“Kneel,” Geralt says, soft and resonant, his fingers dancing gently across the line of Jaskier’s jaw. “And don’t speak.”
Yennefer watches, heat curling in her belly, as Jaskier makes a quiet, ecstatic sound, and sinks to his knees. He settles on the velvet pillow waiting for him on the floor, shuffles for a moment as he gets comfortable, then stills and looks up at Geralt, eyes wide and blue and loving. His naked skin practically glows in the candlelight, slashed here and there with faint scars, his chest furred with thick, curling hair. His hands rest neatly on his bare thighs, long musician’s fingers framing his flushed, hard cock.
“Good,” Geralt says, offering their bard a small smile, and looks up at Yennefer. “Would you like to do the honours?”
“I’d be delighted,” Yennefer drawls, padding across the bedroom of her house in Novigrad towards them. She runs her fingers through Jaskier’s hair, feels her heart swell as he leans into the touch, breath sighing, eyelids fluttering. She bends down, presses a kiss to his lips as her skirts brush against his knees, then meets his gaze, so blue, so full of love, and says, “Close your eyes.”
Jaskier makes another keening, yearning sound, and closes his eyes.
Yennefer wraps the length of blue silk around his closed eyes and knots it securely at the back of his head. She pauses for a second, winds a lock of his hair around her fingertip, and asks, “Good?”
Jaskier lets out a soft breath, and silently nods.
Yennefer trails her fingertips down his cheek, across his lips, along his jaw. “I love how quiet you are like this,” she says, watching as Geralt’s thumb presses down on Jaskier’s lower lip, opening his mouth, exposing the pink of his tongue. “So well behaved. So good for us.”
Geralt hums. “And so beautiful,” he says, his voice little more than a growl – and it never ceases to amaze Yennefer how eloquent Geralt can be on nights like these. He’s no poet, of course, he doesn’t toss around imagery and metaphor like prayers in a nunnery, no, but he has a way with words when he wants to. “I love your scars, Jaskier,” he says, fingers dancing across a white slash on Jaskier’s shoulder. “They’re our history together. I want to lie you out on Yennefer’s bed and kiss them all.”
Yennefer smiles. “Don’t get distracted, Geralt,” she chastises. “We have other plans for tonight.”
Geralt’s lips quirk faintly. “Of course,” he says, then presses his thumb to Jaskier’s lower lip once more. “I’ll be right back,” he says, voice full of command, full of affection, full of love, and then drops his hand and goes.
Jaskier whines softly as he’s left alone, untouched, but Yennefer shushes him, presses the tip of her index finger to his lip, then slides it slowly into his mouth, pushing gently but firmly down on his tongue. “Quiet,” she commands, watching as the tension seeps out of his shoulders. “We have you. You don’t need to think, don’t need to worry. Just let us take care of you.”
A shudder runs through Jaskier’s whole body, from the crown of his head to the pads of his toes.
“Good,” Yennefer murmurs, keeping his tongue still, running the knuckles of her other hand across the rasp of his stubble. “Very good.”
Geralt’s footsteps sound on the carpeted floor, and he kneels at Jaskier’s back, leather trousers creaking softly with his movements. He meets Yennefer’s gaze, golden eyes sharp and heated, and she flashes him a smile that’s just as sharp in return. “Geralt is going to bind your hands now,” she says, turning her attention back to Jaskier, pliant and willing under her hands. “He’s using the rope that he bought in that shop in Oxenfurt, you remember? The one with the proprietor who took one look at the three of us and decided that this was going to be the biggest payday he’d seen in months.” Geralt chuckles softly, his hands busy as he draws Jaskier’s arms behind his back. “It looks stunning against your skin,” Yennefer says, and Jaskier groans softly, the vibration rich against her fingers. She shushes him gently. “Cobalt blue, to match your eyes. Never let it be said that our witcher isn’t a romantic at heart.”
Geralt makes a quietly amused noise. “Too tight?” he asks, ignoring Yennefer.
Jaskier shakes his head ever so slightly.
“Comfortable?” Geralt asks.
Jaskier hums his agreement.
