Jaskier makes it through supper somehow, grateful that none of the witchers try to actually talk to him. He’s fairly sure most of them heard his outburst, and even Clovis is gracious enough to give him some space after that.
He’s a little caught up in his own head, honestly, prodding at this new sense of calm to see if it’s just a veneer or if it’s going to stick around, and trying not to think about the fact that he’s asked his alphas to fuck him, because if he thinks about that, he’ll either panic or start getting hard or both, any of which would make supper distinctly uncomfortable.
Once the meal is over, Geralt gives him a curious look. Jaskier takes a deep breath and nods. If he thinks about this too long, he probably will panic, and he doesn’t want to. He wants to go up to the big bed in their cozy tower room and join his alphas in a tangle of limbs and pleasure, and learn what it’s supposed to be like. To have a first time worth having.
Geralt hums and smiles, and offers Jaskier a hand up, gathering him close when Jaskier rises. Lambert and Eskel rise too, crowding in around Jaskier, and Jaskier is oddly reminded of that very first meeting, backed up against Roach as Lambert and Eskel breathed in his scent. He’s a lot less scared of being surrounded by witchers now.
They usher him upstairs, crowding close, and he doesn’t feel trapped or caged or caught - just safe, here within the circle of his witchers, his alphas, the warm hearth at the end of the day. Once the door closes behind them, it’s Eskel who curls a hand around the nape of Jaskier’s neck, draws him close and presses their foreheads gently together.
“Nothing you don’t want, ever,” he promises. “Tell us if you dislike anything.”
“I will,” Jaskier says.
“Promise,” Eskel says. “Please. We - we can’t hurt you.”
“I promise.” It’s not a pledge Jaskier ever thought to give an alpha, but - he trusts his alphas, trusts that if he says something is not to his taste, they’ll stop.
“Thank you,” Eskel says. “So. D’you know what you want, or should we just...improvise?”
“Improvise, please,” Jaskier says. He doesn’t even know what he wants to ask for; everything he’s seen his alphas get up to has been terrifyingly appealing, and he’s not sure he can choose.
“Improvisation it shall be,” Eskel says, and tilts his head a little, and presses their lips together. And oh, this is familiar; Jaskier melts against Eskel’s chest and opens for the kiss eagerly. Eskel kisses so sweetly, gentle and patient and thoughtful and all-encompassing; Jaskier barely even notices the hands gently divesting him of the beautiful coat and coaxing him to shift his weight so they can slip his boots from his feet. He’s feeling sort of pleasantly dazed when Eskel breaks the kiss and turns him around, tugging him back against Eskel’s chest and tucking his chin over Jaskier’s shoulder, and Jaskier blinks at the big bed and discovers that Geralt and Lambert have taken this opportunity to strip off all of their clothes and are waiting on the bed, looking hopeful and eager and - a little nervous, actually.
“Do you like what you see?” Eskel breathes in Jaskier’s ear.
Jaskier looks, really looks. The fire has been built up; it’s far brighter than it usually is when his alphas take their pleasure of each other at night.
They’re...well, it’s not the word one usually uses for an alpha, but they’re beautiful. The firelight turns their scars to silver decorations. Geralt’s hair looks like moonlight spread across the pillow; Lambert’s eyes glow like topazes. They’re both magnificent examples of men, all sleek muscle and sharp jaws and broad shoulders.
“I do,” Jaskier says, loud enough that they can hear him without straining. “They’re gorgeous.”
Geralt’s cheeks go faintly pink. Lambert grins and stretches, preening. “Hear that, pretty boy? We’re gorgeous.”
Geralt nudges Lambert with an elbow, hard, and Jaskier laughs. His darling alphas, sweet and silly and lovely. Eskel’s hands slip under Jaskier’s tunic, slowly enough that he could object if he wanted to; he leans a little more firmly against Eskel and hums approval instead. “May I?” Eskel asks, and Jaskier nods, raising his arms to make it a little easier for Eskel to lift his tunic off and away. The air is cool against his skin, and Jaskier shivers a little before he’s back in Eskel’s arms, tucked safely against that broad, scarred chest. “Cold?”
