Chapter Text
Jaskier feels the blood rush to his face in spite of himself. He’s no blushing schoolboy; he’s found his way into the marriage beds of lovely couples before, partaken in his fair share of hedonistic romps with two, five, a dozen partners at a time. He enjoys sex, and he’s never been opposed to indulging in carnal delights, no matter the configuration.
He’s also never been presented with the possibility of bedding his beloved with his beloved’s current lover, which...sounds like a terrible idea, when he thinks about it like that.
And yet...
“You want me to stay?” Yennefer asks, the smallest devious smile playing on her lips. “Tell me, bard.”
“I do.” He feels drunk off her smirk, off Geralt’s easy pliancy under that brief rough touch. But there’s something else, too, some live, chaotic energy pulsing through the room that seems to begin and end in Yennefer. “This wouldn’t be happening, had you not intervened.” He strokes Geralt’s cheek lightly, delighting in the way the witcher leans into the touch before shifting his gaze back to the sorceress. “You’re the one who proposed we share. It seems rather indecorous not to repay your generosity in kind. That is, if it’s all right with you?” He turns to look at Geralt, hoping he hasn’t overstepped.
Geralt pulls Jaskier’s hand from its place on his cheek and kisses his palm reverently. “You should stay, Yen.” His eyes never falter from Jaskier.
Yennefer smiles, slipping out of her shoes and meandering to the far side of the bed. “Geralt,” she says, lounging gracefully on the bed beside Jaskier, “weren’t you going to kiss him?”
The witcher slips a strong hand to Jaskier’s jaw and slowly draws him into a kiss. It’s gentle, soft, the way kisses with Geralt always start, but Jaskier moans into it, opening it quickly into something messier, more desperate. The feeling, the taste, all of Jaskier’s senses are flooded with the familiarity of falling into him, and soon he’s tugging at the black linen shirt and leaving his rough lips only to toss the garment aside, his hands greedy for the warm, scarred skin.
Geralt chuckles against his mouth, but he complies as Jaskier pulls at him, leading him up off the floor until he’s kneeling on the bed between Jaskier’s welcoming thighs. He kisses down the bard’s neck, lips trailing to the exposed collarbone, nosing the dark hair there. “Gods, Geralt, I’ve missed your mouth,” Jaskier breathes.
There’s a little interested hum to his left. “For one who so loathes talking, our Geralt does have an awfully talented mouth,” Yennefer murmurs, a hand snaking into the witcher’s hair, applying the slightest pressure that leaves Geralt moaning into the crook of the bard’s neck before smoothly withdrawing her arm. “Don’t you agree, Jaskier?” Her voice keeps its husky tone, but she’s looking at him, the unspoken question apparent beneath the light banter.
And something about feeling her eyes fixed on him as Geralt mouths at the pulse point of his neck alights something feverish in Jaskier, and he’s moaning, “Yes, the best mouth, so lovely, so generous…” Hands are pulling his chemise over his head, strong hands petting down his sides as Geralt nestles into his chest, kissing, licking, sucking, but sometimes just breathing him in, sometimes smoothing his face against the coarse hair he finds. The witcher’s hard abdomen presses deliciously against Jaskier’s straining dick, and it takes everything he has not to rock up into that glorious friction.
Yennefer turns on her side, propping herself up on an elbow to get a better view of the two, reaching to brush the fringe from Jaskier’s suddenly sweaty forehead. “Generous,” she echoes, her voice carefully bored, but the sparkle in her violet eyes betrays her. “Is Geralt good at sucking cock? I’ve wondered.”
He feels more than hears the tiny moan that slips out against the nipple Geralt had been mouthing, and Jaskier can’t help smiling. After the tension of the past two days, the uncertainty of tonight’s conversation, the wildly unfamiliar dynamic of Yennefer and all her terrifying, thrilling power, Jaskier begins to relax into himself. This he knows. “He’s truly a wonder.” He strokes Geralt’s hair gently. “The songs I could write—”
“Please don’t.”
“—shush, you’re just as bad as he is—the songs I could write about his lips, that tongue, the jaw that never seems to tire, fuck.” Jaskier attempts to disguise an undignified yelp as Geralt suddenly palms his erection, mouth trailing dangerously close to his waistband.