“Good,” Geralt says, and his hand slides into Jaskier’s hair. “Yen?” he offers, glancing up at her, and Yennefer understands. She slips her finger out of Jaskier’s mouth, pauses for a moment as he settles back against Geralt’s hand, then they switch positions, Geralt kneeling in front, Yennefer standing behind. She replaces Geralt’s hand with her own, scratching her fingertips against Jaskier’s scalp, then studies his bound arms. Each hand rests in the crook of the opposite elbow, his forearms parallel to the ground, and the blue rope is tied as neatly and precisely around his forearms as Yennefer expects, a simple criss-cross pattern that holds Jaskier utterly immobile. The bonds pull his shoulders back a little, puffing out his chest, and for a second Yennefer just drinks him in, her mouth dry, lust and love and awe at the trust he hands over to them so readily.
As if he can sense her gaze, Jaskier arches his back, lets out a quiet groan.
Geralt shushes him. “I’m going to bind your chest,” he says, his voice rough. “I’ll start by looping the rope around your neck, but it won’t constrict your throat at all – the ropes will lie down across your collarbones, they won’t go anywhere near your larynx. And then I’ll work downwards, finishing at the top of your thighs.” He pauses, smiles a wicked smile that Jaskier can’t see. “For now.”
Yennefer pulls Jaskier’s head back gently, exposing his throat. “Are you ready?” she asks. “Answer in words.”
“Yes,” Jaskier gasps immediately, hips twitching forwards. “Yes, please, Geralt, please—”
Yennefer slips her fingers into his mouth, presses down on his stuttering tongue. “Hush,” she says. “That’s enough words for now. Geralt?”
Geralt hums, and gets to work.
Yennefer keeps Jaskier still, head arched back, her fingertip pressing into his tongue. He could talk around it, of course, and her grip in his hair isn’t tight enough to actually restrain him – but that’s not the point. Their bard lives his life in a blur of song and colour and vibrant, manic, unceasing energy. Sometimes he needs all of that taken away from him, at least for a little while. Sometimes he needs the choice to be given to someone else.
The soft, cobalt blue of the ropes loops around the back of Jaskier’s neck, snaking down across his collarbones to sit in an intricate knot at the base of his breastbone. From there, the ropes wind around his chest, pinning his biceps to his sides, then circle back round to the front, run vertically down for a handspan, then loop around his stomach and back again. Another intricate, elegant knot keeps the bindings secure just above Jaskier’s navel, and then they split again, one strand arcing down each hipbone, wrapping tight around the top of each thigh.
His chest expands and contracts steadily, serenely. His cock is swollen and utterly untouched and weeping.
Yennefer strokes her hand through his hair. “You are gorgeous,” she murmurs, rubbing her thumb against the back of his neck. “So perfect for us, so still. If you could see yourself, my love, oh. If I could have you like this every day, I would.”
Jaskier whines softly, nostrils flaring.
“Yen,” Geralt says softly, setting a flask of oil and a wooden box down at her side.
“Thank you, Geralt,” Yennefer says, then kneels down on the soft rug. She runs her fingers down the centre of Jaskier’s back, dances them across his bound arms, pauses just above the swell of his arse. “I’m going to spread you open,” she says softly, feeling him tremble beneath her touch. “And then—” She pauses, grins even though he can’t see it. “Do you remember the plug I bought you just before Yule last year? The polished ebony one, with silver filigree in the base.” Jaskier whimpers, high and tight, and Geralt settles in front of him, hands smoothing down over his bound chest, soothing. “I’m going to sink it into you so slowly,” Yennefer says, trailing her fingers lower, teasing. “You’ll be so full, so stretched.” She smirks. “Would you like that?”
Jaskier makes a high, strangled noise and nods frantically.
“I think that’s a yes,” Geralt rumbles, amused.
“Good,” Yennefer says, then presses her hand between Jaskier’s shoulderblades. “Bend forward,” she commands. “I want to see your pretty little hole.”
“I have you,” Geralt says, and Yennefer watches as he guides Jaskier forward, rests his bound chest against the rug beneath them, runs sword-roughened fingers through his hair and checks that he has enough space to breathe. “Relax,” he instructs, and Yennefer sees any building tension ebb out of Jaskier’s muscles. “You’re doing so well.”
