Chapter Text
The stone walls, decidedly, are not helping. Jaskier can get over the flames and endless torches kept in Kaer Morhen— it bothers him less after seeing Yennefer spit fire in Rience’s face, and Geralt’s been warier in how often he uses igni around him. And he’s not traumatized in the obvious ways; he can handle the bloodstains and monstrous corpses left in the courtyard, can even wrap his own blistered fingers without pitying himself. But— the fucking walls .
Each corner he turns, each wall he faces, each time he wakes and stares at the ceiling, it’s like he’s back there. Back in that fucking cell with mice scurrying around his feet, guards tossing food scraps through the bars. Nothing but him and a pair of spoons, his aching hands and a coat that barely keeps out the chill.
Him— and nothing else.
And he knows Kaer Morhen isn’t that. He knows that the witchers are a family and they show their care for one another between teasing brawls and harmless taunts. He knows that Yennefer’s waiting for him to come to her, to talk about more than simple gratitude over how she’s mostly healed his hands. He knows that Geralt’s watching him with that all-knowing gaze, wondering when the human will break.
It’s almost laughable, really, how it’s not the torture or the battle or the betrayal or reunion that’s haunting his mind. No. Instead, it’s the endless and aching feeling of being utterly alone.
Just like he was in that damned cell.
And every time he sits for longer than a moment and really lets himself get lost in these stone walls, he feels like he’s back there. Stuck. Forgotten. Abandoned.
“You look sad,” Ciri says, sitting beside him in the main hall long after the others have wandered away. After Voleth Meir, few witchers stick around in the place where their brothers died. It’s a rotten fact but, at least, it gives Jaskier a place to think.
Unless a certain little princess decides to interrupt him, that is.
She’s not wrong, and Jaskier doesn’t want to be someone who lies to her. It’s not like she’d believe him, anyway. Not with how his breath strains in his lungs or how his lips press so tightly together. He’d spent the past few hours running his hands across his arms and neck, trying to mimic the feeling of someone else’s warmth against him. If he looks as miserable as he feels, there’s no point pretending otherwise.
Still, that doesn’t explain what Ciri wants from him. Especially when she simply drifts into silence, not helping but not making things worse, either. With Ciri here, though, Jaskier forces his hands to still. He wouldn’t know how to describe the stinging emptiness on his skin, the amount of time it’s been since someone’s touched him for longer than a moment. He’s like a child missing their nightly cuddles, twitchy and restless and so fucking lonely that it’s a physical pang.
“Ciri?” Yennefer calls, entering the room with Geralt close behind her. Her eyes scan the area, landing on the young girl, and she sighs. “You’re meant to be in bed.”
“I know,” Ciri says, a surprisingly out-of-character statement from the typically stubborn girl. She hops to her feet, crossing the room to meet the other two halfway. “I was just keeping Jaskier company. He needed it.”
Oh , the devilish little imp. Jaskier starts, stumbling to his feet.
“I never actually said that,” he argues but, after hours of sitting around feeling sorry for himself, his voice is weaker than it should be. “She’s assuming things, she is! Making trouble and drawing attention where—”
“Ciri,” Geralt interrupts, though his eyes are on Jaskier. “Go to bed.”
Ciri smiles over her shoulder at Jaskier and then, for the first time since Jaskier’s met her, she does exactly as she’s told.
“Is everything alright?” Yennefer asks as soon as Ciri’s disappeared down a shadowy hallway.
Jaskier glares weakly at her. “I’m just tired. I think I’ll follow Ciri’s lead and—”
Geralt matches his withering look, though the effect’s broken by the concern tinging the edges.
“We’ll walk you there, then,” he cuts him off. Rude.
Still, Jaskier doesn’t complain when they take spots at his side, following him as he wanders down the hall. It’s almost nice, their presence. It keeps him from losing his composure when the hallways grow damp and dark, unbearably familiar in their emptiness. Yennefer’s hand brushes Jaskier’s arm when they near his door and, for some reason, they both follow him inside his room, too.
“I’m fine, really,” Jaskier mumbles, and even he can hear how clear his lie is.
“You look sad,” Yennefer mimics Ciri’s earlier statement in a dry voice, crossing her arms as she stands in his doorway. Geralt stands further in the room, back pressed to the wall across from Jaskier’s bed.
“You’ve not been yourself. You’ve been… quiet. Alone.” Geralt’s words come slowly, chosen carefully in that thoughtful manner of his when something’s truly important.
Sad. Alone
How dare they say it like that’s all it is? Like there’s nothing more to being alone than being separated from the others, like it’s a choice? And how can Jaskier explain to these two solitary creatures that he doesn’t know how to exist on his own? How can he describe the way the walls seem to close in on him when he sleeps, the way he dreams of nothing but a silence so loud it makes him want to scream? How could they ever understand how terrible being alone can really be?
Jaskier doesn’t mean to fall into his thoughts, but he doesn’t pull free until Geralt settles a hand against his shoulder— and, fuck it all, it’s the first time in a long time since he’s had the chance to appreciate a friendly touch.
