Archive of Our Own ^beta

Eskel is leading Scorpion down the trail, minding his own business, when he smells it.

Geralt.

Strange. This is further south than Geralt usually comes on his Path.

He cuts an immediate angle into the forest, scenting the air.

There’s no smell of blood. But Geralt’s scent is… strange. Weirdly familiar, though he can’t put his finger on why. He follows it cautiously, and finds that there’s another scent tangled in there as well. A… human?

Soon he doesn’t need to follow a scent, because he can hear an instrument being played, and a voice singing alongside it.

Ah, he thinks. This must be Jaskier.

And then he walks into the glade.

Jaskier’s sitting in the middle, cross-legged, surrounded by an array of what appears to be animal pelts, foraged fruits, and various coloured pebbles and stones. He’s idly picking a tune on a lute. There’s a flower in his hair. A little creek is trickling somewhere nearby. Eskel can see why Geralt favours this particular bard. He’s certainly handsome, and looks at least somewhat hardy, underneath the gaudy clothes.

Eskel clears his throat and Jaskier about jumps through his skin.

“I didn’t mean to startle y—”

“Melitele, Mother, and Crone,” Jaskier swears, hand pressed to his chest, lute forgotten beside him. “Where in the gods did you come from?”

“My apologies for the interruption,” he says, and inclines his head as formally as he knows how. Which is not very. “I was looking for—” As he straightens Jaskier’s eyes catch on the medallion around his neck. His whole demeanour changes in an instant.

“A witcher!” he cries. He leaps forward, grabbing for Eskel’s arm. “Oh, thank fuck! You have to help me!”

Geralt always said his bard was dramatic. Eskel quirks an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“It’s Geralt, he’s another… He’s one of you.”

“I’m aware,” Eskel says dryly. “You’re Jaskier. You’re his bard.”

“I’m his captive,” Jaskier cries, clutching at Eskel’s sleeve. “He won’t let me go! He’s gone crazy, you have to—”

Oh, shit.

Eskel yanks his arm free and starts backing up. The familiar edge to Geralt’s scent makes sense, suddenly. He didn’t recognise it because he’s never smelled it outside of Kaer Morhen. He’s never smelled it outside of winter in Kaer Morhen. And since it’s currently the height of summer in the backend woodlands of Leghe, he could be forgiven for not putting two and two together.

“Hells,” he swears, trying to extricate Jaskier who’s grabbing onto him again. “I can’t be here!”

“You have to help me, aren’t you his brother?”

“Trust me, he won’t recognise me right now.”

“There’s something wrong with him,” Jaskier wails, clutching tighter.

“No shit, bard! Get off me!”

“You can’t leave me here!”

“He’s in rut,” Eskel snarls, wrenching away. “And he’s nesting. If he finds me here he’ll—”

Geralt’s scent gets suddenly stronger. A branch cracks behind him.

Too late. Oh, fucking shit.

Eskel has seen Geralt go through a solid brick wall like a battering ram. He’s seen Geralt cleave a man dead in two. He’s seen Geralt tear the throat out of a full-moon helminth using his teeth.

So he feels no shame at all when he sidesteps behind Jaskier, keeping the bard between himself and the rutting witcher formerly known as Geralt of Rivia. Jaskier doesn’t seem all that concerned about being used as a human shield. After all, Geralt’s built a nest around his bard. It’s Eskel who’s trespassing.

“Geralt,” he says, as calmly as he can, hands raised, backing up. “I didn’t know. I was already leaving.”

Geralt prowls silently forward, head cocked.

Like Eskel is prey.

“I didn’t touch him,” Eskel promises. “He’s yours, I swear it. I’m going, I’m going.”

“You’re not going!” Jaskier cries, apparently oblivious to the fact that Eskel’s life very much depends on him doing so.

“You’re on your own,” Eskel hisses at him.

And then he dodges to the side, signs Aard at Geralt’s legs, and makes a run for it.

He probably would have gotten away with it, too. If not for the gods-damned booby trap.

The second he steps on it, feels the hidden rope slide free from its mooring beneath his foot, he’s already thinking ah, should’ve been watching for that. Vesemir would put him on muck duty for a month.

But it’s too late to beat himself up. His foot is yanked out from under him and a suspended log is already hurtling towards his head.

This is going to hurt.

He turns his face instinctively, to protect his eyes, and so he misses what happens next. What he knows is that something barrels into his side so instead of being whalloped in the face by half a dead tree, the log only catches him on the shoulder.

It’s enough to knock him over, anyway, and his head cracks into the ground sharply.

Well, this has gone poorly, he thinks. And then it’s lights out.

---

He comes to in increments. His head feels like a melon a blacksmith has mistaken for an anvil, but he fights the urge to groan. Waking up with a melon-anvil for a head usually indicates that alerting anyone nearby of your consciousness is a bad move. Who was he running from?

Oh, yeah. If he’s not dead yet then he definitely shouldn’t remind Geralt of his presence.

He tries to take stock without moving. He’s lying on something soft. A bedroll? Under some kind of blanket or fur. There’s music nearby.

He tries to scent the air but almost sneezes because it’s just Geralt. Gods, he’d forgotten how powerful the man’s scent is when he’s rutting. Itchy, like too many spices in a stew.

He must grimace slightly, because suddenly he’s there, great big hulk of a man, shadow blocking out so much of the light Eskel can tell even with his eyes closed, which just makes him jerk his eyes open all the faster when a hand comes around the back of his neck. He whips his own hand out, fast as lightning, throwing the blanket off to grip the wrist in front of him, but Geralt doesn’t let go, only draws his head upwards, gently.

“Geralt,” Eskel warns, but the hand around his neck isn’t threatening. It’s not even tight. It’s… supportive. Literally. Geralt is supporting Eskel’s head. He’s not shaking off Eskel’s hand, either, where Eskel’s gripping him hard enough to pinken the skin of his wrist.

And then there’s a waterskin being pressed to his lips.

He shoves it away, but Geralt just brings it back.

“He won’t leave you be until you drink,” Jaskier says from a few feet away, and Eskel startles. Geralt’s scent is so overwhelming and Eskel’s head is pounding so fiercely he’d completely missed the bard getting so close.

“Jaskier—” Eskel starts, and then splutters as Geralt uses the invitation of him opening his mouth to pour water in there.

“It’s easier if you just let him,” Jaskier tells him, wearily.

“I don’t need water,” Eskel snaps, pushing at Geralt’s hands again. “There’s swallow in my saddlebags.”

Geralt’s grip firms around the back of his neck. Like he’s scruffing Eskel.