Jaskier makes a sound halfway between a sigh and a sob.
Yennefer unstoppers the flask of oil and slicks up her fingers, then nudges Jaskier’s knees apart with her other hand, spreading his legs, laying him open before her. “Good,” she says, squeezing the soft flesh of his inner thigh, tugging lightly at the cobalt-blue rope sitting snug against his skin. “I’m going to do this slowly,” she says, and rubs her oiled fingertip against his rim, pressing lightly, going no deeper. “I want you to be still and silent for me. Let me make you feel good.”
Jaskier’s thighs are trembling, but he doesn’t speak.
“So good,” Yennefer says, meets Geralt’s heated gaze oh so briefly, then gently sinks a finger into Jaskier’s body. His breathing quickens and Yennefer sees Geralt’s thumb pressing against his lower lip, a reminder, grounding him, giving him something to focus on – but he doesn’t make a sound. Pride swells up in Yennefer’s heart. “You’re so good for us,” she says, moving her finger slowly, carefully, stretching and accommodating until she adds a second. “So still, so quiet. So beautiful in your ropes, so pretty clenching around my fingers.”
Jaskier groans, almost too quiet to hear, and Yennefer immediately feels him tense, guilty, apologetic. She knows that he thinks he fucked up, thinks that he’s displeased her.
Geralt hushes him, rubs his hand down Jaskier’s ribs. “It’s okay,” he says. “We’re not angry. You’re trying so hard, and we can see that. We’re not angry.”
Jaskier breathes again, and the tension runs out of him like water from a cracked jar.
“We love that you let us take care of you like this,” Yennefer says, slipping her fingers in and out of him, adding a little more oil so that the slide is slick and easy, gradually introducing a third. “That you trust us like this,” she elaborates, spreading her fingers a little, listening to the heavy pant of his breathing. “We have more blood on our hands than you could possibly imagine, and yet here you are, letting Geralt bind you, letting me open you up, letting us treat you how you deserve to be treated.”
Geralt hums. “Thank you,” he murmurs.
Jaskier’s breathing is slow and steady and calm.
Yennefer works four fingers into him, slippery and slick, before he’s ready for the plug. She keeps her fingers in him while she retrieves it from its wooden box, then pulls back carefully, half-expecting a familiar wounded, empty noise to escape Jaskier’s lips – but instead he’s silent, chest heaving, thighs trembling. “Very good,” she praises, squeezing his flank with her clean hand. “You listen so well, my love, you really do.” She pours a fresh palmful of oil from the flask, thoroughly slicks up the toy. “The plug is going in now,” she says, resting the tip of the tapered cone against his stretched, glistening hole. “If you can stay quiet for me while it goes in, I want you to – but if it’s too much, if you need to make some noise, that’s fine, and I won’t be displeased.”
“She loves to hear you sing,” Geralt rumbles, his fingers curling in Jaskier’s hair. “Even though she’d rather cut her tongue out than admit it.”
“Both kinds of your singing,” Yennefer confirms, trying not to smile, then puts slow, steady pressure on the plug. It slides in easily to begin with, the polished black wood sinfully gorgeous against Jaskier’s pale skin and his pink rim, and when the glide gets a little tighter, a little harder, Yennefer hears Jaskier’s quiet mewl, half-swallowed in the back of his throat. “Almost there,” she says, watching carefully as they reach the widest part of the plug. “Oh, this is beautiful. You are a work of art like this, slick and wet and stretched for me.”
Jaskier moans softly and the plug slips fully in, the silver-filigreed base snug against his skin.
Yennefer licks her lips, heat pooling low and rich in her belly. “Tell me how it feels,” she commands. “Use words.”
Jaskier doesn’t answer straight away, doesn’t let words come flooding from his lips with barely a second’s pause. “Good,” he says eventually, his voice a little thick, a little hazy. “Yennefer.” Her name is a prayer on his lips. “So good.”
Geralt squeezes the back of his neck. “Enough,” he says. “Do you want your legs bound as well? Nod or shake your head, don’t speak.”
Jaskier nods immediately.
“And the anklets, and their chains?”
Another nod, and a quiet moan.
