, to his and Geralt’s bed, just wanting to sleep and have a fucking picnic tomorrow morning.
“Keep telling yourself that, if it helps you sleep at night.”
The Beast grips his hips with both hands as it starts fucking him in earnest, growling and grunting when Jaskier’s body squeezes it just right, and Jaskier knows for sure that come morning, he’ll find purple-black bruises in their place with how strong the Beast’s grip is. Wrecked moans and sobs leave his mouth in equal amounts.
Hickeys and bruises. What else will he come to Geralt with? He feels so – embarrassed, that he lets a stranger, a monster, do this to him. He ran and he fought back, but he should have run faster and he should have fought harder. Should have bitten and scratched, not just laid down and spread his legs obediently.
He knows that’s not what really happened. He has to keep reminding himself that this is not his fault. Everything that is happening to him is out of his control – whether that means this encounter itself, or his bodily reaction to it.
“Focus, bard,” the Beast snarls and slaps his thigh again, the other one this time, so now both his inner thighs are uncomfortably warm and stinging. “Want you fully aware when I come in you. It’s no fun otherwise.”
Oh no. Jaskier absolutely cannot return home dripping some stranger’s cum. He can’t do that to Geralt – he knows his poor darling witcher would smell the Beast on him for a week, at least. And, frankly, the thought is humiliating. He still has to walk a bit to actually get home, and he doesn’t want to ruin his trousers on that short walk – he might be able to stomach soiling his smallclothes, but since those are now torn to shreds,…
Jaskier let this go this far, but pure desperation grips at him at the prospect of the Beast finishing inside him.
“No – no, you can’t,” he gasps, and then an undignified – like there is anything at all dignified about him right now – whimper escapes him at a particularly well-aimed thrust that brushes against his prostate. “Please don’t come in me. You did this much, but please – please spare me this. Don’t come inside me, I beg you.”
He must paint a right pitiful image, bound and – once again – teary, cheeks red from humiliation and crying and Beast’s hand. Pleading with his rapist.
The Beast doesn’t let up, fucking him hard and fast still, but it makes a small sound at the back of its throat, like it is thinking. It rakes its eyes over Jaskier, from his face down to his traitorously hard and leaking cock and back up, eyebrows scrunched in consideration.
Jaskier almost feels hopeful –
Until an ugly smirk splits the Beast’s face wide. It chuckles. “Oh, silly bird – you still hope to plead with me?”
Jaskier wails and trashes, even though it is impossible for him to get away. The Beast simply clamps one hand over his mouth, muffling his sounds and forcing him to breathe through his nose, its other still gripping Jaskier’s hip, pulling him back on its cock, to meet each and every thrust.
He feels his bare back sliding on the soil as the Beast moves in him, small blunt rocks and wayward roots digging into his skin. But the angle is good, good enough that even in spite of his discomfort, humiliation and terror, he thinks – he thinks he might come, and he’s not sure if that is a good thing or a bad thing.
An orgasm might turn this frankly horrible experience into something he got at least a little enjoyment out of. But it might just as easily cripple Jaskier with shame.
The Beast decides for him: when he finally quiets down under its massive palm, the Beast removes it and instead places it, a little spit-slick, on his leaking prick. Its grip is not gentle – it almost borders on being too painful to be even remotely good – and it tugs on him harsh and quick, single-minded and determined.
Jaskier tries to fight it, he really does, but in the end, it’s all futile and he moans, low and broken, as pleasure wrecks through him and he spills hot and messy on his stomach. He feels light and hazy with it, but there’s something ugly lurking at the edges of his consciousness, something that is not usually there – he feels it’s getting ready to pounce on him, ready to cut his after-glow short, and he can already answer the orgasm dilemma: it’s going to be the latter. He pants, catching his breath, sensitive after his, rather violent, finish, as the Beast’s pounding turns desperate.
It groans, sinks its teeth into his shoulder and finally, finally, it comes, white-hot, deep inside Jaskier.
It doesn’t need to compose itself. It tucks its dick into its leathers, laces them up, extricates itself from between Jaskier’s legs and wraps a hand around his throat, pressing down on his windpipe hard enough to make his breath come harder and shallower. He’d be afraid for his life, but he’s so ashamed he really can’t feel any other emotion.
“I like you, little bird,” the Beast drawls, its voice disgustingly self-satisfied, “so I’ll untie your hands before I leave, yes?”
“Yes, please,” Jaskier chokes out.
It does as it said, still keeping a hand on his throat. “Here we go. Now, I’m going to leave, and you’re going to stay down. Count to ten, loudly, and then you can get up and scurry home. Understood?”
“Understood,” Jaskier says. He knows the Beast will know if he disobeys, so he’s not even going to entertain that thought. He’s lucky he made it out alive today, and he shouldn’t test the Beast’s patience, not now, when he’s almost out of the woods.
The Beast lets go and, with one last look at Jaskier, disappears into the night.