“I’m not your omega!” Eskel snarls at him, and Geralt bares his teeth right back, squeezing harder. “Geralt! I am not your ome—Oh, fuck it, fine, fine, give me the—”

Geralt tips the water against Eskel’s lips and Eskel deigns to take a mouthful, and then another when Geralt doesn’t stop pouring, and then another when he still doesn’t stop, and he’s about ready to toss Geralt into a tree, rut or no rut, when Geralt finally pulls the waterskin back and lowers Eskel’s head back to the bedroll.

His reward, it seems, is to get Geralt’s fingers against the side of his jaw. Golden eyes glowing as Geralt pets him, almost reverent. Geralt’s thumb traces his lower lip.

Eskel bares his teeth again. If Geralt tries to put that in his mouth he’s going to bite it off.

But Geralt just rumbles at him, pleased, and then tucks the blankets back around Eskel’s body and fluffs something soft that’s supporting Eskel’s sore head. He leans down to nuzzle Eskel’s temple, which has Eskel’s hackles rising, and then finally leans away.

“No,” Jaskier’s voice comes a moment later. “No, dear, that’s quite alright, I don’t need—Oh gosh, Geralt, really, come on now. There’s no need.”

Eskel blinks over at where apparently it’s Jaskier’s turn to be manhandled into drinking some water. Jaskier pinks hilariously when he sees that Eskel is looking, but that doesn’t stop him from drinking obediently when the waterskin is brought to his mouth. Geralt noses along his jaw while he drinks, and Eskel quirks a smile as Jaskier’s hands clench in embarrassment at his sides.

Geralt’s showing the same treatment to Jaskier as he is to Eskel, which means…

Well. This is an unexpected turn of events. It seems that Eskel’s been claimed as pack.

Geralt puts the waterskin down after watching Jaskier drink, and Eskel takes a breath.

“Geralt,” he says firmly. “I’m hungry.”

Geralt springs for the pile of fruit and Eskel hisses at him, which makes Geralt drop the pile of berries he’d been assembling.

“I’m hungry for meat,” Eskel clarifies. “Fresh meat, Geralt. Can you do that?”

And just like that, Geralt’s gone.

Eskel gives him five seconds and then sits up, groaning properly when his skull throbs, unenthusiastic about being vertical.

“You got rid of him!” Jaskier says, delighted. “How did you do that?”

“Jaskier,” Eskel says, rubbing his face. “How much do you know about witcher biology?”

---

Jaskier, unfortunately, knows as much about witcher biology as the average goat.

Eskel introduces himself and then fills Jaskier in as quickly as he can. Geralt won’t take long on Eskel’s errand and he needs to know how bad things are before Geralt gets back.

“You do what every winter?!”

“Fuck,” Eskel repeats, wincing. “We don’t need it every winter, but if we miss too many years it gets a bit hard to ignore.”

Jaskier appears, uncharacteristically, to be at a complete loss for words.

“All of you?” he eventually shrieks. Eskel hurries to hush him. Probably best if Geralt doesn’t hear his bard yelling from inside the nest.

“Yes, all of us,” he hisses. “It’s biological.”

“What kind of biology—”

“Witcher biology, bard, keep up.”

Something at last seems to permeate into Jaskier’s brain, and he lunges for his lute case, where some parchment and quills are waiting.

“A whole castle full of naked witchers!” he says, apparently to himself. “That’s one for the brothels if ever I—”

“You are not making a song of this,” Eskel says, head pounding.

“I don’t even need to make the song, darling, it practically writes itself! And you say you have to have sex?”

‘It’s a very persistent urge,” Eskel says hotly, trying to steal the quill out of Jaskier’s hands.

“Wonderful,” Jaskier enthuses. “Couldn’t have worded it better myself. An urge, how about that.”

Eskel does, eventually, succeed in securing the quill, and Jaskier gives him a look of such betrayal Eskel almost laughs out loud.

“Fine,” Jaskier concedes. “Well at least tell me what your winter wonderland has to do with what Geralt’s doing now.”

“Winter wonderland?”

“Witcher’s Winter Wonderland,” Jaskier confirms, with the air of a man who has just decided on the title of the next song he definitely isn’t writing.

Eskel grits his teeth. “He’s in rut,” he says. “Something’s set off his rut out of season. He hasn’t been back to the keep in a few years but he’s gone longer before. Something else must have happened. Have you been in contact with any witches, lately?”

“Only the usual,” Jaskier says darkly, and then when Eskel gives him a look, “but Yennefer wouldn’t do this.” He blinks. “Well. Probably.”

“Anything else?”

“A mage in the last town sold him some weird herbs.”

Eskel pinches his nose. “Herbs shouldn’t be enough to set a rut off.” He gestures at the glade. “Witchers don’t just build a nest overnight.”

“Is that what this is?”

“What else? A place to protect his omeg—uh, I mean to protect his… ward.” He looks around. “Which for some reason includes me now. Great.” 

“Well I don’t know what else to tell you. We left the town and then two days later I woke up to this.” He says it with such an air of distaste that Eskel has to look at him harder.

“It hasn’t been that bad, has it?” He examines the piles of fruit. “Geralt will give you literally anything you ask for while he’s like this.”

“In the vilest way possible,” Jaskier says, grimacing.

Eskel looks at him sharply. “What do you mean? What did you ask for?” He starts patting Jaskier down, looking for signs of ill-treatment. “He didn’t try to… To get, uh, handsy with you, did he?” Geralt’s about as gallant as a witcher can be in rut, but if this is a magic-induced rut maybe he’s not himself. And if he’s crossing a line with Jaskier Eskel’s going to have to—

“No! No, gods! What?” Jaskier slaps at his hands. “I mean yes, but not like, not like that.”

“Jaskier,” Eskel warns,

“He keeps bringing me food and flowers and wood for the fire even though it’s lovely and warm this time of year.”

“…but?”

“Well it’s been almost a week now,” he says, wincing, “and I’m not some grisly witcher. All I wanted was a bath in something other than a creek, dammit, is that too much to ask for? Apparently it is because let me tell you I was—”

“Shit, Jaskier,” Eskel says weakly, not sure whether to laugh or cover his face. “Tell me he didn’t.”

Jaskier blushes so hard Eskel already knows the answer. “Horrible!” he says. “Is that what you lot do every winter too? Good heavens, Eskel, that’s so unsanitary. I had to whack him with my lute to get him off.”

“The omegas like it,” Eskel defends hotly.

“What the hell is an omega?”

---

Geralt gets back as Eskel is fumbling his way through his best explanation of a heat. Jaskier had been horrified to learn that yes, actually, licking someone clean was very commonplace during winter. But he’d been even more horrified to learn about some of the other ways witchers look after their own.

“Well he’s not marking my territory,” Jaskier says vehemently.