Yennefer meets Geralt’s gaze, smiles at him over their bound, trusting, beautiful bard. “We’re going to get you upright,” she says to Jaskier. “You don’t need to help. You don’t need to do anything – Geralt may as well use his witcher strength for something besides killing monsters.”
Geralt huffs a laugh and shakes his head. Nonetheless, he lifts Jaskier back into his kneeling position with no noticeable exertion – but Jaskier cries out softly as the movement shifts the plug inside him, keens as it presumably brushes against his prostate. Yennefer tenses a little, presses a steadying hand between his shoulderblades. “Are you alright?” she asks, as soft and gentle as she knows how to be.
Jaskier shudders for a moment, then jerkily nods his head.
“Good boy,” Yennefer says, sliding her fingers into his hair, scratching at his scalp. Geralt shuffles around Jaskier’s side, another length of rich blue rope in his hands, and Yennefer says, “Geralt is going to bind your thighs to your ankles. You won’t be able to stand, won’t be able get up on your knees, won’t be able to do anything except relax and let us do the work for you.” She watches as Geralt’s fingers flicker across Jaskier’s pale skin, lifting him when he needs to, shifting him for easier access, then repeating the process on the other side until Jaskier sits between them, knees spread wide, a thick band of rope running around the meat of each of his thighs, connected to a similarly thick band around each ankle.
Geralt makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, and when Yennefer looks at him she sees that the look in his eyes is almost awestruck. “Fuck, Jaskier,” he husks. “You’re incredible.”
Jaskier doesn’t answer, just hums, pleased and absent.
Yennefer reaches for the wooden box that still sits next to Jaskier’s outstretched knee, retrieves a pair of slim beaten silver anklets attached to two short lengths of finely-wrought chain. She fastens the anklets around his ankles, the silver a perfect contrast to the rich blue of the ropes, then carefully attaches the chains to the specially-designed fastenings in the base of the plug that’s buried inside him. Yennefer pauses, studies her handiwork, and for a moment she finds she can barely breathe. He’s so pliant, so calm, so quiet – and yes, the anklet chains are a little redundant given the security of Geralt’s bonds, but they’re beautiful nonetheless, delicate against his skin. He’s beautiful.
“Oh, Jaskier,” Yennefer whispers, feeling an almost unbearable surge of feeling rising in her chest. “You are stunning.”
Jaskier doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t whine, doesn’t moan, doesn’t sing. He just breathes, steady and calm.
When Yennefer looks at Geralt, affection is blazing bright in his golden eyes.
“One last thing,” Yennefer says, and Geralt nods to her, comes round to take her place at Jaskier’s back. He rests his hand on Jaskier’s calf, skin to skin, always touching him somewhere, steadying, grounding – because they’ve learned from long experience that, when Jaskier is like this, hazy, floating, utterly at their mercy, he needs that contact. It calms him, soothes him, keeps him level, and the last thing they want right now is for him to crash into that mire of sadness and confusion they’ve seen before.
Yennefer goes to kneel in front of their bound, beautiful bard, the wooden box close at hand. She rests her hand on his chest, slow and careful, then brings her fingers to his throat, presses her fingertips against the bulge of his larynx. “Do you still want the new piece I showed you earlier?” she asks, soft, startlingly intimate. “If you’ve changed your mind, that’s fine. Nod for yes, shake for no.”
Jaskier lets out a soft breath and he nods, firm and sure.
“That’s good,” Yennefer says, rubbing her thumb against his throat, her mouth a little dry. “You’re going to look so godsdamned good.”
At his back, Geralt lets out a low rumble. “You always do,” he says as Yennefer pulls the wooden box a little closer. “Tied up in my ropes, wrapped in Yennefer’s chains. Most beautiful fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”
Just for a moment, Yennefer loves them both so much it physically hurts.
The only thing left in the wooden box is a tangle of flat beaten silver rings and delicate silver chains, the same delicate design as the anklets. Yennefer lifts them out carefully, almost reverently, then unfastens the catch on the beaten silver collar and runs her fingertip along the burnished metal. “I’m going to put the collar in place first,” she says, narrating her movements as she lifts it up, settles it around the back of his neck and fastens it slowly at the front. “It’s loose enough that it doesn’t constrict your throat – can you feel that? It won’t press on your vocal chords at all.”