“Hmm. I’d imagined as much. He’s attentive, I’ll give him that.” A tiny hitch in Yennefer’s sultry voice catches Jaskier’s attention, and he sees a strong white hand dragging the hem of her nightgown slowly up as Geralt caresses her smooth inner thigh. “What he may lack in skill he more than makes up for in enthusiasm.” Jaskier can’t help the little whine as he watches, entranced, as the hand is lost beneath the gauzy white fabric, mapping small, slow circles that make the mage writhe against him. When she speaks again there’s a lovely breathiness to her voice that Jaskier’s never heard before. “Would you like his mouth on your cock? I’m sure Geralt’s quite desperate for it.”
Geralt shifts forward to kiss him hungrily, trapping Jaskier with his delightfully solid body, hips rocking gently against him. “Please, Jaskier,” he mutters against the bard’s lips.
“Gods, you’re so good,” Jaskier breathes, caressing his face as Geralt’s eyes flutter shut at the praise. He kisses him again, a featherlight brush of his lips. “You can have whatever you like of me, darling.”
The witcher pulls back, ridding Jaskier of his boots, trousers and smallclothes with a practiced ease before settling on his knees to survey him, a reverent hand tracing the jut of the bard’s hip. He’s wearing a look of deep concentration, as though he’s doing all he can to embed the moment in his memory. And suddenly, he’s smirking, an eyebrow quirked in Yennefer’s direction.
Her eyes rake shamelessly over Jaskier’s body, teeth pressed firmly into her lower lip. She notices their attention and shrugs, grinning as she drifts her hand down her body to pick up where the witcher left off, lazily touching herself just out of view. “Your bard has a certain appeal like this, Geralt.” She extends her dainty foot to rest on his firm, scarred shoulder, guiding him back down Jaskier’s body. “It’s no wonder you missed having him in your bed.”
Geralt’s rough, angular hand wraps so gently around his cock, strokes him so tenderly Jaskier has to bite back a sob. “Did you?” he asks, rocking unhurriedly into Geralt’s fist. “Miss me in your bed?”
“Hmm.” Geralt’s tongue finds its way to the crease of the bard’s thigh.
“That’s not an—fuck—an answer.”
Geralt pauses for a moment, nuzzling against the dark curls at the base of his cock without looking at him. “You know I did.” It’s so low Jaskier barely hears it.
“I, ah—I actually don’t know that.”
He hears the vulnerability in his own voice, and he curses himself for it. He knows better than to push too hard with Geralt, to expect too much, especially when things are fragile, new.
But Geralt’s looking up at him with an unreadable expression. “Missed you all the time,” comes the gravelly admission, then his lips engulf the head of Jaskier’s cock.
“I—damn it, Geralt, that’s cheating,” he moans. “I will not be distracted from the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me just because you happen to be blowing me!”
Geralt’s answering hum around him does nothing to strengthen his resolve.
Yennefer laughs, looking absolutely delighted as she places a playful kiss on Jaskier’s shoulder. “Don’t take it personally, bard, the first time he acknowledged he cared for me he promptly pretended to fall asleep. At least he’s getting you off in the process of evading conversation.”
Geralt’s mouth never falters as he reaches for her leg, pulling it to hook loosely over Jaskier’s, spreading her open towards him. He continues working the bard’s length with his hand as he pulls off, shifting to kiss his way up Yennefer’s thigh. “That night you got off three times before that, as I recall,” he quips against her skin.
“Oh sure, now he can talk.” The breathlessness somewhat lessens the effect of Jaskier’s intended snark.
He watches Geralt push her dress up to grant him access, placing light kisses against the crook of her thigh before tasting her with a moan. Yennefer’s hands find their way into Geralt’s hair, combing through gently for a moment before she takes control, holding him in place as she rolls her hips needily against his mouth.
“Gods, you’re lovely,” Jaskier sighs, reaching down to caress Yennefer’s fingers and Geralt’s hair in one movement. “Both of you. Captivating. Exquisite. Resplendent.” He arches up a little as the hand on his cock picks up its pace. “Although I will say that you’re both still absurdly overdressed. Either that or I’m underdressed. I’m certainly hoping it’s the former.”
Yennefer snorts, but she pushes up from the bed enough to gracefully slip her arms through the wide open neckline of her gown, letting it pool about her waist.
