Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Strange to be here without our lark,” Eskel says, stretching out on Geralt’s enormous bed with his hands behind his head. Jaskier has agreed not to leave the Wolf’s lands again for a while, but everyone had conceded that going down to the town at the base of the Trail wasn’t that dangerous, not as long as he brought an escort, and he and Ciri and Milena and Liliana have gone down to have a small adventure in the bustling market there. They’ll be back in a couple of days, a week at most; they have Lambert and Aubry and Cedric and Axel and Coën and Letho and Auckes and Zofia with them, and a xenovox, and Yen’s extra-powerful tracking amulets; it will be fine. And it’ll be good for Ciri to have a few days of relative freedom, without being constantly under the eye of either her Papa or her Uncle Eskel.

Eskel knows this, and so does Geralt, and they both agree with it, and they’re still both more than a little on edge.

“Hm,” Geralt agrees. “Very.”

“Not going to sleep terribly well,” Eskel admits.

“Hm,” Geralt says, and that’s a thoughtful hum. Eskel rolls his head to the side so he can see Geralt where he’s brooding by the fireplace, and raises a questioning eyebrow. “Could wear you out, amber-eyes.”

“Oh fuck you,” Eskel says, without any heat in it. “I’d wear you out, White Wolf.”

“You could try,” Geralt says, and Eskel rolls himself out of bed and launches himself at his dearest friend - his beloved lord - like they’re still striplings with no better sense than to spend an evening wrestling in front of the fire. Geralt goes down under his tackling lunge - lets himself be taken down, Eskel knows, as he definitely saw Eskel coming - and the bearskin rug on the hearth is thick enough to cushion their landing.

Geralt rumbles a deep growl and rolls them over, pinning one of Eskel’s hands; Eskel gets a leg between Geralt’s and heaves, flipping them back over again; and then they’re just scrabbling like untrained boys, both of them laughing quietly as they scuffle. Geralt could probably win this fight if he really exerted himself - he is stronger than Eskel is, when it comes right down to it - but without some serious effort, they’re fairly evenly matched, and neither truly gains the upper hand for long minutes.

And Eskel grins to himself and does something he would never have dared when they were young, when he did not know that just as his heart is Geralt’s, so too is Geralt’s his: he leans down during one of the brief moments he’s on top of their wrestling match, and kisses Geralt as thoroughly as he knows how.

Geralt makes a startled noise and goes still, and Eskel uses the brief pause in their mock fight to seize Geralt’s wrists and pin them to the bearskin rug. Geralt laughs softly into Eskel’s mouth.

“Caught me,” he murmurs as Eskel breaks the kiss and grins wildly down at him, heart beating faster than normal with the exertion of their wrestling match, prick brushing against Geralt’s, both of them hard as steel.

“Yeah, I did, Wolf.” Eskel’s voice is a rasp, hungry and deep.

“And what will you do with me?” Geralt inquires. Eskel knows Geralt could break the grip on his wrists, could flip them back over and take whatever he pleased, but Geralt is quiet and docile beneath him, lips quirked in a tiny smile. Fuck but he’s lovely. Always has been. Always will be.

What does he want to do with Geralt tonight? What does he want to do with his beloved lord, spread out below him like a feast, lips curved in that tiny, beautiful smile, golden eyes blown dark as midnight, hair like moonlight against the dark fur of the rug -

Heh, their lark is rubbing off on him; Eskel never used to think in poetry.

“Hm,” Eskel says, teasing, and Geralt laughs, soft and fond, and Eskel kisses him again, kisses that laugh and the taste of warm honey, rich and sweet. One kiss turns into two, turns into five, turns into some uncounted number as the fire burns down to embers, and Eskel drapes himself over Geralt, his grip on Geralt’s wrists gentling, hands sliding up until their fingers tangle together. When their lips part at last, Geralt makes a soft pleased noise, and Eskel nuzzles his way along the curve of Geralt’s jaw, mouthing at the stubble there, pleasantly prickly against his lips.

“Could kiss you all night, Wolf,” Eskel murmurs against Geralt’s skin, and Geralt tips his head back and hums contentedly.

“Could let you,” he says.

“Yeah?” Eskel says, and that sounds - really nice, actually. Eskel is quite fond of the energetic sex he and Geralt and Jaskier tend to have, but a long evening of quiet kissing sounds a lot like heaven right now. “Alright.” And he presses his lips to Geralt’s again.

One kiss turns into three, turns into ten, and then Eskel loses count somewhere around a dozen; loses himself in deep drugging kisses and the warmth of the fire. Geralt is spread out below him in perfect languid contentment, their pricks rubbing lazily together, and it’s not blazing passion or lightning-strike urgency, but a slow easy pleasure like sinking into blood-hot water, every muscle relaxing, every care drifting away.

Eskel almost doesn’t realize he’s going to peak before it’s upon him, and he gasps against Geralt’s lips and shudders, feeling wet heat spread between them as a wave of ecstasy washes over him. Geralt makes a low, hungry sound and wraps a leg around Eskel’s, thrusting up against him with sudden fervor, and Eskel moans as he feels Geralt’s prick twitching hard against his. The smell of their mingled pleasure rises around them, intoxicating and rich.

“Hmmm,” Geralt hums, low and sweet, and his movements slow but do not cease. “Eskel.”

“Geralt,” Eskel murmurs, and kisses his beloved lord again, again, again - and the pleasure doesn’t really have time to ebb before it’s building again, long slow waves of it, growing swifter and sharper and sweeter as they work towards a second peak together.

They could do this all night, Eskel realizes. They’re Witchers; they don’t really have a refractory period. They could just stay here all night, kissing and rubbing against each other and riding the waves of pleasure until they smell so much like each other no one will be able to tell where one ends and the other begins.

“How many times do you think we can go, Wolf?” Eskel asks quietly, pulling back just far enough that he can really savor the expression of quiet, sated contentment on Geralt’s face. “Three? Five? More?”

Geralt grins, slow and sweet, and stretches, sweat-slick skin sliding against Eskel’s deliciously. “Not sure,” he admits. “Let’s find out.”

Eskel groans and kisses him, and lets himself forget that there has ever been anything but this: these kisses, slow and sweet and intoxicatingly good, this soft place before the fire, the warmth licking at their skin, the scent of their pleasure filling the room, the sound of Geralt’s quiet rumbling moans.

By the time they finally fall asleep, tangled up together and blissfully exhausted, somewhere in the small hours of the morning, they’ve figured out that the answer to Eskel’s question is at least eight.

And Eskel thinks he’s maybe gotten almost enough kisses.

Chapter Text

Lambert is quite possibly in heaven. His own, personal, very small and exquisitely perfect heaven.

In other words, he’s sitting on the floor of their bedroom, his back against their bed, and Milena, utterly naked, is standing over him with her feet on either side of his hips and her arms braced on the bed, and he’s got his hands on her hips and his mouth between her thighs and his tongue buried as deep inside her cunny as it’ll go.

Heaven smells like roses and honey and lust, and sounds like Milena’s tiny moans of pleasure, and tastes so fucking good. Lambert could very happily stay right here for-fucking-ever, coaxing those beautiful sounds from his beloved with lips and tongue and his own happy growls, which she seems to appreciate at any time but most especially when they’re pressed against her pearl just so.

Milena peaks with a gasp and a low, almost musical moan. It’s her third peak since Lambert pulled her cunny to his mouth, and her legs are shaking, but he can hold her up, can take her weight as long as he pleases. Witcher strength finally fucking good for something besides killing monsters.

Lambert loves a lot of things about Milena. Her courage, her sense of humor, her talent with languages and daggers and embroidery needles, her grace, her intelligence. He could go on and on.

Right now, though, he’s a little more focused on the physical.

He loves her hair: the feel of it, like heavy silk against his palms. The way the smell of her rosewater soap lingers on his hands after he braids it. The way it looks spread out against the pillows of their bed.

He loves her eyes: dark and deep enough to get lost in, wide and lovely when she looks up at him, the crinkles at their corners when she smiles. The way they get darker when he kisses her, when he looms above her in their bed.

He loves her mouth, fuck, he could spend hours just kissing her, and has. The softness of her lips, the tiny sting of her teeth against his own lips, her clever tongue. The sounds she makes, quiet and sweet and addictively good.

He loves the elegant line of her throat, pale and perfect - loves the way she tilts her head back and bares it to him without any fear, the way her skin tastes, the way she moans, soft and sweet, when he licks and kisses along it.

He loves her hands: dainty and delicate and dagger-callused, gentle and soft and growing stronger by the day. He loves the way she touches him, careful and kind like she’s worried she could somehow do him harm, tracing over the lines of his scars or cupping his cheek in her palm or clinging tightly to his shoulders as he moves above her.

He loves her breasts: small enough to fit perfectly in his palms, rose-pink nipples that turn to tight buds when he brushes them with his fingers or his tongue. The sensitivity of them. He’s brought her to her peak more than once with nothing but his lips and tongue upon her breasts, and fuck but it’s good.