“Yen,” Geralt says, his voice suddenly tight, a brusque warning – and, shit, Yennefer catches it herself half a heartbeat later. Jaskier’s shaking, his thighs quivering, his stomach muscles trembling, and she’s not a witcher, can’t hear his heartbeat like Geralt can, but she can feel the rapid patter of his pulse through his skin.
“Jaskier,” Yennefer says, firm and sure. She gathers the remaining chains in one hand so they don’t touch his sweaty skin, cups his cheek with the other. “Jaskier, talk to me. Do you want me to take the collar off?”
“No,” Jaskier says immediately, voice strangled, and Yennefer trades a worried glance with Geralt over his shoulder. “No, I just – need a moment. To adjust.”
“You don’t have to keep going for my sake,” Yennefer says, watching as one of Geralt’s hands comes to settle on Jaskier’s hip, heavy and solid and safe. “The collar, the clamps – it’s just an idea. I won’t be offended if it’s too much for you.”
Jaskier shakes his head slowly. “It’s… good,” he says after a moment, a hint of that hazy laziness creeping back into his voice. “I know what to say if I want you to stop, my loves. It’s… good. The collar. It’s a lot, but it’s good. I want to keep going.”
Yennefer glances to Geralt, who looks concerned but doesn’t protest. “If you’re sure,” she says eventually.
“I’m sure,” Jaskier says, and, oh, there it is, that soft, languid note in his voice, floaty and absent. “Love you.”
Yennefer smiles softly. “Love you, too,” she answers, then presses her thumb against his lips. “Now stop talking, and just feel.” She eyes the slender silver collar for a second, then unravels the silver chains in her hand. “The clamps are next,” she says. “Lick my thumb for me, won’t you?” Jaskier does as she asks, running his talented tongue across the pad of her thumb, and then Yennefer reaches down, drags her wet thumb across his nipple, teasing it to a hard peak. She hums appreciatively, then takes one of the small silver clamps, attached to the collar by another oh so delicate silver chain, and closes it around Jaskier’s damp nipple.
His reaction is instantaneous: a moan, long and low and painfully aroused.
Geralt smirks. “He likes that,” he murmurs, his fingertips dancing across the soft skin of Jaskier’s belly.
“Lick,” Yennefer commands, pressing her thumb to Jaskier’s lips, and repeats the process on the other side. Jaskier’s breath is coming in soft pants as she settles the second clamp in place, his mouth hanging open, and she’s fairly sure that he couldn’t speak right now even if he wanted to. “Stunning,” she says softly, brushing the faintest touch across the pinched, reddened tip of one nipple, watching as his chest heaves, as the chains glimmer and glint in the candlelight. “Just your cock now, and then you’ll be dressed up so prettily for us.”
Jaskier moans, wordless, inarticulate.
Yennefer smiles. “That’s right,” she encounters, unwinding the last chain connected to the collar, unspooling it down the centre of Jaskier’s chest, the silver links bright and sparkling against the rich blue of the ropes. “Let us hear how much you like this – how much you like to be pampered, to be spoilt.” There’s another beaten silver ring at the end of this final chain, a smaller version of the collar around his neck, and with slow, careful fingers, she fastens that dainty, polished ring around the shaft of his cock. It sits just below the rosy, swollen head, shining in the firelight, not restricting circulation, not stopping him coming, just a perfect, gorgeous decoration that he deserves so godsdamned much.
Jaskier makes a soft sound, somewhere between a sigh and a moan, and it settles into Yennefer’s bones.
“This is what I imagined when I saw this piece in Tretogor,” Yennefer says softly, running her fingers up the delicate silver chain that reaches from his throat to his cock, tugging lightly on the chain connected to one of the clamps and listening to his punched-out moan. “You, draped in my gifts, looking as beautiful and wanton as you should always be.” Heat is curling in her belly, insistent and aching. “Oh, Geralt, you should see him.”
“Soon,” Geralt says, his gaze heavy on her. “From the way you smell, Yen, I think you have something else to do first.”
