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The pain in his head makes everything blurry as he blinks back to consciousness. For a brief moment, Jaskier wonders just how much he drank last night, especially when he’s finally able to focus on the familiar room - the tavern. It’s not his taven but it might as well be. Ever since… no. He refuses to think about that and he was doing a bloody good job of not thinking about that until Yennefer flew back into his life… but ever since then, Oxenfurt has become his home, and this tavern his base. The influence he has here is more important than any shitty paperwork.
Which is why he’s surprised to find he’s tied to a chair in the middle of the room.
The boat.
Pain.
The sound of lute strings snapping… breaking just like his heart had on the mountain.
“Oh fuck,” he groans, tugging at his restraints but it’s no use. He’s stuck.
A figure lurks in the corner, snapping his fingers and lighting the small corner of the room in tiny bursts of flame with every click, which is fucking terrifying and Jaskier struggles harder in his chair. There’s no point in hoping for a rescue attempt, maybe once upon a time he would have been a little cocky shit, knowing that- that he would come for him. Geralt isn’t coming this time.
“Shit!” he hisses, and then takes a deep breath, ignoring the swell of arousal that always seemed to follow his fear. He’s so fucked up, but his traitorous brain supplies all the fascinating images of how this could go, forced over the bar and taken like a whore, ripped open and fucked into oblivion.
He swallows and pushes the images from his brain. “Focus, Jask.”
“That won’t help you,” the figure finally announces, “and neither will any of those mind games that witcher taught you.”
With a frown, Jaskier looks up at the man as he pushes out of the shadows and kneels at Jaskier’s feet, which should not be as pretty as it is… but Jaskier has a reputation for a reason. If barding had failed him, well then… whoring had always been his back up plan. It helps that the man is incredibly attractive, long brown hair framing his face, a sharp jawline, clean shaven and gorgeous, if not slightly scary, eyes looking at Jaskier with an intensity that makes him whimper slightly.
“M-mind games?” he asks before he can stop himself. His curiosity gets the better of him before he can filter… again.
“All those dirty little thoughts in your pretty head won’t stop me from getting what I want from you, Jaskier,” the man practically purrs, a long finger brushing along Jaskier’s cheek. It takes every ounce of willpower he has not to lean into the touch, but as the man pulls away heat scorches his skin and Jaskier yelps. He can’t get far enough away to avoid the burn of the flame, but, by the gods, it’s so fucking hot.
Pun intended.
The man just laughs, a foot landing in Jaskier’s lap, pressing down on his stupid erection. “Oh, it’s not a game. You really feel that?”
“Fuck off!” Jaskier spits, but it’s weak and he knows it.
Another snap, another burst of fire and Jaskier screams out as he feels the lick of flames against his throat. “The child surprise was seen with your witcher outside Sodden, where is she?”
“W-what?”
“Tell me where they are, or the last thing you’ll have to worry about is a burned throat, bard.”
Bloody hell, this is not what he’d been expecting. Even after the mess with Dijkstra, Jaskier has never been in quite this much trouble before. If anything he was expecting to be asked about the elves… something he knows about, something he can actually answer if it meant saving his own hide.
But this?
Geralt?
“Oh fuck,” he whines. “I don’t- I don’t know. Please.”
His protests fall on deaf ears, but with every burn to his throat, arms, hands… his arousal heightens. The pressure of the ropes on his wrists is intoxicating and despite everything his cock is aching in his trousers. Gods, if only Geralt could see him now, a slutty mess, no better than a drunken whore.
No.
Worse than that.
At least whores have self-respect.
“I’ll ask you one more time, Jaskier, and if you’re a good boy, I’ll let you suck my cock. Would you like that, boy?”
When Geralt and Yennefer ask him later what happened, Jaskier adamantly denies that he wanted it. He tells them how horrible it was, that he was begging Rience to stop.
But… Jaskier isn’t known for being a reliable narrator in his stories.
“Yes,” he breathes, without hesitation. His own cock is so hard in his trousers that he thinks he might explode, there’s no rational brain cell left in his head. With a soft whine, he leans forward as much as he can in his chair, pulling at the ropes.
“Ah ah,” the man cups Jaskier’s cheek as he shakes his head. “You have to tell me first.”
“I don’t know,” Jaskier cries, the tears falling freely down his cheek and he lets out a pathetic sob. “Search my head, do your- your magic shit… I really don’t know.”
The fire burns again and Jaskier screams as the ropes fall away from his wrists, leaving bloody scars behind. He falls to his knees, weak, helpless… desperate. The man’s fingers are in his hair, pulling his head roughly until he’s pressed up against the bulge in front of him.
“Suck.”
Jaskier’s hands shake as they untie the man’s trousers, the burns on his fingers making it nearly impossible but he has a job to do, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t do it well. If he’s lucky he might make it out alive…
He hopes.
The cock is… smaller than he would have liked but he’s not fussy. It means he’s able to swallow it down to the base with no problem. The only pain in his throat is from the burns and it only serves to heighten his arousal until he’s grinding down on his own feet, desperate for friction on his poor neglected cock. He moans, bobbing his head and enjoying the blissful sounds of the man’s pleasure as he works. Pulling off the man’s cock, he runs his nose along the length before mouthing at his balls, kissing and licking until he’s yanked away.
“I said suck, bard, get on with it!”
He whimpers but does as he’s told, tucking a lock of hair behind his ear, and doubling back down. This time, the man is impatient and he fucks into Jaskier’s mouth at a ruthless pace. It doesn’t take long until Jaskier is choking on cum, and he groans as he spits onto the floor, the humiliation triggering his own pitiful orgasm… a bodily reaction more than any kind of pleasure.
He’s ashamed to admit that’s exactly how he likes it.
“F-fuck,” he whimpers as he presses his head against his captor’s thigh.
“Jaskier?”
Shit. Jaskier looks up to see Yennefer in the doorway.
“Yennefer… I… this isn’t…”
This isn’t what it looks like. Except it is, and he knows that she knows.
Fuck.