Chapter Text
Kaer Morhen’s halls echo with Jaskier’s yelp of, “Eskel!”
He couldn’t say what he does with the daggers he’s been sorting for far too long, only knows that he’s got a sword in hand and is sprinting towards Jaskier’s heartbeat. It pitter-patters from the east chamber, where Eskel had last seen him reading, along with the lumbering heartbeat of a Witcher.
He smells Geralt and the vegetal note of Witcher potions as he rounds into the hall, and then finds them both on the far side of the room. Jaskier is laid out in front of the fireplace, as Eskel had left him an hour prior. But – Eskel left him propped up on some pillows so he could read, and he’s now exposed on his back, staring up at where Geralt is crouched over him.
Geralt had departed in the still-blue hours of the morning, kissing them both a brief farewell as he went to do his rostered sweep of the surrounding hinterlands. It’s late into the evening now, so he’s glad to see Geralt home, but it seems he’s lost a little of himself on the trip back.
Jaskier’s face is drawn with fear and confusion, as Geralt scowls above him. He’s got fistful of Jaskier’s doublet, and can’t seem to decide whether he wants to watch Jaskier or be skin-to skin – loosening his grip, petting over Jaskier’s skin, grabbing somewhere else. Jaskier’s hands are hard up against Geralt’s chest, and it looks like he’s been trying to press him away, though they’re both locked in position.
“Wolf,” Eskel says, slowing immediately to a sedate walk, despite how his instincts want him to body Geralt off Jaskier and take his place. “Wolf, what’s going on?” He asks, leaving his sword on a table by the entryway.
Geralt doesn’t speak and instead ducks his head to snuffle into Jaskier’s neck. Eskel watches his tongue lave over a carotid artery, and how when Jaskier twitches, he only bears down harder.
“Wolf, c’mon. The bard needs space,” he keeps talking, knowing Geralt isn’t listening but needing him to hear his voice – to not be so surprised when Eskel kneels down beside them and rubs a hand over Geralt’s back. His muscles are tight and wound for a fight, easily felt through the just the underlayer Geralt has on. His scent is sharp with adrenaline and exertion, and mostly overpowered by Jaskier’s muddle of fear-comfort-panic-arousal, which is rapidly escalating. “No biting,” he says by rote, gaze casting around the room before he spots the glint of Geralt’s studded armour. It, and most of his clothing, lies abandoned on the floor in a trail leading to where the three of them are now clustered. He covers one of Geralt’s closed fists, squeezing intermittently until Geralt’s grip releases. “Back from your hunt. Good job coming back to us, now come back to me, Wolf, come back to Eskel,” he continues, and Geralt seems to realise someone else in the room now as Eskel interlaces their fingers. In an instant, his weight goes back over his thighs in readiness to pounce, but then he sniffs, and Eskel can tell he’s made the scent association when he relaxes again.
He butts his head softly into Eskel’s torso with a chuff, and allows Eskel to lift him off Jaskier’s chest with a hand under his armpits. He doesn’t go far, only upright enough to glue himself to Eskel’s side instead, and Eskel shifts his grip once he’s sure it won’t set Geralt off. One hand stays interlaced with Geralt’s, and the forearm of the other gets pressed against Geralt from navel to neck, his hand resting loosely around Geralt’s neck like a collar.
With his body between them at last, he’s finally able to let himself blink.
The rest of the room comes into focus, everything beyond the three of them. The scent of the fireplace; Jaskier’s abandoned books off to the side. “Hey,” he breathes, looking over his shoulder to Jaskier, “Are you okay?”
Jaskier swallows and nods, just barely starting to wriggle back from the two of them before Geralt’s sudden growling and bright eyes peering around Eskel’s chest stop him in his tracks.
Then, there are more footsteps echoing from the entrance, and Eskel doesn’t want to think about how this might look. He doesn’t turn to look at them – his entire focus on Geralt, and how Geralt is watching Jaskier. At the same volume, he says, “Don’t, Geralt’s overwhelmed. Under control, I’ll shout if we need help. Thanks.”