Yennefer settles back enough that she can spread her legs wide in front of her, then slowly pulls her skirts up and bathes in the hunger in Geralt’s eyes. “Tell him,” she instructs, stroking her fingertips across the skin of her inner thighs. “Tell him what he does to me.”
Geralt settles closer to Jaskier, one hand splaying across his stomach, the other toying with the chains that shimmer across his chest. Jaskier moans softly and Geralt chuckles, noses at his neck. “Yennefer is lying out in front of you,” he murmurs, barely more than a whisper. “Still in her dress, practically fully clothed. Her skirt is pulled up around her waist and she’s got her fingers buried in her own cunt.” Jaskier’s breath stutters and his cock twitches, but Geralt soothes him, calms him. “She’s touching herself for you,” he says, tugging at one of the nipple chains. “Fucking herself because of how good you are for her, how beautiful you look. I bet she’s imagining that it’s not her fingers but your cock, buried inside her, imagining what it would be like if you fucked her draped in all her pretty presents, silver at your throat, your nipples, your ankles. Wrapped around your cock, buried in your arse.”
Yennefer arches up off the soft rug, keens softly, and comes from her own hands, from the filth spewing from Geralt’s tongue, from the pliant, quiet beauty of Jaskier’s bound body.
“She came for you, Jaskier,” Geralt whispers, pulling one of the nipple chains tight, dragging a whining moan from his lips. “You did this for her because of how fucking good you were for her.”
Yennefer catches her breath for a moment, gaze fixed on the play of Geralt’s blunt fingers across Jaskier’s bound chest, then shifts, pulls herself upright. “Thank you, Jaskier,” she says quietly, then presses the fingers that were just buried inside her into his mouth. “Taste that,” she says, watching him suck them clean. “That’s what you do to me, what you make me feel.” She shudders. “Gods, Jaskier, I would have you tied like this as a piece of art in my house if I could.”
Geralt chuckles. “I wouldn’t let her keep you,” he says. “I’d miss you too much, out on the road. Need my bard.”
“You’re my bard, too,” Yennefer says, slipping her fingers out of his mouth, pulling at one of the nipple clamps, bouncing her fingertips against the chain connected to his cock. Jaskier’s panting, now, heated and needy. “Don’t forget that.”
Geralt hums, then presses a soft kiss just beneath Jaskier’s ear. “My turn,” he says, rich with lust, and Yennefer doesn’t want to give up the sight spread out before her, Jaskier’s flushed cheeks and rosy nipples, the blue of the ropes and the silver of the chains, but it is Geralt’s turn. They swap places, keeping Jaskier between them, keeping him steady, Geralt’s hand in his hair, Yennefer’s fingertips on his shoulder, and then Yennefer wraps herself around him, her chest flush to his back, her fingertips twining in the chains. Geralt stands in front of them, eyes hooded and heavy, and licks his lips.
“Do you know what our witcher is doing now?” Yennefer whispers in Jaskier’s ear, catching the lobe between her teeth and biting down gently. “He’s on his feet in front of you and he’s pulling his cock out of his trousers. Oh, he’s hard, almost as hard as you are – but he’s not as pretty, is he? Not sparkling with silver like you are – but I suppose he’ll do, in a pinch.” Geralt doesn’t respond to the jibe, preoccupied with working his cock with all the ravaging fury he can muster, his gaze fixed on Jaskier, on the ropes and the chains and the pinched red of his nipples. “Open your mouth,” Yennefer whispers in Jaskier’s ear, tilting his head a little as he obeys. “Good, that’s good – now hold still, and don’t make a sound. Geralt is fucking his fist like his cock is in your arse instead of that pretty plug, and he’s going to come in your mouth before long.” She tweaks one of his nipples, kisses his neck. “Maybe next time we play with you like this, he will fuck your arse,” she muses. “Imagine that. Not a toy inside you but his cock – oh, or maybe he’ll fuck you, come in you, then I’ll plug you up, keep his come inside you, make you walk around with it in you for hours.”
Geralt grunts. “Fuck, Yen,” he gasps, and then, as his hips stutter forward, “Jaskier.” He comes into Jaskier’s open, willing mouth, eyes screwed shut, mouth open in a silent cry – and Jaskier makes a soft, pleased little noise, then swallows everything he’s given.