Eskel, who has already smelled that yes, actually, Geralt has been marking the edges of the glade, decides not to argue.

“I mean, really, this doesn’t sound like a wonderland at all!”

And then Geralt’s there. Eskel memorises the route he takes back into the glade, in case he needs to make another run for it and has to avoid more booby traps. Geralt’s brought what appears to be an entire flock of pheasants, which is such an unnecessary amount of food Eskel grimaces. If Geralt is reacting like this to a simple request for meat he must be really far under. And without an omega to help him through it. Ouch. No wonder he won’t let Jaskier leave.

“Thank you, Geralt,” Eskel says, and then nudges Jaskier to do the same.

“What are you poking me for? Thank him yourself. I didn’t ask for a—ouch, yes, okay, stop it, I get it. Thank you, Geralt.”

Geralt responds by dropping his prize next to the firepit and engulfing Eskel, then Jaskier, in what could only be described as a bear hug. He rubs the side of his face against theirs, and Eskel suppresses a sneeze. Alpha scent, bleugh. He smells more like Geralt than himself right now. Although to be fair the whole forest probably smells more like Geralt than anything else right now.

Still, he lets Geralt mark him up. He knows what it feels like to be overrun by alpha urges. He’s just never been on the other side of them. And certainly not outside of the comfort and safety of their Kaer.

Geralt sets himself up at the firepit, furthest from where the horses are grazing, and proceeds to prepare the birds.

“He’s still not talking,” Jaskier says glumly. “Is he going to be okay?”

“There’s usually not much need for, uh, words,” Eskel tells him. “How long did you say he’s been like this?”

“A whole week. They’re going to put missing signs in the villages.”

Doubtful. Eskel worries at the scar on his lower lip, a nervous habit he’s never quite managed to drop. Geralt looks up with concern and Eskel tries to school his expression so Geralt doesn’t think he needs a, gods, a cuddle or something.

“Is that a normal length for a, uh, rut?”

“None of this is normal.”

“Would it be normal for winter?”

Eskel shrugs with one shoulder. Every winter is different. The witchers get together at the start of the season and biology does the rest. Some witchers peak early and some peak late, so there’s always some left to run chores while the others are fucking. The keep is already set up like a perfect nest. Defensible. Well stocked. Surrounded by forests full of game. The whole thing lasts until spring but the peak—which Geralt seems to be in—is variable. Eskel usually only needs a day, with whoever happens to be peaking at the same time. But Geralt…

“Geralt’s can last longer,” he says eventually.

“Well do we need to find his… his omega, then? To make it stop?”

Eskel looks at him curiously. “He doesn’t have an omega.”

“You said, when you got here, you said ‘I’m not your omega.’ That’s what you told him.”

“I just meant that I’m not… Look, some of the witchers pair up, but we’re not… We don’t own each other, bard. We’re a pack. Geralt has never been picky about who he ruts with. I suppose Coën always gets first dibs but that’s just because they peak at the same time. Geralt usually needs a few omegas to get through his rut, though.”

“Lordy,” Jaskier says. “That’s a lot of sex.” His fingers flex like he’s penning something raunchy in his mind.

Geralt looks up hopefully at the sound of the word sex.

“It’s not just…” Eskel lowers his voice, “sex. Has he even tried to get in your pants this week? It’s mostly about, well, we want to offer care, I guess. And protection.”

“You guess?”

“Well I’ve never really had to think about it before now. It just happens!”

“You said you go to Kaer Morhen to have sex!”

“Yeah, because that’s what the omegas usually want, but it’s just as good to give food.” He gestures at where Geralt has started spitting the pheasants.

“But he’s not giving food to one of you witchy omegas, he’s been giving it to me.”

Eskel props his head on his hand glumly. “And now me, dammit. Guess we should be glad he’s not trying to knot us.”

Jaskier, who had gone white as a sheet when Eskel had explained the knotting process using increasingly obscure metaphors and a sturdy tree branch as a prop, looks like he might be sick at the idea, but Geralt is looking at them hopefully again.

Ugh, what a nightmare.

“I still don’t understand how this even started,” Eskel mutters. “Are you sure you didn’t leave anything out?”

Jaskier goes pink. “I’m sure,” he says, heart rate speeding up.

“Bard,” Eskel warns. “Witchers can tell when you’re lying.”

Jaskier avoids his eyes. “It’s personal,” he says.

“Bard.”

“It was the summer solstice,” Jaskier says defensively.

“And?”

“We weren’t in a town, but there’s traditions, and I didn’t think it would—”

Eskel knows about the solstice traditions. “You kissed him?”

“He kissed me!”

“Do you even like him?”

“He’s my best friend!”

“He’s a witcher!”

“Now wait just a second, mister scary wolf man, what is that supposed to mean? Don’t tell me you also don’t think you’re worthy of being loved because let me tell you—”

This is too much information at once. “You love him?!”

Jaskier’s mouth snaps shut so fast his teeth audibly click together. Which is answer enough.

“And you?” Eskel barks at Geralt. But Geralt doesn’t even look at him because he’s staring dopily at Jaskier with a smitten expression as though he’s…

Aw, hell.

Eskel pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Did you do anything else except kiss?” he asks, trying to remain calm.

“No!” Jaskier is quick to reply. “Thank the gods, because no one informed me of—” He waves his hand at the branch Eskel had used for his knotting demonstration.

“Knots don’t pop outside of rut,” Eskel tells him wearily, suddenly feeling a thousand years old. “But this probably explains why he’s in rut now.”

“I didn’t kiss him into rut,” Jaskier says hotly.

“No, but he’s missed a few winters in a row, and you said a mage gave him some weird herbs, which might have messed with his toxin balance. And then on top of that he got to kiss his… er, bard. Just after a hunt when his protective instincts were at their highest.” Eskel sighs. “That could’ve done it, yeah. Especially if he got to scent you a lot.”

“Scent me?”

“Smell you, I mean.”

“We shared a bedroll, after,” Jaskier confesses, pinking again. Geralt purrs from the other side of the glade where he’s turning the pheasants on their spit above a small fire.

“What a mess,” Eskel mutters.

“How do we, you know?” Jaskier wiggles his fingers at Geralt. “Snap him out of it?”

“He’ll work through it eventually. Probably.”

“Probably?”

“This is new ground for me too! And Geralt’s always been different. I guess we could, uh, help him along a little.”

Jaskier glances at the knotting prop branch, though Eskel notices he’s a little less wary of it than before. “Help him how?”

“He’s in pretty deep. He’s clearly desperate to keep us happy. Just make sure he knows that you feel protected and well fed and, er, satisfied.”

Jaskier gives him a dubious look. “Won’t he know we’re lying?”

“Would you be lying? He is actually keeping you protected and well fed.”

