Archive of Our Own

It comes down to this: Geralt is tired.

He’s fucking exhausted.

For a whole host of reasons and then some. His job? Shit hours, shit pay. His apartment? Hole in the wall, fuckhead landlord, neighbors who howl out the windows with music blaring every other weekday. His sex life? Negligible. His child support payments for a kid he’s never even met? Eating a hole in his extremely threadbare wallet.

Yeah, he hasn’t been sleeping well thanks to said howling neighbors, but that’s hardly scratching the surface.

He’s sick and tired of it all.

So, when “his most loyal and stalwart companion, his closest pal, his very best friend in the whole wide world” invites him to some nerdy music festival in the woods in the wake of a recent dumping by his flavor of the week, Geralt relents without his usual protest.

Despite the fact that the two of them are, you know, grown men in their forties who have no business traipsing about getting high while some barefoot gal wails into a microphone and pats at a tamborine. Despite the fact that the two of them have an abysmal track record when it comes to making good decisions at events whose chief purpose is to imbibe copious amounts of mind-altering substances.

Or, more accurately, Jaskier has the abysmal track record.

Barring that thrice-damned wedding party a decade ago where Geralt was the one royally fucking himself over in the swanky bridal suite. Though, fuck it, he can blame that one on Jaskier too. It may have been Geralt’s decision to engage in post-nuptial shenanigans with the newlyweds that bound him to eighteen years of paying out his ass for his indiscretion, but Jaskier’s invitation got him there in the first place.

(Pavetta, a study in contrasts in her white garters and lacy underthings with the black straps of the harness digging into her hips.

Duny, swarthy-complexioned, rough-palmed, and quick to drop to his hands and knees at her feet.

Geralt, chock full of tequila shots and facing more than mild disappointment that his beefcake aura has pigeon-holed him into topping in this scenario.)

Needless to say, Geralt is deeply and woefully and tremendously regretting his decision to accept the invite.

He is so fucking goddamn tired.

First off, half the festival-goers are wearing faux elf ears and frilly skirts and chainmail and waving about wizard staffs with their bosoms about to pop free of their tightly-laced corsets, because Jaskier neglected to mention that it’s that sort of festival.

No one seems capable of speaking regular, non-embellished actual English without lisping into a high fantasy garble.

Someone on stage is playing a hurdy-gurdy.

Geralt, in jeans and a white t-shirt, is horrendously underdressed, but Jaskier, who is not, is decked out in tights and a gaudy doublet and has an outrageous feather in his low-slung cap.

Geralt has never wanted to strangle him more.

Secondly, though the swathes of tent fabric stretch for a mile or so across an open field all the way to the raised stage along the treeline, there doesn’t seem to be a single person at this whole godforsaken festival who is willing or able to sell him an illicit substance whose name does not closely resemble a fantasy children’s cereal.

Like. Whatever happened to getting stoned on ordinary, old-fashioned, tried and true, garden variety marijuana? Is there some kind of codeword he’s not got the lingo for? Is there some sort of trial he’s meant to have endured first? Is he supposed to go dredge some sword out of a lake and challenge someone to a duel?

Geralt has half a mind to try it.

Thirdly and most pressingly, Jaskier is heavy.

And very, extremely high.

Should have known better when the guy who approached them at the edge of the grounds spoke in third person.

“The Djinn will fix you up nice, yes, yes,” said the Djinn, his bald head gleaming in the sun. “Your deepest wishes shall be fulfilled. If you have the coin.”

“The coin,” Geralt drawled (weary, utterly knackered, just plain fatigued). “I have fucking cash if your majesty accepts twenties.”

“He’s after some vanilla nonsense,” Jaskier said. “No taste for adventure, this one. No sense of pizazz. But I, Mr. Djinn, request your strangest and most powerful of concoctions.”

“Very well,” said the Djinn.

After a perplexing transaction that Geralt followed not a word of, Jaskier accepted a tiny vial of white powder from the man, tugged the cork free with his teeth, and noisily snorted the lot of it up a nostril.

“Ah,” said the Djinn. “Not the best idea, buddy.”

Jaskier shrugged.

And promptly ended up face down in the dirt.

Which has led to their current predicament.

Jaskier slung about Geralt’s shoulder, the odd wheeze or wriggle the only sign that he’s still among the living.

Geralt with a broad hand gripping Jaskier’s upper thigh, scanning the horizon for anything resembling a medic tent, a first aid station, an emergency telephone. Anything that is not just more tents full of folks wearing wigs and capes and studded armor. Unfortunately, he soon encounters the first tent full of people writhing about in a pile and decidedly not wearing any of that or a single thing at all and has to revise that thought.

The plus side of this situation being that Jaskier’s ridiculous feathered hat is lying in the dust on the edge of the grounds, tipped off the side of his head when he face-planted.

The downsides being literally everything else.

At long last, after untold repetitions of “my friend is an idiot and needs medical attention”, he is directed through the flap of a tent where he finally finds--

Another fucking elf man.

“My friend,” Geralt grits out. “Is an idiot. And needs medical attention.”

