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I Just Want to Feel You

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Jaskier has always been more of a words man than a numbers man so he hasn’t exactly been keeping count, but if he had to hazard a guess he would estimate that he’s been on his back in this bed and on the brink of orgasm for at least five or six lifetimes, give or take a decade.

“Please,” he whimpers into Eskel’s pillow, his head turned sideways to hide in the cotton folds. Geralt only grunts in return, continuing to fuck into Jaskier like it’s his job. “I just wanna come, Geralt, please,” he begs for good measure, too strung out to figure out whether that noise had been an affirmative one.

Apparently not, because Eskel shushes him with a low, “Be patient, bardling.” He’s laying on the bed next to Jaskier, teasing him with a hand that flits from Jaskier’s cock to his nipples and anywhere else he can reach, and he leans in to take advantage of Jaskier’s bared throat with a little nip at the soft skin. “You know he won’t leave you unsatisfied.”

“The last three hours would suggest otherwise,” Jaskier huffs, trying to sneak a hand down to wrap around his cock. He doesn’t really think he’ll get away with it --you can’t get away with anything when you’re in a relationship with a witcher, let alone three-- but maybe it’ll at least spur some sort of action. Possessive bastards, his witchers dear.

If Lambert were here (and regrettably, he isn’t, since someone had to leave Kaer Morhen to get some game) he would have caught Jaskier’s hand the instant it twitched. As it is, he actually gets in three precious strokes to his cock before Geralt snatches him away and pins his wrist to the mattress, Eskel following suit with other hand an instant later. It was so close to being enough, so close that Jaskier could cry, and very nearly did as he was yanked back from the edge of coming at the last second.

“Be patient,” Geralt echoes Eskel at a growl, but he changes the angle and leans forward so that his torso his pressed more to Jaskier’s in a way that makes little brushes of friction arc over Jaskier’s cock and drags a moan from his lips. “Waiting on you, anyways,” he adds, speeding up the motion of his hips. Jaskier’s thighs spasm around his waist. “Wanted to see if we could make you come without a hand around your pretty little cock. What do you think, Eskel?”

“I think he can do it,” Eskel purrs into Jaskier’s ear, like he’s confiding a secret in the writhing man. “That cock of his is really something else, isn’t it? Feels so good to clench down around a nice thick cock, feel it moving deep inside of you--”

It’s the dirty talk that does Jaskier in, naturally. He’s a wordsmith, after all, he’s built to appreciate a good turn of phrase. Between the scant friction he’s getting on his cock and the way that Eskel’s words caress his skin and drift their way into his imagination, Jaskier can do little more than keen and strain against the hands pinning his wrists as he comes. His legs tighten around Geralt, hole clamping down, canting his hips up in search of every morsel of friction he can get for his poor, overwrought cock.

“Good boy,” Geralt hums, sounding pleased, and Jaskier feels himself tingle from head to toe with the praise. He’s done well, and Geralt is fucking him erratically now, on the edge himself. It won’t be but another minute or two now, and then Geralt will--

All of a sudden, Geralt’s cock is withdrawing from Jaskier and not slamming back in the way it’s supposed to. He mewls a little, confused, as Geralt starts stripping his cock with his hand instead. He’s even more confused when he sees that Geralt’s eyes aren’t on him at all, but on Eskel, kneeing his way up the bed until his legs bracket Eskel’s shoulders and commanding him, “Open.”

Eskel does, a grin apparent in his eyes, and manages to open his mouth wide just in time to catch most of Geralt’s come as he spills with a groan. Some of it lands on his chin and cheeks, but Geralt is quick to swipe his thumb across the skin and collect the mess to push it back into Eskel’s mouth with the rest. It’s all over in a moment, Geralt wiping the tip of his cock against Eskel’s lower lip, and then he’s leaning down and claiming his brother’s mouth in a messy kiss.

Jaskier can only blink over at them in surprise. Neither one of them looks at him for a moment, until Geralt pulls back from his kiss with Eskel and slaps his thigh jovially. “All yours,” he says easily, then gracefully rolls to lay on the far side of the bed so that Eskel can rise. 

Only then does Eskel look at him, licking his lips clean of Geralt’s come. “May I?” he asks, ever polite, one hand sliding between Jaskier’s thighs to tease at his hole, as if there could be any confusion about what he means.