Jaskier lets out a moan of appreciation at the stunning, bizarrely familiar sight. “Can I just say, this view is so much easier to admire when you aren’t summoning primal magical forces and threatening to geld me?”
“The night’s still young,” she teases, trailing a hand down his abdomen and circling his cock loosely while guiding Geralt, fingers still tightly gripping his hair, back to the bard, and suddenly they’re moving in concert, the velvety smoothness of her hand and the wet heat of his mouth working together to make Jaskier entirely undone.
“Loath as I am to stop you,” he breathes after relishing the sensation as long as he dares, “I don’t know how much…”
Yennefer’s hand stops immediately, gripping him firmly at the base as Geralt draws back, resting his head gently against Jaskier’s hip, long hair soft against heated skin. “We’ll give you a break,” Yennefer purrs, releasing him before looking over the witcher with a critical glance. “Your bard’s right, you’re still far too clothed.”
“Hmm.” Geralt places a light kiss to Jaskier’s stomach before climbing off the bed and stripping off his boots and leathers with utilitarian efficiency.
Jaskier tentatively cuddles closer to Yennefer, laying his head gingerly in her lap when she immediately responds to the contact by petting his hair. He sighs, running a hand down her smooth leg languorously. “Is not our Geralt a thing of beauty?” he asks, drinking in the sight of the man in all his glory for the first time in years.
“He’s not too hard on the eyes,” Yennefer affirms drily, ignoring Geralt’s dubious grunt. The witcher drapes his trousers over the chair before crawling back into bed, kissing Yennefer deeply before turning his attentions to the bard in her lap.
Geralt lies down beside them, taking time to reacquaint himself with Jaskier’s mouth. Yennefer shifts, moving out from beneath him, but Jaskier doesn’t break the moment, letting Geralt’s steady, careful hands guide him closer, cradling his face.
He drifts his hands down the witcher’s body, feeling scars he’s accustomed to and some he isn’t scattered along his arms, his torso, his back. Geralt is solid, sturdy, and when Jaskier wraps a hand around his cock, its weight is heavy and familiar against his palm.
Geralt moans softly into his mouth, and Jaskier breaks the kiss to observe as he slowly strokes him. He’s beautiful; his eyes shut, long lashes quivering ever so slightly, lips red and wet and open, fine light hair draped messily around them. The flickering warm glow from the fireplace enlivens Geralt’s pale skin, and the quiet intimacy of the moment threatens to overwhelm Jaskier. “I missed seeing you like this,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the witcher’s temple.
The mattress dips slightly, breaking the bard’s reverie as Yennefer climbs into the bed on Geralt’s other side. She’s discarded the dressing gown at last and removed the ribbon that had barely kept her hair restrained. Jaskier can’t help staring at the vision before him. She drapes herself onto Geralt’s chest, an immense arm automatically finding its way around her until they’re a tangle of pale and dark limbs, of black curls and white locks. She kisses him then slips a leg over him, pulling herself up to sit on his thighs. She smiles at Jaskier and laces her fingers with his on Geralt’s cock, gliding in tandem.
Geralt moans, pulling Jaskier into a needy, messy kiss, his hips arching into their intertwined touch. “What do you need, Geralt?” Yennefer’s voice is strident and clear, breaking through the hazy, lusty atmosphere. He whines against Jaskier’s mouth but doesn’t answer. “I asked you a question,” she chides, shifting up his body. “Do you want me to ride you while you play with your bard?”
“Yes, fuck, Yen,” he pants. She smirks down at him, using their linked grip to line him up at her entrance before releasing Jaskier’s hand, his fingers brushing lightly against her clit in their retreat. She rolls her hips downwards, taking Geralt inside her with a pleased hum.
His hands move instinctively to her hips, but she swats them away. “I’ve got this, thank you very much,” she laughs, setting a languid pace above him.
Jaskier watches silently. They’re practiced in this dance; every movement syncs neatly, her smooth and graceful curves rolling down onto the witcher with a breathtaking ease, Geralt’s hips rocking ever so gently to meet her. She’s always stunning, but like this—firelight catching the slight, appealing glisten of sweat on her flawless olive skin, violet eyes ablaze, silky black waves cascading down her shoulders and back, the slight curl on her open lips and unabashed power in her posture—she looks every bit a goddess.
“Enjoying the show?” She caresses a lovely breast by way of emphasis.
