Chapter Text
Jaskier’s pack reaches Kaer Morhen in the middle of the first big snowstorm of winter - quite literally in the middle; Jaskier is clinging to Pegasus’s saddle, Geralt leading Pegasus and Roach both, because Jaskier can’t see a damn thing through the blowing snow. He’s fairly sure Scorpion and Lambert’s nameless gelding (which Jaskier has dubbed Stubborn, if only to himself) are still behind them with the wagon, but he can’t tell; the sound of the wagon’s wheels on stone vanish in the hissing wind.
Geralt lifts him down off Pegasus and doesn’t set him on the stone, but carries him up to the main doors. “Go in and get warm!” he yells - anything quieter would be lost in the storm - and Jaskier stumbles into the entrance hall, shivering despite his heavy cloak and fur-lined boots.
“Hello?” he calls, and a moment later Gardis comes tumbling out of the dining hall, Aubry and Coën on his tail.
“Shit, little brother, you’re half frozen!” Gardis blurts, and wraps Jaskier up in his arms, radiating heat as only a witcher can. Aubry ruffles Jaskier’s hair affectionately and goes trotting out past him, probably to help Jaskier’s alphas put the horses away; Coën pauses long enough to murmur, “Welcome home, gracious omega,” before following Aubry. Gardis tugs Jaskier into the dining hall, taking his snow-covered cloak away and sitting him down in front of the fire and heaping furs around him until Jaskier’s not sure he could move if he wanted to, then flopping down next to him and curling around him protectively. Someone chuckles, and Jaskier looks up to see Vesemir standing over them, holding a steaming bowl in both hands.
“Welcome home, pup,” Vesemir says, and hands Jaskier the bowl; it’s stew, broth thick with meat and hearty vegetables.
“Thank you,” Jaskier says.
Vesemir smiles and reaches down to ruffle his hair, much as Aubry did, before settling in a chair beside the fire.
“It’s just the eight of us this year,” Gardis says. “Clovis’s pack are staying in Toussaint. Frank wrote to say Gwen broke his leg pretty bad, so they’re staying where it’s warm instead of trying to travel in the snow.”
“That makes sense,” Jaskier says. “Also, ugh, poor Gwen.” He doesn’t know the alpha well, but a broken leg doesn’t sound like a good time.
“I’d feel sorrier for him, but Frank also said they’d landed a contract to protect a winery from sabotage for the winter, so they’re going to be lounging around drinking good Toussainti wine while we freeze our asses off up here.”
“...I feel much less sympathetic,” Jaskier laughs.
There’s a thump, as of a heavy door swinging shut, and then Jaskier’s alphas and Aubry and Coën come piling in, all of them stomping snow off their boots as they shrug out of their cloaks. Jaskier’s alphas come over to flop down around him, and Jaskier somehow ends up with all three of their heads in his lap, which makes finding a place to put his stew down so he can eat it a little more complicated.
“Here,” Aubry says, taking the bowl and holding it steady as he sits down almost on top of Lambert - Lambert squawks indignantly but doesn’t move - and Jaskier smiles his gratitude and starts to eat, ravenous as soon as the first bite hits his tongue. Vesemir’s cooking is, as always, amazing, and the hot stew warms Jaskier from the inside out.
“We don’t get stew?” Eskel asks plaintively.
“You get stew when you stop lying on your poor omega like he’s a pillow,” Vesemir says, smiling. “I know I taught you better than that.”
Geralt closes his eyes and nestles closer to Jaskier, but Eskel and Lambert sigh and roll to their feet. Jaskier takes his bowl back from Aubry with another grateful smile, and Aubry smiles back, soft and warm.
Coën comes up from the kitchen with a tray holding three more bowls of stew, and Eskel and Lambert relieve him of it, Eskel clapping him on the shoulder, before sitting down on the hearth to wolf down their meals. Coën settles beside Aubry, leaning against his shoulder much more casually than he would have dared last spring, and Jaskier beams at this evidence that Gardis’s pack is thriving.
“Geralt, dear heart, you should eat,” he says gently. Geralt hums and burrows deeper into the furs surrounding Jaskier, clearly not interested in moving.
“Eh, I’ll eat his share,” Lambert says, though what he actually does is set the third bowl aside on the mantel where it will stay warm. Jaskier laughs and sets his empty bowl aside, and starts petting Geralt’s hair; Geralt begins to purr.
“You’re looking well,” Gardis says. “All of you. Good season?”
“Not bad hunting,” Eskel allows, “but also it turns out having a bard along is extremely useful.” He grins at Jaskier. “Got free meals and half-price rooms pretty much the whole season.”
“No shit,” Gardis says, and ruffles Jaskier’s hair vigorously. “Well done, little brother!”
Jaskier beams.