Jaskier looks at Geralt, and he can’t bring himself to hate the way his eyes begin to tear.
“I just feel so lonely. I don’t know how to stop.” He’s aware that he’s pleading, aware of how soft his voice has fallen. Guilt settles in his gut like a bruise that’s been pressed on.
“Oh, bard,” Yennefer says almost immediately— and her hands reach his face as she steps forward, her fingers cup his cheeks. Her lips dust his forehead, his nose. She meets his eyes and, then, she kisses the corner of his mouth with a touch so soft Jaskier can still feel it melting against him when she pulls away.
“You don’t have to,” Jaskier whispers. “I just— I just need—”
Geralt takes a deep breath as he draws closer, his eyes enough to fade away Jaskier’s voice. His grip on Jaskier’s shoulder steadies and he watches Jaskier like he expects the world to open up and consume the bard if he so much as blinks; it matches the way Yennefer watches him, too. This is the part where Jaskier’s supposed to take the lead, to crack a joke or force a smile, but the thought alone sours in his mouth. It’s easier, anyway, to stay still and count his breaths.
It takes all of two shaking inhales before Geralt and Yennefer lead him towards the bed. He says nothing, simply taking their hands as they lay beside him; his bottom lip presses between his teeth, and he stares at the ceiling. He tries not to think of their eyes on him— it doesn’t work.
“I just need to feel something,” Jaskier mutters as his eyes slip shut. Geralt nods and shifts closer. His hand drifts across Jaskier’s stomach, slipping beneath the hem to rest gently on his skin. Jaskier doesn’t let himself look, doesn’t let himself react. If he looks, it might go away. If he looks, he might find he’s simply dreaming these affections up.
But moments pass and all he can hear are two breaths passing back and forth, one light and one heavy. They match his own uneven sighs in a way that could almost inspire a song. One breath in. One breath out.
He opens his eyes and turns his head. Yennefer. He looks at her— pleadingly, he knows, though what he’s wanting, he doesn’t quite understand.
“I know,” she whispers, shifting. “Come here.”
She moves, and she moves him, Geralt’s steady hands helping with the transition. She rolls him to his back and she crawls on top of him, an anchoring weight. She hovers, hands at the sides of his head, one leg between his own.
Her hair tickles his jaw when she dips her head towards his neck. Her breath sends shudders down his spine when her lips press to his throat. Jaskier hisses, arching closer to her warmth. It hurts, almost, this sudden burst of contact after so long without. But Geralt’s hands ease the tension from his arms, his body so close Jaskier can feel the heat up his side.
Something within Jaskier tightens, like a sore joint that needs to crack.
Geralt massages Jaskier’s shoulder, his other hand stroking through the hair at the nape of his neck.
“I’m sorry we didn’t notice sooner,” Geralt murmurs. “Are you feeling any better?”
“A bit. But don’t leave, please.” Jaskier turns his head, brushing a kiss against Yennefer’s wrist beside him. He keeps his mouth there, speaking against her skin. “Stay with me?”
Geralt grunts in the affirmative. It’s a softer sound than it could usually be, concerned and comforting. Jaskier could sink into it if given the chance. It doesn’t help that Geralt’s so near, his voice rumbling from his chest into Jaskier— it twists that tightening band within Jaskier’s heart, drawing closer to a pleasant snap. Geralt’s breath shakes when he inhales, but the exhale brushes over Jaskier’s cheek with a warm steadiness.
“Would it be better if you had more direct touch?” Yennefer whispers in his ear. Her fingertips brushing his collarbone give away her meaning.
All Jaskier can do is nod, embarrassed.
He shudders as Geralt and Yennefer maneuver him, removing layers of clothing with the sort of attentive touch that makes it feel like they’re peeling away walls of anxiety and dread instead. When Yennefer slips his shirt from his shoulders, he feels a bit more okay. When Geralt unties Jaskier’s trousers and rolls them down his legs, he breathes easier. Bit by bit, they reveal him— small and shaking, human and fragile— and their eyes never lose that touch of concern. Geralt swallows, standing only to fold Jaskier’s clothing over a chair in the corner of the room; Jaskier pretends not to see how his hands shake.
“Come back,” Jaskier says, and Geralt does.
For a long while, Jaskier thinks of nothing but the breaking feeling inside of him, his lips shut tight against the soft whimpers in his throat when Yennefer and Geralt curl around his body with soft, searching hands. But then Yennefer’s kissing his spine and Geralt’s brushing his thumb across his lips and—
And that tether in Jaskier snaps— like a flame doused, like a door unlocking at last. He cries out before he realizes he’s opened his mouth.
“Sorry,” Jaskier babbles. “I’m okay, but—”
“I don’t want you to be sorry,” Geralt says. “And I don’t want you to hurt.”
Yennefer’s forehead against Jaskier’s shoulder. Geralt’s breath across his cheeks. Jaskier shuts his eyes and imagines falling into them.