“Oh!” Jaskier blinks. “I suppose you’re right, yes.”

“Come on then, bard, let’s go pat the big alpha on the head and tell him he’s doing a good job.”

Eskel goes first, sitting across the fire from Geralt and smiling at him broadly. “Smells good, alpha,” he says, trying not to stutter over the word. How the heck do the omegas do this, damn. Geralt beams at him regardless.

Jaskier hovers nervously behind Eskel’s shoulder. “Yes,” he parrots. “It smells good.” Eskel leans over to smack at his knees.

“Go give him a pat, bard.”

“He’s not a dog!”

“Just do it!”

Jaskier inches around the little fire until he’s at Geralt’s elbow. Geralt looks up at him hopefully.

“Okay, Pankratz,” Jaskier says to himself. “Nothing to it. Just pat a witcher.” He reaches out and puts his hand tentatively on the top of Geralt’s head. Geralt immediately leans into it, humming. “Good witcher,” Jaskier says breathily, like Geralt really is a dog, and Geralt responds by reaching up, taking hold of Jaskier’s wrist, and then pulling until Jaskier trips right into Geralt’s lap.

Geralt catches him on the way down, twisting him so he lands right where Geralt wants him, back to Geralt’s chest. Jaskier actually squeaks when Geralt hooks his chin over Jaskier’s shoulder to nuzzle at him.

“O-okay,” Jaskier says shakily, and pats Geralt’s knee. Geralt reaches past him to turn the spit and then brings his hand back to wrap around Jaskier’s chest and pull them tighter together. He looks at Eskel from under his lashes.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming.” He gets to his feet and joins them on the other side of the fire, sitting next to Geralt so Geralt can scent him while preparing their meal.

Hells and hellfire, what a mess.

---

They spend the rest of the day making sure Geralt knows they’re the two happiest people on the Continent. Mostly they give him small tasks and then praise him profusely for completing them. Jaskier, after getting over his initial scepticism, is a natural.

“You’re so good at that,” he practically coos, scratching through Geralt’s hair with one hand while Geralt uses his thumbs to massage Jaskier’s other hand. “My wonderful witcher, look at you, being so good for me. You have wonderful hands, darling.” Geralt preens.

Eskel tries not to roll his eyes. Is that what he’s like when he’s rutting? Sheesh.

“Do you think it’s working?” Jaskier asks, once Geralt’s rolled him over to massage his shoulders and back. Jaskier props his chin on his forearms. “Not that I’m not enjoying myself or anything, but we can’t stay here forever, and eventually we’ll get bored or—oh yes, Geralt, there, sweetheart, that feels so good.”

Geralt digs his thumbs into the spot again and Jaskier moans so suddenly Eskel can’t help but glance over and see the open curve of his lips, the pink of his tongue, the dark cavern of his mouth. He averts his eyes. The smell of Geralt’s rut has his body trained to expect imminent sex, but that’s not Jaskier’s fault, and Eskel has control of himself. He breathes shallowly, and tries to ignore the sounds Jaskier’s making, or the way Geralt’s scent rolls out in pleased waves every time Jaskier gets particularly loud.

“It’s working,” he answers with gritted teeth. “It’s just going to take a while.”

“Any idea how long we’ll be—sweet goddess, Geralt!”

Eskel looks over and immediately wishes he hadn’t. Geralt’s hands have apparently made their way further south and his thumbs are in the meat of Jaskier’s ass, Jaskier’s trousers pulled down just far enough that Eskel’s mouth waters on instinct.

He looks away again. “You’d better get him to stop so he doesn’t get too worked up.”

“Would that be so bad?” Jaskier asks, a little strangled. “Getting fucked is sounding better by the second.”

“You’re human,” Eskel feels the need to remind him. “He’ll tear you. He could kill you.”

“He’s not that big,” Jaskier scoffs. Geralt makes a wounded noise.

“He doesn’t mean it,” Eskel assures him quickly. “You’re very big, alpha.”

Geralt blinks at him hopefully and reaches a hand out.

“No, you’re not fucking me, either. Neither of us is equipped for a knot.”

Geralt makes another sad noise. Eskel sighs and goes over to take Geralt’s hand and redirect it back to Jaskier’s body. He places it notably higher up, further from the dangerous waters below the belt. Jaskier pants into the bedroll.

“Right there,” Eskel encourages Geralt. “Just keep doing what you’re doing. See how happy he is? You’re being a very good alpha, come on, keep going. Just stay up here, okay?”

Geralt follows Eskel’s instructions for all of five seconds, but as soon as Eskel leans away Geralt lowers his whole body over Jaskier’s, rumbling, and Jaskier arches under him.

“Oh,” Jaskier says, sounding dazed. “Okay, maybe he is that big.”

Geralt’s got an elbow each side of Jaskier’s body, and his hips are making searching movements against Jaskier’s lower back and ass. There are still layers of clothes between them but, yeah, Eskel’s not surprised Jaskier can feel Geralt’s cock. Eskel’s having a hard enough time keeping his own cock in check, what with the sounds Jaskier’s been making.

“Jaskier,” Eskel says, a little desperate. “He can tell that you’re horny, get yourself together or he’s going to try and do something about it.”

Jaskier’s eyes are open but Eskel gets the impression he’s not really looking at anything right now.

“Would that be so bad?” Jaskier pants. Geralt drops a knee between Jaskier’s and uses the position to nudge Jaskier’s legs further apart. Jaskier lets himself get spread, breathing hard. “It could save us a lot of—oh, lords, Geralt—save us a lot of time, you know. Maybe this will speed things along and we’ll be able to—”

Whatever they’re supposed to be able to do gets lost in a frankly obscene moan as Geralt tucks a hand under Jaskier’s belly, presumably palming at his cock.

Eskel eyes his saddlebags. He’s got some manticore quills in there which he’s pretty sure are old enough to knock Geralt out without killing him.

Jaskier says Geralt’s name in a tone so filthy Eskel immediately re-evaluates. He’s going to have to use the quills on himself if he wants to leave here with his dignity intact. Or if he ever wants to be able to hear Geralt’s name spoken aloud again without popping an immediate boner.

He’s so distracted calculating manticore toxicity that he almost misses Geralt’s hand snaking out to grab his ankle. As it is he doesn’t quite fight it hard enough, letting himself get tugged down to the ground next to where Jaskier is muttering curses into the bedroll. From here Eskel has a much better view of where Geralt’s hand is pressing Jaskier’s cock into his stomach, using the leverage to haul Jaskier up off the ground and backwards into his lap.

“A knot could kill you,” Eskel repeats.

“Can we—ah, ah, fuck—can we do it without the, without the—Geralt, darling, your hands—without the knot?”