“We heard a song I think may have been yours, while we were in Poviss,” Coën says, smiling broadly. “How did it go - The siren’s wings are broad and blue, her voice is pure and shrill / she swoops upon the ship below, too eager for the kill / to note that on the heaving deck, instead of sailors bold, there stand three witchers sword in hand, the silver gleaming cold…”
Coën has a very nice tenor, and holds the tune well. Jaskier blushes to the tips of his ears. “Yes, that one’s mine.”
“Not bad,” Vesemir says. “You’ll have to sing us the whole thing some evening.”
Jaskier ducks his head, face burning hot. Gods, it’s one thing for the people out in the world to like his songs - a glorious thing, a thing that makes him utterly ecstatic - but for Vesemir to like them? Vesemir, and Gardis, and Aubry, and Coën? That’s -
That’s a feeling so big and warm that his heart aches with it.
*
They all sleep in the next morning, snuggled together in the big pack bed. Jaskier wakes to find that Lambert and Geralt are still fast asleep, wound around him so tightly he’s fairly sure he won’t be able to get up until they wake. Eskel is sitting up, stroking Geralt’s hair softly and smiling down at them all so sweetly it makes Jaskier’s breath catch.
“Good morning, sweetling,” Eskel murmurs.
“Mmmm, yes it is,” Jaskier agrees, managing to wriggle one arm free so he can start stroking Lambert’s hair. Lambert starts purring in his sleep. “It’s good to be home.”
“Very, very good,” Eskel says, and leans down to kiss him, warm and soft and sweet right until Jaskier opens his mouth and the kiss turns hot and fervent. Jaskier whimpers quietly into it, and Eskel purrs.
“Mm, wha?” Lambert slurs, blinking awake. “Mmm. That’s fuckin’ pretty.” He props himself up on an elbow and pushes the blankets down a bit so he can stroke a hand over Jaskier’s chest, scratching gently through the whorls of hair. Jaskier wriggles a little, as much as he can with Geralt still wound around him, and moans into the kiss.
“So,” Eskel murmurs against Jaskier’s lips, “what do you want to do today, sweetling?”
Jaskier considers the question as Eskel trails kisses along his jaw and bites gently at his earlobe. “I want a good long soak in the hot springs, a chance to have a good gossip with Gardis and Coën, and a nice supper. But first, I want to properly enjoy this marvelous bed.”
“We can get behind that,” Lambert says.
Geralt purrs, startling Jaskier a little - he hadn’t realized the alpha was awake - and slides a hand down to trail his fingers gently over Jaskier’s half-hard prick. Jaskier moans softly, and Eskel kisses the sound away.
“How do you want us?” Lambert asks.
Jaskier considers many options, humming softly into Eskel’s kiss. “I want Lambert to fuck me, Geralt to suck me, and Eskel to fuck Geralt,” he decides at last.
Geralt makes a soft whining noise. Lambert growls. Eskel sucks in a harsh breath, and his pupils dilate until there’s barely any yellow showing. “You have fucking good ideas, buttercup,” Lambert murmurs. “Come here, then.”
There’s a rather confused few minutes of rearranging, and then Jaskier finds himself kneeling over Lambert’s lap, facing away from him, with Lambert propped up against the pillows at the head of the bed and his chin hooked over Jaskier’s shoulder to watch as Geralt, on his hands and knees, licks a stripe up Jaskier’s prick.
Jaskier lets his head fall back against Lambert’s shoulder and whines softly. Lambert has two fingers deep in him, stretching him slowly open; Eskel is doing the same to Geralt, who is purring deep in his chest.
By the time Eskel finally rumbles, “Now,” Jaskier is shuddering in pleasure and whining desperately; Lambert has four fingers buried in him and Geralt has swallowed his prick to the root and is purring around it, and it’s so fucking good. Lambert chuckles and lifts Jaskier effortlessly up, lowering him very carefully down onto his prick. Jaskier braces his hands on Geralt’s shoulders and rocks down, one slow inch at a time, until he’s fully seated on Lambert’s lovely prick, and then holds still, watching in awe and lust, as Eskel sinks achingly slowly into Geralt’s ass. Geralt moans throatily.
“Fuck,” Jaskier says softly. “Oh, fuck, I have missed this.” Being filled at last - gods, he has been waiting for this since they left Kaer Morhen, more than eight months ago.
“So have I, buttercup,” Lambert murmurs in his ear, and bites gently at the line of his throat. “Fuck, you feel so good. So fucking good.”
“So do you,” Jaskier gasps. Lambert’s not quite as large as either Eskel or Geralt, but he’s a gracious plenty for all that, and Jaskier could almost weep with how amazing it feels. “Oh fuck, alphas, my alphas - gods!”