He loves the gentle curve of her stomach, softness over surprisingly hard muscle, the way she laughs when he dips his tongue into her navel, the way her waist fits so perfectly into his hands. He likes to lie with his head on her stomach, sometimes, and doze while she strokes his hair, surrounded in the scent of roses and honey.

He loves her thighs, the so-soft skin of them, smooth as silk and warm and smelling so good, roses and honey and salt and lust. Every night he kisses away the marks that the harnesses for her daggers leave, the faint reminders of the hidden deadliness she keeps under silk skirts and dainty manners.

He loves her ankles, which is fucking absurd, but they’re really nice ankles: strong and slender and elegant like the rest of her. He loves the way he can curl his fingers around them when he’s sitting at her feet with his head in her lap; he loves the way he can prop them on his shoulders when he’s fucking her, and she’ll laugh and cross them behind his neck and pull him closer.

And oh, gods, he fucking loves her cunny. The way she tastes, salt-sweet and rich; the way he can lick her open and make her moan so loud the walls echo with it. The way she feels around his fingers - the way she feels around his prick, always so tight and wet and sweet. He could spend hours licking her open - has, and is, and will again. He could spend days fucking her. Right here, right now, is the only place he wants to be in the whole damn world.

“Lambert,” she says, muffled by the sheets, and Lambert hums an answer. “Lambert, please.”

“Anything,” Lambert growls, and grins when the rumble of his voice against her makes her shiver. “Anything, Milena.”

Milena says, “Get up here and fuck me,” and every thought in Lambert’s head turns to a sort of fizzing incoherence.

He moves faster than he’d realized he could move outside of battle, sliding out from his cozy spot on the floor between her legs and rising to his feet and plastering himself against her, chest against her back and hands covering hers where they’re knotted in the sheets and face buried against the crook of her neck where the scent of roses and honey and lust is strongest, prick riding against her ass in a way that makes them both moan. “How do you want me,” he pants against her skin.

Milena makes a sort of yearning sound and wriggles as much as she can beneath him. “In me,” she says, and Lambert lets go of one of her hands and reaches down between them to guide the tip of his prick just barely into her cunny. Puts his hand over hers again. Spreads his feet a little wider apart, and braces his knees against the bed.

“In you,” he agrees breathlessly, and thrusts.

Gods be fucking good, he is never going to be able to put into words how good it feels to be buried hilt-deep in her, holding her close, utterly surrounded by the smell of roses and honey and lust. “Fuck,” he breathes against her ear, and Milena laughs, a breathless half-desperate sound.

“Fuck,” she agrees. “Please.”

“Yes,” Lambert says, and starts to move, long slow luxurious thrusts that let him savor every inch as he draws slowly out of her and slides in again. He’s an impatient bastard in almost every other aspect of his life, he knows that, but in this he can be patient, can take his time, because the sounds Milena makes - the way she goes pliant and languid beneath him - the taste of her skin as he licks the sweat from the curve of her throat - all of it is so fucking good that he wants it to never end.

It has to, of course; after a glorious, wonderful, fucking agonizingly good interlude where the only sounds in the room are Milena’s soft, happy moans and Lambert’s own less beautiful noises, Milena’s breath starts to come a little faster, and Lambert can taste the approach of her next peak. He frees one hand to reach down to where he’s buried in her, to find her pearl and stroke it just the way he’s learned she likes, and her soft moans turn to low cries of pleasure, and her heartbeat kicks up, and Lambert grins against the nape of her neck and shifts his hips just a little and knows he’s hit the perfect spot inside her when she wails her peak into the soft linen of the sheets.

The feel of her clenching around him is enough to drive him fucking mad, and he plants his hands on the bed and fucks into her hard, three vicious shoves of his hips that draw out her peak until she’s shaking with it, and send him toppling over his own peak with a growl that reverberates from the stone walls.

He manages to catch himself on his elbows before he crushes her, his chest plastered to her back, his nose buried in her rose-scented hair. Milena whimpers softly, shivering and clenching weakly around his prick, and Lambert moans against her throat. She gropes to one side until she finds his fist, and wraps her delicate hand around it, holding tight to him. Lambert makes a low, pleased rumble deep in his chest, and Milena hums back, her heartbeat slowing from hummingbird-swift to something a little more normal for a human, her breathing steadying.

“Good,” she says at last, soft and pleased. “Mmm.”

“Fuck yes,” Lambert agrees, and moves very slowly and gently, pulling out of her. Milena makes a tiny sound almost of dismay. Lambert presses a kiss to the nape of her neck and backs up a single step just long enough to pick her up, easy as anything, and flip her over onto her back, her hair splaying out across the sheets, and goes to his knees with her legs draped over his shoulders, and buries his mouth between her thighs again.

“Lambert!” Milena yelps, and Lambert growls against her, tasting himself in her, their pleasure mingled. “Oh fuck, Lambert!”

There’s nothing quite like hearing Milena swear, knowing she learned that from him. The filthy words sound wonderful in her elegant tones, her lovely voice. She reaches down and scratches her nails through his short-cropped hair, and Lambert shudders and growls again, and grins when she squeaks and writhes beneath him.

“One more,” she gasps. “I can’t - one more is all I can bear, my love.”

“One more,” Lambert agrees, and licks at her slow and sweet and gentle, just the way she likes it best, until her legs tremble on either side of his head and she throws her head back and shivers like an aspen in a high wind, a high thin keening noise rising from her throat.

He leans back and looks at her, feeling very smug indeed. She’s flushed pink all the way down to the tips of her gorgeous breasts, and her hair is stuck to her cheeks in little tendrils, all her limbs are sprawled out limply against the sheets, and she’s gasping for air and shivering in little aftershocks of pleasure.

Lambert crawls up onto the bed beside her and stretches out, propping himself up on one elbow, and strokes the hair away from her face, tracing her hairline with a gentle finger. Milena smiles up at him.

“Kiss me,” she says quietly, and he leans down and presses his lips to hers, a gentle pressure without any weight behind it, sweet affection and nothing more.

“Fucking beautiful,” he murmurs against her lips. “Fucking beautiful, Milena.”

She laughs quietly. “My foul-mouthed, silver-tongued wolf,” she says. Lambert can feel his ears going hot.

“Yours,” he admits. Milena sighs contentedly and rolls over to nestle against him, tucking her head against his throat and wrapping one arm around his waist. Lambert curls his own free arm around her and holds her close, breathing in the scents of roses and lust and love and mingled pleasure.

Fucking heaven; Lambert can’t imagine anywhere else in any world he’d rather be.

Chapter Text

“Get your clothes off and lie down, sunshine,” Jaskier says, and Eskel raises an eyebrow at him.

“Little hasty there, catmint,” he observes. Jaskier grins.

“Actually no,” he says. “Gonna be a while before we get to any fucking tonight, if we do at all. But I promise you’ll enjoy yourself.”

Eskel gives him an extremely dubious look, but he also takes his clothes off and lies down, because Jaskier’s Wolves are very well-behaved when they want to be.

“There’s my lovely wolf,” Jaskier says, and kneels beside his lover, tapping Eskel gently on the nose. “Your job, my heart, is to lie still and enjoy yourself.”

“Just that?” Eskel asks, sounding a little taken aback.

“Just that,” Jaskier says firmly. “Possibly I’ll ask you to roll over at some point. Otherwise, just lie there and bask, dear one.”

Eskel shrugs a little. “Alright.” It’s clearly more a willingness to be indulgent than any true belief that he’s going to enjoy the evening, but Jaskier can work with that.

His Witchers always forget that whatever his undeniable other skills, he is very, very good with his hands. They’re his most important tools, more so even than his voice, and he’s strong enough to startle even a Witcher, and dextrous enough to handle even the most delicate instrument.

He starts with one of Eskel’s hands, because it’s closest and also almost certainly not what Eskel is expecting. Gentle strokes, first, to smooth the oil into Eskel’s skin, and then a careful focus on each blunt finger, followed by the back of his hand and wrist. By the time Jaskier turns Eskel’s hand over to rub his thumbs in little circles in the hollow of Eskel’s palm, Eskel is already starting to look a bit glazed, like he can’t quite believe how good it feels.

Jaskier grins to himself and strokes his palm up Eskel’s forearm, and Eskel sags a little more deeply into the mattress, eyes falling closed. Jaskier hums approval. “Just so,” he murmurs. “Just so, my heart.”

“Dangerous little lark,” Eskel replies, sounding almost drugged.

“Just now figuring that out?” Jaskier chuckles. “Shh, and let me work.”

Eskel smiles and falls silent, save for low hums deep in his throat, as Jaskier works his way up one arm and down the other, and then moves down to the end of the bed and starts on Eskel’s feet, working his way up Eskel’s legs in slow increments. Eskel’s humming grows more constant, and deeper in his chest, until it sounds almost like purring. Jaskier carefully doesn’t say a damn thing, because the absolutely last thing he wants to do right now is startle Eskel out of his peaceful haze.

