Work Text:
Geralt's nose twitches.
The trail is fresh. Impossible to miss. He closes his eyes, focuses his senses.
All he can smell is the heady, overpowering scent of Jaskier's release lingering on the bard's hands.
"Jaskier," he says. Growls, maybe.
He doesn't turn to look at him, though he can hear Jaskier flinch. The spike in his heartbeat makes his blood pump faster, his scent more pungent, like a particularly cloying perfume. Geralt clenches his fists and his teeth and he's strung so tightly he fears his control might snap.
"What? What is it, witcher, I'm--I've been quiet, out of the way, what could it possibly be this time?"
Geralt can't answer. Won't answer. Focus. Focus. The frigid wind pushes his hair into his eyes and the creature's trail comes to him once more.
Sword drawn, Geralt moves forward into the night, irritated and glad to have something to sink his blade into.
***
"Ah, Geralt!" comes a distressed shout, and then Jaskier's half-running in his direction, tripping over his own feet. His doublet is undone, and so is the chemise. A mark sits high on the side of his neck, still wet from the mouth that left it there.
He grabs for Geralt's bicep, claws urgently at one pauldron before shoving himself between Geralt and the wall behind him.
"Nothing to worry about, dear witcher," Jaskier says breathlessly, ducking to peek from underneath Geralt's arm. "Just a--a misunderstanding, is all. Some parties in our arrangement failed to mention they were otherwise, ah--engaged."
"Jaskier," Geralt says as threateningly as he can manage. He's too fucking tired to deal with this again. And again. And again.
"She didn't fuck like a maiden," Jaskier mutters, and, mournfully, Geralt abandons the message board he'd been scouting, heading instead for the stables with the bard in tow and a group of young men yelling their displeasure in the town square.
***
"I don't see how this is--" Jaskier squeals, tries to shrug out of Geralt's grip. "--in any way necessary, Geralt, the silk will crease, gods have mercy."
Geralt pulls the hood lower over his eyes and walks swiftly, one gloved hand clasped tightly around Jaskier's arm, dragging him down the cobbled street. It's busy this time of day. Jaskier's incessant moaning draws them only more attention.
"Another word and I'll have your mouth sewn shut," Geralt hisses privately to spare them the unnecessary scandal.
Perhaps it is only because he finally realises the gravity of the situation that Jaskier falls silent. Geralt doesn't care for the reason. He quickens his pace.
The shop stands where it always had, inconspicuous and private, tucked away in the shadow of a large armourer. Dust rises from the stale clothes stacked on the shelves, tickles Geralt's sensitive nose; he doesn't spare a glance at the gaudy fabrics. A merchant greets them and Geralt nods at him knowingly, walking straight past him to a heavy door at the shop's back.
"Geralt?" Jaskier says tentatively, his voice quivering.
Geralt pushes the door open and shoves Jaskier inside.
The woman is a different one than the last time he'd visited, though it had been many decades since he'd had any need for services of this kind. Never this one in particular, still.
Jaskier stutters at his side, head whipping around wildly.
"Geralt? Geralt, you filthy old man, what--
He sighs in annoyance at the mischievous glint in Jaskier's eye.
"A gag, perhaps?" the woman asks, amused, and Geralt almost considers it.
"A cage," he says instead, grabbing Jaskier's shoulders and pushing him towards her.
Jaskier flails his arms like a drowning man.
"A--a what now? Geralt? If you think you can keep me in a gods-damned cage, you bastard--"
Perhaps the gag would be a wiser choice.
"Just some parts of you, sweetheart," the attendant says calmly, making to tug at Jaskier's trousers.
Geralt holds Jaskier's arms firmly behind his back as he's stripped from the waist down. He can't help but glance down over Jaskier's shoulder when the woman examines his limp cock.
"Such a sweet little thing," she comments with a smile and gives Geralt a nod before disappearing deeper into the shop. He watches the sway of her hips beneath her skirts.
"Geralt?" Jaskier whispers. His heartbeat drums dully in Geralt's ears, too fast, too loud. "Geralt, what are you doing to me?"