Jaskier’s legs are spread comically wide to make room for Geralt’s bulk between them. He’s panting open-mouthed into the bedroll and his hands are clenching rhythmically in the blanket. In summary, he is not at all giving the impression of a man who is about to be making any rational decisions.

But maybe that’s why Eskel’s here. Why Geralt saw him as pack instead of a threat. Eskel’s strong enough to keep this from ending in bloodshed.

Probably.

And maybe Geralt really does need the extra push to break rut.

Aw, hells.

“This is such a bad idea,” he says.

---

He shepherds everyone into a wash—a proper wash, no tongues included—in the creek. Then he allows Geralt to feed them all. And then, finally, he gets Geralt on his back in the pile of bed rolls and blankets. A little pile of waterskins and oil flasks and snacks in arm’s reach. His nerves must be showing because Geralt runs his hands all over him, petting and cooing like Eskel’s a grassling instead of a blooded witcher. Eskel controls the desire to bare his teeth. He lets Geralt undress him, feeling his skin prickle when Geralt touches every bit of him as it’s uncovered. He’s fought wyverns. He killed a griffin with his bare hands. He can do this.

When everyone is undressed to Geralt’s satisfaction—which is to say, when everyone’s nude—Eskel slings a leg over Geralt’s body and sits on his belly. Geralt makes a little oof sound but Eskel doesn’t let up. Eskel specifically let himself be undressed so he could be touching Geralt without any fabrics or buttons irritating Geralt’s oversensitive skin. Geralt can take the weight and Eskel needs to be able to hold him down if needed. Geralt must know the same thing, somewhere underneath all that rut-brain, because after a moment he beams up at Eskel and puts hands on his thighs.

“Oh, my,” Jaskier says, and when Eskel looks over at him Jaskier’s staring, quite unabashed, at Eskel’s cock. “So it’s a witcher thing, then? To be that, ahem, substantial?”

Eskel ruthlessly strangles the urge to hide his face. Thank fuck witchers can’t blush, at least. He resolutely does not look down at Jaskier’s own cock.

“Just get over here,” he says, sounding gruffer than he means to. Jaskier doesn’t seem to notice. He almost trips in his haste to obey. Geralt reaches for him at the same time as Eskel, seeming to want the same thing, and together they pull Jaskier down to kneel over Geralt’s head.

“How’s he going to fuck me from up here?” Jaskier asks, trying to straighten up, apparently to stop from squishing Geralt’s face, in direct defiance of what Geralt is trying to get him to do.

“There’s no way you’re prepared enough,” Eskel tells him. “Even if you’re not taking his knot he’s still, er, a lot.” Fortunately, there is literally no one on the Continent more capable—or desperate—to conduct prep work than an alpha in rut. He leans over so he can see Geralt’s face past Jaskier’s thighs. “He’s not in heat,” he reminds Geralt. “And he won’t slick. So you have to do a good job.”

“What’s slick?” Jaskier asks distractedly, still trying to work out where Geralt’s hands are attempting to manoeuvre him.

Fortunately, Eskel doesn’t have to reply, because Geralt takes the opportunity to wrap his arms wholly over Jaskier’s thighs and simply yank him down.

“Lordy,” Jaskier says, starting. “Careful, dear, I don’t want to hurt—” the rest of the sentence gets cut off as Geralt, presumably, finds what he’s looking for.

“Holy fucking goddess!” Jaskier shrieks, flinching bodily, strong enough that he would have jumped clean into the air if Geralt’s hands weren’t locked around his thighs.

“Easy,” Eskel soothes.

“Sweet mercy,” Jaskier manages, strangled. “His tongue! This can’t be what he wants to be doing.”

Eskel, who can feel Geralt’s erection against his ass, is inclined to disagree.

Geralt makes a guttural sound low in his throat and rocks his head back, jaw working. Jaskier yelps and falls forward into Eskel’s chest, clutching at his shoulders and trying to hide his face in Eskel’s neck. Geralt hauls him back, and when Jaskier refuses to relinquish his hold Eskel follows, leaning forward so they’re level.

“Geralt,” Jaskier pants, hands scrabbling for purchase along Eskel’s arms, and then locking behind his neck. “Eskel, make him stop!”

“Do you want him to stop?”

“Gods, no.” Jaskier makes a desperate sound directly into Eskel’s neck, right where Eskel’s scent would be strongest if he was rutting, too. Jaskier would be covered in it, the way he’s clawing at Eskel. He’d smell like Eskel’s pack if this was winter.

But instead it’s just Geralt. Spice in Eskel’s nose and an itch beneath his skin. Another alpha’s rut all over him. Jaskier would smell good with two rut-scents all over him, though. He’d smell as good as he sounds, and he sounds so good, all open-mouth panting and swearing right there next to Eskel’s ear.

“Easy,” Eskel says, to his wayward imagination and Jaskier both. He starts breathing shallowly through his mouth, even though Geralt’s rut-scent on his tongue is hardly an improvement. He can do this. He’s just a bystander here.

“Gods,” Jaskier’s cursing. “Geralt, your mouth. Why have we not been doing this for years, heavens, oh, Eskel, you should feel this, oh.” Jaskier cries out and then he’s yanking at Eskel again, like he needs something to hold onto. “Eskel,” he pants, and oh no, Eskel’s not going to be able to stay level-headed if Jaskier starts using his name in that tone. “Eskel,” Jaskier says again. “Come on, you need to—”

He tugs at Eskel’s arm, and then, when Eskel apparently doesn’t get close enough, his hair. Eskel shimmies up Geralt’s body slightly and Jaskier gets hands around his back, hauls him close, and crushes their mouths together.

Eskel jerks back reflexively, and Jaskier makes an animal sound, clawing at him.

“I’m not—” he says, shaking his head to clear it. Hells, the smell of rut. The smell of Jaskier. He can’t think straight. He’s not the one that Jaskier’s supposed to want.

Jaskier’s still grabbing at him. “Eskel,” he cries, “come back, you said we—ahh! Geralt, mercy, gods above—get back here, you said we were pack, I’m dying, Eskel, his—”

Eskel stares at him. Holy hell, he’s right. Geralt chose Eskel, which means Jaskier’s his too.

“You don’t have to—” Eskel starts, but Jaskier’s already pulling him back in, and this time when their mouths meet it’s a kiss. Open-mouthed and searing. Jaskier is practically moaning directly into Eskel’s lungs. Eskel kisses back as well as he can. Outside of their winter nest he rarely seeks bed partners, and he’s out of practice when rut-brain isn’t directing his actions. For a moment he simply lets himself be tugged along in the wave of Jaskier’s need. And then Jaskier’s tongue is in his mouth and Eskel sucks it automatically, and Jaskier makes a sound high-pitched and desperate, and suddenly Eskel doesn’t need to think anymore. He growls and folds in around Jaskier, one hand holding his face to kiss him and kiss him and kiss him. The other sneaking down, where he swats Geralt’s out of the way so he can wrap fingers around Jaskier’s cock himself.