Lambert fucks up into him, and Eskel rolls his hips; Geralt moans loudly around Jaskier’s prick, arms shaking a little with the effort to keep from falling. Jaskier doesn’t bother trying to hold in his whimpers and whines, the loud moans that spill from his lips as Lambert nails that perfect spot inside him. His Wolves all love the sounds he makes.
It doesn’t take long, not this first proper fuck since last winter. Lambert tugs Jaskier down onto his knot and mouths desperately at Jaskier’s shoulder, shaking; Jaskier shouts as Lambert’s knot presses unrelentingly into him, and spills into Geralt’s mouth; Geralt moans and shudders, and Eskel curls down to sink his teeth into Geralt’s shoulder and wrap a hand hard around Geralt’s knot, bringing Geralt over his peak in turn.
“Eskel,” Jaskier pants, slumping back against Lambert, and Eskel chuckles, catching Geralt as he slumps and helping him collapse gently onto the bed next to Lambert’s legs. Geralt tucks his forehead against Jaskier’s bent knee and makes soft whining noises in the back of his throat as he comes down from his peak. “Eskel, come here,” Jaskier says, and Eskel shuffles forward between Lambert’s legs until he’s close enough for Jaskier to get a hand around his prick. It only takes a few strokes before Eskel spills, rumbling a deep moan that echoes off the walls, and collapses forward to rest his forehead on Jaskier’s other shoulder.
“Fuck,” Lambert says at last. “We’ve gotta start finding a halfway mark where we can hole up for a week or so in summer. Nine months is too fuckin’ long.”
“Hm,” Geralt murmurs. “Kaer Seren’s halfway on the northern loop.”
“Good thinking,” Eskel mutters.
Jaskier muffles a chuckle. “Sounds good to me. Mmm. But right now I think I want a soak in the hot springs, and then food.”
“You want that, you got it, buttercup,” Lambert says, and the witchers carefully unwind themselves from around each other. Jaskier whines a little as Lambert’s knot shrinks enough to slip out of him, and Lambert kisses the back of his neck softly in apology. Eskel drapes a blanket over Jaskier and scoops him up, and Jaskier laughs and nuzzles against Eskel’s throat as the alpha carries him triumphantly off.
*
It’s late enough in the morning that everyone else is in the hot springs, too. Coën is contentedly combing out Aubry’s hair while Aubry purrs; Gardis is lounging back against the side of the pool watching them happily; and Vesemir, in another pool, appears to be napping.
“Hey, little brother, I don’t think I have to ask how your morning is going,” Gardis greets Jaskier.
Jaskier grins and wriggles out of Eskel’s arms to slip into the water. “Indeed you do not.”
Jaskier’s alphas all look very smug as they join him in the pool - as well they might, really. They don’t brag, though - not his alphas. Even Lambert wouldn’t say anything that might make Jaskier feel cheapened. Instead, Eskel asks, “Any good contracts for you this year?”
“Ran across a whole nest of wyverns up near Yspaden, and the baron offered us three times the asking rate if we’d get rid of them before midsummer.” Gardis grins. “Turned out his son’s wedding was supposed to be on midsummer day, out in the middle of a field - prime wyvern-bait.”
“How’d that go?” Lambert asks, sliding behind Jaskier and starting to comb soap through his hair with gentle fingers.
“Really well, actually. Coën’s got a really gorgeously specific Aard; he managed to bring half a cliff down on the nest, killed one outright and dazed most of the rest. After that it was pretty simple. And the alchemists in Yspaden bought every venom gland we brought in, so between that and the baron’s fee, we didn’t have to worry about coin for a good two, three months afterwards.” Gardis stretches, looking very smug. “We make a good pack.”
Aubry hums agreement. Coën ducks his head like he’s embarrassed, but his eyes are shining and there’s a little smile playing around the corners of his mouth.
Jaskier beams. His brothers are happy, his alphas are happy - even Vesemir is obviously contented, dozing peacefully as his sons chatter - oh, it’s so good to be home.
Luncheon is cheerful but not particularly rowdy, and then Jaskier follows Vesemir into the kitchen and is astonished and delighted when Vesemir puts down his armful of plates and turns to wrap Jaskier up in a firm embrace. “Welcome home, pup,” Vesemir murmurs, and Jaskier hugs back as hard as he can.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
“Thank you,” Vesemir says, pulling back far enough to rest their foreheads together. “I haven’t seen my pups so happy and well-fed at the end of the Path in years. Decades. Even with Remus, they were still ragged by autumn; feeding four witchers isn’t easy. There’s a reason most of the other Schools don’t go out in packs.”