Jaskier's stopped thrashing, though the wheeze of his breath remains anxious in anticipation.
Geralt doesn't answer.
The woman returns quickly, a vial of a viscous, translucent oil in one hand and the steel cage in the other. Geralt marvels at how small it is, though he keeps his expression neutral.
"I'll--" Jaskier begins, though the words die in his throat when lithe, slick hands grab his cock abruptly.
"You'll want to watch, master witcher."
Geralt does.
It's a quick affair, now that Jaskier's given up his struggling. He stands still as a statue, head turned away and eyes squeezed shut. His hands shake when the woman threads his delicate balls through the metal ring, and he gasps when she gently tucks his cock into the cage.
"The fit is a bit snug," she says, lifting Jaskier's newly caged prick, turning it this way and that to get a better look. "Would you like something bigger?"
Geralt shakes his head. Jaskier doesn't try to reply.
The attendant hands him a small padlock with a key in it, and Geralt has to take his gloves off to fasten it on Jaskier's cage. The key goes around his neck, safe beneath his armour.
Geralt tugs Jaskier's trousers up, ties them roughly and perhaps too tightly. He can just make out the cage's shape under the fabric, an obscene bulge that's sure to get Jaskier longing stares.
He hands over most of his purse and urges Jaskier out, back into the world.
***
The bard is silent for three days.
They trudge the path in blissful peace that Geralt will yearn for when it breaks. When they make camp, Jaskier refuses to help. He sets up his bedroll as far as he can, shivering through the night, huffing indignantly. He won't eat until he thinks Geralt is asleep.
The atmosphere is so tense Geralt wonders why Jaskier won't simply leave, until he remembers the little silver key around his own neck.
They get to town, eventually, and Geralt sets out on a contract almost immediately. He doesn't hesitate to leave Jaskier at the inn, for once confident no trouble will befall him. The assurance is a surprising comfort.
On the fourth night Jaskier rouses Geralt from a fitful sleep, perched carefully at the edge of the bed.
"It's enough, isn't it?" he says softly, his expression shattered and pained. "I've learned my lesson. You can--please take it off."
Geralt blinks a few times. Takes a deep breath that chokes him with the urgent scent of desperation, unresolved lust. He thinks, and he thinks.
"No."
"Geralt--"
"No," he repeats calmly, closing his eyes again. "You wear the cage or I cut your useless cock off."
Jaskier gasps, and stutters, and goes quiet again, though not for long.
"If that's what it takes to stay with you then I--I will. I'll do it. But you--" A hand settles lightly on Geralt's abdomen. "You will take it off? Eventually. Right?"
Geralt hums dismissively. He revels in the neediness in Jaskier's voice, his uneven breathing as he settles back on the floor. It nearly rocks him back to sleep, until--
The whimper is a soft thing, barely audible, and yet it's enough to hurl Geralt viciously into wakefulness. He cracks an eye open, breath caught in his throat.
The darkness does little to hinder his sight; he gets a perfect view of where Jaskier's sprawled out on his bedroll, legs spread obscenely, hand desperately clutching his trapped prick. Geralt watches as he tries to get his fingers between the bars, tries to touch his swollen cock through the unforgiving metal. He whines again, louder this time as his head rolls from side to side.
"Jaskier," Geralt says abruptly. Jaskier jumps, though his hand doesn't fall away.
"Sorry," he breathes, voice thick like he might cry. "Sorry, I need it so badly, Geralt--"
And Geralt can smell it, is the thing--the salt of Jaskier's tears and the crushing, overbearing desire that now clings to him. He can't escape it, and maybe--maybe he doesn't want to.
He wouldn't ever admit it, but Geralt's cock grows unreasonably hard as he watches Jaskier frantically try to get off. He'd never thought about it, how good Jaskier would look, how good he'd sound--how achingly wanting he'd become after just a few days in chastity. It almost tempts Geralt to unlock the cage, so he can watch Jaskier's tiny prick bounce when Geralt spreads him out on the bed and fucks him within an inch of his life.
Almost.
"Go to sleep, bard."
***
The cage, Geralt comes to find, does not work as he'd hoped.