“You are perfect,” Yennefer praises, running her hands down Jaskier’s bound biceps, squeezing his elbows, dancing down his bare hips. “You know exactly how to make us so very happy, you know that? You give us everything.”
“Everything,” Geralt echoes, then thuds to his knees, cups Jaskier’s face between his hands, and kisses him hungrily.
Yennefer laughs. “Now, Jaskier,” she says when Geralt releases him. “Seeing as you’ve been so very well behaved for us, made us both feel so good, I think it’s only fair that you get to feel good, too.” Jaskier makes a soft whimpering noise in response to that, and Yennefer feels him arch a little against her – a movement that not only jostles the plug inside him but also tugs at the chains shining across his body, pinching his nipples, pulling at his cock. He moans louder and Yennefer shushes him, her fingers pressing into his mouth. “No, no sound,” she says, settling back on her heels, removing her fingers. “I want you to do your best to come for us without making a noise – and without anyone touching your cock. Can you do that?”
Jaskier nods jerkily, and for the first time Yennefer sees that there are tears on his cheeks, slipping out from beneath the silk of the blindfold. Worry twists her heart for a moment, and she says, “In words, please.”
“Yes,” Jaskier gasps. “Yes, please, I’ll be quiet, I will, please—”
Geralt’s fingers slip into his mouth. “Hush,” he says, voice full of post-orgasm rasp. “Just let us make you feel good.”
Jaskier’s silent and still, but his body thrums under Yennefer’s hands like lightning.
Yennefer reaches down, grips the base of the plug and grinds it deeper into him, seeking blindly for his prostate. He writhes silently against her, his breath coming faster – but then he goes rigid and stops breathing altogether, and she knows she’s found her target. She laughs softly and presses harder against that spot, feeling him trembling in her arms, shaking like a leaf in the autumn breeze. “That’s good, isn’t it?” she whispers in his ear. “I can tell how much you like that from how much you’re shaking.”
“Beautiful,” Geralt murmurs, and Yennefer watches as he takes hold of both of the chains attached to the nipple clamps, pulls hard enough that it must toe the line between pain and pleasure. Jaskier arches forward as much as he can, mouth wide open – but he still doesn’t make a noise beyond his ragged breathing, beyond the soft jangle of the chains, beyond the slick sound of Yennefer twisting and turning the plug in his arse. “And perfectly silent,” Geralt adds, playing idly with the chains in his hands. “Can you come for us, Jaskier? Like this? Just from the toy in your hole and the clamps on your nipples?”
“I think you can,” Yennefer says, and grinds the plug in harder, relentlessly stimulating his prostate. “Come on, let go. We have you.”
Geralt wraps the chain connected to Jaskier’s cock around his fingertip and pulls, at the same time as Yennefer thrusts the plug in a little deeper and bites softly down on the shell of his ear. Jaskier goes rigid, mouth open in a silent scream, and comes almost violently, spilling across the rug, across the thighs of Geralt’s trousers, across his own belly and the ropes that hold him in place. “Oh, yes,” Yennefer murmurs in his ear, holding him as he trembles through his orgasm, pressing soft kisses to his shoulder. “Good boy, you did so well. And if I thought you looked good before, well, you look incredible like this, covered in your own come, dripping with it like you’re dripping with my silver.”
Jaskier makes a muted, hoarse noise, and sags back into her arms, utterly spent.
Geralt runs a tender touch down his cheek. “You got him, Yen?” he asks softly.
Yennefer nods. “I have you,” she says to Jaskier, kissing his cheek, then watches as Geralt fetches a warm, damp cloth from the washbasin in the corner. “Geralt’s going to clean you up,” she whispers, slowly scratching her fingertips through the curls of hair across Jaskier’s chest, carefully avoiding the chains and the clamps. “Think of it as recompense for all the times you’ve washed guts and blood out of his hair.”
Geralt wipes come and sweat away from Jaskier’s stomach and thighs. “He enjoys washing my hair,” he says gruffly, raising an eyebrow at Yennefer. “He’s written a whole song about it – not one of his best.”