Jaskier frowns. He hadn’t thought of that, for all that Coën has told him the Griffins used to walk the Path alone. It’s a trade-off, he supposes: one witcher can feed himself more easily on the fees for his kills, but is in more danger, while a pack can slay the monsters more easily, but will find it harder to support themselves on the same fees. But - come to think of it, Jaskier didn’t have to make any more hardtack while they were out on the Path. They had enough food, the whole way through.
“I am glad to have helped,” he says at last.
“You are a good pup, and I’m proud of you,” Vesemir says, and hugs him again before turning to start washing the dishes. Jaskier swallows the lump in his throat and dashes the tears from his eyes, then joins Vesemir at the sink, taking the first clean plate to wipe it dry.
You are a good pup, and I’m proud of you. How often did Jaskier wish his sire would say something - anything - as encouraging and affectionate? And Vesemir has given him this gift without even thinking about it.
“Thank you, pack-father,” he says at last, and Vesemir knocks their shoulders together gently and hands him another plate to dry.
*
The blizzard lets up after a day or so, and Jaskier slips back into the rhythm of the keep as though he never left: dagger practice in the morning, followed by a lovely soak in the hot springs with at least one of his alphas, a quiet luncheon, and a few hours of helping Vesemir in the kitchen, and then time in the library until supper, and after supper, talking or telling stories or singing with the Wolves and Coën. Jaskier sings all his new witcher songs, and Gardis and Aubry and Coën and Vesemir applaud them wholeheartedly, so Jaskier pesters Gardis for stories of the hunts his pack has been on, and makes new songs of those.
Gardis turns bright red and hides his face against Aubry’s shoulder the first time Jaskier sings a ballad praising his heroic rescue of a maiden who had been treed by a werewolf, but Aubry beams and asks Jaskier to sing it again a few nights later. Coën looks somewhere between delighted and stunned when Jaskier debuts a song in the Koviri round style - which he has convinced Lambert and Eskel to sing along with him - about a noble Griffin and his exploits. Aubry clearly doesn’t expect a song of his own, and Jaskier is delighted to surprise him with a slow, sweet tune of the gentlest Wolf rescuing a child from an arachas nest and carrying her home, a tale he got from Gardis specifically to turn into a song. And then, with help from all the younger Wolves, Jaskier crafts a ballad of Vesemir’s youth, when he wandered the Path with his pack and befriended a golden dragon, and convinces Lambert and Eskel and Gardis and Coën all to help him sing it while Aubry and Geralt clap their hands to provide a steady beat, and has the signal pleasure of seeing Vesemir go pink with astonished pleasure.
Compared to that, his midwinter gifts are almost anticlimactic, but Jaskier is shocked to discover that all the Wolves - and their lone Griffin - have gotten him gifts, and he is now in possession of a very fancy lute case, a set of griffin-feather quills with beautiful metal nibs, a book of poetry from the Golden Age, and a wyvern-hide vest - and from his own pack, a stunningly beautiful cloak, silk-lined and elegant, which he cannot imagine how they’ve kept hidden from him. It isn’t so much black as iridescent, and he can wear it with any of his fancy outfits. It’s perfect. Jaskier maybe cries a little, but he’s a bard, they’re meant to be dramatic, and anyhow it gives Geralt an excuse to kiss the tears away and then kiss Jaskier until he forgets to do anything but cling to Geralt and moan, so really, it’s all to the good in the end.
And each night when the singing is done and the hour grows late, Jaskier and his alphas go up to their big pack bed together.
Jaskier still can’t bear to present. Perhaps he’ll never be able to; perhaps it’s something he lost to the monsters of his past, like a scar which will never fade. But that doesn’t seem to matter to his alphas. They’ll have him any way he wants them to, and for anything Jaskier can’t give them, they have each other. Geralt apparently has no qualms whatsoever about going to his knees for his packmates, and Lambert seems to like being wrestled down when he’s in a certain mood, pinned and helpless and panting as Eskel murmurs, “Little wolf, our little wolf,” tenderly in his ear. Jaskier couldn’t do that - can’t imagine enjoying anything less gentle than his Wolves’ usual attentions - but Lambert likes it, so Jaskier is happy to watch, smelling nothing but honest lust and joy from his alphas as they take their pleasure in each other. And here in Kaer Morhen, far from the dangers of the Path, all of his alphas are happy to fuck him as often as he wants to be fucked, which, somewhat to everyone’s surprise, is very often indeed.
Jaskier can remember having an active and enthusiastic libido, back in Oxenfurt when all his bed-partners were imaginary. Apparently having the finest alphas in the world means that all of that eager lust has come rushing back, and while he can keep it banked to a low smolder out on the Path, well, here in Kaer Morhen there’s no reason to do so.
He’s so cheerfully randy, in fact, that he almost misses the first signs of his impending heat.