He waits, muscle in his jaw twitching, as the elf-eared man sitting cross-legged in the middle of the tent draws a prolonged, gurgling bong rip from the glass contraption cradled in his lap.

“On the outskirts. You will find a van,” he says, regarding them with red-rimmed eyes.

“A medic van?”

“A most sick ass wizard van.”

“A wizard… alright. Ok,” says Geralt. He is so tired.

“You will find one there who has far greater magic than I,” says the elf-eared man with a dazed smile. “But I must warn you… this is magic most foul. Heed my words, for your very life may depend on--”

Geralt ducks out of the tent before the weirdo can say more, adjusting his hold on Jaskier's thigh.

The aforementioned van is easy enough to find.

Weird get-up for a medic van, Geralt thinks.

The van is an outdated, hulking thing, pale lilac in color and detailed along the sides with an elaborate mountain landscape swirled with mist and dominated by the figure of a half-naked man with a wizard hat and billowing cape and waist-length silver beard, his chiseled torso gleaming and arm extended to unleash a shower of sparks across the front half of the van.

Geralt sighs very, very deeply.

And knocks on the fogged front window.

After a series of insistent knocks, the side door slides open in a billow of dense smoke. In the open doorway, a woman is framed in the curling vapor, dark-haired and sharp-eyed and naked to her waist. Behind her, he spies an assortment of bare body parts, women and men tangled together, and Geralt averts his eyes sharply only to hold on her full breasts. Her hands settle on her hips.

“Yes?” she asks, in a voice that sounds equal parts bored and threatening.

“My friend is in need of medical attention. Can you help him?” Geralt asks. He forces his eyes up to her face, but then he’s just looking at her lips smeared with dark lipstick, the flush on her cheeks. “Also, your tits are out.”

“I know,” she drawls and does not shift to cover herself.

“Jaskier here is pretty fucked up,” says Geralt.

“Looks like it,” she says. “A friend?”

“Sort of,” he says. “You can help?”

She considers him, eyes narrowing. Geralt has the distinct feeling that he is being sectioned into cuts of meat.

“Out!” she barks suddenly at the naked mass behind her, and her fellows jump to obey, tugging on clothing and tumbling out into the sunlight in various states of disarray. Far more pour out than should be reasonably held within a van of such a size. One of them pulls at her hand to duck low and kiss it as he leaves, and the woman smirks and shakes him off, her eyes on Geralt.

“In,” she says to him, and he slings Jaskier off his shoulder and into the dark interior of the van, following after with only a brief hesitation.

Which, in retrospect, has probably been a hasty decision.

The interior of the back of the van is upholstered with purple shag carpet from floor to ceiling and the place reeks of sex and sweat, a humid scent that only builds as the mysterious woman slides the door shut behind them. The shag muffles sound in a peculiar manner, the dimly lit interior of the van so quiet and cut off from the outdoors that he’s almost concerned that the strange woman will be able to hear his thoughts.

Not that she can’t read them on his face.

He’s still staring at her tits, after all.

Bizarrely a chest of drawers with an attached, ornate mirror stands along the far wall, the top of the dresser cluttered with various drug paraphernalia and assorted sex toys. Or Geralt assumes that’s what he’s looking at. An elaborate hookah rises above the assortment. The rest of the van is empty, a beaded curtain separating the cab.

Jaskier groans where he lies on his back, jarred into consciousness by Geralt’s less than gentle handling, and drags his fingers through the slightly damp shag beneath him.

“Geralt? The fuck...?” His voice is a low rasp, pupils blown to all hell.

“Quiet,” he says. “Getting you help.”

“Purple?” Jaskier says, blinking up at the ceiling. His eyes stray to the half-naked woman kneeling between them and widen considerably. “Purple.”

“I’m Yennefer,” the woman says as she bends low to grip Jaskier’s jaw, peering into his eyes, which have returned to rolling back in his head.

“Uh,” says Geralt. “I’m Geralt.”

“Your friend is really fucked up.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you know what he took?”

“Bought it from some bald guy. Called himself the Djinn.”

“The Djinn?” Yennefer swears under her breath.

“You know him?”

“Mmmm,” she hums. She leans to press her ear against Jaskier’s chest, her hair tumbling across his neck, then rights herself, frowns at his cross-eyed examination of her breasts, and flicks him in the center of the forehead.

“Ouch,” grunts Jaskier.

Geralt is starting to think maybe she’s not a genuine doctor.

“He’ll live,” says Yennefer and clambers over his prone form to the chest of drawers, rooting around until she draws out a bottle of blue gatorade and tosses it Geralt’s way. “Give him that. He’ll come down in a few hours.”

He drags Jaskier by the front of his silly doublet into a sitting position so that he can palm the back of his head and tip the drink down his throat.

“Magic potion,” Jaskier whispers seriously between gulps, and Geralt nods.

He does seem to breathe easier after downing half the bottle, sprawled out on the shag carpet, but Geralt keeps a hand on the side of his neck. Just in case.

“What’s he doing buying stuff from a guy like the Djinn?” Yennefer asks, lounging back on a violet beanbag in the corner. Her breasts are very much still out. “Must have been desperate.”

