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There’s something funny about naughty dreams. They always seem so real.
But then that’s probably what’s to be expected, all things considered. And by all things, Jask means Yennefer and Geralt, and how he’s managed to worm his way between them– quite literally– on the odd occasion that they… well, share a bed. And yeah, okay, he’s had two people before, three, four– but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t match up. Geralt’s a witcher, and Yennefer’s a sorceress. He’s never known a witcher before. And he’s absolutely never had a sorceress; he hates to be that person, but they always really scared him. Actually, he thinks they still do.
Because his dream isn’t a dream, and Yen really is settled between his legs, looking as smug as a cat with cream, coaxing him awake with his prick in her mouth and– and–
Jaskier nearly jolts off the bed.
Strong arms catch him before he can, and effortlessly pull him back. Somehow he ends up slouched, half sprawled, against Geralt’s chest, held there by the arm around his waist and a stubbled jaw bracketing the top of his head. He’s still half asleep, but more than half hard.
“Oh fuck,” he breathes.
They laugh. Yen’s takes immediate predominance, soft and throaty in a way he feels to his core, and he writhes from the sensation around his cock. Geralt holds him in place, and Jask curses again.
“Fuck! Yennefer– what–” She does something godsawful– wonderful– with her tongue and he keens before he can swallow the sound, pitched and pathetic and oh gods please yes please that again–
He feels cold when she pulls off, and glares when she looks up at the both of them.
“Geralt, could you–”
Geralt cuts her off. “Gladly,” he agrees, and Jaskier doesn’t know what’s even being agreed to until Yen goes back to his cock and Geralt presses a hand over his mouth.
Something in Jaskier’s stomach swoops a bit at that. It’s not a new sensation, but unrivaled now by the fact that Geralt’s hands are so large, and rough, and distinctly masculine.
“It’s too early for him to start in, anyway.”
So that was that, then. Effectively cutting off his voice, keeping him quiet. That same something thrills at the prospect, and he squirms a little more earnestly. Yen’s lips around him, Geralt’s hand pressed over his mouth– latter of which is restricting his breath, just a little, because Geralt’s hands are large and encompassing and the one pressed to his face is a little dangerously close to covering his nose, too. He feels like he can’t breathe, and then forces himself to exhale sharply through his nostrils, anyway.
Breathe, breathe.
His head swims in the knowledge Geralt might not let him, could shift his hand an inch at any time and devoid him of all oxygen and sound, and– oh, his cock jerks against the roof of her mouth, and he hadn’t known that was a thing of his. Maybe, a little, then. He won’t ask for it– he can’t– but he wouldn’t mind. He wouldn’t mind.
For now, Jask pushes his hips forward and lets his head fall back against Geralt’s shoulder, and tries to breathe the air he’s given.
Yen is… scary. She is, there’s no way around it. But Jaskier’s a willing participant in this situation, in every situation that happens, if not a slightly wary (but eager) one. And, listen, first impressions were a thing; maybe if she hadn’t threatened to– to– he moans a little around Geralt’s palm, and once again decides every threat she’s made against his cock is soothed over by how enthusiastically she doles the attention out onto it now.
Yen is a godsend. She’s magic, and it shows, and it feels, and he feels.
“You know, he’s not so annoying when he’s quiet,” she says, when she sits up. She’s worked him just up to full hardness and he shoots her what he hopes is the nastiest look, although he fears it’s lost in translation by the way she smirks at him. “A marked improvement over the usual.”
“He’s not so bad without the lute,” Geralt says, and this time, Jask elbows him in the chest for that one. He can retaliate against him. Geralt’s not the one sucking his cock.
Even still, he knows they’re not being serious. They’re just being… mean. The insults fall about as flat as he’s sure the elbow to Geralt’s chest does, but they do it all the same.
“The best kind of noise is when he’s gagged. Funny, that,” Yen says, and Jaskier lets her. She licks her lips, and goes back to it, so he just lets her.
“Hm.” Geralt intones, and he feels the vibrations up through his chest, through where they’re pressed together, Jaskier’s comfortable sleep shirt and Geralt’s decided lack of one to begin with. Jask wants to tell him to do it again, but he’s breathing too hard now, in and out and in and out and he can’t quite catch enough of it to stop being lightheaded.
You’re trying too hard, something nags on the inside, and it sounds like Geralt and Yennefer speaking at the same time even though neither of them are actually saying anything out loud. Jask tries harder, and spins further out of control.
Yennefer’s voice sounds a little fuzzy when she speaks. “You’re suffocating him.”
So does Geralt’s, actually. “I know.” But he knows, and that prompts more of a reaction than Jaskier thinks he can give; somehow, he raises a hand to clutch at the hand Geralt’s got over his face, not to… not to try and pry it away, exactly, but just to hold on.
“He likes it,” Yen says, and Jaskier’s head feels like it’s floating.
“Why do you think I’m doing it?”