There’s a moment of silence, then quieter footfalls departing just a few steps.
“I’ve got him now, but still sit tight – he’ll work himself up if you move,” Eskel says to Jaskier, voice deliberately even and calming. “We’ve dealt with this before, everything’ll be fine. Are you okay?” He asks again, not having spotted any signs of injury in his periphery as he’d gotten himself between them.
“I’m alright,” Jaskier says at last. “Sorry for yelling. I – I don’t really know what’s going on.”
“You did the right thing, he’s not in his right mind,” Eskel says, right on cue as Geralt lists forward and starts mouthing at his neck instead, teeth teasing over skin. “We’ll talk later, first we need to separate you two.” Geralt starts chewing at him halfway through the sentence, and gently testing out the resistance Eskel will put up when he tries to move. “Wolf,” he growls on instinct, and Geralt growls right back at him. He has to remind himself to breathe through the miasma of scents which demand he fight or fly – “Alright,” he sighs, having to concede that wasn’t a helpful reaction from him either. “Wolf, you need to let the bard go now,” he pets over Geralt’s back, “Jaskier is a human; he can’t play like us.”
He can’t see Geralt’s face at this angle; doesn’t have to to know that Geralt doesn’t like the idea, not based on how he jerks forward against Eskel’s hold, teeth bared and pressed hard against him.
“Later,” Eskel murmurs, rubbing his head against Geralt’s. “When it’s time to sleep, later, you can have the bard.”
His response is a loud, displeased rumble as his teeth sink into Eskel. He shakes his head a little as he does it, as if to make sure Eskel is aware of his disapproval.
Eskel takes a slow, measured exhale. He’s taken plenty of Geralt’s bites over the years, will take plenty more if they’re both lucky enough, but it’s hard to control his instincts to not react and make Jaskier’s situation worse.
Geralt can’t reach much of Jaskier, but must realise he’s still half-sat on Jaskier’s legs – his hand closes around Jaskier’s calf like a vice. The squeak Jaskier lets out is unfortunate, and the involuntary way he jolts beneath them even moreso. His scent spikes with surprise and pain, mirroring Eskel’s.
Eskel feels the deep, gulping breath Geralt takes in, then, more damningly than anything else that’s happened, he feels Geralt’s hips rock down onto Jaskier.
Jaskier squeaks again, “Eskel!”
“I know, I’m here,” Eskel says, but can’t shift without setting Geralt off or giving him access to Jaskier. “Worked up, aren’t you Wolf?” He asks, squeezing Geralt’s fingers – trying to get Geralt to let up from Jaskier for even an instant.
It works, kind of. Geralt huffs an exhale, pulling back from the bite to lap over the blood with his soft, wet tongue. His shoulder seizes with pain as Geralt bites again, jaw working so he can lave his tongue over the wound at the same time. Eskel knows he shouldn’t have let Geralt bite – now he’s got the taste of blood on his palette.
He grinds down jerkily with a frustrated whine, mouth dropping open as he pants into Eskel’s ripped flesh.
“Should we just let him-?” Jaskier starts, voice choked.
“No, this isn’t good either,” Eskel sighs. “Doesn’t usually happen. How’s the leg?” He keeps up the same even tone and slow cadence, trying not to alarm Geralt.
“Not comfortable, but not too bad. Can’t figure out whether to be scared or horny, honestly.” Jaskier’s fear has given way to some humour, at least. “Should I try to talk to him? What should I say?”
“Just need him to let go, so you can get up and out of reach,” Eskel says, inclining his head towards the entrance, where he knows Lambert is waiting in the hall.
Geralt, hearing their voices with no further context, rumbles.
“Geralt, dear,” Jaskier starts, patting at Geralt’s leg quickly before withdrawing his hand. Geralt’s attention, for all that it was hard-held by Eskel, returns to him. He takes a steadying breath in, looks Geralt straight in those black-hole eyes, and enunciates clearly, “Geralt, you’re hurting me. Please darling, let go.”