“No,” Jaskier says. “Not while you hold me.”
Eskel purrs. Jaskier snuggles back against him, and looks up to see Geralt and Lambert watching them with blown-black eyes and expressions of awe and hunger. Eskel’s hands slide down to the fastenings of Jaskier’s trousers, and Geralt and Eskel watch them like cats at a mousehole; if they had tails, Jaskier thinks irreverently, they’d be twitching.
“May I?” Eskel murmurs again, and Jaskier nods. Gentle fingers untie his trouser laces, and nudge them and his braies down. Jaskier steps out of the puddle of clothes, leaving him bare but for his socks, and Lambert makes a sound Jaskier almost wants to call a whimper.
“Lovely,” Eskel says, and kisses the curve of Jaskier’s throat. Jaskier sways a little. This is - this is nothing like -
He’s not thinking about that. This is his first time, the first time he chose, and he has no idea what’s going to happen but whatever it is, it’s going to be good. He can trust in that.
“Go join them,” Eskel murmurs in his ear, and Jaskier stumbles forward. Lambert and Geralt both reach for him, helping him onto the bed between them, curling around him almost the same way they do to sleep, but for the hungry way Lambert takes his mouth, the tiny soft kisses Geralt dusts across the backs of his shoulders. Eskel tugs Jaskier’s socks off, and then Jaskier is distracted from whatever else Eskel might be doing as one of Geralt’s big hands slides around to wrap gently around his prick.
Jaskier goes still, gasping. No one has ever - an omega’s pleasure doesn’t matter -
But these are his witchers, who don’t think like human alphas, and Lambert drinks down his soft sounds of pleasure eagerly, he and Geralt both purring loudly as Jaskier shifts between them.
Geralt’s voice is rough as gravel. “How many times can you peak in a night?”
Jaskier shudders and pushes lightly at Lambert’s shoulder; Lambert breaks the kiss at once, letting Jaskier catch his breath. Jaskier hasn’t...really considered that question in a while. Six years or so, give or take a few months. But one of the few blessings the gods have given omegas is the ability to peak more than once, whether they’re male or female, and Jaskier did spend a few enlightening nights in his dorm at Oxenfurt, one hand’s fingers buried in his ass and the other hand stripping frantically at his prick, and on the most luxurious of those nights -
“Four,” he says, “or at least, that’s what I could do the last time I tried.”
Geralt growls approval. Lambert licks his lips.
The bed shifts as Eskel climbs in, ending up curled behind Geralt, one hand stroking down Jaskier’s arm. “Got an idea,” Eskel says. “Let me lead?”
“Sure,” Lambert says, grinning. “You’ve always got good ideas.” Geralt hums agreement.
“Jaskier?” Eskel says.
“Yeah,” Jaskier says, a little shakily - not from fear, just from the overwhelming feeling of safety, of being wrapped in so much affection and honest, uncomplicated desire.
“Alright,” Eskel says. “Give him a little room, you two. Jaskier, on your back, please.”
Jaskier rolls onto his back with a lot more ease than he would have been able to roll onto his front. That would have been far, far too close to presenting. But on his back - that’s got no terrible memories attached to it at all. The bed is soft and warm beneath him, and his alphas are smiling down at him, and everything smells of warm hearth and safety.
“Right,” Eskel says. “Lambert, you start on that side, I’ll start on this side; Geralt, you can start from his feet.”
Jaskier frowns a little, meaning to ask what the hell that means, and is distracted when Geralt rolls up to kneel between his feet and gathers one into his lap, strong fingers digging into Jaskier’s sole and rendering him a suddenly tensionless heap against the blankets. “Holy fuck.”