“I was,” says Geralt. “Fuck, and I’m still too sober for this.”

“What are you looking for?” she asks and proceeds to rattle off the names of what could be alchemy ingredients or maybe a bestiary of eldritch creatures.

“Doesn’t anyone,” says Geralt. “Doesn’t anyone just smoke weed anymore?”

Yennefer looks at him, pitying.

“Here, sweetheart,” she says. Rummages about in the chest of drawers until she pulls out a floral cookie tin and extracts something from within. Holds it aloft.

It’s a sugar cookie, trimmed in vivid purple icing, shaped like a unicorn head. The little horn is artfully piped with silver.

“That’s. A unicorn.”

“An edible,” says Yennefer. “Please tell me you know what an edible is.”

“I know what an edible is,” says Geralt. Probably.

He’s tried pot brownies in college, is this the same as that? Is this just a pot brownie but endlessly more theatrical and stupid? Is this really what his life has come to, debating the merits of accepting a dubious unicorn cookie from a stranger kneeling with her tits out in the back of an orgy van?

He accepts the cookie.

Promptly bites off the unicorn’s horn and most of the top of its head just to reassure this strange woman that he absolutely knows what he’s doing.

Yennefer’s grin, from her deliberately sensual lean on the corner bean bag, could only be described as predatory.

Geralt is.

High.

This is the only sure fact he finds himself able to keep in his head, the rest floating in a blurred awareness of his surroundings and the sequence of events that has led him here.

He remembers the wizard, arm extended, sparks zipping across a lilac sky. The dark cave that swallowed them. The violet-eyed enchantress, the jewels in her round choker flashing even in the dim light. A surface laid out with a colorful assortment of varying instruments of a potentially nefarious nature.

He remembers Jaskier drooling on a purple shag carpet, the haze of smoke as the enchantress drew a deep breath through the hose of her hookah and released it from her red lips in a slow stream. Her sharp nails against his breast bone, curled into his shirt.

He remembers kissing her or her kissing him. The taste of tar and mint in the smoke on her lips.

He remembers a request, whispered against his jawline. The glare of the sun above a windswept field. His legs working as though the joints belonged to someone else.

Then?

He blinks at the blurry silhouette of the elf-eared man above him, wonders at the glow behind his head, before he finally processes that it’s the glow of the sun far above through tent canvas.

Geralt sits up.

“Hnggh?” he grunts and shakes off the elf man’s hands as they attempt to assist him. “What is-- where?”

“Calm down, dude, calm down,” says the elf man. “Seems like you’re really-- hey, hey no need for violence, my dude, chill out -- seems like someone really fucked with your head. What did you take?”

Geralt squints, straining his fogged brain. He is sitting on the ground of a mostly empty tent, the floor a dusty tarp that does nothing to soften the hard-packed ground, the humming of the festival going on beyond the tent walls. The elf man crouches beside him, hands dangling between his bent legs.

“A unicorn,” he says.

“I tried to warn you,” says the elf man. “You did not listen.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“It's as though you thought the scorpion were sexier than a spider because of its lovely tail.”

“Sex… sexier?”

The elf man frowns.

“I’m Chireadan,” he says, floundering under the glare Geralt directs his way. “Er… I’m Dan. You really do look like shit, man. Found you wandering around the grounds. Mumbling something about um--” He gestures downward, and Geralt looks to find his fingers curled around a small bottle of apple juice, the sort one packs for children on picnic lunches. “You were very insistent, apparently. Flew into something of a rage.”

He flexes his hand, the knuckles split and bloodied.

“Did I--”

“You didn’t hurt anyone,” says Dan. “Well. You did put a good dent in a vendor’s cart. Took out a tent or two when you finally collapsed. What the hell’s up with that, man?”

“Apple juice,” Geralt says, struggling with a blurry memory of red lips, tobacco smoke, a whispered request. “She asked for apple juice.”

“Doesn’t seem rage-worthy, my dude, but I’m not judging. You really don’t know what you took?”

“Told you. Unicorn.”

“That’s clear as mud, man.”

“Didn’t get anything from the Djinn so she gave me a-- wait.” He strains. He’s forgetting something important.

“Ah, the Djinn, that’s good luck you didn’t. Don’t want to trust anything from that bastard. Always something you don’t expect. Oh, where’s that friend you were carrying around by the way? He’s not lying somewhere out there dehydrating is he or--? Hey, hey wait, don’t get up, don’t go fucking off just yet, you’re still--”

“Jaskier,” Geralt grunts and sways to his feet, tiny bottle of apple juice gripped tightly in his fist. The ground attempts to rock away from him, but he plants a leg firmly and stumbles through the opening of the tent. He stood in this very same spot just-- how long ago? An hour? More? So he should remember the way well enough.

He sets off with the elf man following at his heels, reaching his destination without much difficulty.

Except.

“The van,” he says to Dan the elf. “Where the fuck’s the van?”

“Dunno,” says Dan. “It’s-- I mean, it’s a car, dude. Drove away?”

“Jaskier’s still in there,” says Geralt, finding himself gripping the front of Dan’s tunic.