*
It’s Geralt who mentions it, late one night as they’re all tangled around each other on the verge of sleep. He’s got his nose tucked against the nape of Jaskier’s neck, and he draws in a deep and contented breath, pauses, sniffs again, and murmurs, “Sweeter.”
“Sweeter?” Jaskier asks sleepily.
“Your scent. Sweeter.”
Jaskier blinks into the dimness for a moment - the fire has burnt down to coals - and then does a little quick mental checking of the calendar. It’s well past midwinter - the days are beginning to lengthen again, if only a little. In fact... “Oh...shit,” he says faintly, and all of his Wolves rouse, frowning down at him in worry. “I think my heat’s next week.”
There’s a brief pause, and then Eskel says, carefully, “Well, we’ll start preparing in the morning, then. Do you know yet whether you’ll want us in the room, or outside like last year?”
“Inside,” Jaskier says at once. “And -” he pauses, swallows hard, and reminds himself that he is their mate in all but marks, that they love him, that they will not refuse him this. “And I’d like you all to bite me, please.”
Lambert makes a tiny sound, a sharply indrawn breath. Geralt goes so still he might as well be made of marble. Eskel swallows, a shockingly loud noise in the sudden stillness.
“You’re sure, buttercup?” Lambert whispers.
Jaskier nods. “As sure as sunrise.”
Any bite that draws blood will leave a scar, of course - Jaskier’s frankly lucky none of his former alphas cared to mark him so permanently - but a mate-mark can only be given during an omega’s heat; there’s something in an omega’s blood during a heat which helps the mark to heal swiftly, and makes the scars that unmistakable silver.
Jaskier wants to bear his alphas’ marks, as silver as their swords, as the medallion he never removes. Wants them to place their claim on him, a claim he’s chosen. Wants to go out onto the Path next year with three silver bite-marks on his throat to show the world he’s claimed and kept and loved.
Eskel makes an almost wounded sound and curls in, tucking his face against Jaskier’s throat and clinging to him. Jaskier blinks in shock for a moment before he gets his wits about him and reaches up to wrap his arms around Eskel’s shoulders, holding the big alpha close. Geralt and Lambert curl around them both, Geralt humming a low soothing note deep in his throat, Lambert stroking Eskel’s hair.
Jaskier says, as quietly as he can, “Is that - not - do you not want -?”
“Sweetling,” Eskel rasps, sounding on the verge of tears, and clings tighter to him.
Lambert kisses Eskel’s shoulder. “He wants. We want,” he says. “Fucking hell, buttercup, we definitely want. Just...ah, hell, I’ll explain tomorrow, alright?”
“Alright,” Jaskier says, and turns his full attention to stroking Eskel’s back and murmuring soft words of affection until the big alpha uncurls at least a little, though he doesn’t loosen his hold on Jaskier.
That’s alright. Jaskier likes sleeping in his alphas’ arms.
The next day, after dagger practice, it’s Lambert who brings Jaskier down to the hot springs, and once he’s helped Jaskier scrub down and is lounging back with Jaskier in his arms, he does, as promised, explain.
“So there’s two parts to this, alright buttercup? The easy bit is about pack. Well. The hard bit’s about pack, too, sorta.”
Jaskier chuckles and cranes around to kiss him. Lambert wrinkles his nose. “Right. So. Y’know how mate-marks give...just a little empathy?”
Jaskier nods. A mate-mark binds alpha and omega together, granting them a very slight ability to read each other’s emotions even at a distance, far more accurate even than smell can provide. Jaskier’s heard rumors that well-matched pairs have stronger bonds, but that might just be wishful thinking. Although...he wouldn’t have guessed packs would work, two years ago, so maybe there’s something to mating bites that has been lost to time, as well.
Lambert confirms that almost instantly. “‘S stronger with an omega whose scent matches properly, at least that’s what the Wolf School teaches. And it was pretty damn strong with Remus.” He takes a deep breath. “Strong enough we felt him die. Which was fucking awful.”
“Fuck,” Jaskier breathes, and squirms around until he can wrap his arms tightly around Lambert. Lambert tucks his nose into the crook of Jaskier’s throat and breathes in deeply. “Lambert, I won’t - if you don’t want to have to go through that again, I can’t ask it of you -”
“Shush, buttercup, we all want to have that bond with you,” Lambert says, nipping gently at Jaskier’s shoulders before he raises his head. “It’ll be really fucking reassuring, actually, to know you’re alright even when we’re off hunting; yeah, someone’s always with you, but it’s still a worry, y’know?”
“Oh,” Jaskier says. He hadn’t really thought about it, but that all makes sense.
“And we all want to mark you,” Lambert adds, raising one hand to trace a damp line down Jaskier’s throat. Jaskier can feel Lambert’s prick twitch. “Fuck, thinkin’ of you wearing our bites -” Lambert breaks off with a soft, heartfelt growl.