“Good?” Eskel asks, and gathers one of Jaskier’s hands close, kissing each finger in turn before turning it over to press his lips to the palm. On Jaskier’s other side, Lambert is biting, very very gently, down the underside of his forearm. Jaskier shivers, not sure where to look; he is surrounded by golden eyes and hungry smiles and the smell of safety.
“Very good,” he says, and all of his alphas purr.
Jaskier closes his eyes and gives himself gladly over to their attentions.
Eskel kisses his way slowly and thoughtfully down Jaskier’s right arm and then spends quite a while lavishing attention on Jaskier’s throat. Lambert bites painlessly down Jaskier’s left arm and then begins nuzzling his way across Jaskier’s chest, purring at the feeling of Jaskier’s hair catching in his beard and licking curiously at Jaskier’s nipples to make Jaskier squeak. Geralt very slowly and patiently massages each of Jaskier’s legs, spreading them wider as he works his way up, until finally he reaches Jaskier hips and bends down and, without any particular preamble, swallows Jaskier’s prick to the root.
Jaskier makes a breathless noise that wants to be a scream. “Oh gods,” he says, scrabbling at the blankets and Lambert and Eskel’s shoulders. Hot, and wet, and tight, and Geralt’s tongue, ye gods -
“He loves this,” Eskel murmurs in his ear. “He’d spend hours with a prick in his mouth if we let him. Is it good?”
“Yes,” Jaskier whimpers, hips straining against Geralt’s gentle, implacable grip. It’s nothing he’s ever even dreamed of having, and it’s so, so good. Geralt is purring, and the vibration on his prick is indescribable.
“Fuck,” Lambert breathes. “Look at you, buttercup, you fucking gorgeous thing.” A finger traces Jaskier’s lips, and Jaskier kisses it, licks at the callused pad. Lambert bites off a moan. “Look at me?”
Jaskier opens his eyes, and Lambert moans again and bends to kiss him, licking Jaskier’s whimpers from his lips. Eskel is still pressing kisses against his throat. Jaskier gets a hand into Eskel’s hair, just so he can hang onto something, and tries to warn Geralt that he’s very, very close to peaking. It comes out as a garbled moan against Lambert’s mouth.
Geralt hums, clearly very pleased, and Jaskier peaks with a muffled yell; Lambert breaks their kiss to let Jaskier gasp for breath. Geralt purrs even more loudly than he has been, and swallows every drop down before letting Jaskier’s prick slip from his mouth.
“Oh fuck,” Eskel whispers, and half sits up to kiss Geralt hungrily. Lambert growls and yanks Geralt into a second kiss as soon as Eskel lets him go. Jaskier stares up at his alphas sharing the taste of his spend and shudders in renewed arousal.
Geralt licks his lips when Lambert lets him go and grins down at Jaskier. “That’s one.”
“One?” Jaskier says dazedly, and then remembers Geralt’s earlier question. “Oh gods.”
“Alright?” Eskel checks. “We can stop now, if you need to.”
Jaskier shakes his head. He wants to know what else his alphas might come up with - wants to know how much more pleasure they can wring from him, because he’s already nearly speechless with it. And he wants - “Want to touch you, please,” he says.
“Oh fuck,” Lambert blurts. Eskel swallows hard and nods.
“Anything you like,” he says hoarsely. “Name it.”
“May I -” Geralt says, and Jaskier looks down at him in confusion. “May I eat you out?”
“What?” Jaskier says, genuinely baffled.
Lambert growls hungrily. “His mouth on your pretty ass, buttercup. He’s good at that, too.”
Jaskier...had not quite realized that was an option. Sure, it was mentioned, once, during his heat, but he didn’t actually think they meant it. But - “Alright,” he says, and Geralt purrs and shifts down the bed, coaxing Jaskier’s legs up over his shoulders as he sprawls out. His hands stroke down the backs of Jaskier’s thighs, and then his tongue touches the rim of Jaskier’s ass, an almost thoughtful little lick, and Geralt’s purring redoubles.
“Oh gods,” Jaskier says, staring blankly up at the ceiling at the utterly foreign wave of pleasure. “That’s...that’s...fuck.”