“You look like a goddess.” Well. He certainly hadn’t intended to say it out loud, but he’s too enthralled to feel embarrassed.
“Does that mean you intend to worship me, bard?” He can’t help the moan at her coquettish grin, but she continues before he can answer. “Perhaps you’ll have the opportunity later.”
And then Geralt’s kissing him again, kissing him like a starving man, his rough hands smoothing over Jaskier’s face, his hair, his neck, his chest, any bit of skin he can reach to stroke with shaking fingers. He’s close, Jaskier realizes, this frenzied tactility an effort to ground himself.
He kisses the hard line of the witcher’s jaw lightly. “Gods, you’re perfect.” It thrills him to see Geralt tremble under the praise rather than scoff and deny it. He slips his fingers through Geralt’s, kissing their entwined hands as they come to rest on his broad chest. “There’s naught I’ve yet seen in this world that compares to the sight of you like this,” he sighs, lavishing attention on his neck, “giving yourself over to us, allowing us to love you so well.” He draws back slightly, indulging in the duality etched into Geralt’s every expression, every movement, the tranquility of surrender against the cresting tension of his flesh. “If only you could see the way you look, darling. As though at any moment heaven may break over you.”
“Well, that’s to be expected, fucking a goddess.” There’s a hint of laughter on Yennefer’s parted lips. “I think we’ve quite overwhelmed our witcher, Jaskier.”
“You’re doing so well for us, Geralt,” and Geralt moans at the bard’s praise, his hips darting up to meet Yennefer with a sudden urgency.
She smoothes placating hands over his flanks as she stills above him. “Easy, love.” She lowers herself to drape across his chest, planting a tender kiss on his lips. “We have time.” She turns her head to look at Jaskier at his side. They’re all so close, suddenly, breathing the same air, her small shift bringing an unexpected intimacy. She traces Jaskier’s cheekbone with two featherlight fingers. “He wants you inside him, quite terribly.”
“Yen!” Geralt’s protest sounds a little wrecked, but he’s clearly emerged from his reverie. He looks flustered, almost embarrassed, and he fixes Yennefer with a wide-eyed glare.
“I wasn’t trying to, Geralt, but you’re thinking it so loudly.” She kisses him again. “I highly doubt your bard’s offended. Are you, Jaskier?”
“I’m really not.” Heat surges through him. Geralt wants him; wants him so desperately that he’s psychically broadcasting it, apparently. He turns Geralt’s chin toward him, petting his face lightly as he looks into his eyes, so dilated they look almost entirely pupil with the tiniest sliver of gold circling the edges. “Is that what you want, Geralt? Want me to take you while you’re inside Yennefer, feel us both, let us take such good care of you?”
Geralt lets out a choked gasp, nodding furiously as Yennefer works a lovely red bruise onto his collarbone. “Please,” he grits out.
Jaskier kisses him gently. “All you had to do was ask, love.” He slips out of bed to retrieve the vial of oil from his pack.
He hesitates before rejoining the pair on the bed. The pace of their hips has slowed to a halt, and they’re wrapped around each other in a tender embrace, Geralt’s hand combing gently through Yennefer’s hair. It’s breathtakingly intimate, seeing uninhibited affection from two such guarded, powerful forces.
“Are you still planning to fuck him senseless or did you decide to stare all night instead?”
Jaskier lets out a huff of a laugh as he climbs back in bed. Yennefer pulls herself back up to sitting, throwing a smirk over her shoulder at him as he settles in behind her, between the inviting spread of Geralt’s legs. “So crude,” he tuts, placing a light kiss on her shoulder blade. He slips his hands beneath Geralt’s strong legs, running them gently up until he can massage a handful of the lovely, muscled flesh of his ass. “Up, please,” he says, and when Geralt complies Jaskier slips a pillow beneath his raised hips.
He uncorks the vial, warming the light oil between his fingers as he plants slow, messy kisses on the witcher’s sensitive inner thighs, relishing the shivers he feels as he tongues at the flesh. He lavishes attention to the velvet-soft skin of his balls with a slow, contained fervor as a slicked finger circles Geralt’s tight rim, patiently massaging its way inside. Yennefer’s hips rock unhurriedly, not moving to unseat herself from Geralt’s cock but keeping a gentle, tantalizing tempo above him. Jaskier works him open slowly, one finger then another, listening to the soft stream of accidental noises escaping him, pressing only when the witcher moves to meet him.