Jaskier lies still on the ground and starts counting. The cold is slowly getting to him, but he doesn’t dare to reach for his doublet. He just counts, frankly surprised by the fact that he still remembers numbers after what just happened to him. It feels like hours, but he knows that in reality, it’s just a few seconds. Even after reaching ten, he lies there some more before he finally persuades his limbs to start working.
Jaskier pulls up his pants and slips on his poor wrinkled chemise, gathering his doublet and the cloth scraps that used to be his smallclothes in his arms and starting the walk to Corvo Bianco. It’s just a few yards up the hill, but he feels every single step. There is soreness setting into his thighs and insides that usually makes itself known only after a night of very passionate lovemaking with Geralt, and also the uncomfortable feeling of cum dripping out of him and soaking into the fabric of his pants, where it turns cool and irritating.
And the embarrassment, the humiliation he feels –
Before he realizes it, he’s reached the front door of Corvo Bianco. It’s unlocked, so it means that Geralt is still awake. He takes a deep breath, steels himself for seeing the look on Geralt’s face – and pushes the door open.
Geralt is right there, in a clean white shirt and soft-looking linen trousers, hovering by the door, like he was just about to go out and start looking for Jaskier. He probably was. He takes one look at Jaskier, one sniff, and he must immediately know.
“Oh, darling,” Geralt murmurs and moves to touch Jaskier before hesitating with his hand just a few inches from Jaskier’s skin, waiting for permission. He likes to do that – to bring Jaskier out of a scene where his consent is ignored by asking for it for every little thing. Jaskier finds it a little bit silly, but he appreciates it, because it does help with breaking him out of the scene’s mindset.
Jaskier nods. Geralt caresses his cheek lightly and Jaskier leans into the touch. Geralt’s other hand snakes around his waist to hold him close, and it’s Jaskier who presses closer, closer the warmth and the familiar smell of Geralt’s body.
“Are you okay?” Geralt whispers.
“Yes. Absolutely dandy. Maybe a bit worn-out and dirty, the Beast did not go easy on me,” Jaskier flashes Geralt a tired grin.
“Was it the same one as the one that climbed into our bedroom through the window about a month ago?” Geralt quips, seeing that Jaskier is in a good mood.
Jaskier snickers. “No, no. This was someone different. Though, they did look similar, now that you mention it.”
“I’ll get you some hot tea,” Geralt says, as he leads Jaskier to sit down on one of the chairs at the dining table. “And some honeyed figs, would you like that?”
“Yes, I would,” Jaskier smiles.
Shortly, Geralt is back, with a steaming kettle, a cup and the jar of honeyed figs that Jaskier keeps on the highest shelf of the cupboard to keep himself from gorging himself on them every time he’s feeling peckish. Geralt pours him a cup of tea and unscrews the lid of the jar. Then he sits down next to him.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Geralt asks.
Jaskier bites into a fig. He is just now realizing he’s hungry. He usually is, after demanding scenes like that, and he doesn’t even have to run. He shakes his head. The scene went good and he doesn’t think there is anything he’d like to discuss. He just needs to ride out all the emotions it brought.
Maybe there isn’t anything he wants to add, but there might be something he feels Geralt needs to hear, he realizes as he finishes the fig. “I liked it when the Beast slapped me,” he says, sure and simple. He watches Geralt’s pupils widen. “I liked it a lot.”
“Okay,” Geralt says, and Jaskier just knows that if witchers were able to blush, he’d be blushing right now.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Jaskier asks. He sips his tea. Chamomile, he notices.
“I – I think the Beast is slowly letting itself enjoy slapping you,” Geralt murmurs.
Jaskier beams. “Good! Very good,” he praises. “Anything else?”
“It liked this one,” Geralt confesses. “The stalking, the chasing. The whole script, really. Especially at the end, when you said not to come in you – I didn’t realize how hot that would be when you proposed it, but it was so good.”
“I do have the best ideas,” Jaskier says. “Now, please, kiss me, dear heart.”
Geralt kisses him, slow and sweet, sweeter than honeyed figs. Jaskier melts into it.
“Take your tea. I’ve drawn you a bath so you can wash up.”
“Oh, Geralt, what would I do without you?” Jaskier asks and kisses the tip of his witcher’s nose. The fact that without Geralt, he wouldn’t have gotten dirty in the first place goes unmentioned between them.
He takes his cup and lets himself be led, by Geralt’s hand warm and big on the small of his back, into their bedroom where a steaming bath is awaiting him. Geralt takes his dirty clothes from him and sets them aside to be washed later as Jaskier climbs into the tub.
As he starts washing himself, he says: “I was thinking we could have a picnic tomorrow.”
Geralt grunts in agreement.
“A late breakfast up on the hill, you know?” he continues. Geralt rolls up his sleeves, lathers up Jaskier’s favourite oil and gets to work on washing Jaskier’s hair. “We’ll bask in the sunlight and watch the work on the vineyard. Oh, I have a new song I was hoping to get your opinion on – three words or less are enough, of course – “