Lambert chuckles. “Good, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Jaskier says faintly. “Oh gods, come here, please?”
Lambert shuffles forward on his knees, and Jaskier reaches up with one hand - his other has found Eskel’s hair again, and Eskel is nuzzling contentedly at his throat, not really kissing, just breathing in his scent, purr thrumming through Jaskier’s sternum.
Lambert is pleasantly furry, and his skin is surprisingly soft over a layer of winter padding and hard muscle. He drops down to his hands and knees so Jaskier can reach anything he pleases without stretching, and Jaskier runs his fingers through the soft fur on Lambert’s chest, discovers for himself the way Lambert hisses through his teeth at a thumb brushing over his nipples, traces the line of a long-healed silvery scar that trails over Lambert’s stomach almost to the jut of his hipbone.
Lambert’s prick hangs heavy between his legs, and Jaskier takes a deep breath - warm-hearth-and-safety, lust and affection and the tang of his own pleasure - and wraps his fingers carefully around its girth. Lambert shudders all over and moans. “Fuck, your fingers, buttercup.”
Jaskier’s fingers are callused again from hours with his lute; they are long and slender and look shockingly good wrapped around Lambert’s prick. He strokes carefully, and Lambert moans again and holds perfectly still but for the little involuntary shudders wracking him.
“Twist your hand a bit right at the tip,” Eskel murmurs, and Jaskier does so. Lambert curses and shakes with the effort of holding still.
Geralt chooses that moment to slide his tongue into Jaskier, and Jaskier loses his coordination and grabs at Lambert’s thigh instead, yelping in shock.
“Dammit, Geralt,” Lambert grouses, and Eskel laughs against Jaskier’s throat. Jaskier finds himself giggling, too, and is faintly astonished. He’s never thought of laughing during sex. But it is funny, and he gets his hand back on Lambert’s prick and is absurdly proud of himself when Lambert’s swearing cuts off with a heartfelt moan. “Fuck, yes, buttercup, that’s fucking good.”
Eskel purrs. “Squeeze a bit around the knot,” he suggests, and Jaskier obeys, grinning when Lambert whimpers. There’s a power to this he wasn’t expecting - to holding an alpha’s prick in his hand and seeing the alpha wait for whatever it pleases him to do. It’s almost a surrender, though Jaskier hasn’t ever imagined an alpha surrendering to an omega before.
Eskel keeps murmuring suggestions, and Jaskier keeps following them, and Lambert moans and shakes and swears in nine languages - maybe it’s ten by now, Jaskier’s not quite sure. Concentrating gets harder and harder, though; Geralt is clearly enjoying himself immensely, tongue deep in Jaskier’s ass and hands kneading at Jaskier’s hips like a contented cat’s, and the shocking pleasure of it is coiling tighter and tighter in Jaskier’s stomach.
“If you want to see him spill, keep doing that,” Eskel whispers. “He’s close.”
Jaskier does want that. He wants to see Lambert shake apart beneath his hand, because of him. He repeats the stroking twist of his hand, again and again, and Lambert whines and shivers and finally tenses, every muscle like a bar of iron, and shoves a hand down to clench around his knot, and comes with a low howl that echoes off the stone walls before falling sideways to land with a thump upon the rumpled blankets.
Jaskier is astonished by the intensity of fierce pleasure that rises in him: he did that. He rendered his alpha speechless and gasping with ecstasy. He put that look of dazed happiness on Lambert’s face.
“Well done,” Eskel says, and reaches over to draw Jaskier’s seed-streaked hand to his lips, licking it clean with great concentration. Jaskier whimpers a little.
And Geralt strokes a thumb over his ass as he plunges his tongue deep one more time, and Jaskier peaks without even realizing he’s about to.
