Chapter Text
The second round is, somehow, even better than the first. Yennefer rides him with abandon, nails running down his chest just enough to leave red lines but not to cut skin, as Jaskier presses into him. The bard treats him like he’s delicate, and he growls at him to speed up. For his cheek, Jaskier slows his pace, and leaves Geralt gasping, desperate and needy, and Yen lets the rope wrap around his arms again, leaving him unable to reach for her. He whines, the feeling of filling and being filled so overwhelming that he’s coming before he can even vocalise the desire, but Witcher stamina is good for one thing, and so they keep riding him until they find their own peaks. He hadn’t known, truly hadn’t known that it could feel this good, that anything could feel this good, and now that he’s aware of how it feels to have two exquisite lovers, both focused entirely on him, he never wants to be without it. Knowing he’s the one who makes them come, makes them cry out and shake, that he’s what they want - it’s like being set on fire, slowly, from the inside out. He’d burn for an eternity, if they only asked him.
With both of them shuddering for him, their attention firmly on his, Geralt realises that this, more than anything, is what he’s been wanting. He wants their eyes on him, their hands and mouths, their words wrapping him in so much praise that he cannot escape it. He hasn’t had a chance to let his spirits sink, because when the two of them have their attention on him, there is nothing left of him to fall, every part of him is clawing towards the sky in praise. He feels like the way rain feels after a string of too-hot days, like something is broken by bringing relief along with it. They coax him over the edge again, and it’s like all the anxiety and stress of the past few weeks sloughs off him, like he’s shedding his skin.
He wakes slowly, not knowing when he fell asleep, to an empty bed and the sound of rain on poorly-insulated thatch covering any heartbeats that might be in the room. Opening his eyes takes effort, and a moment more to focus in the grey haze of the room. It’s that nebulous time between daybreak and true sunrise, and the rain is heavy enough that he suspects even a human could smell the damp petrichor it brings forth, even from the frozen winter ground. Sitting up, he can feel where he was restrained, where nails dug into him, where he was opened up for Jaskier’s cock, and it would all feel just right if he knew where his lovers were.
The door opens quietly, and Geralt tenses for a fight before he catches Jaskier’s scent, and that of bacon, and watches his bard tiptoe in, as a roll of thunder makes him jump.
“Where did you go?” Geralt asks, careful not to sound like he’s demanding they stay, or making them do something they don’t want.
“Fucking hell, Geralt,” Jaskier breathes, nearly dropping the plate he’s carrying, but managing to save the bacon and bread and eggs from meeting the floor. “We need to get you a collar with a bell on it.”
Geralt has never been more glad that his lovers can’t smell arousal as he feels himself stir at those words, before his stomach rumbles and that hunger overtakes the other.
“Breakfast?” he asks, shifting himself into a better position for eating in bed, crumbs be damned.
“Mm?” Jaskier muses, clearly distracted with the way the sheet pools in Geralt’s lap. “Oh, yes, breakfast! We should’ve brought you up properly, really, but you were pretty tired, and we figured you wouldn’t wake up for a little while, but…”
“Sleeping beauty all awake?” Yen asks, from the doorway, letting herself in and locking the door the behind her with a swish of her wrist, before waving her other hand and a bath setting itself up, in a tub far larger than the one Jaskier had managed to find, which makes Geralt suspect that it doesn’t belong to the inn at all. “Good, those sheets would need to be made into dusters if they were left any longer.”
The stress that had been making his back tense starts to burn away as they both make it clear that they weren’t trying to sneak out in the night. Neither of them, and that they seem to be working together, and Geralt should know better than to imagine he can have things like this, but he’s starting to hope this might be the one time that he’s wrong.
“They’re not your sheets, what do you care?” Jaskier asks Yen, all indignation, and Geralt watches the two of them bicker gently, both smirking and all traces of mean-spirited barbs gone. “Anyway, let the poor man eat first, then you can scrub him to within an inch of his life, if that’s your kinky little desire.”
“Unfair,” Geralt says placidly, and finds himself in the spotlight as two gazes snap to him. “I don’t call your urge to wash me kinky.”