Geralt’s hand wriggles beneath Jaskier’s body instead, and from the way Jaskier lurches Eskel guesses that Geralt’s pushing at least one finger into him.

He can feel Geralt’s cock against his lower back. He’s shared beds with Geralt before, has even shared beds with Geralt when one or both of them are actively fucking someone else—hard not to, when they’ve been alive as long as they have and having sex in the same quarters every other season. But he’s never, to the best of his knowledge, ever touched Geralt’s cock. He gets a wave of desire so strong he almost has to grip himself to stave off embarrassment.

Instead, he releases Jaskier’s face and puts an arm behind himself, palming awkwardly at Geralt’s cock. He can’t really get the angles right, but he ends up stroking Jaskier and Geralt in time. Geralt’s body rolls with the motion, stopped short only by Eskel’s weight. Jaskier howls, when Geralt is apparently forced to release the motion via tongue and finger instead.

Jaskier comes over Eskel’s fingers within minutes, cussing out the name of every god Eskel’s heard of, and some he’s pretty sure Jaskier’s making up on the spot. Eskel and Geralt both slow, and then stop.

“Oh, you wonderful witchers,” Jaskier’s panting. “You talented saint-sons, you really, I mean, that was—”

“Hmm,” Eskel hums, agreeably. He valiantly ignores his own desperate cock.

“If that’s what you get up to every year then I no longer begrudge you, Geralt, for the winters you had to sally off. I mean, truly, is every witcher so attentive? I feel like I…”

Jaskier seems to notice that Eskel’s hand hasn’t moved from his cock.

“Eskel? Dear heart, is everything—”

Geralt’s chin lifts fractionally, and Jaskier loses three shades.

“Geralt!” he squawks.

“He’s human,” Eskel admonishes Geralt. “Give him a little longer to recover.”

“Recover! I’m more jelly than man right now, why in the hells do I need to recov—Melitele’s tits, Geralt!”

Eskel can sympathise. Except from the way Jaskier’s hardening in his grip he doesn’t think he’s going to need much sympathy.

He releases Jaskier’s cock and reaches back to smear his spend on Geralt. Geralt, the dramatic fuck, twitches like he’s seconds from coming. He always did like feeling the evidence of a job well done.

They go like that for a while longer, with Jaskier wisely staving off any further orgasms by swatting Eskel’s hands away and focusing on riding Geralt’s face. By the time Geralt releases Jaskier’s thighs the bard is a shaking, overstimulated mess. And he smells—good gods—like theirs.

“Is he ready now, wolf?” Eskel rumbles. He puts an arm around Jaskier’s waist to take his weight, and with his other hand he reaches around to test Geralt’s work.

His fingers slide in easy, and when he spreads them he’s pleased with the lack of resistance. Jaskier makes some choked noises in his ear, and Geralt purrs approvingly, using his freed hands to palm Eskel’s cock while he watches Eskel’s fingers disappearing into Jaskier’s body.

“Witchers,” Jaskier swears, though it comes out on a pant. “With your thrice-damned fingers and your stretching, Mother and Crone, if one of you doesn’t fuck me in the next two seconds I’ll—”

Whatever he’s going to do gets lost on a groan as Eskel finds the tender spot inside him and rubs, just once. It doesn’t feel overworked at all. Geralt’s been mindful of the capabilities of his human.

“Good alpha,” Eskel tells him, and Geralt moans, his cock twitching.

“Yes,” Jaskier parrots, speaking mostly into Eskel’s neck. “Very good alpha. The best alpha. I’ll never be able to alpha again. I’ve been well alpha’d, such a good boy.”

“That’s not—” Eskel tries, but Geralt is flushed and looking up at them adoringly.

Eskel doesn’t roll his eyes, but it’s a near thing.

Jaskier gets turned around, somehow, and Eskel shuffles them backwards until he’s sitting on Geralt’s thighs (not comfortable!) and Jaskier’s practically sitting in his lap in turn (much more acceptable!), and he’s pushing at Jaskier’s back to get him to sprawl forward, so he can visually inspect Geralt’s work.

Jaskier goes down like a sack of potatoes. A sack of potatoes that smells like sex, but still. He’s practically boneless, making obscene noises against Geralt’s chest while Geralt purrs and coos and rubs at his back and sides and ass and generally tries to get in Eskel’s way as much as possible.

“Quit it,” Eskel says. “I’m trying to check that he’s—dammit, Geralt, I’m trying to help you, do you think you’re getting anywhere near him with that cock unless he’s ready? Get out of the way, I will punch you in the balls, Geralt, don’t think I won’t.”

Despite levelling every threat he can think of, Geralt’s hands get only more persistent, tugging at Eskel and Jaskier in turns. It’s not until Geralt curls half-up (“Hello abdominals,” Jaskier salutes) and tugs at Eskel’s ass that he figures out what his brother is trying to accomplish.

“Hells, Geralt,” he swears. “I’m not the one in rut!” But now the option has presented itself he can’t stop thinking about it. He can count the number of people who’ve taken him outside rut on one hand. Geralt gives another tug and Eskel’s neglected cock slides up the inside of Jaskier’s thigh. He hisses, twitching.

“Eskel,” Jaskier moans.

“You don’t—” he tries.

“Eskel!”

“I don’t even need—”

“Eskel, if you don’t fuck me right now—”

He lurches forward, hips moving automatically, and, damn, he has to admire Geralt’s handiwork, because he knows he’s no slouch, but the head of his cock pops right in.

“Fuuuuuuuuuck,” Jaskier moans, and then Geralt claims his mouth.

“You’ll tell me,” Eskel manages, strangled, “if it gets too—if you need me to—”

Jaskier slaps at his thigh, like he’s spurring a horse, and, well, Eskel can take a hint. He fumbles for the oil, pours probably too much over his cock, and slides further forward, watching the way Jaskier’s shoulders tense, and then unwind. He pushes further, and then even further. Geralt’s hands frame Jaskier’s hips, then the back of his neck, then his ass, fingers just touching the place where Eskel has speared him open.

Eskel pushes the last fraction in, and this time it’s his turn to make unholy sounds. He’s almost shocked at what comes out of him. He doesn’t think he even sounds like this in rut.

He stays there for long seconds, heaving for breath, feeling Jaskier relax around him even further, losing tension in increments. And then Jaskier breaks free of Geralt’s mouth just far enough to turn his head and say, hoarsely, “Well don’t quit now.”