He’s careful with Eskel’s chest, tracing each scar with gentle fingers until he can find the spots where Eskel carries his tension, focusing on one at a time until Eskel is pretty much limp beneath him.

He almost can’t bear to disturb the Witcher beneath him, but -

“Roll over, dearest,” he whispers, moving off to one side. “Roll over for me.”

Eskel makes a sort of querulous noise and flops, very inelegantly, over onto his front. Jaskier strokes his hair, murmuring meaningless noises until Eskel has relaxed and started purring again, and then starts with Eskel’s shoulders and his broad, lovely back. Gods, it feels like Eskel carries the weight of the entire keep on his shoulders, from the knots of tension there, but Jaskier is perfectly happy to spend as long as it takes until he finds every one of them and renders Eskel into a purring puddle on the bed.

By the time he gets all the way down to Eskel’s ass, Eskel is very nearly asleep. Jaskier grins to himself and switches to gentle, easy strokes down Eskel’s back, until Eskel’s purring turns into quiet snores.

“Told you,” Jaskier murmurs, very softly. “There’s my darling wolf.” He tucks a blanket over Eskel before stripping hastily out of his own clothing and snuggling up under one of Eskel’s heavy arms. Eskel’s slow breaths lull him to sleep almost before he finishes squirming into place.

He wakes up tucked against Eskel’s chest, with Eskel’s nose tucked against the nape of his neck and one brawny arm looped around him snugly, and Eskel’s prick nestled hot against his ass. “Good morning, catmint,” Eskel whispers.

“Good morning, my heart,” Jaskier says, squirming a little and grinning when Eskel’s breath catches. “Sleep well?”

“I did, thank you,” Eskel says. “You have marvelous hands.”

“Why thank you,” Jaskier grins, reaching back with one apparently marvelous hand and twining it through Eskel’s hair. Eskel makes a pleased noise deep in his throat, and presses a kiss to the curve of Jaskier’s shoulder, and his prick twitches against Jaskier’s ass.

“We do need to get moving,” Jaskier says reluctantly - with Geralt out camping with Ciri, Eskel and Jaskier are in charge, and need to be available to their people.

“We have a little while yet,” Eskel says, and reaches out to the bedside table, retrieving a little pot of oil. “Let me?”

“Whatever you want,” Jaskier says without hesitating. He’s not sure he could ever deny Eskel anything; he certainly doesn’t want to.

“Sweet little lark,” Eskel says, and slips his hand down between Jaskier’s legs to smear oil on the soft skin of his inner thighs, then on his own prick, feeding it carefully between Jaskier’s legs. Jaskier moans appreciatively and presses his legs together, and Eskel loops one leg over them to hold them tight together before wrapping his still-slick hand around Jaskier’s prick.

“Fuck,” Jaskier says approvingly.

“That was the idea,” Eskel agrees, and thrusts gently. Jaskier whimpers at the feeling of Eskel’s prick stroking against his thighs, Eskel’s hand tight around his prick. “Sing for me, lark.”

Jaskier moans aloud and lets his head fall back against Eskel’s shoulder. “Any song requests?” he gasps, and Eskel chuckles and sets a slow, languid rhythm of thrusts that makes Jaskier’s eyes roll back in pleasure.

“Only your lovely sounds,” Eskel murmurs. “Let me hear you, sweet lark.”

Jaskier lets his eyes fall closed and gives himself entirely over into Eskel’s hands, letting his moans and whimpers fall easily from his mouth as Eskel moves, steady and inexorable as the tides, prick hot as a brand between Jaskier’s thighs and hand tight and slick and glorious around Jaskier’s prick. The low growl reverberating through Eskel’s chest is astonishingly arousing.

“Come for me, catmint,” Eskel whispers in Jaskier’s ear, low and coaxing, and Jaskier keens softly as Eskel’s hand tightens and twists, and Jaskier’s peak takes him like a sudden flash of lightning. As he comes down from his peak, panting with ecstasy, he feels Eskel stiffen and grunt as his prick twitches hard between Jaskier’s thighs.

They lie there, tangled together and breathing hard, for a long moment, and then Jaskier cranes his head back for a clumsy kiss. “I think,” he says, “we need a bath.”

Eskel chuckles, low and sweet, and props himself up on one elbow so he can give Jaskier a much more thorough kiss. “Suppose we do, at that,” he agrees. “Shall I carry you down?”

Jaskier laughs. “Sure,” he says, and squeaks a little as Eskel sweeps him up into his arms, tugging the rather stained blanket off the bed to cover him, and heads for the hot springs, bare and unashamed - and much more relaxed than he was the night before.

Chapter Text

“Now remember,” Aiden says, winking, “this’ll only work once.”

Milena grins. “Once is all I need.”

“Then I think you’ve got it down, kitten.”

*

Lambert knows the rhythms of sparring with Milena, knows the way she moves, knows her strength and speed and dexterity as well as he does his own. He knows all the tricks she does - he taught her all the tricks - and he will always, always be faster.

In other words, he’s gone and gotten fucking complacent, just the way Vesemir’s always warning them not to.

So really it’s his own fucking fault that he’s so surprised when, halfway through a pleasant but otherwise unremarkable sparring match, Milena suddenly lunges into a move Lambert genuinely has never fucking seen before, and the shock of it is jarring enough that she knocks the fucking knife from his hand and whirls in close - and stops with the blade of her dagger gleaming a scant, trembling inch from his fucking throat.

Lambert goes utterly still, not even breathing, with the sudden overwhelming surge of pure fucking lust that washes over him.

He opens his mouth to say - something, probably a curse word - and what comes out instead is a thin, desperate whine.

Fucking hell, Milena’s gorgeous any time and even lovelier with a knife in her hand but now, grinning up at him in triumph, blade unshaking in her slender hand, deadly and gentle and ruthless and merciful -

Very, very slowly, Lambert puts his hands up, and takes a single step backwards, and sinks to his knees. Milena’s knife follows him down, staying that perfect, careful inch from his skin.

“I yield,” Lambert rasps, his throat dry. Milena smiles, sweet and delighted, and puts up her dagger, slipping it into its hidden sheath beneath her skirts. “Fucking hell, Milena.”

Milena giggles, and leans down to kiss him, and he cups her face in his hands and puts everything he has into the kiss. “Please,” he says as she pulls away just far enough to catch her breath. “I have got to get my fucking mouth on you.”

“Alright,” Milena says, and the wave of rich lust in her scent is fucking intoxicating. “Race you back to our rooms -?”

“No,” Lambert says. He’s far, far too desperate to make it all the way up to their rooms. “No one ever comes in here - fuck, Milena, please.”

Milena hesitates, a thread of nervousness winding through her scent, and then she grins. “Yes,” she says, and backs up until she can sit down on one of the benches along the wall.

Lambert genuinely isn’t sure if he stands up and runs or manages to teleport across to her, but between one breath and the next, he’s kneeling between her feet, hands tangled in the silk of her skirts. She spreads her legs a little wider, and he pushes the skirt and underskirt up until he can slide his hands up her stockinged legs and hook his fingers into the waistband of her linen braies and rip the damn things apart. Milena squeaks in surprise, but the noise turns into a low astonished moan as he gets his shoulders under her thighs to spread them wider and wraps his hands around her hips and buries his face in her glorious cunny.

He can feel the harnesses for her daggers against his shoulders, and fuck but that’s good, the reminder of the deadliness she keeps so carefully hidden beneath her dainty silks. Her fingers scratch through his hair, nails gentle against his scalp, and he loses himself in it: the taste of her, the sound of her soft moans, the scent of roses and honey and lust.

Her fingers tighten around locks of his hair and she makes a louder sound, half a gasp and half a whimper, and shakes beneath his hands and tongue as she peaks. Lambert raises his head just long enough to look up at her face transfigured with pleasure, and decides that one peak is nowhere near enough, and gets his tongue back where it fucking well belongs. Milena shakes, and her hips buck against his hands, and she moans loud enough that it echoes back from the stone walls of the salle.

Lambert should maybe care that they’re doing this in what is, technically, a public place, but first of all pretty much nobody ever comes to interrupt their sparring matches and second of all - let them see, let anyone who wants to see how fucking glorious Lambert’s lady is, how fucking lucky Lambert is.

It’s probably good that nobody does come in, though, as Lambert brings Milena to a second peak that makes her whimper and then a third that makes her wail, a gorgeous noise of pure ecstasy that knocks Lambert right into his own orgasm without so much as a touch to the prick still trapped in his trousers.

He kneels there panting against the sweat-slick skin of Milena’s thigh, startled almost as badly as he was when she knocked his knife away. He hasn’t come in his trousers in - in fucking decades.

Milena makes a shaky sort of noise and pets his hair gently, hand trembling. “My love?”