Jaskier makes a softly offended noise.
Yennefer laughs, runs a hand through Jaskier’s hair as Geralt returns the cloth to the washbasin. She holds him close and steady as Geralt strips away the chains, the clamps, the collar and piles them next to the wooden box, as he starts to carefully unwrap the blue ropes from Jaskier’s legs, massaging sensation back into his limbs as he goes. Jaskier responds mostly in sighs and hums for a little while, eyes still hidden beneath the blindfold, and he goes easily when Yennefer encourages him to lean forward so she can remove the plug. He cries out softly as she eases it out of him but there’s no pain, no damage, just the slick, satisfied pink of his stretched, stimulated arse, and Yennefer rubs her hand soothingly across the small of his back, watches as his hole flutters around empty air.
Jaskier hums to himself as Yennefer sets the toy down to clean later, his face pressed into Geralt’s thigh. “I feel incredible,” he murmurs, his fingers flexing gently where they’re still bound against the crook of his elbows. “That was incredible, my loves, really.”
Geralt helps him upright, gets him sitting with his legs stretched out in front of him and strips off the blindfold before he starts on the ropes around Jaskier’s torso. “Scared us there for a moment,” he says softly, not meeting Jaskier’s gaze. “With the collar.”
Yennefer shifts closer, winds her hand into Jaskier’s hair and kisses him lightly. “We don’t have to use it again,” she says. “It can gather dust in the back of a cupboard for all I care.”
Jaskier laughs against her lips, then groans softly as Geralt unties his arms. “Absolutely not,” he says. “It was fantastic – the way it pulled at my nipples and my cock whenever I moved, gods, that was perfect. It was just… new.” His smile turns a little lopsided. “And you know how I can be with my throat.”
“With good reason,” Yennefer says, stopping his self-deprecation. “It’s your livelihood. You’re right to be careful.” She knows that that isn’t the whole story, knows from flickering flashes of his memories that there’s a darker story there, echoes of his childhood, of a boy who loved to sing and a father who was too free with his hands, but that’s not something he’s chosen to share with them, not yet, so she doesn’t pry. She kisses him again, and feels his hand come up to her cheek, touch light, fingers still trembling a little.
Geralt piles the last of the ropes neatly next to the discarded pile of toys. “Come on,” he says. “Bed. You need to rest, and those marks need to be treated.”
Jaskier smiles up at him, sunny and warm. “Only if you two rest with me,” he says. “And I’d like to point out that you’re both far too dressed for that.” He gestures down at himself, naked, criss-crossed with reddened marks from the press of the ropes, nipples still swollen and sore. “If I’m going to look like a hot mess while Geralt rubs balm into all my bruises, then I expect both of you to join me.”
Yennefer raises an eyebrow. “I assume that you won’t stop until we agree?” she asks.
Jaskier flashes her a bright smile. “You know me so well, my lovely sorceress,” he murmurs, then leans forward and kisses her. “Now, Geralt,” he says, looking up again. “You’re going to have to help me up, here, because my legs are wobbly as a newborn foal and I’ve just spent a good thirty minutes with a lump of very expensive wood shoved up my arse.”
Geralt rolls his eyes. “I preferred you silent,” he says wryly, but complies, helping Jaskier over to the large canopied bed.
Jaskier flashes him a dangerous smile. “Well, then,” he says, settling back against the silken sheets, naked and languorous. “I suppose we’ll just have to do the whole thing all over again, won’t we?”
Yennefer strips out of her dress and lays out across the bed next to him, tracing her fingertips through the hair across his chest, teasing lightly at one hypersensitive nipple. “That,” she says, kissing his shoulder, “was never in doubt. And if you enjoyed that new toy, well…” She trails off, smiles broadly at the intrigued gleam in Jaskier’s eyes. “Let’s just say there’s a little shop in Tretogor I’ll have to take you to the next time we’re in the area.”
Jaskier cocks an eyebrow. “You did say you liked to see me dripping with your gifts,” he murmurs, stretching out like a cat as Geralt massages balm into his bruises, as Yennefer plays with his chest hair and presses soft kisses to his shoulder. “And I have to say, my loves, I’d be delighted to wear them for you.”