Eskel’s pulls back a fraction, and Jaskier rolls his hips to meet him, and Geralt groans out loud, no doubt feeling that from his position too.

Eskel gets the passing thought that the whole forest might smell like them by the time they’re done.

Ruined, he thinks. That’s what he’s going to be after this. Ruined for anything else.

He fucks Jaskier in the tiniest movements he possibly can, listening to the sound of them making out beneath him and trying not to also hear the obscene noise every time he pulls out and pushes back in. He thinks he’s doing a remarkably good job of keeping it together right up until the moment Geralt’s hands sneak back down and he slips first one finger, then another, into Jaskier alongside Eskel’s cock.

The only reason the noise Jaskier makes isn’t classified as a scream is because it’s muffled right into Geralt’s mouth. Eskel has no such excuse, especially not when Jaskier locks up tight, coming apart beneath him, the smell and movement sending Eskel toppling right after him.

He lands on his hands, at least, so he doesn’t crush Jaskier on the way down. Geralt looks up at him from over Jaskier’s shoulder with an expression of pure alpha smugness.

“Yes,” Eskel manages, gasping. “Yes, you’re a big strong clever alpha. Happy?”

Geralt shows too many teeth for the expression to be called a smile, but Eskel appreciates the sentiment. Jaskier is making faint half-shivers between them, whispering “Oh gods, oh gods,” on every exhale.

Eskel’s cock finishes twitching and he pulls out gently. His spend slips free after, coating the back of Jaskier’s thighs as well as Geralt’s lower belly. Jaskier’s hole makes a valiant attempt at closing.

“If your plan was for me to stretch him out enough for you to knot him then your plan has failed,” Eskel tells Geralt over Jaskier’s shuddering shoulders. “He’s too exhausted now for anything more strenuous than a nap, brother.”

“Now wait just a minute,” Jaskier slurs, raising a finger but not turning to look at him.

“I’m serious, bard, it’s time for a break.”

“And waste all your hard work? Some witcher you are, giving up without a fight.” The reprimand would perhaps be more effective if he was capable of rolling over to scold Eskel to his face.

Geralt purrs beneath them and then, quite without warning, sits up.

“Shit,” Eskel swears, almost toppling backwards. Stupid. He should’ve remembered to watch for that. He’s only sitting on Geralt’s thighs.

Except maybe he doesn’t need to be quite so on his guard, because Geralt’s not attacking in a frenzy of desire. He’s nuzzling at Jaskier, cooing at him like… well, like a smitten rutting alpha.

Eskel is going to apologise to every single omega he’s ever partnered with during winter. This is humiliating.

And then Geralt gets an arm around Jaskier’s waist and starts positioning him over his cock.

“Now hold on just a fucking second,” Eskel says, and gets his own arms around Jaskier, too.

Geralt coos at him, too.

“I think I had a wet dream about this once,” Jaskier says from in between them, offering absolutely zero resistance to getting moved in any directions whatsoever. His head flops back onto Eskel’s shoulder and he grins at him upside down and crooked. “Eskel, dear, let me know if the Countess de Stael shows up.”

Geralt goes rigid, nostrils flaring, looking around at the trees on all sides with utmost suspicion.

“He didn’t mean it,” Eskel tells him. “We’re miles from the nearest village, there are no Countesses here.”

“More’s the pity,” Jaskier mumbles.

Geralt doesn’t get up to inspect the perimeter, but he does bring both arms around Jaskier’s back to cling to him fiercely, making a sub-aural sound like he’s threatening the glade to just try spitting a rival into their midst.

This makes it even harder for Eskel to reclaim Jaskier. Jaskier makes appreciative sounds, poking at whichever biceps are closest and letting himself get manhandled between them.

“Fine,” Eskel eventually capitulates, when he can’t get Geralt to relinquish his hold and Jaskier is at risk of being speared open by a cock with—he feels like Jaskier has maybe forgotten this fact—the capacity to knot him. “Fine, Geralt, fine, you win, you can fuck him.”

“Hurray!” says Jaskier.

“But you cannot just stick it in.”

“Boo.”

“Quiet, bard, you’re not making the decisions right now.”

“Probably for the best. My decision would be to get fucked by the both of you at once.”

Eskel chokes. Literally. On air.

“Precisely,” he says, nonsensically. And then he takes Jaskier’s weight out of Geralt’s arms (Geralt seems much happier to let him go now that he knows he’s getting what he wants) and settles himself more firmly on Geralt’s thighs.

“Try to relax,” he tells Jaskier, and Geralt helpfully lines himself up so Eskel can lower Jaskier down onto him.

Jaskier’s breath comes out on a sigh and he reaches up and back to put both arms around Eskel’s neck, his nose pressing into Eskel’s cheek.

“Just like that,” he sighs. “Oh, dearests, that’s perfect, just like that.”

Geralt leans back and plants his hands on the bedroll behind him, mouth open and tongue on his bottom lip, panting slightly. It would be wolf-like if not for the heady appreciation in his eyes.

“Lazy,” Eskel chides. “Letting me do all the work.”

Geralt’s smug gaze locks with Eskel’s and he smiles without closing his mouth. Eskel tries to picture what he’s seeing. Jaskier spread out before him, Eskel’s arms framing him. The slow descent of Jaskier’s body, swallowing his cock.

He finds himself open-mouthed as well, breathing in the scent of them like a dog on the hunt. Geralt reaches up to push one of Eskel’s arms out of the way and tweak the nipple beneath. Jaskier jolts, cursing blearily.

“Heavens, Geralt, gentle please, love, if you do that much more my cock is going to try and get hard again and Eskel will probably kill us both if I pass out mid sex, isn’t that right, Eskel, love?” Eskel lowers him another inch. “Oh, no of course you wouldn’t, you’re too good to me, oh, that’s perfect, sweetheart, that feels so good, Geralt, is it good for you too, darling? I want it to be good. You feel so good in me.”

Geralt responds to this by tweaking the other nipple, then licking broad-tongue right over the spot. Jaskier moans long and loud. Eskel thinks about putting something in his mouth, but instead tries to lift him up, just a fraction, and drop him back down.

“You are,” Jaskier pants, “remarkable.” His fingers grip at Geralt’s hair, holding him to his chest. “Eskel, dear, are your arms even tired?”

Eskel can go a good while yet.

“No, songbird.”

“I bet you could fuck me against a wall,” Jaskier muses. “You could, couldn’t you? You could fuck me against a wa—aaaah!”

Eskel braces, prepared to pull Jaskier off entirely if Geralt’s hurting him. But one look over Jaskier’s shoulder confirms the opposite. Geralt’s got a hand round Jaskier’s cock.