“Y-yeah, of course,” Jaskier replies, shaking off his surprise and a strange tingle of unease that the strange turn of events has left him with. “I can’t go again yet, but--”

“I know,” Eskel soothes, pushing himself off the mattress, dropping a kiss on Jaskier’s shoulder as he goes. “I won’t ask you to.” He’s between Jaskier’s legs, and then in the next second, strong arms are rolling Jaskier onto his front pulling at his hips until he’s face down in the mattress with his arse in the air. Eskel drapes himself along Jaskier’s back to whisper in his ear, “I just want to be inside you.”

And then he is, cock sliding right in where Geralt’s had been just a minute before, pace no less frantic. He’s been watching and waiting this whole time, and is clearly not far from finding his release in the fluttering depths of Jaskier’s overstimulated body. Jaskier grits his teeth and whimpers around the discomfort, eager for it, ready for that rush of victory that always came when one of his wolves fell apart for him.

A growl sounds from the other side of the bed, and then Eskel’s weight is gone from Jaskier’s back. Jaskier snaps his eyes open and twists, alarmed at the suddenness, and sees Eskel rocked back on his haunches somewhere between Jaskier’s legs. Geralt has him by the cock, pressed close and pumping his length quickly in the narrow space between their bodies, and Eskel grabs him by the arms and bites down on the meaty part of Geralt’s shoulder to stifle a howl.

When Eskel comes, he bucks his hips forward and splatters Geralt’s stomach with his seed. Some of it runs down that pale skin and gets caught in the little forest of white between Geralt’s legs, glistening there in the candlelight as Jaskier looks on. “Fuck!” Eskel swears emphatically when his teeth release Geralt, and he gives the unrepentant man a playful shove. “Warn me next time before you go yanking me out of a nice warm hole.”

Something clenches in Jaskier’s stomach, and he artfully ducks his face to hide behind his own shoulder as the two witchers turn to him. “Alright?” Geralt asks, reaching out to run a hand over the swell of Jaskier’s arse.

Jaskier arches helplessly into the touch. “I’m good,” he replies automatically, ever eager to reassure his lovers that they won’t break him, regardless of how hard they use him. “Felt good.”

It’s a rather brief answer, by Jaskier standards, but it isn’t untrue. It had felt good. His cock is still throbbing a bit with the aftereffects of his orgasm, the muscles in his belly loose and his body heavy with release. His bottom was pleasantly sore, and if he isn’t mistaken there might be a pretty bruise forming on the inside of one of his thighs. His wolves always make his body feel all kinds of incredible, no matter what.

Geralt hums and reaches for him, helping Jaskier roll back over to his original position. “Thank you,” he murmurs, leaning over him in an echo of before as Eskel leaves the bed. When Geralt kisses him, he tastes like his own spend-- thirdhand, passed from Eskel to Geralt before Jaskier is allowed to have a taste. Jaskier doesn’t pretend not to suck at it eagerly. 

Eskel returns then with a damp rag. It won’t be warm, Jaskier knows, not unless one of them were to walk all the way down to the hot spring, but Eskel does his best to rub it quickly between his hands and take off the worst of the chill before wiping Jaskier down. The bard barely even flinches when the cloth swipes through the mess of his own come and wipes him clean. A second kiss lands on Jaskier’s jaw, lingering for a moment before Eskel pulls back to thank him, too.

He moves to wipe Geralt down as well, and two share a kiss as well as they prepare to turn in for the night, their bodies becoming drowsy from sex and the late hour. Geralt flicks his fingers at the candles in the room to extinguish the flames, and Eskel tosses the rag in a washbasket to be handled later. Jaskier lays there, wondering what he can do to help, but they’re both back in bed before he knows it. Geralt is in first, laying on his belly in the middle with an arm slung over Jaskier’s torso. His eyes are closed before his head hits the pillow, but his leg still tangles with Eskel’s when the last witcher climbs in on the far side of the bed from Jaskier.

“G’night,” Eskel mumbles, and he sounds just as close to sleep as Geralt does in the darkness.

“Goodnight,” Jaskier says lightly, voice sounding small in the large room. “I love you both.”

“Love you, too,” they chorus, and from them on it’s only snores.

Worn though his body is from the sex, Jaskier doesn’t sleep. He focuses his energy on being still so as not to disturb his bedmates, but as the minutes tick by, a strange restlessness comes over him. Something doesn’t feel right. Geralt’s arm across his middle doesn’t feel right. The very sheets beneath his body are suddenly wrong, and it’s all Jaskier can do to stay still and silent as discomfort creeps through his body, tensing his muscles one at a time.