“You,” Jaskier says, booping him on the nose with an accusatory finger, even as he settles a plate and cutlery into Geralt’s lap, “are usually covered in bits of monster when I wash you. And besides, of course it’s kinky, why else did you think I was so invested in rubbing camomile all over your arse?”
“Perhaps I thought you were just being thorough,” Geralt says drily, and is rewarded with a beam and a kiss from his bard. “Thank you for breakfast.”
He watches in veiled amusement as Jaskier mock-swoons at the thanks, and Yen rolls her eyes at his antics, before both of them go over to the bath and start to gently squabble over what scent to put in the bath. The sound to the rain undercuts everything, like it’s washing away the past, and Geralt lets himself listen to it as he eats, tuning out everything but the way the rain pitter-patters like a pulse, like the heartbeat of an entire world. When the thunder rolls, he feels it like a wave, like he’s been fighting drowners on the coast and lost his footing, and the roar of the surf above him fills his ears.
Through all of it, he can smell contentment, bone-deep and smug as a cat, coming off both of them, and he can smell it on himself, too. He finishes his food, then slips from the bed, stalking towards the tub and making both his lovers shriek as he looms behind them, their momentary fear dissolving into laughter as they realise he’s spooked them.
“I mean it,” Jaskier says, through his giggles. “Collar, bell, you.”
Yen smirks as she watches his body react to that threat - or promise - and raises an eyebrow at him.
“Oh, I think our wolf might like that,” she says, voice sultry and deliberate as her eyes rake over his frame. “Be our eager plaything, collared and kept and owned.”
Geralt doesn’t whimper, no matter what anyone else might think, and hurriedly gets into the tub, groaning at the warmth and how it feels on all his aching muscles.
“Our Geralt?” Jaskier says, mock surprise practically dripping from his words, “liking to be tied down? Whoever would have thought?”
Geralt gets his own back by pulling him into the tub, clothes and all, though Jaskier swiftly stops protesting once Geralt’s hands are under his clothes, removing them, and then keep him anchored to the Witcher’s lap. In fact, Yen looks a little put out that she wasn’t dragged in as well, though she quickly disrobes - and really, does she ever wear anything under those dresses? - and slips in with them both, sliding closer until she’s nestled against his side.
“You’re both terrible,” he says, softly, unable to hide the fondness in his voice. “Clearly I’ll have to keep both of you, if only to keep the rest of the general populace safe.”
The twin jabs in his ribs from their elbows just make his smile a little broader, pulling them both a little closer to his body.
“After winter…” Yennefer broaches, and she’s clearly so nervous about what she’s going to say that even Jaskier doesn’t interrupt her. “I will have… duties. Elsewhere. Will I still….”
She doesn’t say the words, and Geralt’s still puzzling it out when Jaskier makes a wounded-sounding noise and grabs for her hand.
“Of course we’ll still want you here,” he says, and Geralt quickly understands, nodding along. “Anytime you want to join us, just show up.”
“Preferably not while I’m in danger of being distracted and thus murdered by something,” Geralt says, but he kisses the top of Yennefer’s head. “You’re always welcome. Especially if you bring that magic tent.” He takes the scowl she sends his way with good grace.
“You’ll let me track you?” she asks, carefully, and Geralt raises an eyebrow.
“I’m surprised you haven’t been already,” he says, and watches understanding dawn in her eyes. That it’s never been about him not wanting her by his side, and everything to do with her being afraid to give up freedom. “I won’t clip your wings, Yen.”
She surges up to kiss him, possibly to hide the tears brimming in her eyes, and Geralt pretends he doesn’t know that they’re falling, just as Jaskier curls an arm around her.
Not every problem can be solved overnight, and Geralt isn’t naive enough in the ways of love to think that he won’t make another mistake, that he won’t push them away, that everything will be perfect from here on out. But settled in a hot bath, with the scent of cold rain and his lovers’ contentment on the air, Geralt’s at least willing to admit that this is happier than he ever knew he could be.