“Right,” Eskel huffs, and he works Jaskier down the final inch, until he’s fully seated on Geralt.

“Don’t,” Jaskier’s saying, “Geralt, I’m too sensitive, oh, lords, Geralt!”

Eskel swats Geralt’s hands away, since Jaskier seems too exhausted to do it himself. Jaskier takes two big gulps of air, blinks, then says, “Wait, where did you go?” and Geralt looks entirely too smug as he gets his hands back on Jaskier’s cock, even though Jaskier makes a sound like he’s dying.

“Easy,” Eskel feels the need to say, and everyone, including his own cock, ignores him.

He focuses instead on working Jaskier back up, and then down again, his body moving on only the last inch. When Eskel puts hands on Jaskier’s stomach he can feel the solid weight of Geralt in there. He groans into Jaskier’s shoulder. Geralt shudders underneath, his hands coming up to Jaskier’s thighs to try and pull him even further down. He’s been on the edge so long, it won’t be long now.

“Listen,” Eskel says, trying to strangle the wave of his desire into submission so he can focus on the task at hand. “Geralt’s going to knot you if you stay like this.”

“Mmmh,” Jaskier says, blearily. “Hard to imagine he can get much bigger.”

“He will. By a lot.”

He can literally see Jaskier’s cock twitching in Geralt’s hand, somehow becoming hard once again.

“I know you’re feeling good right now—”

“So good,” Jaskier agrees, fingers clenching in Geralt’s hair. “You’re both so, so good.”

“But I can pull you off, if it gets too much, or if he’s already knotted then I’ve got thread right here, I can cuff the base of his cock, just to get the blood out until you can get free.”

“That doesn’t sound fun.”

“Neither’s stitches in your perineum,” Eskel tells him bluntly. Jaskier doesn’t even have the audacity to pretend to be worried.

“Well, let’s cross that bridge when we—oh, oh, Eskel, I, oh!”

Eskel peers between them. Jaskier’s hole is stretched so wide, glistening with spend and oil. Jaskier moves, trying to get a foot under himself, and Geralt’s barely-blown knot slips free.

“Fuuuuuck,” Jaskier moans, his whole body shuddering. Eskel suppresses his own shudder. He’s never seen a human take even this much. “Is that…?”

“That’s only the start of it,” Eskel warns.

Jaskier immediately tries to work himself back down. “Holy hells,” he’s saying, mostly to himself. “Only the start!”

Eskel slips a finger into Jaskier, alongside Geralt’s cock, and tugs gentle but firm at the rim, coaxing Jaskier back down.

“Last warning,” he says, and Jaskier doesn’t even deign to reply, just grips Geralt’s shoulder with one hand and the arm Eskel has around his waist with the other, and sinks back down onto the half-blown knot. His overtaxed body doesn’t put up even token resistance.

“Oh gods,” he manages. “Eskel, holy gods.”

“You’re stretched enough to take him, I promise.”

“He’s so big.”

“Just relax, you can do it.”

“Geralt!” Jaskier yells, and Eskel peers over his shoulder to watch Geralt bring him off, his cock twitching violently and the barest trickle of come leaking out.

“Good boy,” Eskel rumbles, without fully meaning to.

This time, when Jaskier goes boneless it’s with a complete body shutdown. Every limb flops to the side. Eskel keeps him upright, and Geralt takes one look at the two of them splayed out on his lap, puts his head back, and howls.

Eskel knows that howl.

Jaskier’s cry is wordless, formless. The sound that comes from an open mouth unrestricted by any shaping of tongue or lips. Eskel keeps one hand around his belly, feels the immense size of Geralt inside him, the twitching of his cock. With his other hand he probes as gentle as he can at Jaskier’s ass, stretched to the very point of breaking.

“You’re alright,” he says, to all three of them. “You’re doing it.”

“Eskel!” Jaskier cries.

“I know, I know, you’re doing it, bard.”

“Geralt, gods!”

Geralt howls again, the sound morphing into a roar, and then a groan, and then open-mouth panting.

“Jaskier,” he says. “Jaskier, oh, Jaskier.”

“Are you awake now?” Eskel asks him.

If he is, he doesn’t seem inclined to say anything more than Jaskier’s name.

Jaskier just moans, his body too overworked to do anything but move where Eskel moves him, which is to lean slightly back, at an angle to allow the most possible room for Geralt’s knot.

“There you are,” he says, and is almost surprised when the angle has his cock rubbing at the small of Jaskier’s back. The realisation of his own desire is so sudden it’s almost a physical pain.

He stops feeling at Jaskier’s hole, and curls a hand around himself instead. It takes only a handful of strokes to bring himself off, splashing across Jaskier’s back and ass, dripping onto the place he’s stretched so inconceivably wide.

“There you are,” he says again, nonsensically, the scent of his own seed mixing with Geralt’s and Jaskier’s. The combination doing… something, inside him.

Jaskier passes out, not long after that, and Eskel keeps his body steady, until Geralt is slipping free in a mess of come and oil.

Eskel rearranges him as tenderly as he can, onto his side, with one knee propped on Geralt’s thigh to keep weight off the place he’s no doubt sorest. He fills a pot with water from the stream, heats it with igni, and returns with clean cloths to wipe them all down. He puts his nose to the top of Jaskier’s thigh and inhales, but he can’t smell blood. He feels a rush of protective affection. That’s his bard too, taking a knot out of heat. He uses his tongue to gently pry Jaskier open and lick more of the come out. Jaskier makes a breathless sound, almost a giggle, and Eskel presses a kiss into the inside of his thigh.

“Thank you, Eskel,” Geralt rumbles at him, apparently deigning to join them in the land of the living once more.

Eskel gives his thigh a kiss, too, and cleans him up as well. He’s about to use the cloth on Geralt’s cock when Geralt twitches and says, “No tongue for me, brother?”

Eskel huffs a laugh, but leans forward to lick Geralt’s cock clean. Geralt hums appreciatively, and Eskel’s blood simmers. His whole body is feeling a little simmery, actually. Something about having two contented packmates in his bed.

When everyone’s reasonably clean he goes to fetch more sustenance, and watches carefully to make sure they eat. He supports Jaskier’s head to help him drink from the waterskin so he doesn’t have to sit up. He must be sore. Maybe Eskel will give him a massage, later.

“Good alpha,” Jaskier mumbles at him, before snuggling back down into Geralt’s arms.

“Yeah,” Geralt agrees. “Good alpha.”

Eskel peers at him. Geralt is giving him a funny look. Like he’s smirking.

Eskel scents him suspiciously. The whole glade smells like them. Like sex, and happy human, and…

Oh, shit.

The glade smells overwhelmingly like him.

“Geralt,” he manages. “I think I’m going into rut.”