“Alright,” Jaskier says. “So that’s the easy bit, I’m guessing.”
Lambert nods. “The harder bit...alright. So when you’ve got a pack omega, there’s…” He trails off, frowning like he’s trying to find the right words. Jaskier waits as patiently as he can. “If it’s a good strong bond,” Lambert says at last, “the other alphas in the pack can...feel each other through the omega. If that makes sense.”
Jaskier’s eyes go wide. “You could all feel each other through Remus, then.”
Lambert nods again. “So when he died, we...lost that,” he says softly. “It was. It helped. The bond. Kept us all steadier. And Eskel...before we found you, buttercup, he was tryin’ to be that bond all by himself. Tryin’ to keep me from flying off the fucking handle all the time, tryin’ to keep Geralt from going all the fucking way mute, tryin’ to keep us stable.”
Jaskier nods. He remembers that, back in those first baffling, terrifying days, how Eskel was so clearly the bedrock of the pack. Still is, in a way, for all that the alphas orbit around Jaskier as though he’s their sun. Geralt is strongest, Lambert arguably cleverest, Jaskier the cherished omega, but it’s Eskel’s steadiness that holds them all together.
“So he’s not let himself think about getting that back,” Lambert continues softly. “About having that bond again, and getting to put down some of the weight of the whole godsdamned world. And now you’ve offered.” He kisses Jaskier, soft and almost chaste. “So yeah, he’s…”
“A little overwhelmed,” Jaskier concludes.
“That,” Lambert agrees. “But he wants to. We all want to.”
Jaskier nods and nestles closer, comforted as always by the warm clasp of Lambert’s arms around him. “Alright. Thank you for explaining.”
“Welcome, buttercup,” Lambert murmurs, and holds Jaskier close until the rest of the witchers come piling down the stairs to the hot springs, laughing and jesting and gloriously, loudly joyous.
*
Jaskier does decide to use the heat room, if only so that their bed won’t end up soaked with slick, but this time, it will be Vesemir and Gardis bringing food and water up to push through the flap in the door, because his alphas are all going to be inside with him.
Which is moderately terrifying, in the best possible way. Perhaps exciting is a better word. The alphas who bought and sold Jaskier like a rather disappointing party favor never found his heat scent particularly appealing, which was all to the good really, but Jaskier can remember his alphas last winter, half-desperate and smelling of undeniable lust as they waited out in the corridor for his heat to pass. Having them in the room...well, Jaskier won’t have to content himself with the wooden prick this year, he expects.
And even in the throes of heat, he knows, none of his alphas will ask him to do anything he would not wish to do outside of it. He need not fear emerging from the heat-haze to regret, or fear, or pain, or anything but sated contentment.
And, gods willing, three new marks upon his throat, as silver as his medallion.
Gardis laughs at him when Jaskier spends the last several days leading up to his heat drifting about in a sort of excited daze, and Vesemir shakes his head and smiles and won’t let Jaskier do anything in the kitchen that requires a knife, and both Aubry and Coën spend a lot of time giving him indulgent smiles, but Jaskier can’t bring himself to mind. He’s going to have his first proper heat with his alphas, and they’re going to mark him, and it’s going to be wonderful.
The last night before his heat is due to start, his pack sleeps in the heat room; there’s no point making him walk through the cold halls if they don’t have to, after all.
The day his heat starts, Jaskier wakes up warm, in the middle of a nest of blankets and pillows and alphas, in the dimness of a winter’s early morning. He’s not nearly as uncomfortable as he’d half expected to be, actually, which is probably because he has three naked alphas wound around him, and the whole room smells of them. His omega instincts don’t need to worry about getting his needs sated: there is plenty of alpha available.
Geralt wakes first, with a soft growl and a sudden flash of golden eyes in the dimness. Lambert and Eskel rouse a moment later, both of them burying their noses against Jaskier’s throat and breathing in, deep hungry breaths.
“Fuck, buttercup, you smell amazing,” Lambert murmurs.
Jaskier grins and shifts, and for the first time in his life he relishes the feeling of rising, half-desperate lust. “You all smell wonderful,” he replies.
“How d’you want us?” Eskel asks. “Name it and it’s yours, sweetling.”
Jaskier tries to think through the growing heat-haze; it isn’t easy. He can sort of remember the beautiful, filthy, glorious ideas his alphas had during his last heat, though, and he wants to make every single one of them happens, as well as a great many others - though he’s heard that properly partnered heats don’t take as long, so it’s possible he’ll run out of heat before he runs out of ideas. Ah well, he’ll always have next year.
“I want to ride Lambert,” he says, and Lambert whines softly, prick rubbing against Jaskier’s hip as he shifts. “And then I want Geralt to eat me out before he knots me. And then I want Eskel.”