“Chill, dude, chill. Should have used the buddy system, and this wouldn’t have--”

He growls, shoving the elf away and stalks over to the bit of empty ground where he is almost certain the ridiculous van had once sat.

And then he spots it. Tire tracks, he thinks. Bending to touch the ruts in the muddy grass almost tips him forward on his face, but he rights himself just in time. Looks up to scan the horizon. The tracks visibly curve a wide arc up the planes of a low hill atop which a copse of pine trees stands, blocking any further view of the trail.

Geralt sets off, mumbling that the earth better quit trying to buck him off, and manages to reach the treeline with minimal falling on his ass. Dan follows after him, insisting on dragging him up by the arm each time he fumbles, and he begrudgingly allows the assistance.

The tread deepens as they enter the copse of trees, the sun having less chance to bake the mud dry along the track. It’s less a road and more a hiking trail, though wide and clear enough for the van to drive down with ease.

Dan grabs his arm.

“There,” he says, pointing through the trees. “It’s him.”

“Who?”

“The wizard.”

Geralt catches a glimpse of pale purple through the boughs of the pine trees, stumbles towards it, and suddenly finds himself blinking in a sunlit clearing. The familiar van is parked in the shade, a fire crackles in a depressed firepit, and a lavender-colored knit blanket is spread on the grass before the fire, on top of which--

“Oh boy,” says Dan, covering his eyes with his hands, only to peek through the cracks in his fingers. “They’re um-- well, your friend is fine, alright.”

“He’s alive,” says Geralt, resisting the desire to fall to his knees in relief.

“That’s one way of putting it, I’d say.”

Jaskier is very alive.

He has lost a fair bit of his costume, doublet and undershirt gone, trousers bunched down around his scrawny legs. He’s flat on his back on the knit blanket, face contorted, and there’s a half-naked woman wriggling in his lap, his hands burrowed in the fabric of her dress. The dress thankfully covers whatever untoward thing is happening beneath it that warrants the pleased groan that slips past his parted lips.

Recovered from his initial relief, Geralt stalks with purpose across the clearing, Dan trying to tug him back, and proceeds to try to haul Yennefer off by the arms. Unsuccessfully, as Jaskier holds tight to her thighs, and the two of them make twin noises of affront at being disturbed.

“Ger-alt,” Jaskier groans.

“Leave off!” shouts Yennefer and proceeds to dig her dark nails into his forearm until he does, cursing. Only to spy the little bottle of juice in his fist and grab for it, crackling the lid in one sharp movement to guzzle it down.

“Oh good,” says Jaskier. “You actually brought some. She’s been very insistent. Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Trying to rescue you,” Geralt grumbles. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“I don’t need-- what does it look like I’m doing, Geralt?”

“Being taken advantage of by a crazy woman with a wizard van.”

“She’s not-- ok, she’s insane. Very sexy but insane. Ouch, ouch, ouch, not the nipple, Yen, not the--”

“You’re not in your right mind, Jaskier. She’s using you.”

“She’s using you for purposes most foul,” Dan the elf agrees, still pretending that he isn’t peeking through his fingers.

“He’s right,” says Yennefer. “I am using him. For dark and terrible ritual purposes. That’s what these festivals are for.” She pointedly shifts her hips, and Jaskier’s head falls back with a groan. She levels a truly terrifying glare Geralt’s way, her naked torso glistening with sweat, her dark curls frizzed and messy, her violet eyes reflecting the glow of the fire. “Now either join in or fuck off.”

Dan fucks off at speed.

Geralt stares, forcing his eyes not to blur out of focus as he looks from his friend to the sexy but insane stranger, and with a long huff of air from his lungs, he relents.

And joins in.

When Geralt next blinks into consciousness, evening light stretches long shadows across the clearing edged in towering pines, the window of sky above pinked with sunset colors. He lies on his back in the grass admiring the view, the pleasant soreness in his muscles warring with a pounding in his head. His mouth feels full of cotton, tongue heavy, and the evening breeze chills his bare skin. He can smell campfire smoke on the breeze as well as a pungent perfume, floral but sharp like--

He sits up abruptly.

The violet-eyed woman is sitting cross-legged on the other side of the fire, though Geralt finds he doesn’t immediately recognize her without her tits out. Jaskier is lying with his head in her lap, her fingers working through his short waves of hair.

“What the fuck?” he groans. “What the fuck happened?”

“You passed out,” says Yennefer.

“Before that.”

“We had sex.”

“Ok,” says Geralt. “Ok. Before that.”

“You got really high and went on a rampage.”

“Whose fault is that?”

“No one told you to eat the entire cookie.”

“No one told me not to.”

Yennefer shrugs. In her lap, Jaskier leans into the scratch of her fingernails against his temple.

“Yen’s really nice, Geralt. And really good with her-- ouch, ouch, Yen, quit it. She’s really good with her tongue. And her hips and-- Ouch, you witch, stop--”

“Wait did we-- did we use protection?” A clammy sweat trickles down his spine.

“Oh yeah, he’s anal about that,” says Jaskier. “One bastard child’s enough.”

“A kid?”

“Yeah, it’s a funny story actually. I dragged him to a wedding one time, and he ended up getting roped into a threesome with the bride and groom. Then, bam, surprise child.”