The air feels cold on Jaskier’s skin, and he wishes suddenly that he were nestled between the two men in his bed. He would be warm then, surrounded, protected, like he normally is on these winter nights at the keep. Not tonight, however. Tonight he’s got an arm as his blanket and only a pillow to lay his head on, still and silent and so unlike the slow rhythm of a witcher’s heartbeat beneath his ear.

Is there a reason for it? Maybe they hadn’t actually enjoyed the sex tonight. They said they had, but neither one of them marked him up with their come, a first for Jaskier. All three of his boys are borderline obsessed with scent-marking him, even if they’re the only ones who can smell it, and it’s a rarity for him to walk away from sex relatively clean unless it’s him and Geralt in some hurried corner somewhere. But here, in Kaer Morhen? Never.

Anxiety twists in Jaskier’s gut as he replays the night’s events in his mind. Maybe they were mad at him, for whining about not being allowed to come, and for trying to touch himself. That has to be it. That’s why Geralt had given his come to Eskel, and vice versa. Jaskier hadn’t earned it, just like he hadn’t earned the right to sleep safe and comfortable between them.

A rush of shame sweeps through Jaskier’s body, and tears spring to his eyes unbidden. The sense of discomfort in his own skin intensifies, and he wants to scrub until he’s raw. The idea that Geralt and Eskel are unhappy with him-- that they’d gone to bed probably cross with him for not being good enough--

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until the quivering of his stomach jostling Geralt’s arm makes the witcher’s fingers twitch in his sleep, and Jaskier holds his breath and tries to choke back his emotion. The last thing they’ll want is to be woken up by him being pathetic when he’s already disappointed them once tonight. No, he’ll lie here and be still and silent and good just like they wanted, and won’t bother them any more.

It hurts, though, not to be touched by them. It’s a physical ache in his body. He wants to feel their hands on him, their lips, smoothing over every part of him. He wants to wake them up and beg them to give him a second chance, so that he can show them that he can be good for them and hear them say that they’re happy. He could earn their come and then they would tell him how loved he is, probably, and Jaskier wouldn’t feel like there was a gaping hole right in the center of his chest.

But he doesn’t wake them up, because there is a very small and very sad part of him that knows they don’t want him to. He’s on his side of the bed, cold and clean and lonely, because that’s how they wanted him. He won’t make a burden of himself by asking for more than he deserves.

A little whimper escapes his lips even past the way Jaskier is daring not even to breathe, and he jams his eyes shut against the falling of tears. Suddenly it’s too much even being in the bed, knowing he isn’t truly welcome here. They’re too kind to kick him out, is all. He’s already fucked up so much tonight, the least he can do is remove himself from Geralt’s bed so that he and Eskel can be comfortable there together.

As carefully as possible, Jaskier slides out from underneath Geralt’s arm and rolls off of the side of the bed. Geralt’s fingers twitch like they’re trying to hold him in place, but he knows it’s only a sleepy reflex. It’s the only reaction he gets from either of them. Here in the safety of Kaer Morhen, the wolves all tend to sleep deeply and obliviously, making up for three other seasons full of halfhearted dozes on the path. They won’t even notice he’s gone-- though he doubts they’d even care if they did notice.

Jaskier looks around for clothes in the dim light of the moon, but he knows it’s no good. There’s nothing here for him anyways. His pack containing all of his clothes always mysteriously disappears upon crossing the threshold of Kaer Morhen, and he spends the entire winter either naked or in the clothes of one witcher or another. He could go to the wardrobe and dress in something of Geralt’s, but the thought makes his heart ache. Geralt doesn’t want his scent on Jaskier right now.

Instead, Jaskier pulls a quilt off of the chest of drawers at the end of the bed and wraps it around himself, the cold fabric only serving to chill him further. It’ll do. Jaskier does his best to keep the fabric from dragging noisily against the floor as he slips from the room. The door only creaks a little, and he pulls it shut behind him slowly so that the sound of the wood meeting frame makes only the faintest thud.

Alone in the hallway, Jaskier is faced with the fresh new horror of realizing that he has nowhere to go. A rush of loneliness takes over him at the thought. He has no room at Kaer Morhen, no place to call his own. He stays in Geralt’s room, mostly, or maybe Eskel or Lambert’s if they happen to be closer when one of the wolves decide they want him. Nothing belongs to him here, though. He exists where he’s allowed to exist, and he has no right to impose himself on anywhere else in the keep.