He actually loses a little time, sparks flashing behind his eyelids and body shuddering in astonished pleasure. When he comes back to himself, his alphas are curled around him, all of them looking a little worried, and someone has wiped him down with a damp cloth so his stomach isn’t quite as sticky and unpleasant. Geralt looks smug even through the worry, Jaskier is amused to see. Well, he’s got reason to be smug; he’s brought Jaskier off twice now.
“Alright there?” Eskel asks.
“Very,” Jaskier says. “Holy fuck.”
Lambert chuckles. “You good to keep going, or d’you want to sleep?”
Jaskier thinks about that for, oh, at least half a second. “Keep going,” he says. He wants this night - this first time - to be as long and wonderful as possible, and two of his alphas haven’t even come yet.
“Alright,” Eskel says, and kisses him softly. “Jaskier. May I have you?”
Jaskier licks his lips. “Yes,” he says, a little shakily. “Yes, you may.”
“Thank you,” Eskel whispers, and kisses him again. “Tell me if you change your mind.”
“I will,” Jaskier promises.
“Good,” Eskel purrs, and coaxes Jaskier carefully up onto his side, tucking himself against Jaskier’s back, warm and sturdy and comforting. “One of you kiss him, one of you suck him off - slowly,” he orders, and Lambert grins.
“My turn,” he says, nudging Geralt’s shoulder. “You got the first go.”
They’re...they’re taking turns on who gets to suck him off. Jaskier is so baffled by that that he jumps a little when one of Eskel’s broad fingers brushes very gently against his hole. Eskel pulls away immediately, stroking his hand over Jaskier’s hip. “Sorry,” he murmurs. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”
“It’s fine,” Jasker says - squeaks, rather, as Lambert slithers down the bed and begins to lick enthusiastically at his prick. Geralt makes a sort of huffy noise and then grins and shifts so he can kiss Jaskier without straining either of their necks or kicking Lambert in the head.
“If you’re sure,” Eskel says, and slides his hand down again, slowly enough that it’s not startling at all when his finger brushes against Jaskier’s hole again. Lambert makes a thoughtful sort of noise and tugs at Jaskier’s leg until it’s resting on Lambert’s side, giving Eskel better access and Jaskier a little better balance. Jaskier’s not entirely sure what to do with his hand until Geralt takes it and gives him a sort of hopeful look and puts it on his own head; Jaskier tangles his fingers in Geralt’s hair and tugs just a little, the way he’s seen Lambert and Eskel do, and Geralt responds with a happy little moan and a fervent kiss.
Jaskier is so distracted by the kiss, and so slick from Geralt’s attentions and the throbbing arousal brought on by - well - everything about this night, that he doesn’t flinch at all as Eskel’s finger slides into him, easy as anything.
It doesn’t hurt. Not at all. There’s a very faint stretch, but no burn, no ache, no sharp pain; between Jaskier’s relaxation and the slick he’s been leaking for what feels like hours, there’s no discomfort at all. Instead, as Eskel shifts his finger carefully, there’s a sudden shock of pleasure, and Jaskier gasps and jerks against Lambert’s hand on his hip.
“Good, or bad?” Eskel checks at once.
“Good,” Jaskier babbles. “Good, fuck, good.”
Eskel purrs, and does it again. Jaskier whines, and Lambert chuckles and licks teasingly at the head of his prick, and Geralt purrs as he presses little kisses to Jaskier’s cheekbones.
They play him like a fucking instrument, one of Eskel’s blunt fingers becoming two, becoming three as Lambert swallows his prick nearly as expertly as Geralt did, as Geralt kisses Jaskier’s moans and gasps and whimpers away. Nothing hurts - nothing even threatens to hurt. Jaskier’s world is hazed in pleasure, bounded by the stone walls of the tower room, saturated in the scent of spend and slick and warm-hearth-and-safety.
“May I?” Eskel breathes against his ear. Jaskier moans against Geralt’s lips, and Geralt pulls back just a tiny fraction of an inch, breath hot against Jaskier’s cheek. “May I have you, Jaskier?”
“Please, yes,” Jaskier gasps. He wants it. He wants to know what this is supposed to feel like, wants to know how fucking good this is going to feel - because it is, he knows, it’s going to be so fucking good.