“‘M fine,” Lambert mutters. He is. He just...needs a moment.

“Ah,” Milena says, and goes on petting him, her heartrate and breathing slowly calming to something a little more normal for a human.

Finally Lambert raises his head. “So,” he says, “where the fuck did you learn that move?”

“Aiden,” Milena says, grinning. “I told him I wanted to learn a trick that you wouldn’t know, to surprise you with.”

Lambert laughs and sits back on his heels, tugging her skirts carefully back into place. The braies are an entirely lost cause; he looks at the linen scraps for a moment, then shrugs and unlaces his trousers and uses the scraps to wipe up some of the mess. “Well, you sure as fuck did that.”

“So I did,” Milena agrees. “If this is how you react to surprises, my love, I shall have to attempt to surprise you more often.”

Lambert laughs and stands and gathers her into his arms, heading for the door - they both need a change of clothing, and they’re sure as hell not going to be doing any more sparring today.

“Not going to catch me that easily again,” he warns her.

Milena kisses his cheek, eyes sparkling. “I wouldn’t try that trick again,” she assures him. “I shall have to come up with something else entirely.”

Lambert grins down at her. “Looking forward to it.”

Milena squirms, just a little, and blushes a pretty pink, and licks her lips. “So am I.”

Lambert licks his lips, too, and tastes salt and lust and roses. Fucking right he’s looking forward to it - to the surprises, and to giving Milena the proper homage for having surprised him.

For that matter, he thinks as he nudges open the door to their rooms and kicks it shut again behind him, he’s not done showing his appreciation for this surprise. The memory of Milena standing over him, dagger in her hand, looking like a warrior goddess come to life, is going to haunt his dreams; it’s only fair that he repays that pleasure in kind.

He sets her down on the bed and grins down at her. “Got anywhere to be today?”

Milena grins and stretches out, looking smug as any cat. “No. Had you plans, my love?”

“Fucking right I’ve got plans,” Lambert growls, and pounces.

They make it to supper...eventually.

Chapter Text

“And what would you like for your birthday, then, little lark?” Geralt asks, sprawling out a little more languidly across the hot spring’s stone seat. Jaskier takes a moment to admire the view properly, exchanging a brief look of companionable lust with Eskel, who is also following the long clean lines of Geralt’s body with hungry eyes.

“Well, you’ve already given me just about everything I could ever want,” Jaskier says thoughtfully. It’s true: they have given him a home, a purpose, a relationship so full of love that Jaskier sometimes thinks his heart might beat out of his chest with the strength of it. And Geralt and Eskel aren’t quite at Lambert’s level of gift-giving fervor, but they’ve both brought him silks and jewels, musical instruments and expensive inks, even a coat made out of wyvern-hide, which is both iridescently beautiful and resistant to stabbing, for him to wear whenever he leaves Kaer Morhen’s safety. But they are both giving him truly astonishing puppy eyes, so he wracks his brain for ideas.

“Ah,” Jaskier says at last, grinning. “I have it. A night - one night from each of you.”

“You have all of our nights, lark,” Geralt points out.

“Ah, but I want a night where I can ask anything of you, and you will give it without question, unless it is utterly abhorrent to you,” Jaskier says, his plans starting to unspool in his mind. “And the other of you will aid me in my…” he wiggles his fingers, grinning. “Diabolical plans.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow at Eskel, who shrugs. “I’m game if you are, Wolf.”

“Alright then,” Geralt agrees. “One night from each of us.”

Jaskier wiggles happily. “Thank you, my loves! I promise, this may be a gift for me, but you will enjoy it too.”

*

“Eskel, my heart,” Jaskier says softly, “help me get our Wolf undressed.”

Eskel nods, and Geralt stands still, looking a little uncomfortable, as Jaskier and Eskel between them carefully lift away his tunic and unlace his boots and trousers, Eskel bracing him as Jaskier coaxes his feet up one at a time to pull boots and pants and braies away.

“Our Wolf,” Jaskier murmurs as he stands. “Our beloved lord. Lie down for us, my heart.”

Looking slightly baffled, Geralt obeys, lounging back on the bed. Jaskier and Eskel strip out of their own clothing hastily, fumbling a little as they watch the White Wolf make himself comfortable against the many pillows. Geralt grins and appears to decide to play along; he drapes himself across the pillows like an odalisque, and looks very smug when Eskel makes a faint whining noise and Jaskier takes four tries to manage to unlace his trousers, too distracted by the beautiful sight to make his fingers cooperate. Well, smugness is all well and good, but Jaskier wants his Wolf overwhelmed tonight, drowning in pleasure.

“Eskel, kiss him,” Jaskier orders, and grins. “You remember what my massages are like, right?”

“I do,” Eskel says, smiling, and prowls onto the bed like the predator he is, pressing Geralt back with one hand on his shoulder and taking his mouth hungrily. Jaskier watches for a long moment, struck as always by the sheer beauty of the two of them together, dark hair and light mingling like night and moonlight, before kneeling between Geralt’s feet, gathering one into his lap and digging his thumbs gently into the sole. Geralt makes a little whimpering noise into Eskel’s mouth. Jaskier grins.

He takes his time, moving from Geralt’s feet slowly up his calves, finding each knot of tension and coaxing it away with careful hands. Eskel is drinking down Geralt’s moans, purring softly in the back of his throat as Geralt grows limper and more pliant beneath them.

“Lark,” Geralt gasps as Jaskier reaches his thighs, “what -”

“You thought I was going to be cruel to you, my love?” Jaskier murmurs.

Geralt shrugs just a little.

“Never in my life,” Jaskier says. “I will never do you harm. But you deserve a little pampering, my Wolf, a night where you need make no decisions, do nothing but feel how much we adore you.”

“I - pampering?” Geralt says, sounding a little strained.

“Yes,” Jaskier says serenely. “If you hate it, you need only say so. But this is what I want to do tonight.”

“Hm,” Geralt says, sounding rather baffled. Eskel chuckles and kisses him again.

“Well then,” Jaskier says contentedly, and goes back to his massage. He skirts around Geralt’s magnificent erection - that is for later; this is for relaxation. This is for making Geralt feel as cherished and adored as he truly is. He works his way up Geralt’s torso with long slow strokes of his palms, and then turns his attention to each strong hand in turn, unable to keep from kissing Geralt’s fingertips and the thin soft skin of his wrists where his Witcher-slow pulse beats steadily. By the time he makes his way all the way up to Geralt’s shoulders, the mighty White Wolf is a purring heap, eyes half-closed and hands limp against the sheets.

“Lovely,” Jaskier whispers. “Oh, my lovely Wolf, beautiful as moonlight, sweet as honey.”

“He is,” Eskel agrees, sitting back on his heels and stroking a thumb gently over Geralt’s cheekbone. “Gods, Wolf, you’re the loveliest sight in the whole damn world; look at you, so sweet for us.”

Geralt smiles, all lazy pleasure, and turns his head to kiss Eskel’s thumb, then licks thoughtfully at the pad of it. Eskel’s smile grows crooked and soft.

“Roll up on your side, my love,” Jaskier whispers.

Geralt hums discontentedly, but does so, and Jaskier slides into place behind him, nuzzling at his shoulders and the nape of his neck, pressing soft kisses against the skin. Eskel hums thoughtfully and shifts carefully around until he’s lying wrong-way-round on the bed, face level with Geralt’s prick and his own prick bobbing temptingly in front of Geralt’s lips. Geralt curls a hand around Eskel’s hip and pulls him a little closer, and Jaskier watches, licking his lips, as the two Witchers swallow each other down in near-perfect unison. Eskel rests a hand on Geralt’s waist, making a low happy sound deep in his throat, and closes his eyes in pleasure.

“Gorgeous, both of you,” Jaskier whispers. Gods, but he could watch this for ages - they are so well matched, so in tune with each other that it sometimes seems they are almost one mind in two bodies, and though they’re glorious on the sparring grounds together, like this they are more beautiful than anything else Jaskier will ever see. But sitting and watching is not part of his plan for the night; Jaskier bites his lip to distract himself and reaches for the pot of oil he left on the bedside table. Geralt lets Jaskier coax one leg up a bit, bending his knee to brace his foot against the sheets, and Jaskier lavishes kisses and gentle bites across Geralt’s shoulders as he brushes one slick finger across Geralt’s entrance. Geralt presses back against Jaskier’s finger and moans around Eskel’s prick; Eskel groans and shudders in his turn.

Jaskier takes his time opening Geralt up, relishing every moan and gasp, every tiny thrust of Geralt’s hips, the way his fingers knead against Eskel’s hip and he presses his shoulders back into Jaskier’s kisses. Jaskier doesn’t get to do this very often - Geralt is a generous lover, and a voracious one, but he does not usually allow himself to be taken care of so luxuriously. It’s a gift without price, to see the White Wolf giving himself over into Jaskier’s hands so willingly.