There’s not quite recognition, but something almost there. Some deep memory associated with these words, this expression, and Jaskier’s half-pained and half-loving scent. He whines, and he lets go. Pulls back from Eskel’s shoulder with a consolatory a cowed final lick, and rests his hand, palm up, on his thigh.
They all take a breath.
“Go,” Eskel says, and tackles Geralt onto his back.
Jaskier, who’s a bard, yes – but who has also been a Witcher’s bardic companion for two and a half decades and counting, knows how to get himself the hell out of dodge. He gets his hands under him and pushes back and away from them as they go careening in the other direction, and he’s scrambling to his feet before he’s sure he’s up the right way. He keeps them in his periphery as he runs out to the hall, trying to ignore the throbbing in his calf, but it seems the first step was the most crucial. Just getting out of arm’s reach of Geralt was all they needed – Eskel is handily keeping Geralt occupied now that it’s Witcher on Witcher.
He catches his breath as he watches them tousle. They’re still rolling about, legs tangled atop the furs. Geralt’s hair shines in the firelight while his mouth is smeared dark with blood, and both of their eyes are positively glowing. Eskel’s face is focused, and Jaskier can see a thoughtful glint in his eye only after years of watching their winter training.
But neither of them have eyes for anyone else now, thank the Gods.
He sighs in relief, and turns to the hall. He can only assume it’s Lambert, because Vesemir isn’t such a cad to just stand there silent in the darkness, and yes, once his eyes adjust he can see Lambert’s unimpressed scowl.
“Thanks,” he whispers, as quiet as he can.
Lambert rolls his eyes, and steps in so he can see the others as well.
They’re slowing a little; Geralt’s got his legs locked around Eskel’s chest and he’s straining to keep Eskel there. Eskel breathes deep, gets his legs under himself, and uses his weight to help twist out of Geralt’s hold. They separate with such lightness and ease that it still takes Jaskier’s breath away, both returning to low crouches. Eskel doesn’t leave Geralt for long, and then they’re back to the ebb and flow of sparring. Rising to meet each other, shifting until they pause at a stalemate, then the triumphant break away as one of them escapes or overpowers the other.
In one such pause, Eskel has ended up with a thigh between Geralt’s, and it feels like all of them watching realise what’s going to happen just as Geralt starts grinding his hips down again. “Wolf,” Eskel warns, angling away so Geralt doesn’t have anything to grind against. Geralt digs his nails into whatever part of Eskel he can reach, and Eskel shoves at him with a pained, “I am not above punching you in the dick.”
Geralt lunges with a growl, and they’re off again.
He’s shifting his weight from foot to foot by the time Geralt finally tires out. He’s been standing for probably the better part of an hour, watching Eskel wear Geralt down with a rough affection only life-long lovers could manage – it’s beautiful, and how he eyes the notepad he had to abandon by the fireplace with longing, but his eyes are blurry from the late hour and he was half asleep before Geralt had barrelled into him anyway.
It ends with Eskel pinning Geralt to the floor. Geralt’s chest heaves as he tries to shake off Eskel’s weight, legs scrabbling over the floor as he tries to find leverage.
He makes a plaintive huff right before he goes visibly limp. Eskel doesn’t let up – just noses behind his ear, kisses him, nips at his jaw.
Geralt seems loathe to do more, but under the torment of Eskel’s light touches he cries out, head lolling to bear his neck. Eskel hums in satisfaction as he mouths over the skin, which deepens into a rumble through his chest as his teeth sink in.
They stay like that even for a while longer; the tension slowly leaving Eskel as he relaxes over Geralt instead of forcing him into the furs.
Jaskier moves to join them, but he finds his wrist caught in Lambert’s grasp before he even finishes lifting his foot from the ground. He glances back and Lambert shakes his head twice, slowly.
He tries not to pout, but he’s feeling a bit over it all, “Why?” The excitement has waned, he’s tired, and he wants to hold his wolves.
“Eskel will tell you when,” is all Lambert replies, and releases his arm.