“I don’t know how else to be right now,” he admits. “But I think this is helping.”
“Good,” Yennefer says. “Then let us help just a bit more.”
“Okay,” Jaskier says— and he’s not really that surprised when Geralt finally kisses him. Perhaps Geralt means for it to be soft, to be tender and slow, but Jaskier’s nothing if not desperate, and he twists to feel as much of Geralt as he can. Their legs tangle together and Jaskier doesn’t know if he’s crying or groaning against Geralt’s lips, especially when Geralt lifts his thigh just right, shifting against Jaskier’s cock and— oh. Oh, gods.
Jaskier reaches for the edge of Geralt’s trousers, tugging with hands that can’t keep still enough to properly grip. It’s Yennefer’s fingers that help ease his hands away from the fabric, her arms reaching around Jaskier's side until she’s almost hugging him from behind.
“Don’t worry about him or me,” she says. “Just let us take care of you.”
All at once, the world blurs into a smear of violet eyes and moonlight hair. Darkness edges away from Jaskier’s vision, replaced by Yennefer whispering his name when she presses her chest to his back, Geralt murmuring promises when he runs his fingers near Jaskier’s groin. Jaskier whines and he tries to make it sound like it’s just physical pleasure, like they’re not putting him together from the inside out with each point of contact between the three of them. But Yennefer looks at him with eyes that warn him not to hide, and Jaskier trembles at the thought of being seen.
Yennefer’s fingers against his ribs, pulling him flush against her. Geralt kneeling between his legs, his eyes on Jaskier while he sinks down and takes him into his mouth. Jaskier clings to Yennefer’s hands like a child, bucking and kicking and feeling so gods-damned warm for the first time since those cell doors shut. He moans and tears stick to the corners of his eyes.
No one speaks as Geralt sucks Jaskier, but that’s only because they’re too busy with everything else. Yennefer dots kisses and soft bites on the side of Jaskier’s neck, and Jaskier’s words would never make it past his whines and whimpers. Everything heightens into the extreme— he feels how Geralt’s hair tickles the inside of his thighs. He feels how Yennefer’s eyelashes flutter against his jaw when she lifts her head, blinking down at Geralt with an awed exhale of breath. There is not one piece of him that cannot feel their presence.
Geralt doesn’t rush Jaskier. He doesn’t bob his head sporadically or try any fancy tricks with his tongue. He keeps still but for slight shifts back and forth, allowing Jaskier to set the pace— allowing Jaskier to take everything he’s needed for so fucking long.
Yennefer, though, has no qualms about giving to Jaskier before he can ask. Her hands move up, toying with his nipples with teasing pinches, her thumb rolling across the nubs as they harden. Jaskier jerks, crying out a strangled sound that could almost be her name.
“Yennefer, please,” Jaskier begs, though he still doesn’t know what he’s asking for. Perhaps for a promise that they won’t stop; perhaps for a promise that they won’t leave. “Please, please—”
His words gurgle into incomprehensible groans when, at last, Geralt takes his hips and forces him deeper into his throat, quickening just enough to wring every last sound from Jaskier’s lips. Jaskier tangles his hands in Geralt’s hair, and he swears he can feel each individual strand falling across his palm. He can feel Yennefer’s breath, her very existence wrapped around him. He can feel Geralt’s gaze, his care.
He can feel everything and, gods, it’s such a nice change from feeling nothing.
His stomach swoops familiarly, his breath hitching in his throat. “I’m— I’m—”
Yennefer lifts a hand to his lips and he allows her to press her fingers into his mouth, sucking and licking and drooling around them. She thrusts in time with Geralt’s pace, her other hand still scratching and cupping his chest.
“Breathe for us, Jaskier,” she says. “That’s all you need to do. Just let yourself feel all of it.”
And, fucking hell, when Geralt sucks one last time, all of it collapses upon Jaskier with a release he feels from every part of his aching body. He shouts and swears and sobs as he comes into Geralt’s throat, eyes shut and body spasming. He’s only vaguely aware of Yennefer’s soothing voice and Geralt’s calming touch as he quiets down to a tired babbling, chest heaving for breath.
Jaskier opens his eyes again when he feels Geralt drawing away— then, drawing closer to take Jaskier into his arms. Yennefer passes him off, her touch lingering until she’s sure Geralt has him. Geralt presses his face into Jaskier’s neck and breathes deeply. He rubs his hands up and down Jaskier’s back, gently guiding them both to lay back down with Jaskier’s head on Geralt’s chest.
Yennefer moves alongside them, drawing sheets over the three of them as she rests on Jaskier’s other side, her arm wrapped around his middle. It’s quiet again. It's still.
That restless itch in his body’s nowhere to be found, something within him having settled beneath the touch of these two upon him. And, yet, they hold him— without expectation or want for something in return; they hold him just to keep him safe, to keep him sane.
Jaskier smiles as his eyes drift shut. He knows he won’t have to face any nightmares tonight.