Which is how he finds himself wandering the hallways in his quilt-cape, suppressing his tears and scrubbing them furiously from his cheeks when they dare to escape. He doesn’t even know where he is, anymore, the torchlit hallways all blurring together after a while. He knows that it’s cold here, his bare feet feeling like they’re burning against the stone. It’s dark, too, the torches fewer and further between, and the sparse decorations to be found in the keep were absent from the walls.

He’s lost, well and truly, by the time his tired body gives out and he finds an alcove to tuck himself into. It’s a narrow space, just big enough for him to sit upright beneath some sort of inlaid shelf, and the confines help, somehow.With the quilt wrapped tightly around him, Jaskier can close his eyes and imagine that it’s almost like being held. The swaddle constricts his chest some, like a strong pair of arms might.

Of course, none of his witchers would ever feel as cruel as stone against his cheek.

There, in the relative safety of his alcove, Jaskier lets himself cry. Some part of him knows that this isn’t rational, that nothing truly bad has happened to him, but he can’t seem to make that feel true. The world feels horribly vast and lonesome, and there is a certainty deep in his gut that nothing will ever feel alright again.

It’s hard to tell the passing of time down here, but he must be there for a while because eventually Jaskier’s tears run out and his body starts to sag with exhaustion. He’s wrung out, physically and emotionally, lost in a strange, fuzzy place inside of his own head that he’s not sure he’s ever visited before. He wonders when he’ll feel like getting up and moving again. He wonders how he’ll find his way back when he does.

But apparently there’s no need for Jaskier to concern himself with such things, because at some point there’s a hurried approach of footsteps and a soft, “Jask?”

Jaskier opens his eyes and turns his face away from the wall to see Lambert, backlit by the weak torches, brow furrowed with concern. “You’re back,” Jaskier croaks, voice sore from the tears. “Is it--what time is it?”

“Middle of the night,” Lambert grimaces. “There was snow coming, so I figured I’d be better off coming back in the dark than in a blizzard in daylight. Jask, are you okay?” he asks, crouching down next to Jaskier’s hiding place and reaching out to cup one cool, salt-stained cheek. “I followed your scent halfway through the keep. You smell like… sex and sadness.”

“I’m fine,” Jaskier says on instinct, but he’s betrayed by the tears --gods, wasn’t he done with those already?-- that rush to his eyes. “I just…”

He trails off, at a complete loss for words that might be used to form a potential explanation as to why he’s in his predicament. What could he possibly say? He’s just a disappointment to everyone who loves him? He just doesn’t deserve to be in their beds? He just needed to hide away for a while and try not to fall apart?

Whatever the case may be, Lambert isn’t buying the deflection. He scowls at Jaskier, then reaches out and grabs at one swaddled arm. “You’re full of shit,” he accuses, shifting his weight so that he plops down on his arse on the stone floor and can pull Jaskier into his lap. “Come here. Stop being stupid and tell me what’s wrong.”

His words are harsh but his tone is soft, and the feeling of being held makes Jaskier want to cry all over again. “Nothing’s wrong,” he mumbles, face pressed into Lambert’s neck. He squirms to get closer, like if he puts his mind to it he can worm his way into Lambert. “I just… couldn’t be in their bed anymore,” he finishes lamely.

Lambert tenses around him. “Did something happen? Are you hurt? You were having sex-- shit, if they screwed up and hurt you I’ll gut them--”

“They would never hurt me,” Jaskier insists, shaking his head vigorously, it’s not that. “I’m okay, really. I don’t even know why I’m crying.”

An unconvinced grunt is the only response Jaskier gets, and then Lambert is nuzzling into his hair. “Come back to my room with me,” he says firmly, less of a suggestion than a command. “Let me get out of my armor and I’ll lay in the bed with you if you want me to.”

Jaskier nods his head furiously and tries to stand, but he’s wobbly and uncoordinated after being curled up for so long and almost falls face first into the wall if not for Lambert catching him. The witcher clucks disapprovingly, then maneuvers him around until he’s picking Jaskier up like one might a toddler. It’s not the most comfortable arrangement, Lambert still in his leather armor and his swords attempting to smack Jasker in the face with every step, but Jaskier latches on with his legs and tucks his face in anyways.