“If the groom was there too, how do they know the kid’s his?”

“The groom wasn’t the one doing the-- you know.” Jaskier wiggles his fingers.

“Penetration?”

“Condom,” barks Geralt, interrupting their inane chatter. “Did we fucking use one?”

“Duh,” says Yennefer. “I’m a slut, not an idiot. I don’t know where you two have been.”

“I’ve been lots of places,” says Jaskier, his voice lowering to a purr. “I could take you a few more of them if you-- ouch, fuck, leave off the hair, don’t rip it out, Yen, ouch, ouch--”

“I can’t have kids anyway,” she says seriously, her fingers massaging the place on Jaskier’s scalp that she had just abused.

“Oh?”

“Yeah, a witch cursed my womb to be barren for all time.”

“Um.”

“It’s true. Deleted my Twitter after that.”

“Right,” says Geralt. Better to let that one go. A renewed chill breeze reminds him of the very exposed state of his junk, and he clambers up to fish his pants out of a nearby bush. His bits suitably covered, he flops back beside the fire.

Yennefer and Jaskier have returned to their deeply-involved conversation about his personal failings and past mistakes.

“Yeah, and it’s really very sad. The kid’s grandma hasn’t let him meet her. Not that he’d want to or anything, he’s really kind of an dick.”

“I’m right here.”

“A dick that I’m fond of, Geralt. I say this with fondness.”

“I’ll show you fondness.”

“No, you won’t, because you’re a dick.”

“I’ll show you a-- hmm.”

“I’ve already seen your dick, Geralt. It’s not that impressive.”

“It really isn’t,” says Yennefer.

Geralt drops his face into his hands with a groan. What has he done to deserve this completely ridiculous mess of circumstances? What did a guy have to do to finally get some peace and quiet?

“How ‘bout mine?” Jaskier is asking, and Yennefer reaches not for the first time to tweak his bare nipple. “Ouch, ouch, ouch. What is with you and causing unnecessary pain? Use your words, woman! Your-- ouch.”

“Mine’s bigger,” she drawls.

“Ohoho, I’d like to see that.”

Which, of course, because Geralt’s life is already bizarre enough, leads to her doing just that.

Yennefer rummages about in the chest of drawers in the van and pulls out a metallic gold hunk of silicone that shines in the light from the fire.

“The Dragon,” she says, holding it flat in her palms.

“That’s not that big,” says Jaskier. “You talked it up.”

“It would split you in half.”

“Would not.”

“Try me, little man.”

“I could take it.”

“Jaskier,” says Geralt, seeing that this situation is about to spiral out of control. “No.”

“Jaskier, yes,” he says and reaches a hand to trail along the golden dildo in Yennefer’s hands. The thing has scales for fuck’s sake.

“He’s an adult,” says Yennefer.

“Yeah, I’m an adult,” says Jaskier, sticking out his tongue.

“I’m too sober for this,” says Geralt for the second time that day.

Wordlessly, Yennefer cracks open the floral cookie tin.

Against every instinct that shouts at him not to, he dips his hand inside and fishes out another unicorn sugar cookie.

“Don’t bite off more than you can chew, this time,” says Yennefer.

The glint in her eye says it’s already far, far too late for that.

Yennefer was right.

The dragon dildo is far too much for Jaskier.

“Fucking hell, Yen, ouch, fucking ouch, what are you--”

“I am trying to fuck you, you insolent bastard. You absolute dunce. You miserable idiot.”

“You are clearly not doing a good job of it.”

“Well, it’s not my fault that you won’t relax already.”

“How am I supposed to relax with you jabbing me in sensitive areas with your claws?”

“I’m not jabbing you with-- I’m prepping you.”

“With claws! Trim your fingernails next time, fuck.”

“Fine, fine. I won’t fuck you, then.”

Yen settles back on her knees, hands on her hips, the golden dildo jutting from her parted thighs. She tugs the condom off the toy with a jerk and tosses it away into the grass. Jaskier sits up from his ungainly sprawl, a flush of exertion across his chest and face that is decidedly not from arousal. His soft cock rests limp against his bare leg.

Geralt is glad for the pleasant buzz of whatever drug was in that cookie thrumming in his body, because he’s pretty sure it’s still considered weird to stare at your best friend’s dick even when he’s consented to getting pegged in a forest clearing by a mysterious wizard van-owning woman knowing full well that Geralt is there watching.

Watching is one thing but staring at his dick?

“Geralt,” says Jaskier. “You’re staring at my dick.”

Fuck.

“Is that weird?”

Jaskier licks his lips. Half-convinced he’s imagining things, Geralt watches the soft flesh begin to fill. Before realizing he’s still watching.

“It’s a little weird.”

“It’s not weird,” says Yennefer. Geralt wishes she would put some clothes back on again. Her tits really are very distracting.

When Geralt’s eyes fall to Jaskier’s dick again, he finds him halfway to erect. The pink skin looks very soft against the dark curls of hair on his leg.

Jaskier chokes out a noise, and Geralt realizes he’s said some of that thought aloud.