“I think we can manage that,” Eskel says, sounding a little strangled. “And - do you still want our marks, Jaskier?”
“More than anything,” Jaskier says fervently. “Can you - does it work if you’re not in me?”
“Anytime during your heat,” Geralt says.
“Then I want all your marks at the same time,” Jaskier says, clinging to the last bits of coherency with all his might. “While Eskel’s got me knotted. Please.”
“If that’s what you want, you’ll have it,” Eskel promises, and Jaskier beams and stops trying to keep the heat-haze from taking him. He’s safe. His alphas have him.
Lambert rolls over onto his back, pulling Jaskier on top of him, and kisses him sweetly. Normally Jaskier would take his time with such a lovely kiss, really let himself enjoy it, but his skin is too hot and he wants, wants everything, and he pulls away from the kiss to fumble behind him for Lambert’s prick, deeply pleased to find it already hard and ready for him. He doesn’t need any preparation, not in heat; he sinks down onto Lambert’s prick with a gasp of satisfaction, and Lambert wraps his hands around Jaskier’s hips and stares up at him, golden eyes blown huge and dark with lust.
“That’s it, buttercup, take what you need of me,” he murmurs. “Fuckin’ - fucking anything, it’s yours.”
Jaskier should thank him, probably, but all his attention is given to the prick filling him up, the blessed relief of it. He gets his knees under him and starts to move, and Lambert’s hands on his hips urge him on, give him a little extra lift when he rises, pull him down again eagerly. Jaskier braces his hands on Lambert’s shoulders and lets himself take, not bothering to muffle the curses and desperate whines that fall from his mouth. “Lambert, Lambert, Lambert -”
He’s not sure whose hand wraps around his prick - it isn’t Lambert’s, those are still clamped on his hips, and he’ll have bruises there, glorious ones, and oh, he’s looking forward to that - but whoever it is, they twist their hand just so and Jaskier is spilling over their fingers and Lambert’s chest, shouting his pleasure, and Lambert growls deep and fierce and beautiful and yanks Jaskier down a little harder as he peaks, and his knot swells to fill Jaskier so perfectly.
Jaskier slumps down atop Lambert, not caring about the sticky spend smeared between them, and shudders with the aftershocks of pleasure. The heat-haze is...not lifting, exactly, but a lot less overwhelming than he’s used to. “‘S good,” he tells Lambert, who purrs and nuzzles at his hair.
“Really fucking good, buttercup,” he murmurs, and holds Jaskier close, stroking his back and purring softly, until his knot begins to shrink and Jaskier’s heat begins to rise again. “Alright, want to roll over and let Geralt clean you up a bit before he gets you fuckin’ filthy again?”
“Gods yes,” Jaskier says, and rolls over off of Lambert to sprawl out on the blankets, and Geralt pounces, looking half-feral with lust. It would be terrifying, except that it’s Geralt, and Jaskier doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to be scared of Geralt again.
Geralt sucks Jaskier’s prick down like it’s water in the desert, and Jaskier wails and writhes beneath him. In heat, it’s not enough - nothing but a knot is truly enough - but oh, it’s good all the same, and gets better when Geralt slides two fingers into him and crooks them just so. Jaskier peaks with a garbled shout that’s almost Geralt’s name, clawing at Geralt’s hair and the blankets, and Geralt rumbles with a purr that’s almost a growl, deep and reverberating.
And then he shoulders Jaskier’s legs further apart and wriggles down a little and licks over Jaskier’s rim, where his fingers are still buried deep. Jaskier braces his feet against the blankets and gropes to either side, and Eskel and Lambert take his hands, letting him cling as Geralt wrings wails of pleasure from his throat. Fuck, Geralt’s tongue is always absurdly talented, but in heat it’s almost unbearably good.
Geralt brings Jaskier howling over another peak, and Jaskier is distantly grateful for his alphas’ witcher strength, because he’s holding onto Eskel and Lambert’s hands tightly enough to damage a human. “Geralt!” he begs, and Geralt purrs deeply as he moves to cover Jaskier, sliding his fingers out and replacing them with his prick in a single smooth motion and then bracing his elbows on either side of Jaskier’s head, looming over him. Jaskier whines and bares his throat and winds his legs around Geralt’s hips, opening eagerly for Geralt’s heavy prick.
Geralt kisses him fiercely as his knot fills, and Jaskier peaks again, spilling hot between them, and whimpers into Geralt’s mouth. Geralt curls down over him, tucking his head into the curve of Jaskier’s throat, and pants hotly against his skin; Jaskier kisses the top of his pale head and lets go of Lambert and Eskel’s hands so he can pet Geralt’s shoulders.