When the bard slides a third finger in alongside the first two Geralt cries out and shifts his hips in a demanding rhythm, fucking himself back on Jaskier’s hand then up into Yennefer’s warmth in earnest. “Feel so good,” comes a rattled moan, “please…”
The mage is not unaffected by the change. “Fuck,” she swears breathily, leaning back until she’s resting flush against Jaskier’s chest for support, head falling back onto his shoulder as she meets Geralt’s pace.
Jaskier can’t help stroking her upper arm gently with the hand not currently fucking her lover. “May I?” he asks softly, tracing restless circles on her skin.
“Fuck, yes, touch me,” she bites out, grabbing his hand and dragging it roughly to her cunt.
He runs his fingers over her, avoiding her sensitive nub in favor of exploring her folds, feeling where they part to accept Geralt’s thick cock, feeling the conjunction of their flesh as they move in harmony. Jaskier drags newly wet fingers up just above her clit, a light, slow movement, experimenting with varying speed and pressure until he finds the touch that has her keening and bucking onto his hand.
“Gods, look at you,” he chokes out, words barely audible above the slap of flesh and the noises ripped from Geralt and Yennefer alike. “The two most divine, glorious individuals on the entire Continent on the brink of coming apart under my fingers.”
Yennefer’s hand flies to his jaw and drags him into a bruising kiss, moaning into his open mouth as she rides out the waves of her pleasure, her body wracked with tremors against him. She pulls his hand off her sex after a moment but guides his arm around her waist as she continues to kiss him shakily, riding Geralt hard. The witcher’s thrusts grow irregular, and Jaskier curls his fingers ever so slightly until Geralt makes a punched-out sound and he’s clenching down on him, his whole body seeming to pulse as he spills deep inside Yennefer.
The mage is the first to withdraw, pulling off of Geralt and lying on the bed beside him, openly panting and clearly wanting space to recover. Jaskier pets the witcher’s sides soothingly, placing gentle kisses on his abdomen as he comes down. “You were so good, love,” he whispers, his lips brushing warm skin, “so stunning, sublime, gods, I could watch you come for years and never tire of the sight…”
After several moments of murmuring praises against the witcher’s skin, Jaskier slips his fingers out slowly, flinching at the little whine that escapes Geralt and scurrying up the bed to wrap him in his arms. Geralt nuzzles into his neck. “Thank you.”
Jaskier kisses the top of his head and pulls him closer, his eyes drifting shut until a hand circles his achingly hard cock. Geralt is stroking him languidly, mouthing at his neck. “You don’t have to…”
“Hmm.” The witcher shifts, climbing atop him. His long, powerful body weighs the bard down most delightfully. “Want to.” He rolls his hips against Jaskier’s to prove his point. He’s not fully hard, but it’s apparent he’s far from uninterested.
Jaskier moans, arching up as Geralt drags their cocks together, the combined wetness from Geralt and Yennefer’s come anointing their union in a way that Jaskier should probably find disgusting but decidedly does not. “Bloody witchers.” He feels the rumble of Geralt’s laugh against his chest.
Beside them, Yennefer curls up comfortably with a blanket, soft-lidded gaze fixed on the rutting men as she sighs, content. “Told you, he wants you to fuck him. Geralt is nothing if not single-minded.”
A strong, wet hand circles Jaskier’s cock, liberally coating him. Geralt rolls his hips sinfully, gliding the cleft of his ass along Jaskier’s erection. “Want you inside me.” They let out a simultaneous groan as the head of the bard’s cock catches on his slicked hole. “Please, Jaskier.”
He nods, eyes fluttering shut as Geralt lines him up and sinks slowly onto his cock.
It’s quiet, nothing but the soft sounds of fleshy friction and uneven breath. Normally Jaskier fills the air with gentle praises, but he can’t seem to locate his voice as he watches Geralt, the way his muscles flex and relax so gracefully beneath his scarred skin, the open, blissed out expression on his lovely face. He’s never seen Geralt so unguarded, so willing to accept pleasure, to seek it out for himself, even, without being overcome with shame or a need to subsume himself in his partner’s desires. Jaskier finds he can’t look away.