They have to pass by Geralt’s room on the way to Lambert’s, and Jaskier closes his eyes against the sound of two witchers snoring obliviously without him.

Once they’re in Lambert’s room, Jaskier is deposited on the bed with far more care than the youngest witcher tends to display towards him. He guides Jaskier to lay back onto the pillows, then pauses as he takes hold of the edge of Jaskier’s blanket wrap. “Can I look at you?”

Jaskier swallows, unsure. He isn’t sure that he’s up to sex right now, and if Lambert sees he’s naked and gets turned on... He nods anyways, and watches Lambert’s face as he opens up the blanket to look at him. There’s no arousal there, only concern as he runs his hand across Jaskier’s skin, nudging his legs apart to look briefly at his hole, lingering over the bruise on his thigh. He’s thorough in his inspection, all the way down to Jaskier’s toes.

He’s checking for injuries, Jaskier realizes with a start. “I’m not hurt,” he insists again.

Lambert grunts quietly. “Just checking. Listen,” he adds, leaning in close to catch Jaskier’s eyes. “I need three minutes to get out of this armor and have a piss. Then I’ll be back. Three minutes, okay?”

Jaskier frowns at the knowledge that Lambert is going to leave him, but he’s never seen Lambert lie before, not even to save his own ass. If he says he’ll be back, he’ll be back. “I’ll be here,” he says in an attempt at lightness.

As it turns out, Lambert is back in two, stripped down to a shirt and his smallclothes and carrying two things in his hands. “Here, drink up,” he tells Jaskier, handing him a cup of water. While Jaskier obeys, Lambert moves back down to his feet and starts pulling a pair of thick woolen socks onto them. Jaskier wiggles his toes inside the warm confines, and Lambert drops his head to kiss his ankle. “They felt cold.”

“Thank you.” Jaskier finishes his water and puts the cup on the nightstand, then sighs contentedly as Lambert climbs into bed at last. He scoots forward into Lambert’s space immediately, unrepentant, until they’re both on their sides face to face just a few inches apart. Lambert pulls the blankets up over them and reaches around to rub Jaskier’s back, slow and firm. “And thanks for letting me sleep with you tonight.”

“I’m always happy to have you in my bed, bardling,” Lambert says with a chaste kiss to Jaskier’s jaw. The silence stretches on for several minutes, Jaskier growing warmer and more relaxed with each passing breath in Lambert’s close presence. After a while, Lambert ventures, “I’m guessing you didn’t mention where you were going when you left.”

“They were asleep. They didn’t notice me leaving.”

“They’ll be worried about you in the morning, though. You sure you don’t want to go join them? I can come with you.”

Jaskier ducks his head so that he’s tucked under Lambert’s chin, face hidden from prying yellow eyes. “They don’t want me there.”

“Bullshit,” Lambert scoffs, but he tosses a leg over Jaskier’s to hold him closer and increases the pressure with which he rubs Jaskier’s back. “Why would you say that?”

“I… wasn’t very good for them tonight,” confesses Jaskier, and he can feel his throat start to get tight with oncoming tears yet again. “I messed up, and now I think they’re mad at me.”

“You think? So they didn’t say they were mad at you?”

“No, but I could tell. They didn’t treat me the same.”

Lambert’s chest rumbles dangerously. “How did they treat you?”

“They didn’t… mark me,” Jaskier replies, cheeks flushing hot. “You always do, all of you. Because it makes me smell like I’m yours. But they-- they didn’t do that. They didn’t want me to be theirs.”

“Bull shit,” repeats Lambert, then tries to soften his tone. “That’s not true. We’re all crazy about you.”

“They didn’t hold me after, either,” Jaskier continues, determined to make Lambert see the truth of the situation. “Why wouldn’t they hold me unless they were mad at me?”

He doesn’t get a response right away. Lambert’s hand on his Jaskier’s back moves to cover the back of his neck, possessive and reassuring pressure. “Tell me what you did together,” he finally says, quiet and firm. “I’ll tell you whether they have reason to be angry with you or not.”

Jaskier doesn’t want to --what if Lambert hears and gets mad at him, too?-- but his tone harbors no room for argument. “You know me, always in for a good story,” he says as brightly as he can manage. “Well, we were in Geralt’s room, and I was sitting in Eskel’s lap working on a song.”

“Which song?”

“The one about him.”