He sighs, and turns so his back is at least resting on the wall, eyes sliding shut. “Alright,”
When he blinks his eyes open some indistinct time later at a soft, “Jask?”, they’re at least sitting. Eskel’s lent back against an armchair, and Geralt’s laying back on the wide expanse of his chest between his legs. They seem to be breathing in time, though it’s kind of hard to tell. Geralt has a hand over his abdomen and the other over his sternum, each rising and falling with the cadence of his breath. Eskel’s hand lays over the top of the one on his belly. They look… like two young boys, tuckered out from roughhousing. They’re sweaty with hair mussed and tangled, no doubt, but their expressions are light.
Jaskier can’t help his smile.
He sidles up to Eskel, and Eskel matches him with a lazy smile in return. “Tired?”
“Absolutely beat,” Eskel agrees, “Sit with us?”
Jaskier curls up under Eskel’s arm, presses shoulder to shoulder with Geralt, who doesn’t stir bar a low rumble. They smell of sweat, yes, but that’s nothing on the guts of most monsters, which he’s frequently exposed to as an occupational hazard.
“Think you’ll manage a bath after this? Then bed?” Jaskier asks, already feeling a yawn coming on.
“Mmhm,” Eskel agrees. “Thank you for trusting me, buttercup.”
“Of course,” Jaskier’s voice softens, “I want to talk about it – maybe tomorrow, properly – but thank you.”
Eskel presses a kiss against his hair, “There’s nothing to thank me for,” he looks down at Geralt, where he’s boneless against him and their lands lay intertwined, “I’ll always look after you, both of you.”
Jaskier sighs, pulls Eskel’s arm around him closer.
They don’t linger for too long – the sweat is cooling quickly now, and Geralt starts to get twitchy. It’s not much, but after the dead stillness he’d relaxed into, a shift of his legs and furrowing of his brow is more than enough for both of them to perk up.
Eskel breaks the silence, murmuring, “I’ll take him for a bath now. Maybe…” he swipes his thumb back and forth where he’s holding Jaskier’s hip. “Maybe don’t bathe tonight, if you don’t mind terribly.”
Jaskier pulls back, blinking, “I can not do that, yes. But why?” He asks, dragging out the word curiously.
“You’d smell less … like yourself?” Eskel tries to explain, looking for the words.
“And that would be bad?”
“Yes,” he answers easily. “Well, not bad, but I think it would help him settle and sleep tonight, for you to have a stronger scent.”
“Right,” Jaskier nods, happy to accept this Witcher-ism.
Eskel smiles, “For now, why don’t you head up and get comfortable in Geralt’s bed?”
Jaskier is all too happy to comply. He leans in, taking a moment for a gentle, sweet kiss with Eskel.
He stokes and feeds the fire first, then strips to his sleepwear, and then slides beneath the covers. It’s just about all he had the energy for, but inexplicably once lying down he can’t find his way to sleep. He curls up on his side, watching the dance of the firelight as he replays the evening in his mind – the wild behaviour of Geralt’s, of Eskel’s calm guidance, how throughout all of it Geralt seemed somewhere off in his own mind. He wonders how many times Eskel, or one of the others, had found Geralt like that. Eskel, evidently, has had plenty of experience.
There’s the brief wish that he could’ve done as Eskel did – done something to truly help Geralt in the moment – and then it passes him by. He knows they’re Witchers, that they’re different to him, and that there are some things they share with him that will always and forever, just be for Witchers. It was one of his first lessons, travelling the path with Geralt, though the desire comes around more frequently when one cares dearly for a Witcher, for there is so much a human can’t protect them from.
In the halfway point between sleep and wakefulness, he thinks of the two of them. How lucky he is to have found himself in the middle, which wolf he might depart Kaer Morhen with in the spring, and how he might manipulate their scheduling so they happen to run into each other over the seasons.
Eskel returns with an arm around Geralt. “Hey,” he says, voice pitched low – both for Geralt, and Jaskier on the precipice of sleep. He blinks his eyes open. Eskel guides Geralt, who seems to have his own eyes closed, to kneel down in front of the fireplace.