Yes, Jaskier's overeager cock can't get him in trouble anymore, and Geralt's glad for that, truly--fending off angry cuckolds never was his favourite pastime.
As far as distractions go, however--well.
The persistent, all-consuming scent of unfulfilled arousal so intense it nearly knocks Geralt to the ground is a slight problem.
He doesn't mind, really, when Jaskier looks so tempting biting his lip and rubbing his thighs together, so delicious pawing at his own prick and his swollen sack. When he begs and pleads and a whine slips into his normally sure voice, turning it thick and watery with tears.
Geralt refuses, refuses, refuses.
Jaskier does not ask to leave.
He gets drunk a lot, now. A cup of wine turns into three and then the whole carafe, and for once Geralt doesn't feel the need to keep a watchful eye and a hand on his sword. He leaves Jaskier to his will and heads to bed, calm and content.
Sleep doesn't seize him for long hours, so when Jaskier makes it back, stumbling noisily through the door, Geralt hums to let him know he's awake. He keeps his eyes shut.
It's a while before Jaskier climbs into bed beside him. The warmth of his bare skin pressed close against Geralt is a shock; the realisation that the cold, hard shape digging into his thigh is the metal of the cage trapping Jaskier's prick is--
Fuck.
His heart doesn't stutter when he feels the hot puffs of Jaskier's breath on his neck, but it might have, were he a weaker man. A hand creeps tentatively over his chest, limbs winding around him until Jaskier lies halfway on top of his supine body.
"Geralt," Jaskier breathes, sounding wrecked, and his hips move abruptly forward, clumsy thrusts against Geralt's side that make Geralt feel the curved steel even through his clothes. "Please, Geralt, please let me get off."
No, slips right to the tip of Geralt's tongue and stays there, unsaid and distant. The way Jaskier's words bleed together sets Geralt on edge. He doesn't dare move a muscle when Jaskier keeps rutting the cage against his body, keeps trying in vain to seek his pleasure. Dry lips settle on the edge of his jaw, grow wet with sloppy kisses. Geralt's own cock swells in his smallclothes, unrestrained.
"I'll do anything."
A hot rush of power hits Geralt head-on, nearly steals his breath away. The word echos in his head. Anything. Anything.
Jaskier moans faintly, right into Geralt's ear. The arm thrown across his chest moves lower, and for a moment he thinks Jaskier is going to touch his frightfully hard cock and it'll be over. He wouldn't have enough restraint to stop himself, then.
But Jaskier merely reaches to touch his own prick, like he did so many nights before; desperately trying to fit his long fingers between the bars, caress his plumped, reddened, tortured cock. Geralt releases the grip he'd had on the blankets underneath him, flexing his fingers against the ache in his knuckles. He wonders if--and he wants to--
His sudden movement doesn't startle Jaskier, to the bard's own credit or the wine flowing through him. He groans when Geralt bats his hands away from where he's fondling himself, leans forward and sucks a mindless mark to the side of Geralt's throat.
Geralt thinks of the way Jaskier's whimpers had sounded in the deep nights just as he grabs hold of the cage and squeezes.
The effect is immediate, though he doubts Jaskier gets any physical stimulation off it. Still, he chokes on a breath, and whines, and suddenly he's trembling wildly against Geralt's side.
Geralt tightens his hold just a little. They both hold their breath when the metal creaks pitifully beneath his fingers.
"Geralt," Jaskier says again, but this time his voice waivers with dread.
Geralt's whole body hums, sings, screams at him to grip just that much harder, fuck--perhaps enough to warp the cage, so it always digs into hot flesh and reminds Jaskier that it could have been his bare prick crushed in Geralt's fist instead, perhaps--
He lets go with a shuddering exhale, rolling swiftly on his side, back turned to where Jaskier's gulping down lungfuls of air.
"Tomorrow," Geralt says, all too loud in the darkness. "You can--I'll let you come."
"You'll take it off?"
"I'll let you come."
Geralt doesn't sleep, arousal hot in his core, skin prickling with anticipation.