“It is soft,” says Yennefer and reaches to trail her fingers from base to tip. The gentle brush of her fingerpads has Jaskier gripping her arm with a gasp, and Geralt watches his cock twitch and fill further until his erection stands between his legs the same as the dildo between Yennefer’s.

Hers really is bigger. But not by much.

“Geralt,” whines Jaskier, and the sound of it goes straight to his own dick. Warmth tingles through his muscles, feeling lax and loose. He wants to be touching someone. He wants to--

“Do you want to touch him?” Yennefer asks. He’s spoken his thoughts aloud again.

“He’s my friend.”

“Yeah? And?”

“He’s my only friend.”

“Not seeing the problem here.”

“I can’t-- I mean, if-- I can’t just--”

“How long have you wanted to?”

“Years. Always.”

“So, why not?”

“He’s got abandonment issues, Yen,” says Jaskier. “Thinks he’ll fuck things up with me, and I’ll leave.”

“Well, are you going to leave?”

“Not planning on it. Hey, Geralt, listen, hey.” He makes eye contact with him across the fire. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Hmm,” Geralt grunts.

It’s a very strange conversation to be having with his best friend while said best friend is receiving a leisurely hand job from a very scary woman they just met this afternoon.

“It’s no more weird than anything else we’ve got up to in the past,” says Jaskier.

Damn it. He’s really got to stop speaking every thought out loud.

“Geralt,” says Yennefer, and he manages to drag his gaze away from where her hand is slicking along Jaskier’s erection to meet her eyes. “Come over here and kiss him, you idiot.”

So, Geralt does.

He goes to his knees beside Jaskier and tips his jaw up with two gentle fingers to draw their mouths together. Jaskier breathes a shaky exhale through his nose. His lips are very soft.

“I know,” says Yennefer.

“Yen, please, we’re having a moment here,” says Jaskier. “Geralt, did you mean that? Years.”

“Yeah.”

“Me too.”

“Yeah?”

“For years.”

“Not enough kissing going on,” Yennefer says, and her manicured fingers dip along the nape of Jaskier’s neck to tug him to kiss him herself. He goes easily, opening his mouth to her, and Geralt lifts a hand to brush along the line of his jaw. I’m allowed to do that, he thinks. For now, I’m allowed to do that.

“You’re allowed to do that anytime,” Jaskier says as he breaks the kiss.

“Never said,” says Geralt.

“Never seemed like you wanted to.”

“I wanted to. I always--”

“Kissing,” says Yennefer. “More kiss. Less talk.”

Geralt obeys, tipping Jaskier toward him again, a kiss as open-mouthed and deep as the one his friend had just shared with her. The touch of Jaskier’s tongue against his sends heat trickling down his spine or maybe that’s the drugs talking. His skin burns anywhere Jaskier touches and also where he doesn’t.

“What is even in those cookies?” he gasps against Jaskier’s mouth.

“Geralt, you only had a tiny nibble this time. You’re just a fucking lightweight,” says Yennefer. Her hand is cool against his bare lower back. “Anyway, did I get my cock out for nothing, or are we going to fuck?”

“You’re not putting that thing anywhere near me,” says Jaskier. “You’ve got no finesse.”

“Hmmm,” Yennefer hums, and her violet eyes slide to Geralt. “How about you?” She twirls a finger in his white hair, the other hand gripping the base of the golden dildo. “You ever thought about it?”

(Pavetta in her white lace lingerie up on the hotel bed, pale hair fallen in loose tangles down her back while she kneeled over her new husband, pressing her hips against him as she gripped his lithe waist. Geralt leaning to enter her from behind, little thrills of arousal intensifying as he felt the flex of her thrusting thighs, Duny fully at her mercy beneath her, arms tugged behind his back.)

Yeah. Yeah, he’s thought about it. He thinks about it all the time.

Jaskier’s quick inhale says his thought to mouth filter is still completely broken.

“Could you take it?” asks Yennefer, and she’s kissing down his throat. Her hair smells like tobacco smoke and floral perfume. Lilacs? “Could you take me?” The dildo itself nudges against his thigh, and his hand moves without thinking to touch it, fingers curling around the head and sinking down as though she can feel it.

“Can’t hurt to try,” he says, voice pitched to a low rumble.

“It can hurt, actually,” says Jaskier beside him. “Geralt, are you-- ouch, ouch, you evil bitch, you’re going to twist it right off and then you’ll be sorry, you--”

“I’m sure,” says Geralt. His head feels fuzzy, the evening air too warm.

Yennefer presses the golden dildo against the length of his thigh, and Geralt meet her eyes, knowing he must look a wreck, pupils blown and expression embarrassing in the intensity of how much he finds he suddenly, desperately wants this. Wants her to fuck him while Jaskier watches. Hell, wants Jaskier to fuck him. Wants the both of them to fuck him at once, even. He’s not picky.

“Oh fuck,” whines Jaskier.

“Both at once, huh? Ambitious.”

“God, Geralt, that’s really fucking hot.”

He feels really fucking hot.

“I feel really fucking hot,” he says. “What was in that cookie?”