“Touché.”
His eyelashes flutter, and the dark splotches across his vision widen. He can’t see Yen, but he can feel her–
– up until when he loses feeling of that, too, and he thinks his hand falls limp against Geralt’s arm.
When he blinks again, the hand at his face is gone, and he can breathe. Now both of Geralt’s arms are looped loosely around his chest, still holding him, and Yen’s biting bruises at Jaskier’s thighs.
“Told you.”
“Yes, yes, you’re the master, Geralt, we know.” She rests her chin on Jask’s thigh, and looks up at him. “You do look nice like that, though, Jaskier.”
Jaskier would laugh, if he had the breath to do it. But he doesn’t, quite yet, so he just smiles, drowsy and slow. “Thank you,” he manages, and when Yen laughs, he kind of understands why Geralt loses his head all the time around her. Just a little.
“Very well, then,” she says, and gives him just enough time to come back to full consciousness before she resumes fucking him with her mouth. His reward, because he knows better by now that they won’t torture him into oblivion as they’ve so threatened to do. (His luck will run out on that regard, eventually, but will it be such a travesty? He wonders. He knows.)
He chases after the promise of release for now, and will worry– anticipate– the rest later.
Yennefer takes all of him, and everything he has to give as he comes back to himself enough to work with it, thrusting into her mouth and clutching at Geralt’s arms and babbling again, because it’s allowed, and he’s vocal, and needy, and– and he’d always been of the mind of letting your partners know when they were doing something right. And they were right. Jask had never realized how right people could be. How right people could be for him, anyway.
The fire under his skin coalesces, and he chokes off a tiny, hurried warning the same time Geralt says her name, too.
“Yen,” they warn in tandem, and Jask wants to laugh, but turns his face into Geralt’s neck instead.
“Yes, I know,” Yennefer says, and it takes one loose stroke of her hand before he’s spilling across her face as she intends.
She is a little bit beautiful like that, he thinks, hazy and drifting again. Of course she’s conventionally beautiful, that’s… it had been the point, hadn’t it? But smiling like that, hand braced on his hip and face painted with come… maybe he just likes that, too. He thinks he really does.
“You’re both entirely predictable,” she says, and it’s almost a complaint except she’s still smiling.
Jaskier breathes out, and shudders in Geralt’s arms.
“Well.” Geralt considers, and then leans forward– Jask groans a little, still wrapped up in him– to meet halfway and kiss her. “You’re entirely talented.”
“I agree,” Yen replies.
“There’s no arguing.” Geralt breathes against her skin, and then absently mouths at the mess Jaskier’s managed to put there.
And Jask is still vaguely squashed, sandwiched between Geralt’s chest and Yennefer’s bosom, and not in any good angle to watch anything that’s happening but he still sees Geralt’s tongue dart out over a speck of white and his heart slams in his chest, up into his throat and makes his tongue go dry.
He’s got me in his mouth, he thinks, a little wildly, and the smell of lilac and gooseberries threatens to overcome him again. He renews his squirming, because it’s all bordering too much and he can’t get hard again so soon if he tried. “Geralt,” he gasps, and tries to coax him to let go.
He does, and Jask nearly rolls back to his respective side of bed, pulling the blankets over his hips as he goes. He feels… weak. And funny, shaking in his body and his bones he can’t quite place. Something different than usual, but then maybe it’s just the threat of multiple orgasms coming on. Or maybe it’s just the passing out. He doesn’t know, and he doesn’t have the strength to care just then.
“You’re blushing.”
He breathes out, and tries to stop trembling. Gods. “Can’t imagine why…” It’s not a real protest. He’s just grumbling to grumble. “I’m going back to sleep,” he announces, and makes a show of grabbing the pillow and burying his (apparently very red) face into it.
“It is morning, Jaskier.”
“And the wake-up call was appreciated,” he says without raising his head, “but I’m not ready to get up– don’t,” he warns, “say it. Don’t.” He really, really can’t go as fast as he’d used to when he was younger.
Geralt rumbles a laugh, and there’s movement from the other two. Jask doesn’t open his eyes to see, but then he thinks they… settle back in, too, so he has to crack an eye open to check.
They have, Yen with her head on Geralt’s shoulder and both of them still close enough to touch. If he wants to.
He wants to.
So he rests his hand on Geralt’s arm, pats it twice, and leaves it there. He doesn’t need to say thank you. He does, anyway.
“Thanks for that… but please let me sleep a while longer.”
“Sure.”
“We’ll let you recover for a while, I suppose.”
“I’m indebted,” he jokes, drowsing again. He’s joking, but he’s not.
He owes the both of them more than he thinks they’ll ever know, but he’ll keep trying to convince them nonetheless.
“How we need another soul to cling to, another body to keep us warm.
To rest and trust; to give your soul in confidence: I need this.
I need someone to pour myself into.”
– Sylvia Plath