***
"Fuck," Jaskier whispers heartily. His hands tremble where they rest, bound, at the small of his back. Should've got the gag, too. "Fuck, you bastard."
He's quite the sight, like this, knelt on the bed with his knees spread and his face shoved into the blankets. Open. Presenting. Captive and helpless and entirely at Geralt's mercy.
Geralt has yet to decide how merciful he's feeling.
He gets an eyeful of Jaskier's round arse sloping beautifully into the arched curve of his spine. Geralt aches to touch, yet he does not.
"You said--" Jaskier begins, muffled against the bedding.
"I know. Patience."
His own cock throbs, confined in his leathers, and Geralt reels at the thought that Jaskier's suffered through this for weeks.
He weighs his options. Reaches for the oil he keeps in case he needs to take Jaskier's cage off. Pulls his hand back before he manages to grab it, thinking. Thinking.
Jaskier wails when Geralt buries his face between his cheeks, tongue flat against his tight, untouched hole.
"Geralt, Geralt, Geralt--"
And Geralt never thought he would want this--never thought he could have this--but a flame of possession, of ownership flares bright and hot in his chest, and he knows he won't ever want anything else.
"That's filthy, you--"
Jaskier mewls and gasps, his thighs quivering until they give out, knees sliding impossibly more apart. Geralt fucks him with his tongue and goes near-delirious when Jaskier cries, big, heaving sobs shaking his body. He tastes decadent. He tastes of despair.
Jaskier's bound hands reach Geralt's head, long fingers weaving into his hair, pulling, holding. Geralt works his jaw greedily and Jaskier's body parts for him, unravels and blooms until even Geralt can't stand it any longer.
The outraged huff Jaskier gives when Geralt flips him heavily to sprawl on his back is vaguely amusing; nearly enough to cut through the thick cloud of desire settled over Geralt's mind, though not quite.
Oil spills over his fingers before he knows it, slicks Jaskier's feverish skin, makes it glimmer and glisten. His fingertips caress the steel cage almost reverently. He stares at it, at Jaskier's gorgeous prick flushed an angry red, swelling against the bars. He stares and it's as if a spell carves itself into his bones, heavy and binding and inevitable.
He pushes two fingers inside Jaskier just as he leans in to put his mouth around that cute little prick, cage and all. It clinks against his teeth. Geralt forces his tongue between rigid metal bars, desperate for a taste. Jaskier writhes beneath him, but his arms are still tied behind his back, immobilised between him and the bedding.
The cage is so small it doesn't even reach Geralt's throat and that's--
Fuck.
Fuck.
Geralt pumps his fingers blindly into Jaskier's tight hole, fits a third one in before he reasonably should. Jaskier moans delectably. His pleas grow in volume.
"Please let me come, pleaseletmecome, I'll be so, so good, I--I've been so good, Geralt, gods--"
Geralt presses his hips against the bed and guides his mouth higher, over Jaskier's trembling belly, over the ribs Geralt can now make out beneath his skin. He sucks a mark there, right over the bone. Moves higher. Thrusts his fingers faster, until he feels Jaskier jolt and his moans drip into a constant, maddening staccato. He puts his mouth around a nipple and finds it delightfully sensitive. He'll try, on another day, to get Jaskier to come just from having his tits fondled. Now, though--
Geralt wonders if he can fit a fourth finger without reaching for the oil.
He can.
A bite just below Jaskier's jaw. A hand closing tenderly around the cage. Squeezing. Crushing. Jaskier goes still, silent, breathless--he clenches tight-tight-tight around Geralt's fingers as the sharp scent of his release pierces the air.
"Good boy," Geralt says, watching Jaskier's soft cock spurt pitiful drops of come over his abdomen. Most of it catches on the cage. Geralt yearns to lap it up, but not before--
His own hand feels heavenly around his cock when he finally makes to undo his breeches. Geralt kneels between Jaskier's splayed legs; watches his hole spasm around nothing, the way his prick tries to twitch in its confines. It isn't long before his orgasm creeps up his spine, mind-numbing in its intensity.
Geralt spills over the cage.
Only then does he settle between his bard's thighs once more to lick him clean like a newborn cub.