“Don’t worry about it,” says Yennefer. “Let me grab more lube and condoms.”

“Let me do it, let me do it. Keep your claws away from him, she-beast.”

“That’s not very nice, Jaskier. That’s not very nice to say those things to me after everything I’ve done for you.”

“What exactly have you done for me?”

“Lots of things. None of this would be happening right now if it weren’t for me.”

“I guess so. It would have happened eventually, I think.”

“You could be dehydrating in some tent somewhere. All alone. But instead, you’ve got your fingers in a truly marvelous--”

“Don’t objectify Geralt like that, Yennefer. Don’t objectify him. He’s more than just his ass.”

“Yeah, he’s got nice thighs also. And pecs. And shoulders.”

“Would you two shut up? Would you two just shut up and fuck me?”

“We’re getting there, Geralt. Trying to get there.”

“Patience.”

“Do you have any idea how much prep you’ll need for--”

“No.”

“Well, it’s a lot. This is just two fingers, see?”

“Hngh.”

“He’s pretty relaxed actually. That’s it, darling. Bear down. Don’t tense.”

“Hnnn.”

“Easy, easy, gonna spread a bit then, just--”

“What’s in that lube? Hnghh-- Tingles.”

“It’s not the lube, Geralt. You’re really high.”

“I have magic fingers.”

“You don’t have magic fingers, Jaskier. Geralt. He doesn’t have magic fingers. You’re just really high.”

“He-- fuck-- he has magic fingers.”

“Just wait until you feel the Dragon.”

“Please, Yen. Please stop calling it that.”

“That’s what it’s called.”

“I don’t care what it’s called. Just want it inside my--”

“Be patient, Geralt. Just wait. Don’t want you to get hurt.”

“You won’t hurt me, Jaskier.”

“She could. She could very easily hurt you.”

“I could actually. But only if you wanted.”

“Just want you to-- hah.”

“That’s good for me, Geralt. You think he’s ready? You think that’s--”

“Hnnghh, fuck, Yennefer.”

“Feels good enough. Feels good.”

“Ready. Good. Feels good.”

“Doing so good for us, Geralt. You really are.”

“Let’s see how good he really is. Let’s see what he can take.”

What he can take, turns out, is a hell of a lot.

Geralt is warm. Overheating.

Dark has settled in, the fire burning down to cinders. If not for the moon that rises above the swaying pines, it would be too dark to see a thing. Which may have been better, honestly. He doesn’t want to know what he looks like, what his companions can see.

Jaskier lies beneath him, Geralt’s thighs bracketing his waist, bracing with his arms on either side of Jaskier’s head. Yennefer leans over him, her cheek resting against Geralt’s trembling shoulderblade. Jaskier has one hand rubbing gently through the fine hair on Geralt’s broad thigh, soothing him, while the other is bent up to curl his fingers into the cleft of his ass and inside.

The wet sound alone is embarrassing, the needy sounds the searching fingers draw from him even moreso.

He’s touched himself there, often, his most frequently revisited fantasy, but he never dreamed he would be bold enough to ask for it. Only slept with women, only had eyes for women, barring the notable exception beneath him. Never met a woman bold enough to ask him.

But now.

Yennefer presses with her own fingers, joining Jaskier’s. It burns, the same as the rest of his body, but his muscles are loose and do not resist them. There is no pain, not the way he had expected. Pressure, yes. A strange pressure, but he doesn’t feel like he can’t take it. He doesn’t feel split in half.

“It’s just fingers yet,” says Yennefer against his shoulder. “Don’t get too cocky.”

“Feels good,” says Geralt and cannot help but rock back against them. Yennefer palms his spread cheek, withdrawing her fingers. In the pale moonlight, he knows she can see everything, and a shudder runs through him at the thought.

“Who would you like first?” she asks, sweetly, more gently than he thought possible or than he knows to trust. Her clean hand sweeps his hair aside and kisses him at the base of his neck.

“Both,” he breathes. “Both.”

“Just one at first,” says Yennefer. “I’ve promised not to break you.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt gasps. He lifts a hand, balancing on one arm, and seeks out Jaskier’s hand on his thigh, entangles their fingers. His forehead drops to his friend’s shoulder, kissing the hollow of his collarbone. “You first, Jaskier.”

“Right, ok. Right.” There’s the light press of lips against the top of Geralt’s head, and then, his fingers withdraw from inside him, leaving him chilled and empty. “I’ll just--”

“Don’t get cold feet now.”

“I don’t have cold feet. I’m just thinking about logistics.”

“We already thought about logistics. At length. And he’s had fingers in his ass for thirty minutes now. The time for logistics is long past.”

“I’m just being practical here, Yen. I’m trying to be practical.”

“Less practical, more fucking.”

“I want it to be good for him. I want it to be more than fucking.”

“Then, make love to him, whatever. Whatever! Just put your-- fuck, just let me.”

Looking back between their bodies, Geralt sees her manicured fingers wrap around Jaskier’s dick. He can’t see her guiding hand on his ass, spreading him open, but he can feel the nudge of Jaskier’s cockhead, his loosened muscles offering little resistance. Geralt shifts back on his thighs with a groan, sinking the hard length inside him.