“Fuck,” Eskel says, almost conversationally, and then his fingers slide out and something rather larger is pressing against Jaskier’s hole. Jaskier goes still, and for one long dreadful moment the old panic comes rising up again -
And Lambert does something very clever with his tongue, and Geralt purrs into their kiss, and the panic drains away like it had never been, because this - this is nothing like before. There aren’t even any comparisons to be made. This is a first time, Jaskier’s first time, and he leans back into Eskel’s warm, gentle strength and moans into Geralt’s mouth as Eskel’s prick slips inch by slow inch into him, easy as dripping honey. It doesn’t hurt at all. It feels, in fact, really godsdamned fucking good.
“Fuck, you feel amazing,” Eskel says quietly. “Fucking hell, thank you, thank you for giving us this -” he breaks off in a low moan, hips shifting in tiny restless motions. “Glorious, gorgeous, wonderful omega, ours, ours to keep and cherish and protect -”
Jaskier thinks he might actually cry. This is exactly the sort of thing a young omega dreams about: an alpha who will lavish them with praise, will treat them with gentle kindness, will treasure them. Jaskier’s youthful daydreams didn’t include three alphas - he doesn’t think anyone’s did, really - but gods, it’s good, to be the focus of three alphas who want nothing more than to bring him pleasure.
“Move,” he says, between kisses, and Eskel kisses the nape of his neck and obeys, shifting his hips in long slow gentle thrusts that hit Jaskier’s sweet spot unerringly, pushing him forward into Lambert’s mouth; Lambert, judging by the contented purring and the way he swallows around Jaskier’s prick, doesn’t mind at all.
It’s slow and sweet and gentle and good, and Jaskier tips over his third peak with a low, helpless moan that Geralt swallows down just as Lambert swallows his seed. Eskel moans and mouths Jaskier’s shoulder, like he wants to bite and is holding back by the barest margin, and gasps, “May I? Fuck, Jaskier, may I knot you?”
“Yes,” Jaskier says dreamily. He wants it - oh, he wants it, wants to know what it’s supposed to feel like. He’s so relaxed and contented that it can’t possibly hurt; nothing has hurt so far, and he trusts his alphas to keep it that way.
Eskel growls, low and almost desperate, and his hand closes a little tighter on Jaskier’s hip, and he thrusts just a little harder, enough to make Jaskier gasp, overstimulated and half-drunk on pleasure - and he peaks with a moan that shivers through Jaskier’s bones, knot expanding to lock them together and pressing squarely against Jaskier’s sweet spot as it does.
Jaskier keens, tossing his head back onto Eskel’s shoulder and shuddering. Eskel’s growling purr reverberates in his ear, and Geralt switches from kissing his mouth to planting licking kisses down his throat, and Lambert lets Jaskier’s soft prick slip from his mouth and swears, softly and fervently.
“Wonderful, gorgeous, perfect omega,” Eskel rasps.
“Fuckin’ amazing,” Lambert agrees.
“Ours,” Geralt says, very contentedly, and then, “One more?”
“Oh fuck,” Jaskier says, rather dazedly. Another peak? That might actually make him faint with overstimulated pleasure...but he wants it all the same. “Yes. Please.”
Geralt growls, pleased and smug. “Move, little wolf,” he orders, and Lambert rolls out of the way; Geralt shifts to press himself against Jaskier, sandwiching him between himself and Eskel, his prick rubbing against Jaskier’s in a slick, shivery-good slide. Jaskier makes a sort of thin, desperate noise, and Geralt reaches down between them and gathers both their pricks into one big hand. Jaskier is mostly soft, but that is changing rapidly, what with the pressure of Eskel’s knot against his sweet spot and the way Geralt’s prick feels rubbing against his own.