“Good boy,” Lambert purrs, pairing the praise with a squeeze to Jaskier’s neck. Jaskier feels it like a warm current throughout his entire body. “You take good care of us. We love hearing your songs about us, even if Geralt won’t admit it.”

Unsure how to respond to such sweet words, Jaskier just continues in his tale. “He liked hearing it, hearing me sing about him. He started to get turned on. He asked if he could fuck me, and I said yes.”

“Good boy,” repeats Lambert with another squeeze, and Jaskier feels that same flush of pleasure in his body.. “You’re always so willing for us.”

“I took Eskel in my mouth, and Geralt started to open me up with his tongue. I-- I washed myself very thoroughly this morning while they were busy training, so that I could be ready.”

“Good boy, staying nice and clean for us. I love the way you smell when it’s only your scent there.”

Jaskier’s cock is starting to thicken a little, both at the memories and at the reassuring praise. “So then Geralt put me on my back and started fucking me, once I was ready. Eskel was touching me and kissing me. It felt so good but they told me not to touch myself because Geralt wasn’t ready for me to come yet.”

“And did you?”

“I tried,” Jaskier confesses, ashamed. “He stopped me before I could.”

“Good boy.”

Confused, Jaskier whips his head up so fast he knocks into Lambert’s chin. He tries to pull back and put some distance between them, but Lambert’s firm hold on him doesn’t allow it. “That’s not good,” he protests, lip wobbling against his will. “I was being a brat.”

“And Geralt loves it when you’re a brat,” Lambert fires right back. “It gives him the chance to put you in your place. He knows you hate being denied. If he really wanted you to be still, he’d have tied you to the headboard. No, you played right into his game, and that makes it good in my eyes. What happened next?”

Jaskier wants to argue, but those yellow eyes have him caught. “He… pinned me to the bed and fucked me harder until I came,” he says, ignoring Lambert’s raised eyebrow and silent I told you so. “I could tell he was about to come, but at the last minute he pulled out and… he came in Eskel’s mouth instead.”

“Hmmm. And then what?”

“And then Eskel asked if he could fuck me too, even though it was too soon for me to come again.”

“And did you let him?”


“Good boy,” Lambert approves, this time adding a kiss since Jaskier has revealed his face once more. “How did he do it?”

“From behind. It was going to be over quick, but Geralt pulled him off of me and made Eskel come on him, instead.” Jaskier closes his eyes at the memory, the sharp lance of rejection still twisting at his heart. “Eskel was mad at him because he wanted my hole.”

“I’m going to kill them.” Lambert’s growl is a promise. “You’re a human being, for fuck’s sake.”

“They both said thank you and gave me a kiss, and Eskel cleaned me up,” Jaskier rushes to finish. “And that was it. They were both really tired and they fell asleep right away.”

“Thanking you, like you’re a whore that did them a service,” scoffs Lambert, his hand shifting to scratch comfortingly at Jaskier’s scalp in slow, soothing motions. “Instead of taking the time to pamper you after you were so good for them. I’ll kill them, seriously.”

“If I was good, then, why do I feel so bad?” Jaskier asks, and his voice has never sounded smaller.

“Because they’re idiots,” scowls Lambert, “and they didn’t do their fucking job. They’re supposed to take care of you, after something like that. Make sure you’re alright, and talk to you, shit like that. Make you feel good. If they don’t, you could wind up feeling like shit even though you were just feeling good. Which both of them know damn well, but clearly need reminding about.” Lambert’s eyes flash. 

“It’s not their fault,” Jaskier defends, reaching up to cup Lambert’s jaw, which has set in a familiar stubborn way that almost certainly means trouble. “I don’t know why I got so upset. I just was so sure that I’d done wrong, and they wanted me gone… I felt like it was better to leave than to stay unwanted.”

“You shouldn’t have had to be alone while you were feeling like that,” Lambert says petulantly, turning his head to kiss Jaskier’s palm. “What can I do? How can I make you feel better?”

It doesn’t take long for Jaskier to consider his answer, though his face grows hot when he finds it. “Will you… fill me up? Please? I know it’s silly, but--”

“It’s not silly if it helps,” Lambert interrupts him with a kiss. “Turn around, I’ll take care of you.”