“Fuck,” says Jaskier in a very small voice. His hands palm Geralt’s narrow waist, allowing him to settle. Experimentally, Geralt shifts his weight forward and back down. Jaskier’s eyelids flutter, his hips twitching to follow the motion.

“Overwhelmed already? That’s not really fucking, boys. That’s just dick-sitting.”

“Shut up, Yennefer. Be quiet while I enjoy this a second. God, Geralt, you’re so warm.”

“It’s the drugs.”

“It’s not the-- fuck, Geralt.”

“It’s not the fuck, you’re right. Because you’re not fucking. You’re just--”

“Yennefer, I swear, if you don’t--”

“If I don’t what, Jaskier?”

“Get on with it. Just get on with it, if you want to fuck him so bad.”

“I was going to give you and him some bonding time,” Yennefer says. “What do you think, Geralt? Want me as well? Can you take both?”

“Yes,” says Geralt. “Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Please,” he breathes, his palms flat in the grass and forehead against Jaskier’s chest. He feels too warm, full but not too full. Can hear Jaskier’s quickening heartbeat pounding along with his own.

Her fingers curl against his hip to coax him up until Jaskier’s cock hovers on the edge of slipping free of him. She shifts against his back, her breasts pressed against him. The dildo is cool compared to Jaskier’s heated flesh and has slightly less give as it nudges against him. He thinks for a moment that it’s too much, that even relaxed and prepared he will not be able to allow the intrusion, but the moment passes as the head slips inside to rest snug against Jaskier.

Jaskier makes a sound low in his throat as Yennefer’s fingers meet his on Geralt’s hips, and together, their careful hands guide Geralt down onto the both of them.

It’s too warm, too full, too much. He’s strung out and naked in a moonlit field, and there’s no room in his brain for a single worry or thought except for the pressure inside him, and it’s just what he’s been looking for, it’s exactly what he’s needed.

He can take them both. He can. He stretches for them, gives, bears down, and settles.

“That’s good,” breathes Jaskier. “Fuck, the way you look right now.”

“Are you just going to compliment him all night or are you going to fuck him?” asks Yennefer with a pointed thrust. The movement draws a noise from each of them, Geralt a groan and Jaskier a sharp rush of air.

“He has low self-esteem,” says Jaskier and begins to shift his hips up as Yennefer does, setting a slow, rolling rhythm. “I like complimenting him. He likes compliments.”

“I don’t,” says Geralt. “Don’t like them.”

“Don’t lie, Geralt.”

“You’re a very bad liar.”

They fuck into him and surround him, Jaskier below and Yennefer above until they blur and melt. Yennefer’s hands running down the flat plane of his muscled stomach and up to cup his pectorals, her thumbs flicking against his erect nipples. Jaskier reaching a hand between their bodies to stroke his slick palm against Geralt’s cock, his other hand tangling in Geralt’s hair and dragging him close for a kiss.

Geralt can’t concentrate on any sort of finesse in his kissing, panting open-mouthed against Jaskier’s lips, as their pace quickens. They fall out of rhythm slightly, the dildo warmed by his body heat sliding against Jaskier’s erection, and Jaskier loses his rhythm entirely with a grunt as he comes.

“That was quick,” Yennefer says. “All that talk about fucking and then--”

Jaskier tugs her down over Geralt’s shoulder and kisses her hard to quiet her. The shift of Yennefer’s weight against his back has Geralt falling to his elbows as his arms give out, pressed flat against Jaskier’s chest as the kiss deepens.

It’s quiet through the swell of the kiss, the pop of a long in the dying fire, the rustle of the wind through the pines. Jaskier slips soft from inside him, and Yennefer increases her pace. They surround him, envelop him, curled wholly around his body. He can feel the ache now in the muscles of his thigh, in the small of his back, in the places they have stretched him, and it’s too much.

Yennefer and Jaskier are still kissing, deep and messy, over his shoulder, and when Jaskier’s thumb rolls over the head of his cock, his orgasm hits him all at once, come pulsing hot onto the damp hair on Jaskier’s belly.

Yennefer presses one last quick peck against Jaskier’s lips, and then moves away to slide out of Geralt and rub her hand at the base of the golden dildo between her legs, finishing herself off with only a few twitches of her fingers and a low groan.

Geralt is limp in Jaskier’s arms, no doubt crushing him. His hands trail up and down Geralt’s back, sweat cooling in the night air, and he whispers praise into Geralt’s hair, the words indistinct and quiet.

He is startled from the gathering calm by the gentle press of a finger against his loose opening, the flat of Yennefer’s thumb spreading him just slightly. Over-sensitive, he tries to wiggle away, and she holds him there, just touching, just looking.

Geralt burns with heat, his face tucked into Jaskier’s neck.

“You were very good,” says Yennefer, and the praise melts liquid down his spine in a different way than Jaskier’s does. “I’m proud of you for managing it.”

Geralt burns.

Yennefer pulls her hand away.

And he is empty, no room for anything but the whisper of Jaskier’s hands and the warmth of Yennefer curling down beside them.

And he is tired, very tired.

Geralt sleeps.