“Go ok?” He asks, words a little muffled from how his cheek presses into the sheets.
Eskel ‘hm’s in agreement, kneeling beside Geralt with a towel and comb. He puts the towel under Geralt’s hair, over his shoulders, and starts combing out the very ends of Geralt’s hair where it reaches his shoulder blades. Jaskier, though very much wanting to ask and talk more, stays silent as he watches. Eskel moves slowly, and with what looks like touch as light as a feather. Geralt’s expression is deeply pleased.
When Eskel stands, Geralt rises with him. “Bedtime, Wolf. Jaskier has been waiting for you,” he says, nudging Geralt.
Geralt’s eyelashes just barely flutter – just far enough for him to find his way around the bed and under the covers. He paws at Jaskier’s side, and Jaskier rolls over to face him. “Hey sweetheart,” he whispers, quiet as he can. He lifts his arm, and Geralt is in his embrace not a second later. His head rests on Jaskier’s arm and a pillow, so his face is nuzzled right into the crook of Jaskier’s neck. He presses them together, tangling their legs. He settles in with a big inhale, and his exhale is more of a happy sigh. “Eskel?” Jaskier asks, unable to turn to look for their missing piece now.
“Coming,” answers Eskel, and not a minute slips by before he climbs in behind Geralt. He presses in just as tight on the other side, and Jaskier has no clue how Geralt doesn’t find it suffocating, but he’s not going to complain with Eskel’s hand on his hip. “G’night,” he mumbles, sounding already halfway gone.
“Goodnight, my wolves,” Jaskier replies.
There are a few hums of good morning as they wake, and then it’s similar to last night; both Eskel and Geralt a little out of it, though Geralt’s now tried to hide in Eskel chest. Eskel’s brushing his fingers through Geralt’s hair as Jaskier shakes off the last of his sleep.
“Do you feel up for talking?” Jaskier asks, not wanting to disturb this, but also feeling like he’ll go crazy just laying here without answers. Bless his wolves, if they’re not ready for speech, he’ll go get on with his chores. He just doesn’t have their skill for lying in silence.
“Always, with you,” Eskel smiles, more like a smirk when he’s being cute, and Jaskier feels like melting. His mouth ticks up more on the side without the scar, so the final effect ends up being a lifting of both for a toothy little grin. He just wants to kiss him all over.
So he does – he bears the cold of having to leave his blanket cocoon, and kneels over to press furiously delighted kisses everywhere he can reach. When he pulls back, Eskel only blinks up at him dumbly. He gets a few more for that.
Satisfied, he flops down next to them on his stomach. “So,” he starts.
“So,” Eskel agrees, trying to catch up.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen that happen before,” Jaskier leads, admiring the sliver glint of Geralt’s hair over Eskel’s fingers.
Eskel nods, “It doesn’t happen much anymore.” Jaskier motions for him to go on, so Eskel looks down at Geralt, who only rubs his face into Eskel’s belly, as if shaking his head no. “He’s described it as feeling overwhelmed from his senses and getting lost in his instincts – like getting riled up and having no where to put that energy. We assume it’s from the extra trials.”
Geralt huffs, presumably in agreement.
“Happened all the time while we were young,” Eskel smiles down at him, “But petered off once he got a better handle on everything. All young Witchers struggle with control, but Wolf has proper episodes, like last night. It’s harder and takes longer to get him to come back down.”
“And you said, it only happens at Kaer Morhen?”
“Hm, we’re all much more restrained on the Path. Don’t let our instincts go as much. With you as a companion, I guess even more so – he’s never mentioned it outside winter.”
Jaskier hums thoughtfully, “Do you wrestle every time?”
Eskel’s mouth quirks, “Most times – weapons are too dangerous, and we try to avoid anything that might make him think to use Signs, cause that has gone badly very quickly. Sometimes, when we were young, we’d just dogpile him until he calmed down.”
“And does he usually get,” Jaskier raises his eyebrows meaningfully, “Frisky?”