“Well that’s the most gorgeous fuckin’ thing I’ve seen in years,” Lambert says softly, from somewhere up near the head of the bed - they’ve gotten a bit turned around somehow, and are lying crossways, the blankets rucked up around them into a strange echo of a nest. “How’s our buttercup feel, Eskel?”
“Like fuckin’ heaven,” Eskel groans, pressing another kiss to the side of Jaskier’s neck. Jaskier shivers, hips moving in tiny helpless thrusts, pinned between Eskel’s knot and Geralt’s prick - a knot and a hard place, he thinks, and finds himself laughing breathlessly until Geralt strokes just so and the laughter cuts off in a desperate moan. Geralt purrs and strokes a little faster. Jaskier manages to move his head - he’s exhausted, he’s going to fall asleep whether he wants to or not in the not very distant future, possibly even before Eskel’s knot goes down - and blinks down at his prick pressed against Geralt’s, maybe half the size of his alpha’s remarkable endowment. Geralt’s hand spans them both with ease, long scarred pale fingers so very gentle. Tender, is the word that comes to mind. Geralt’s breath is warm against Jaskier’s cheek, and Jaskier tugs gently on Geralt’s hair, still wound around his fingers, and pulls his alpha into another kiss.
Geralt moans and kisses Jaskier deep and claiming, and Jaskier sags back against Eskel and closes his eyes and just feels: Eskel’s broad warmth, the huge gentle hand on his hip, the knot pressing inexorably against his sweet spot; Geralt’s hand so tender around their pricks, and their legs tangled together, and the purr in Geralt’s chest reverberating into Jaskier’s own.
It’s so very, very good.
Geralt makes a low, almost plaintive noise, and his hand speeds up, and Jaskier grins to himself and tugs gently at Geralt’s hair. Geralt whimpers, and presses forward to kiss Jaskier hungrily, and his prick twitches and spills between them, seed hot and sticky against Jaskier’s stomach; and the way that jostles Jaskier, shoving him back into Eskel and pushing Eskel’s knot hard against his sweet spot, is just enough to tip him over his fourth peak, wringing a tiny whimpering moan from his throat and a few scant drops of seed from his exhausted prick.
“Fuck,” Jaskier says faintly.
Geralt hums and kisses him once more, a gentle brush of lips. Lambert chuckles.
“Go on and sleep, buttercup,” he says quietly. “We’ll get you cleaned up and tucked in, don’t you worry. That was...that was fuckin’ amazing.”
Geralt hums agreement. Eskel kisses the nape of Jaskier’s neck.
“So good,” he murmurs. “Our lovely, perfect, wonderful omega, thank you for trusting us with this. Sleep, don’t worry about anything; we have you.”
“Mmm,” Jaskier agrees. “Alphas. My alphas.”
All three of his alphas are in bed with him when he wakes, though by the light filtering through the shutters it’s well into the morning. He’s fairly clean and slightly sore and very contented; it feels a little as though his bones have been filled with honey, though, and he has no intention of moving until he has to. Eskel and Lambert are wound around him as they usually are, and Geralt is flopped across all of their legs like a particularly affectionate lapdog. Lap-wolf, perhaps.
“Hey,” Eskel says quietly. “Good morning.”
Jaskier beams at him. “Good morning,” he agrees.
“How are you feeling?” Eskel asks, sounding a little...anxious, perhaps.
Jaskier stretches - as well as he can with a witcher draped across his legs, at least - and hums. “Very, very good,” he says. “Except…”
“Except?” Eskel says, eyes going wide. Lambert half sits up, looking like he’s about to go hunt down whatever Jaskier might need. Geralt goes very still, the tenseness of a predator just before motion.
“Except I haven’t gotten my good-morning kisses yet,” Jaskier says, batting his eyelashes up at his alphas.
Eskel deflates all at once, tipping over to rest his forehead against Jaskier’s collarbone with a sigh of relief. Geralt goes limp. Lambert guffaws.
“Feisty little buttercup,” he says. “Well, can’t short you on kisses.” He leans down and kisses Jaskier thoroughly.