Once their bodies are slotted together, Lambert’s chest pressed against every inch of Jaskier’s back, Lambert slides a few fingers into him to make sure that he’s ready. He must decide that it’s enough, after the two who went before him, because he only makes Jaskier wait a moment more before he slides his freshly-oiled cock deep inside. Jaskier shudders at it, trying to press back ever closer to his lover, and glows at Lambert’s low groan.

Lambert slides a hand down to Jaskier’s cock, still only half hard, but Jaskier shakes his head and guides it gently away. “I just want to feel you,” he whispers.

The motion of Lambert’s hips is slow and steady, like the swaying of a boat, and Jaskier feels himself relaxing once more. He’s safe here, held like this, body being rocked gently with Lambert’s motions, with nothing to do except lie there and be content. His eyes drift shut, listening to the lullaby of Lambert’s breath, until finally Lambert moans lowly into his shoulder and just grinds deep inside of him. Jaskier feels Lambert’s cock twitching inside of him, filling him up with his come, marking him as loved.

“Stay,” he murmurs, words sluggish, and hears Lambert hum his agreement before he finally drifts off to sleep.


The next thing Jaskier is aware of is Lambert’s arm tightening around him. The motion nudges him into wakefulness rather reluctantly, adrift as he is in a happy haze. He shifts slightly and feels that Lambert’s cock is still tucked inside of him, long since soft, merely staying warm inside of his body. He’s safe and he’s good and everything is alright.

After that, it’s the door bursting open and two more witchers pouring into the room. “Lamb, is Jaskier in here with you? We smelled you guys in the hallway-- oh thank god,” Eskel says somewhere behind both Jaskier and Lambert.

Geralt circles the bed and comes into Jaskier’s blurry field of vision, a soft smile on his face. “There you are,” he says, lifting up the edge of the blanket to join the two on the bed. “Good mor-- what the fuck?”

His greeting is cut off by Lambert, who demonstrates his agility by swinging a leg over top of Jaskier’s body to plant a foot in Geralt’s stomach and kick him firmly. Caught off guard, the kick sends Geralt sprawling off of the bed with a thunk. The motion makes Lambert’s cock shift inside of Jaskier and he flexes his toes in satisfaction at the sensation, probably not as concerned by the happenings of the room as he ought to be.

“You’re not invited into the bed. You either,” he growls over his shoulder, presumably at Eskel. “I ought to kick your sorry arses.”

“For what?” Eskel asks incredulously, circling the bed as Geralt stands so that Jaskier --and Lambert-- can see them both. “What the hell did we do?”

At that, Jaskier grabs a corner of the blanket and pulls it up to hide his face. He knows it’s a childlike move, but he’s not ready for this conversation and that doesn’t seem to matter. Lambert is determined to have this out right here and now. “Do you know where I found Jaskier last night at about two in the morning?”

A pause. “In bed, with us?” Geralt hazards.

“Down by the root cellar, curled up in a little ball, naked and wrapped in a blanket, having been crying his eyes out for god knows how long,” Lambert snaps. “Great job, both of you.”

Eskel splutters, “What the hell was he doing down there?!”

“Contrary to what you may believe, he is a person, you know. You could even speak to him directly if you wanted to.”

Someone attempts to tug the blanket out from in front of Jaskier’s face, but he remains steadfast in his hiding place. Lambert nuzzles at the back of his neck and whispers for his ears only --though in the quiet room the others could surely overhear. “Can I talk to them? I won’t unless you’re alright with it, but if you don’t feel up to saying it, someone ought to.”

Jaskier clears his throat and nods, still hiding like a coward. “Yes, please.”

“You guys did a really shit job of taking care of Jask last night,” Lambert says bluntly, permission now given. “He was worried that you were upset with him or that he disappointed you. He started getting low, to the point where he didn’t feel like he was welcome in your bed.” Two voices let out noises of protest, but Lambert barrels right past them. “He’s also very hurt that you didn’t scent-mark him with your come, by the way.”

Dead silence rings in the room. Eventually Geralt says, dumbfounded, “We wanted to mark each other, too, that's all. I didn't think it would matter. I thought that he --that you, Jaskier-- don’t care when we scent-mark you, because you can’t smell it?”

“No, but you can smell it,” Jaskier says sadly, glad he doesn’t have to look them in the eyes for this. “And you’re always telling me how important it is to you, that it’s making me yours. So when you didn’t, I-- I thought you didn’t want me to be yours.”