Eskel hums a little louder, and Geralt tosses his head back against Jaskier’s shoulder and makes a noise Jaskier really can’t quite describe, and arches into Eskel’s mouth as he peaks. Eskel swallows down his spend, making soft happy noises, and then keeps sucking, and Geralt whines, a beautiful desperate noise, and shivers all over.

“Gorgeous,” Jaskier whispers. “Oh, my Wolf, you’re gorgeous.” Geralt whimpers softly. Jaskier chuckles. “Can you give us another?”

Geralt shivers again and nods, a tiny gesture, before leaning forward again to take Eskel’s neglected prick into his mouth. Eskel growls quietly. Jaskier grins.

“My lovely Wolves,” he murmurs, and twists his fingers a little to wring another low moan from Geralt’s throat. “My heart, are you ready for me?”

Geralt’s hum is distinctly affirmative. Jaskier kisses Geralt’s shoulder again and slides his fingers out, replacing them with his prick pressing painstakingly slowly into his lover’s still-tight channel. Geralt makes a noise that probably would have been a curse if he could speak, but Eskel’s hand tightens on his waist to keep him from pushing back, and Jaskier takes his time, sinking into his beloved as slowly as he can bear.

Geralt makes a sound when Jaskier finally comes to rest fully sheathed in him - a sort of growling moan, muffled and desperate, that Jaskier could happily listen to every day for the rest of his life. It’s so lovely that he has to pull out and thrust in again, just as slowly, to see if he can elicit the same noise - and oh, he can. Jaskier props himself up on an elbow so he can see Geralt’s face, and is rewarded with an expression that he can only call pure bliss: Geralt’s eyes are mostly closed, and all the tension is gone from his jaw, and he’s sucking on Eskel’s lovely prick almost meditatively, like he could happily remain right where he is until the world spins to an end.

They find a rhythm, slow and sweet as dripping honey, urging each other on with soft moans, and Jaskier watches Geralt’s face hungrily, warmed to the bottom of his soul by the knowledge that he has made his Wolf - his stoic, quiet, self-sacrificing beloved lord - so utterly consumed by bliss as to forget aught else but this perfect moment.

He doesn’t quite realize the soft words that are spilling from his own lips, praise and wonder and utter filth, until Eskel shudders in sudden ecstasy and tears his mouth away from Geralt’s prick and peaks with a growling moan that reverberates off the walls, and it’s so damn lovely that Jaskier has to bite down on Geralt’s shoulder to keep from losing his own control entirely, and the noise level in the room drops immediately.

Oh well, his Wolves like his voice. Jaskier kisses the marks he’s left on Geralt’s shoulder - fading already, of course - and Eskel rests his head against Geralt’s thighs and pants softly for a moment before licking thoughtfully at the tip of Geralt’s prick, making Geralt whine softly and shiver under Jaskier’s hands.

“Come on, my love,” Jaskier whispers against Geralt’s ear. “You’re so beautiful in your pleasure - so sweet to let us have this, give you this. Come on, my dearest, my heart.” He punctuates the words with a thrust aimed as perfectly as he can for that golden spot, and Eskel, the wonderful man, chooses that precise moment to swallow Geralt’s prick down again, and Geralt makes a sound Jaskier couldn’t describe if he spent a thousand words to do it and throws his head back, body bending into a beautiful arch, and peaks so hard it almost looks like it hurts.

Jaskier almost doesn’t notice his own peak, he’s so distracted by the way Geralt looks consumed by pleasure. He could write a million songs, and never manage to convey the utter glory of the expression on Geralt’s face. The wolf in rapture lifts his head / he bares his throat to very few - no, Jaskier’s never going to sing that one for any audience but Geralt and Eskel. This moment is for them alone.

He pets Geralt’s side as the witcher slowly calms, breathing growing slow and even once more. Eskel wriggles until he’s right-way-round on the bed and cups Geralt’s face in one big hand, stroking his thumb over Geralt’s cheekbone and smiling down at him with amber eyes so full of adoration Jaskier thinks they’re almost glowing.

Jaskier eases away, reaching for the cloths left on the bedside table, and wipes the most obvious sweat and spend from Geralt and Eskel with gentle hands, then scrubs himself off well enough to sleep, at least - the hot springs tomorrow morning will be soon enough for a proper wash - and curls up against Geralt, who has flopped down on his back, Eskel pressed against his other side and already looking drowsy.

“Hm,” Geralt says, and laces a hand through Jaskier’s hair, coaxing him up into a kiss. “Well, lark, was your gift all you wanted?”

“Did it please you?” Jaskier replies.

Geralt smiles softly. “Yes.”

“Then it was everything I could ever have wanted,” Jaskier says, and settles with his head on Geralt’s broad chest, deeply contented. “Also, you’ll have to help me plan out Eskel’s night.”

Eskel chuckles. “I suspect I should be worried,” he teases gently, and laces his fingers through Jaskier’s where their hands lie on Geralt’s stomach.

“Maybe,” Jaskier says, lifting his head to grin at Eskel, who sighs and shakes his head and leans over Geralt to press a gentle kiss to Jaskier’s lips.

“I tremble in fear, catmint,” he says, and then kisses Jaskier’s nose. Jaskier can feel his eyes trying to cross as he attempts to stare at the tip of his own nose, and Geralt rumbles a deep laugh.

“My loves,” he says, and Jaskier settles down again, pleased beyond all measure.

“Best birthday gift ever,” he mumbles against Geralt’s skin, and is lulled to sleep by his lovers’ quiet laughter.

Chapter Text

Eskel ends up with a bard on his lap during supper, which he had half expected. They’re both feeling a little off-kilter today: Geralt and Ciri have gone up the mountain together for a father-daughter hunting trip, which is adorable and will doubtless result in Ciri coming home with stories of learning how to set snares and being allowed to howl at the moon, but it does mean Eskel and Jaskier have been left in Kaer Morhen to keep everything running smoothly, and are therefore missing their Wolf and their cub quite a lot. It’s easier to deal with during the day: Eskel has sparring and paperwork and other such duties to keep him busy, and Jaskier has composing and paperwork and wandering around the keep talking to people, which is a very useful habit of his in that it means he hears all the gossip, sometimes even before Eskel does, and can nip any potential problems in the bud or at least bring them to Eskel and Geralt before they become actual problems.

But at supper the big double chair is empty, and Jaskier stands there looking at it for a moment and then mutters a Skelliger curse word and puts his lute down and sits on Eskel’s lap. Eskel’s chair isn’t really large enough for two, but he’s not going to complain. He loops an arm around Jaskier’s waist and nuzzles at his throat, and Jaskier relaxes back against him with a long sigh, and not even Lambert says anything about it. They manage to eat without dropping too much food on each other, and Eskel has to admit, if only to himself, that having Jaskier in his arms does help with missing Geralt. If nothing else, Jaskier smells like Geralt, these days, just as Eskel himself does, down under the lust and the honey-sweet love, the smell of the White Wolf mingled with his own personal scent so deeply it might never fade.

Jaskier sings after supper, as much to distract himself as to amuse the Witchers, and Eskel watches and claps and even sings along with a couple of the jauntier songs. But Jaskier stops for the night rather earlier than he sometimes does, and Eskel takes one sniff of him when he comes back over to get a drink, and grimaces, and herds the lark out of the dining hall and off to Geralt’s rooms. Sadness - even very slight sadness - isn’t a smell he likes on Jaskier, and the best way to fix it that he can think of is cuddling their lark until he forgets to be sad.

Jaskier, as ever, has other ideas. He strips down with astonishing efficiency, tossing his clothes onto a chair, and flops backwards onto the bed, naked and gorgeous, and holds out his arms. “Come and kiss me, Eskel, sunshine.” He started calling Eskel that a few weeks ago - the day he admitted that Sunlit Lover is about Eskel, which threw Eskel for about five loops - and Eskel doesn’t quite know what to do with how warmly happy it makes him feel. So he sets that aside and crawls onto the bed to kiss Jaskier, because that’s a nice straightforward thing to do. Jaskier makes a lovely little noise against his lips and squirms, and Eskel pins him down very gently and pries his lips open with his tongue and does his best to kiss the bard senseless. It works about as well as it usually does, which is to say, not terribly well at all, but by the time he pulls away, there’s an appealing flush high on Jaskier’s cheeks, and his blue eyes are dark and gleaming, and he smells like lust instead of sadness, which is definitely an improvement.

“So,” Jaskier says, grinning, “there’s something I’ve been wanting to try, and I figure this is a good time, since I need a distraction from not having Geralt here, and I’m willing to bet my lute you do too.”

“Keep the lute, catmint,” Eskel says, tracing the curve of Jaskier’s ear with a gentle finger and smiling down at him. “You’re right.”

“Course I’m right,” Jaskier says. “So, are you in?”