By the time he’s finished kissing Jaskier breathless, Eskel has apparently recovered from his moment of panic, and takes over from Lambert with a deep, intoxicatingly sweet kiss that leaves Jaskier panting against the pillows; and when he leans back, Geralt eels his way up from his sprawl across their legs and kisses Jaskier soft and slow, like they’ve got all the time in the world.
“That’s better,” Jaskier says contentedly when Geralt breaks the kiss to nuzzle at his throat. “Mmm. I need a meal and a soak in the hot springs, and no dagger training today, I think.”
“Done,” Eskel says.
“D’you want us to bring you food, or bring you down to the kitchens?” Lambert checks.
“I’ll go down,” Jaskier says. “I’m well-fucked, not an invalid.”
His alphas laugh and tumble out of bed, and Jaskier follows them rather more gingerly. He doesn’t hurt very much, actually; it’s more the slight ache of unaccustomed muscle use, like the way his arms hurt after his first few dagger training sessions, than anything else. He’ll probably be completely fine after a soak in the hot springs, maybe a little stretching.
If he’s going to do this regularly, he should probably start working some different stretches into the routine Geralt taught him to use before dagger-training.
Jaskier pauses at that thought, hands working absently at the fastenings of the beautiful coat, mind entirely elsewhere. If he’s going to do this regularly. Is he going to do this regularly?
Now that he knows how it’s supposed to feel, how good it can be with alphas who he trusts, who he loves, who cherish him in return, there’s not a chance in hell he’s going to be able to go back to just watching them take their pleasure. He won’t want to have four peaks in a night too often - that was a special treat, and an exhausting one - but he definitely wants to be a regular part of his alphas’...lovemaking.
Because that’s what that was. Not just fucking - it’s never just fucking between them, he’s pretty sure of it. They love each other; it’s obvious in every gentle touch, every teasing quip, every heartfelt kiss. And he dares to think perhaps they love him, too. Not the same way, perhaps; his alphas have been together for decades, after all, and know each other as intimately as people can know each other. But they cherish him nonetheless; that’s obvious in their care, in their sweet words, in their protective gentleness.
So yes, if they keep wanting him, he’ll gladly join them any night they please.
He’ll want to add those stretches into his routine.
Vesemir is down in the kitchen, slicing mushrooms; he looks up when they come in, eyes Jaskier thoughtfully, and nods. “Porridge in the cauldron,” he says, and goes back to his mushrooms calmly.
He has to know what they were up to last night. Jaskier is very, very grateful for his lack of comment.
Jaskier eats quite a large bowl of porridge - apparently being fucked literally senseless rather builds up an appetite - and all of his alphas sneak him preserved apricots, all of them pretending the others can’t see what they’re doing. Ridiculous, delightful wolves. When Jaskier is full, they herd him down to the hot springs, which, at this time of the morning, are full of every other witcher in the keep.
Somewhat to Jaskier’s surprise, even Clovis doesn’t say a damn thing except perfectly calm greetings. Gardis gives Jaskier a grin and a wink and goes back to scrubbing Coën’s hair; the Griffin is making a sort of chirring noise, like a bird trying to purr, and it’s the cutest damn thing Jaskier’s ever heard. Aubry is watching his packmate and their...friend with a sort of smug, contented smile.
Jaskier instantly resolves to get Gardis by himself at some point and demand all the gossip. Gardis has been holding out on him.
The hot springs are marvelous on slightly strained muscles, and Geralt successfully lays claim to the opportunity to wash Jaskier’s hair, so Jaskier ends up lounging in Eskel’s lap with Geralt’s hands in his hair and Lambert rubbing his feet, while Coën chirrs quietly and Clovis and Frank and Gwen bicker softly about something and from every Wolf in the hot springs rises a deep and contented purr, and it’s…
It’s so damn far from what Jaskier imagined his life would be, months ago on an auction block, that he can’t even begin to articulate the difference.
He’s home. He’s safe at last, come home to a warm hearth in the company of his Wolves.