Yennefer brushes her fingers through his damp hair, drawing closer to him, her breath warm on his ear as she whispers to him. “You’re so good for him, Jaskier,” she purrs, and he moans as his cock twitches involuntarily. She’s clever, adopting his own strategies against him, sensing that he craves this gentle validation as much as he loves giving it. “You’re filling him up so well. Look how happy you’re making him, how good he feels when he’s sitting on your cock.” Her soft lips plant a series of light kisses from his ear to his chin. “Do you want to be good for me, too, sweet boy?”
“Yes,” he pants helplessly, “please, Yen, please…”
She doesn’t need to be asked twice. She pulls him into a searing kiss, then her smooth thighs envelope him as she straddles his face, her body towards Geralt. An uncharacteristic whine escapes her as Jaskier’s tongue immediately, greedily laps at her. “Good.” She rolls her hips luxuriously against his mouth. “Drink Geralt’s come from me.”
Simultaneous moans rip from both men, Jaskier’s a delicious vibration against her cunt. He can taste the familiar bitterness of Geralt’s come mixed with the new, intoxicating taste of the sorceress, and everything is wet, messy, chaotic and he can’t get enough, can’t get enough of Yennefer grinding shamelessly into his mouth, of Geralt’s faltering hips slamming down to meet his thrusts. He knows he won’t last long this way, not with her moans as he sucks her clit into his mouth to worship it, with the way their bodies shift as the two above him pull each other into an unruly, frantic kiss. His hand that isn’t grasping Yennefer’s hip journeys between them, reaching out until Geralt laces their fingers together, squeezing tightly, his thumb running over Jaskier’s wrist, and the little intimacy is enough to send him over the edge, coming buried deep in Geralt, who gently rocks him through the waves of his climax. He feels the sorceress tense above him, hears her saying something but can’t make it out in the whirl of sensation as he tongues at her tirelessly until her thighs are shaking around him and she’s pulling away, planting an unexpected kiss beneath his ear and cooing, "So good for us, sweet bard,” before collapsing on the bed beside him.
Geralt shifts forward to kiss him, both of them groaning as Jaskier’s softening cock slips from him. Jaskier tries to catch his breath, arms wrapped around his lover as Geralt burrows against his neck, strong hands moving in delicate, unhurried patterns across his skin, but he can feel the hard jut of the witcher’s cock against his stomach. Jaskier gropes at his hips and Geralt complies, letting the bard manhandle him until he’s straddling his shoulders with Jaskier looking up at him through dark lashes, eyes bright and mouth open.
“Fuck, Jaskier.” All it takes is a few shallow thrusts before Geralt spills into his waiting mouth, soft lips suckling gently through the aftershocks. He collapses beside the bard, a heavy arm curling around his waist as his eyes flutter shut.
“Gods be good,” Jaskier breathes, staring up at the ceiling’s beams.
There’s a breathless laugh as Yennefer hands him a damp cloth that he gratefully accepts, cleaning himself and Geralt off as best he can before tossing it on the floor. “I don’t know about the gods, but that certainly was good,” Yennefer quips, carding her fingers through Jaskier’s hair. “Although I assure you, this was not what I intended when I approached you this evening, bard.”
Jaskier hums, reaching out to trace meandering patterns on the smooth skin of her arm. “But you don’t...regret it?”
She shakes her head, smiling softly. “Look at the two of you,” and Jaskier imagines the picture they must make, Geralt plastered against his back, the gentle rise and fall of his chest even and slow. “What better outcome could there be?”
He feels the vibrations in his chest before he hears Geralt’s voice. “Talk tomorrow,” comes the gravelly mumble. “Sleep now.”
Yennefer catches Jaskier’s eye at that, her lip twitching as she rolls her eyes, and the two of them are giggling quietly, giddy and sated and light. He reaches out, softly stroking her face, still smiling but searching, questioning. She answers by capturing his lips in a small, chaste kiss. “Goodnight, bard.”
“Goodnight.” It feels simple, somehow, with Geralt sleeping behind him and Yennefer settling down in front. But it isn’t, can’t be, not with decades of yearning and years of resentment and the heartbreak they’d all suffered on the mountain. The proposition to share Geralt had been one thing, but this is something else entirely, something more, this unexpected burgeoning feeling that somehow seems wide enough to encompass the three of them. But Geralt's right. They can talk in the morning.
Nestled between them, Jaskier sleeps.