Eskel gives him a long, slightly dubious look. “How’s about you tell me what you want first,” he says at last. He’s willing to do nearly anything for Jaskier, but he doesn’t like going into anything blind, be it a hunt or a political negotiation or an evening in bed.

Jaskier chuckles. “Darling sensible Eskel,” he says warmly, and reaches up to lift Eskel’s hand to his lips, kissing each fingertip in turn. Eskel waits, shivering a little at the touch of talented lips against sensitive skin. “I want to see if we can get your whole hand into me,” Jaskier says at last.

Eskel gapes. “Why?” he blurts after a moment of sheer incomprehension.

Jaskier shrugs. “Two reasons,” he says. “First, because your hands are gorgeous and huge and fucking sexy, and I want to know what it feels like. And second, because if I can take your whole hand, Eskel my love, then I’ll be able to take you and Geralt, one of these days.”

Eskel’s mouth goes dry, and he thinks he maybe moans. Fuck, what an image: their lark pinned between them, stretched wide around both their pricks, Geralt pressed against him inside Jaskier -

“Can we do that without hurting you?” he checks carefully.

“Reasonably sure, yes,” Jaskier says, and chuckles. “And by ‘reasonably sure’ I mean the last time I was in town, down mountain, I went and talked to the prostitutes at Madame Rosie’s. Took notes, too, I can show you if you like. Florian was very comprehensive.”

Eskel puts his head down on Jaskier’s shoulder and laughs for a while. Of course Jaskier went and asked a male whore for advice. And if it can be done without hurting Jaskier - Eskel takes a moment to imagine how Jaskier might look, stretched out and gasping and so full, with Eskel’s whole godsdamned hand inside him, how he might feel, as tight and hot as he always is around Eskel’s fingers but more so - and has to bite his lip against a sudden wave of arousal. “Alright,” he says. “But we stop if it hurts even a little, catmint.”

“Eskel,” Jaskier says softly, and coaxes his head up, and kisses him sweet as honey. “I would never ask you to do something that would harm me. If you don’t want to, we can do something else - I would be happy just falling asleep in your arms, I swear it.”

Eskel smiles, and kisses him back, making it deep and wet and filthy. “I definitely want you to fall asleep in my arms, catmint,” he murmurs. “But yes, I think I’d like to try. You’re always so pretty on my fingers and my prick, after all.”

“Flatterer,” Jaskier says, laughing, and tugs at Eskel’s tunic. “Get this off, then, and grab the oil.”

“Yes, sir, Consort sir,” Eskel teases, and Jaskier goes off into gales of laughter, and oh but he’s lovely like this, all pale skin and dark hair and the smell of happiness and lust and love.

Which is how Eskel ends up, several minutes later, kneeling naked on the bed with three fingers sunk deep into Jaskier, his lover’s hands wrapped around one of the bars on the headboard and his legs sprawled wide across the sheets, as Jaskier makes the most delicious noises, moans and whimpers and little half-voiced pleas, his prick already leaving a little pool of clear fluid on his stomach, his ass hot and tight and velvet-soft around Eskel’s fingers. He’s the loveliest thing Eskel’s seen in a long time.

“Another,” Jaskier begs. “Fuck, Eskel, I’m ready - another.”

“Eager,” Eskel rumbles, and Jaskier blinks open blown-dark eyes and grins.

“For you? Always,” he says. Which is true, sincerity so strong Eskel can smell it, and damnably appealing. Eskel nods and draws his fingers out and tucks his little finger in among them, and they slide into Jaskier with astonishing ease. Jaskier makes a sort of low cooing noise and somehow spreads his legs wider. Fuck, but he looks good like this, spread out and wanting.

Eskel realizes he’s growling softly, a hungry sound that reverberates off the stone walls; it doesn’t seem to be bothering Jaskier, so he decides not to worry about it. To be fair, Jaskier doesn’t appear to be thinking about anything but the four fingers thrusting very slowly in and out of his ass. He’s staring blindly up at the ceiling, making a sort of desperate whining noise every time Eskel’s hand sinks in, and quite clearly lost to the world.

Eskel’s frankly a little astonished when Jaskier manages to find his voice again: “More, Eskel, please!”

“More,” Eskel agrees, feeling a little dazed himself, and tucks his thumb very carefully into the curve of his palm. He’ll never forgive himself if he hurts Jaskier, and for a moment he thinks there’s no way in hell this could possibly work - Eskel has big hands, broad and strong and scarred - and then Jaskier shudders all over and moans like he’s dying and Eskel’s oil-slick knuckles slip impossibly forward and his hand is - gods. Is inside Jaskier’s ass.

“Fuck,” Jaskier whispers.

“Fuck,” Eskel echoes him, staring down in disbelief. “Should I -?”

“Move, gods, please,” Jaskier whimpers, and Eskel considers all the possible options and then very carefully twists his hand, his knuckles rubbing against that golden spot one after another.

Jaskier screams, a wail of unadulterated pleasure that makes Eskel very grateful for the soundproofing spell on the walls. “Fuck yes!” he gasps, and Eskel grins, knowing his expression is far too feral, and does it again.

This time Jaskier doesn’t have the breath to scream, but the breathless noise he does make is as beautiful as a song. There’s a distinct pleasure to rendering their lark completely speechless; it’s quite difficult to do, and very flattering when Eskel manages it. Jaskier looks like a dream come to life, head thrown back to bare his pale throat - Eskel can still see the faint traces of the last mark Geralt left there, the shadow of a bruise - and hands white-knuckled on the headboard, legs shaking as he tries desperately to spread them wider. Eskel feels a little light-headed, like maybe this is a dream, though frankly his dreams are never so detailed - nor so inventive.

“Catmint,” he whispers, moving his hand in tiny, tiny thrusts that make Jaskier’s breath catch in his throat and his hands tighten further on the headboard bars. “Catmint, come for me.”

“Eskel,” Jaskier rasps, and Eskel twists his hand one more time and watches in wonder and delight as Jaskier comes without a single touch to his prick, back arching so hard it looks like it might actually hurt. Fuck, but he’s beautiful. Eskel barely has time to wrap his free hand around his own prick and stroke it twice before he’s peaking in his turn, gasping in startled ecstasy as he spills over Jaskier’s thickly-furred chest and stomach.

“Holy shit,” Jaskier says after a long moment.

Eskel nods and begins, very very carefully, to pull his hand free. Jaskier assists as he can, mostly by going as limp as a well-cooked noodle, collapsing against the sweat-soaked sheets with a sigh of delight, and gives the most marvelous moan as Eskel’s knuckles slip out of him. It makes Eskel want to spread Jaskier’s legs and fuck into him all over again, but Jaskier looks done, utterly spent, so instead Eskel leans over to grab one of the cloths they keep on the bedside table and wipe both of them mostly clean. Jaskier unclenches his hands from the headboard and makes weak little beckoning gestures until Eskel lies down beside him, then flops over to drape himself across Eskel’s chest, humming contentedly.

“Well, catmint, was it all you hoped?” Eskel murmurs, stroking Jaskier’s hair softly.

“Mmm, yes,” Jaskier mumbles. “Was so good. Going to do that again. Also, definitely going to take both of you. Later.”

“Later,” Eskel agrees, and Jaskier murmurs something that might be assent and then, quite clearly, falls asleep, drooling a little against Eskel’s chest. Eskel chuckles and shifts until they’re both a little more comfortably sprawled, and slips into meditation. He won’t sleep tonight, not with Geralt gone, but he’s pleasantly tired and extremely satisfied, and it’s no hardship to lie here with their bard in his arms, warm and sated and very pleased with the world, and watch the fire burn down to gently glowing coals.

Chapter Text

Jaskier has been waiting for this moment for quite literally hours. Sitting next to Geralt during supper was a unique form of torture; dancing about playing his lute after the meal was over was a lot more difficult than it usually is. He’s really just lucky that he always smells like lust, or every Witcher in the hall would’ve been able to tell what he was up to. As it is, Geralt and Eskel have both been giving him mildly suspicious looks whenever he squirms a bit.

“What are you up to, catmint?” Eskel murmurs as Jaskier takes his seat again - very gingerly - and picks up his mug of ale.

“What makes you think I’m up to anything?” Jaskier replies, grinning. Geralt loops an arm around his waist and leans in to nuzzle at his throat, inhaling deeply.

“Up to something,” he rumbles.

“Nonsense, I am as innocent as a babe,” Jaskier says. Geralt and Eskel both snort.

“Go ahead and carry him off, Wolf,” Eskel says. “I’ll get our cub up to bed and come find you after.”

Geralt growls, soft and pleased. “Think I will.” He stands, picking Jaskier up; Jaskier squeaks. “Sleep well, cub.”

“Goodnight, Papa; goodnight, Jas,” Ciri chirps, giggling.

“Goodnight, menace,” Jaskier says, grinning down at her as Geralt swings him into a bridal carry. “Sleep well!” That last is called over Geralt’s shoulder as Jaskier is borne away.