“That’s not it at all,” Eskel argues, “we just-- we didn’t know that it--”

There’s a shift of Lambert’s protective arm, and then the harsh crack of skin being smacked. “Hands to yourself,” Lambert grumbles fiercely. “You don’t get to touch until Jaskier says so.”

Jaskier knows that frustrated growl anywhere. He’s been hearing it for the better part of a decade, traveling alongside Geralt. He also knows that the calm, measured breaths that come after it belong to the same source, and that Geralt will be thinking very seriously about the next thing that he wants to say. He pulls the blanket down, slowly, locking blue eyes with yellow as he sees Geralt crouched by the edge of the bed in front of him.

“Jaskier,” he says seriously, “my lark, I am so sorry. I should have guessed-- I should have checked to make sure that you were alright. You put much trust in me, and in all of us, and we ought to be more careful that we don’t abuse it. Please accept my apology.”

Jaskier puts out his hand and Geralt leans into it eagerly, eyes serious and sad. “I forgive you. Of course I forgive you.”

Eskel leans in over Geralt’s shoulder, equally grave. “There should never be any reason for you to doubt that we love and want you. I’m sorry, too, bardling.”

“Forgiven,” Jaskier hums, reaching his still sleep-clumsy arm towards him next. “And I’m sorry too, for being so…” He waves his hand vaguely, as if that encompasses all of the uncharacteristic behavior of the last twelve hours. “I know better. It was stupid to feel that way.”

“It’s not stupid to feel anything,” Lambert scoffs, nuzzling the back of his ear.

“Not stupid,” Geralt agrees. “We’ll all do better to check with you, next time. In case you feel that way again. And if you do, tell us, so we can help you.”

“Even if we’re assholes and fall asleep,” Eskel chimes in. “I’d rather wake up and help you than sleep while you’re hurting, anytime. You’re our priority.”

“Can I hold my bard, now?” asks Geralt with a raised eyebrow in Lambert’s direction.

“May he hold you, Jaskier?” Lambert redirects with a squeeze, still defiant.

“Yes please. Both of you,” replies Jaskier, relieved. “I miss you.”

At his permission, Lambert finally releases Jaskier. “Cuddle up, then. I’ll go get us some food, I’m sure you numb-nuts will be hungry soon.” His cock slips out as he moves away to make room for the others, and some of his come runs out of Jaskier’s hole when he rolls onto his back on the bed. Eskel hurries into the side of the bed closest to where he and Geralt had been crouched, gluing himself to Jaskier’s side while Geralt rounds the bed to the other side. 

He stops first to intercept Lambert, grabbing the younger man by the back of the neck and bringing their foreheads together in a familiar, intimate gesture. “Thank you,” he says lowly, just for Lambert. “For taking care of him when I failed to.”

“Don’t make a habit of it,” Lambert grumbles, angling his face to steal a quick kiss. “I don’t like being the responsible one.”

Eskel snorts into Jaskier’s ear, and then Lambert is grabbing a pair of pants off of the floor and exiting the room as Geralt climbs in on Jaskier’s free side. They lay there with him and just hold him for a while, pressing gentle kisses into his skin and touching him wherever they can reach-- not asking for anything, not taking, just giving him comfort. Before long Lambert is back, making a place for himself where there’s room, laying in the vee of Jaskier’s legs with his head resting on the bard’s stomach and a tray of fruit and cheese and Jaskier’s favorite honey rolls balanced on his chest for them all to snack off of.

“Can I ask for something?” Jaskier asks a while later, rolling a grape between his fingers.

“Anything,” three voices answer at once, and Jaskier is fairly certain he’s glowing.

“I’d like a room here, if that’s alright. Somewhere I can keep my clothes, and where I can go if I want to. I’m more than happy to be with you, most of the time, but--” Jaskier’s breath hitches. “I didn’t like not having anywhere to go, last night. I felt like I was in borrowed space.”

“We’ll get one cleaned out for you today,” Geralt promises, and Lambert nods his agreement. “I should have thought of that winters ago. You deserve a space to call your own.”

“I can go get your pack now, if you want,” offers Eskel.

Jaskier shakes his head. “Not right this minute. Later. I have plans first.”

Eskel raises his eyebrow curiously. “Plans?”

“Very important ones, in fact. I’m thinking we need a redo of last night,” Jaskier says coyly. 

The room at large gives a purr of approval, and Geralt punctuates it by leaning up to kiss Jaskier’s honey-sweet lips. “The right way, this time.”