The heat-haze ebbs for a long while, and Jaskier nestles happily into the blankets and the heavy, welcome weight of Geralt atop him, and dozes a little. When he wakes, cradled in Geralt’s arms but no longer knotted, Eskel coaxes him to eat some broth and applesauce and drink a little water, and Lambert wipes him down gently with a damp cloth, before the heat-haze begins to rise again.
“Eskel,” he gasps, and Eskel gathers him close, pulling Jaskier down on his back atop him like the omega is a blanket, his legs spread wide on either side of Eskel’s. Someone - Jaskier’s not sure which of his other alphas - helps guide Eskel’s prick into him, and Jaskier rocks down with a moan that turns into a shout as Eskel bucks his hips upwards. So good - how the fuck is it so good? Jaskier clutches at Eskel’s arms, knowing his nails are probably leaving welts, but Eskel is a witcher; there’ll be no marks on him by the time the sun rises again. Eskel responds with low, soothing purrs that reverberate up through his chest and into Jaskier’s bones, with rocking hips and gentle hands that keep Jaskier pinned to his chest, with hungry kisses pressed to the back of Jaskier’s neck.
Jaskier keens, and writhes - not trying to get away, never that, but trying to get closer - and Geralt and Lambert lean down together to mouth and lick at his leaking, desperate prick, and Jaskier peaks with a strangled scream.
Eskel growls, an almost subterranean sound, and wraps his arm around Jaskier’s waist to haul him down and onto Eskel’s knot, and Jaskier peaks again, vision hazing at the edges at the too-soon, too-sharp pleasure of it.
And then, in the clarity left behind as the heat-haze ebbs, he gasps, “Now, my alphas. Please. Mark me now.”
“Ours,” Eskel rumbles, as Geralt and Lambert scramble up and lean in, one on either side, and close their teeth gently, so gently, on the curves of Jaskier’s throat. “Our omega. Ours to keep, and cherish, and love.”
And he turns his head a little and sinks his teeth into the nape of Jaskier’s neck, just as Geralt and Lambert bite down hard.
Jaskier screams. It hurts - of course it hurts. But it feels good, too, a strange deep pleasure nothing like that of orgasm or anything else he’s ever felt before. A settling, almost, as though something that had always been just slightly awry has finally fit perfectly into place. Or perhaps simply the filling of a lack he had not even known was there to fill. Whatever it is, he screams through it, and sags back against Eskel with a sobbing gasp as the three witchers draw away again, their lips stained red.
He can feel them.
It’s not telepathy, nothing so strong and clear. But he can feel them, feel their lust and love and possessive, protective joy, feel their pure ecstatic relief as the bond settles and they can feel each other again. Can feel a tension deep in Eskel, so deep he’s never even realized it was there, finally relax; can feel Lambert’s simmering glee and Geralt’s quiet, heartfelt adoration.
His alphas. His pack.
“Jaskier,” Eskel murmurs.
“I’m alright,” Jaskier says. The pain is ebbing already, in fact; he’s sure he’ll have lovely silver scars before the night is over. “I’m - really good, actually.” He wiggles a little, and Eskel bites off a moan. “Really really good.”
“Yeah, you are, buttercup,” Lambert murmurs, and kisses him; the kiss is bitter and coppery with Jaskier’s own blood, but he can’t bring himself to mind. “Our buttercup.”
“Ours,” Geralt agrees, leaning in for his own kiss as Lambert pulls away. “Our mate.”
“My alphas,” Jaskier says contentedly, and shifts a little until he’s draped more comfortably over Eskel, who kisses his ear, radiating such utter happiness that Jaskier could almost cry.
“We are,” Eskel says quietly. “And what does our mate want of us, hm?”
Jaskier considers as carefully as he can. “Well,” he says at last, “first I’d really like a nap. Heats are very tiring, you know.”
Eskel laughs and turns slowly onto his side, curling around Jaskier and nuzzling at the still-sore bite on the back of his neck. Jaskier hums contentedly, wiggles a bit just to make both of them gasp at the way the motion tugs on Eskel’s still-full knot, and reaches out to gather Lambert close. Geralt considers the heap of them and then flops over Jaskier and Lambert both, a heavy glorious weight.
The rest of Jaskier’s heat passes in waves of pleasure. He’s never without at least one alpha touching him, never has to wait to be filled. He does not think he could ever get his fill of kisses, but his alphas come close; he barely has to start to want a kiss before someone’s lips are pressed to his. And he can feel, beyond even the drugging heat-haze and the endless pleasure of their touch, how much they love every second of this, how much pleasure they get from bringing him again and again to ecstasy.
Jaskier sleeps at last - a true sleep, not a heat-nap - curled between his mates, safe and sated in every possible way, and wakes to the bright song of a bird, out on the windowsill, caroling the coming joyous spring.