“So,” Geralt rumbles as he kicks the door to his rooms shut behind them, “what are you up to?”

“You’ll just have to investigate and find out, my wolf,” Jaskier says, squirming a little and biting back a gasp as the toy shifts again.

“Will I now,” Geralt murmurs, and dumps Jaskier gently down onto the bed. Jaskier grins and sprawls out, putting his hands behind his head and spreading his legs like he’s planning to lounge there all night. Geralt shakes his head in amusement and sets about unlacing Jaskier’s doublet, manhandling Jaskier gently to get it and his undershirt off. “Nothing here,” he says, running gentle fingers through Jaskier’s chest hair and pausing to tweak a nipple. Jaskier squeaks indignantly. “Shall I keep looking?”

“Definitely,” Jaskier says, and Geralt chuckles and tugs Jaskier’s boots off with quick, easy movements, then eyes Jaskier thoughtfully for a moment, slides a finger under the laces of Jaskier’s trousers, and breaks them with a single swift jerk of his hand. Jaskier whimpers, aroused all out of proportion by the reminder of his beloved’s inhuman strength. He goes through more trouser-laces that way...but it’s always worth it.

Geralt grins, sharp-edged and fierce, and pulls Jaskier’s trousers off achingly slowly, licking his lips and eyeing each revealed inch of skin like he’s planning the marks he’s going to leave. Jaskier lies still and bites his lip almost to bleeding and watches Geralt’s pupils blow wider and wider until gold is almost eclipsed by black. Gods, but his wolf is the sexiest thing on two legs.

“Hm,” Geralt says, dropping the trousers on the floor and stroking a hand over Jaskier’s shin. “Still not seeing your mischief, little lark.”

“Really?” Jaskier says, squirming a little. “Maybe you should keep looking, then, my wolf.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow. “What are you up to, my lark?” he murmurs, clearly not expecting an answer, and Jaskier decides he’s going to move this game along a bit, and rolls over, getting his knees under him as he does so.

Geralt growls, and the bed shifts beneath Jaskier as he moves, nudging Jaskier’s knees wider apart as he settles between them. “Little lark,” he rumbles, and traces a finger gently down from Jaskier’s tailbone to the base of the plug sunk deep into Jaskier’s ass. “What is this?”

“Three guesses, and the first two don’t count,” Jaskier says, shivering a little as Geralt taps the plug’s base gently. Geralt hums and tugs at the toy a little, and Jaskier moans, a high quavering noise that makes Geralt growl.

He tugs the toy out an inch or so, and lets it sink back in again, slow as dripping honey. Jaskier fists his hands in the sheets and whimpers plaintively. And then Geralt says, in a tone that makes Jaskier shudder with anticipatory desire and also a fair amount of worry, “Hm.”

And then he gets off the bed. Jaskier looks over his shoulder, baffled and dismayed, but Geralt is just stripping, fast as only a Witcher can, and his lovely prick is gratifyingly hard already. “Up a moment, lark,” Geralt says, tapping Jaskier on the side gently, and Jaskier shifts over. Geralt lies down next to him, on his back, but the wrong way round, feet up near the pillows, and reaches over to tug at Jaskier’s hips. “C’mere.”

Oh, brilliant. Jaskier grins and shifts over hastily, until he’s kneeling over Geralt’s face and looking down at Geralt’s lovely, perfect, absolutely mouth-watering prick. He leans down eagerly, licking at the liquid already beading at the tip, and then squeaks as Geralt swallows his whole fucking prick down like it’s nothing, and then reaches up and taps gently at the base of the toy.

“Oh gods,” Jaskier whimpers.

“Hm,” Geralt hums, very smugly, around Jaskier’s prick, and lifts his hips just a little, a reminder of what Jaskier is supposed to be doing just now.

“Fuck,” Jaskier says, almost prayerfully, and gets his mouth on Geralt’s prick. It’s not going to be his best work, not with Geralt’s mouth on him and Geralt’s fingers tapping an unpredictable rhythm against the toy, shifting it against that golden spot deep inside Jaskier’s ass and making him shiver and moan with lust, but he’ll do the best he can, because Geralt deserves nothing but the best. And oh gods, the heat of Geralt’s mouth and the obscenely good things he can do with his tongue and the way Geralt tastes, salty and so good, and the delicious vibrations of Geralt’s soft growls - and oh fuck, Geralt has just figured out that tugging the toy out a little ways and then angling it back in just so makes Jaskier twitch and moan, and Geralt’s other hand on his hip is easily strong enough to hold him just where Geralt wants him -

The door opens and closes again, nearly soundlessly, and Eskel says, “Huh. I’m not sure what I expected, but this wasn’t it. What a lovely sight to walk in on.”

Jaskier moans what he sure hopes sounds like Come here and join in. Geralt does him one better, lifting Jaskier’s hips away until he can say, voice a low growl that does dangerous things to Jaskier’s self-control, “Come fuck our lark.” And then he swallows Jaskier’s prick again.

Jaskier whimpers.

“Well, that’s quite an invitation,” Eskel says, and there’s the sound of hasty undressing, and then the bed shifts slightly, and another pair of strong hands settle around Jaskier’s waist. “Look at you. Fuck, Wolf, you and our lark - gods.”

Geralt lets go of the base of the plug to put both hands on Jaskier’s hips so he can move him exactly where he wants him, and Eskel - bless the man, brilliant wonderful Eskel - takes over at once, fingers tracing around the base of the plug where it sinks into Jaskier’s body and then plucking gently at it, shifting it back and forth in tiny increments to see what noises he can wring from Jaskier’s throat. He seems fondest of the high pleading whine Jaskier lets out when he angles the plug just so, based on the number of times he elicits it.

“Gods,” Jaskier blurts, letting Geralt’s lovely prick slip from his mouth for a moment. “Gods, Eskel - Geralt - please, my wolves, please fuck me -”

Geralt reaches down with one hand to guide his prick back between Jaskier’s lips, and Jaskier moans around it. Eskel makes a thoughtful sort of sound, and curls his fingers around the base of the toy, and draws it out in one long, slow, achingly good slide - pauses for just a moment as it slips free and Jaskier whimpers at the sudden emptiness - and replaces it with his own prick, thick and hot and so fucking good.

This was definitely one of Jaskier’s better ideas. He moans approval, and Geralt hums back, and Eskel chokes out a laugh. “Fuck,” he says, and Jaskier wiggles his ass as much as he can given Geralt’s firm grip on his hips, to encourage that line of thought. Geralt makes a low rumbling sound of amusement, and oh gods that feels good; Jaskier whimpers and tries to thrust and can’t, held pinned just where Geralt wants him. Oh fuck yes.

Eskel begins to move, slowly, every thrust pushing Jaskier’s prick further into Geralt’s mouth and Geralt’s prick deeper into Jaskier’s throat, and Jaskier claws at the sheets and whimpers. When Eskel is in the mood to go slow, nothing in the world will convince him otherwise, and he can keep this up for hours, endlessly patient, wringing peak after peak out of his lovers until Jaskier, at least, has to admit defeat. Even a mildly immortal human can’t match a Witcher’s stamina. And Geralt is absurdly good with his mouth, just really an uncalled-for level of skill given Geralt’s general beauty and grace and other ridiculously attractive features; it’s simply not fair.

Jaskier peaks the first time with a rather undignified squeak, muffled by the prick in his mouth. He’s quite grateful for his lovers’ hands holding his hips up; he feels like all his bones have been filled with water. And Eskel, damn and bless the man, doesn’t stop, just keeps thrusting at that glacially slow, desperately good pace. Geralt hums approval around Jaskier’s prick, which has not been allowed to soften.

Jaskier is quite possibly going to die of orgasms. Well, that’s a hell of a way to go, and entirely on brand really.

Thank whichever gods look out for fools and bards, he does manage to bring Geralt off before his second peak hits him, because at that point he loses the coordination to do anything more than rest his head against Geralt’s ridiculously sturdy thigh and gasp with pleasure. And thank the same gods for Geralt and Eskel’s endless strength, because his legs feel like cooked noodles and he’s too dazed to even try to sing, much less keep himself propped up.

And then Eskel starts to talk. “Fuck, look at you, catmint, all strung out and loving it, so fucking sweet for us.” He runs one broad hand up Jaskier’s back to curl around his shoulder and tugs Jaskier up onto his shaky knees until he’s leaning back against Eskel’s sturdy chest, his prick still trapped in Geralt’s unfairly-clever mouth. “Beautiful,” Eskel murmurs against Jaskier’s ear, and strokes a hand down his chest, fingers making little patterns in the sweat-matted hair. “How many more can you take, catmint?”

“Not sure,” Jaskier manages to gasp. “Let’s find out?”

Eskel’s chuckle sounds almost wicked, low and warm and deeply pleased. “Sweet little catmint,” he rumbles. “Here now, Wolf, give us something nice to look at, hm?”

Geralt hums, making Jaskier squeak, and lets go of Jaskier’s hips with one hand to reach down and begin to stroke his prick in the same slow rhythm as Eskel's thrusts. Jaskier moans. Eskel growls softly and gathers up Jaskier's limp hands, pressing them to his chest, thumbs just brushing his nipples. “Go on, then, catmint,” he murmurs, and Jaskier whimpers and obediently begins to tease himself.

His third peak makes him scream a little, sharp-edged pleasure very close to pain. His fourth leaves him shaking in every limb, sagging back against Eskel without even the strength to hold himself upright as he feels Eskel spill hot within him and keep going. His fifth - he doesn't remember his fifth.

He comes to lying between his lovers, Geralt stroking his hair softly and Eskel petting his chest, both of them murmuring praise.

“My wolves,” he croaks. Eskel rolls away for a moment and returns with a mug of water, and Geralt helps him sit up enough to drink it. “That was... remarkable.”

“That was amazing, lark,” Geralt says quietly.

“Fucking gorgeous,” Eskel agrees.

Jaskier hums contentedly and snuggles down into the pillows. “You realize that this is not going to dissuade me from doing this again.”

Geralt chuckles. “Anytime, lark,” he murmurs, tone all lazy satiation.

“...Maybe not tonight,” Jaskier allows. Eskel laughs.

“No? And here I thought our lark was notorious for being always lusty.”

Jaskier can’t help laughing. “Ah, alas! You’ve defeated even my powers of lustfulness. Let it be known across the land, two Witchers are in fact enough to render even I, Jaskier of Kaer Morhen, completely wrung out.”

The sound of his wolves laughing is as beautiful as a midsummer morning, and Jaskier basks in it, dozing off again to the pleasant feeling of Eskel’s chest shaking with mirth beside him, and Geralt brushing tiny kisses against the top of his head. Oh yes, two Witchers are quite enough, and Jaskier is rather proud that he can keep up with them, and even surprise them now and again, as he did tonight.

That toy was definitely a good use of his coin.

Perhaps next time, one of his wolves will want to try...

Chapter Text

Zofia knows what men are like. She's spent the last seven years as a mercenary, after all. The men of her own company were usually decent; she wasn't the only woman among them, and the Captain came down hard on anyone making trouble within the company's ranks. But she's encountered enough assholes to know how men tend to be.

So she's not really expecting much when she knocks on Auckes' door. Oh, she's sure enough that he's a decent fellow that she's willing to see if he'll be alright in bed, but in her experience even decent men tend to be pretty absorbed in their own pleasure. If he's a reasonably satisfying fuck it'll be easier to get herself off afterwards, at least.

Auckes looks satisfyingly flabbergasted when she asks if he wants to fuck, which is rather flattering, all things considered...and that's about the last moment anything goes the way Zofia expected it to.

The first departure from expectations is that Auckes likes to kiss. Most men, in Zofia's experience, find kissing to be boring at best; or, often, they're saving that sort of soppy sweet bullshit for the women they actually care about, the sweethearts back home who they talk about wistfully around the campfire. Wistful talking has never kept any of them from making passes at Zofia, of course.

But Auckes backs her up against the wall and takes her face gently in his hands and kisses her and kisses her and kisses her until she's halfway drunk on it, and when she has to tilt her head back and take a few deep breaths, he bites his way down her throat, muttering about how fucking good she smells and licking hungrily at her skin, and ruts against her hip - both of them still clothed for the gods' sakes - and comes with a muffled grunt and a curse as soon as she reaches down between them to cup her hand around his prick.

She's about to be disappointed - already? Shit, so much for Witcher stamina - when he growls in her ear and picks her up and tosses her onto the bed without even seeming to exert himself, and then tears his own sleeping tunic and trousers off to reveal that he is, in fact, still extremely interested in the proceedings. Huh. Zofia wriggles out of her own nightclothes and tosses them off to the side just in time; Auckes pounces, uncoiling like his School’s namesake.

Zofia turns his pounce into a roll, and ends up on top of him. Auckes blinks up at her in obvious surprise, and then he grins, which is...men don’t tend to appreciate it when Zofia demonstrates her strength, but apparently he does. She pins his shoulders to the bed - he could break her grip in an instant, she knows that much from sparring with him, but he goes with it easily, still grinning - and takes a good look at him.

She’s seen him naked before, of course, in the hot springs, but the polite thing there is to sort of ignore the fact that everyone is extremely naked, and Zofia’s pretty good at keeping her eyes above collarbone level, so she hasn’t looked. He’s broad and pale and scarred, and she likes the look of him quite a lot. She likes the look of his prick, too, still damp from peaking once already, neither too large nor too small and definitely interested in the proceedings.

“I want,” she says, “to ride you into the fucking mattress.”

“Sure,” Auckes says, pupils blowing somehow even wider, until she can barely see the yellow around the edges. “One condition, though.”

“What?” Zofia asks warily.

“I get to eat you out afterwards.”

Zofia was not expecting that. She’s not expecting the way his head tilts back to bare his throat when she sinks down on him, or the way his hands go tight on her hips - there will be bruises, she knows, and decides she doesn’t mind - but don’t try to control her movements at all, or the way he groans her name like it’s a prayer or a curse or both together.

She rides him fierce and hard and almost vicious, and he lies there and pants her name in every shade of lust she’s ever heard, and when she shoves a hand down to her own clit and rubs herself off with ruthless efficiency, he follows her over with a whimpering moan and stays hard.

Well, alright then. Zofia slows a little, lets herself move a little more easily, luxuriates in the solid thickness of his length within her and the more-than-human warmth of him between her thighs, the heavy muscle under her palms where they’re braced against his chest, the look of astonished hunger on his face.

“You smell,” he says hoarsely, “so fucking good.”

Zofia raises an eyebrow. She’s never bothered with the sorts of scents some women do - they’d be wasted on her, plain as she is. She smells, as far as she knows, like the same plain soap they all use, and sweat, and probably lust. “I do?”

Auckes rumbles, a deep pleased note that shivers through her hands on his chest. “Oh, yes.”

“Huh,” Zofia says, and puts a hand down between her legs again. Auckes licks his lips.

“Let me?”

“...Sure,” Zofia says, because this night keeps getting stranger, and puts her hand back on his chest, and Auckes slides his own blunt fingers between her legs and proves that he may not be able to play an instrument but by the gods he can play a woman to perfection. Zofia’s vision goes fuzzy and her ears start ringing, she comes so hard.

She gets her wits back to find she’s on her back with Auckes kneeling between her legs, staring down at her like a starving man at a feast, still buried hilt-deep in her cunt and almost trembling with the effort of holding still. “G’wan,” she says weakly, and instead of rutting into her at once he bends down and kisses her again.

And then he fucks her hard enough to make her yell, that too-clever hand still rubbing in perfect little circles on her clit - fucking Witcher dexterity, ye gods - and brings her over again before he comes a third fucking time, what even are Witchers anyway, bracing his hand on the pillow beside her head and biting down on her shoulder to muffle the full-throated roar that accompanies his peak.

Zofia lies there panting, shoulder throbbing a little, and stares at the plain stone ceiling in astonishment. That was...not what she expected from this encounter. At all. Better, ye gods was it better, she’s never going to be able to fuck a human man again now that she’s had a Witcher, but really fucking unexpected.

“Right,” Auckes says, a little muffled, against her throat. “Fuck, you smell amazing.”

“I smell like I’ve been fucked stupid,” Zofia says.

“What I said,” Auckes chuckles, and pulls out slowly - Zofia grimaces a little at the feeling -

And he eels down the bed, moving much more quickly than she expects, and buries his mouth between her thighs.

“Fucking hell,” Zofia blurts. Her legs haven’t stopped shaking from the last peak, and his tongue is - look, Viper Witchers don’t have forked tongues, she checked, but it sure as hell feels as fucking agile as a forked tongue would be, and she has quite literally never had a man so enthusiastic about doing this - it’s rare enough that she gets one who’s even willing - and his hands are on her hips again, pinning her implacably to the bed, so she lets herself thrash, knowing she can’t break his grip, and claws at the sheets, and curses like the mercenary she is as he fucking feasts on her.

He brings her off again like that, and then, thank fuck, rests his head on her thigh and lets her pant her way to something resembling an even keel again.

“Melitele wept,” she croaks after a while. Auckes grins up at her, eyes glowing in the light of the candle beside the bed.

“Another?” he asks, smirking quite obviously when she actually whimpers at the thought.

“No more,” she says weakly, and Auckes chuckles and comes eeling up the bed again to curl around her.

“Stay?” he says hopefully.

Zofia was not expecting a Witcher to want to cuddle. But he’s warm, and Kaer Morhen is cold, and she really does not want to try to stand up right now - her knees feel more than a bit watery, and she’s not convinced she can walk - so -

“Sure,” she says, and lets him pull the blankets over them, and falls asleep safe in a Viper’s arms.