Geralt’s huff, this time, is annoyed. Jaskier knows that one for sure.
“No,” Eskel answers, kindly. “I remember it happening once or twice in the early days, but Vesemir made a whole point of how we shouldn’t let it happen. It was mortifying, yes,” he adds, already having anticipated the horrified stare Jaskier is levelling at him. “Those instincts … the ones getting the better of Geralt – they’re still the instincts that keep us alive during a hunt, and we do a lot to hone and develop them for the better. To bring pleasure into it, it would’ve muddied the waters. Made the wrong associations. I assume that’s kind of why he sought you out, actually.”
Jaskier makes an inquisitive noise, scratching his nails very lightly over Geralt’s scalp, who shivers under his touch.
“You smell like…” Eskel casts around for the words, “Like safety, and comfort, and being back at camp after a fight is done. But you also smell like him, uh, intimately, which was obviously received very well.”
“Oh Geralt, dear heart,” Jaskier murmurs, placing a hand to pet over Geralt’s naked back. Geralt chuffs, but doesn’t remove his face from Eskel’s skin. “Feeling shy?” He teases lightheartedly.
Geralt’s growl is answer in itself, and Eskel and Jaskier share a smile, then breath, then an indulgent kiss.
It’s not so much a kiss as it is a languid makeout with Geralt sandwiched between them – Eskel isn’t ignorant to when Geralt’s dick starts firming up against his leg. He can’t blame his Wolf, not with the slick sounds of Jaskier licking into him, or his own answering purr. Then the scent of Jaskier’s arousal spikes, too, when Geralt pushes his ass back into Jaskier’s lap.
“Wolf,” Eskel nudges him, “Do you want something?”
Geralt has to think for a while on the words before they come to him, “Fuck my mouth, want you.” His voice is low and raspy.
He always begs for it, and Eskel doesn’t usually feel like it, but now – “Do you want me over your face? Force you to take it?”
“Yes, yes,” he answers immediately, as if he could be too slow and Eskel would withdraw the offer.
“Anything else?”
“Jaskier,” he rushes, head tiling just enough to look between them, “please.”
Eskel looks him over, how desperate he’s become in just a few minutes, “Can you behave?”
He answers with silence and lowering his gaze.
Eskel decides to reward his honesty, meeting Jaskier’s eyes, “Jaskier can fuck you.”
“Thank you,” Geralt breathes out, rubbing his face into Eskel’s chest, then Jaskier’s.
Eskel muses aloud, “You’re going to hold your legs up and out of the way, so that’ll be your hands taken care of too.” Geralt nods as he talks, and though he’s improved enough to be responsive, Eskel’s still not sure if he’s actually taking it all in. “Off,” he says, tugging at the hem of Geralt’s braies.
Geralt’s pulling them off before Eskel’s even lifted his hand again, and he spreads his legs with a rumble, looking up at Jaskier.
In turn, Jaskier’s eyes lift to meet Eskel’s – asking. “Hold your legs up,” Eskel continues, guiding Geralt’s hands into position.
They both watch on silently as Geralt hikes his legs up over his belly with the grip, rounding his spine and offering Jaskier his body as his legs splay out wide. “Can I?” Jaskier directs at Eskel, thumbing a tin of lube.
Eskel glances over Geralt, corded power all wound up like a spring ready to go off. He’s directed it inwards now, at least, but he’ll need to be minded. He pulls Geralt around so his head just barely rests over the side of the bed.
“Hm,” he nods, and both Jaskier and Geralt sigh in relief. He stifles a laugh, and steals a kiss from Jaskier before he gets to work. Then, sitting back on his heels over Geralt, he murmurs, “Wolf,” right as he knows Jaskier is petting over Geralt’s hole.
Geralt can’t get far now, but he still tries to manoeuvre his head into Eskel’s lap and push back against Jaskier’s fingers. Eskel clicks his tongue, and Geralt goes still, then returns to his original position, eyes not leaving Eskel.
“Better,” Eskel says, running a palm down the centre of Geralt’s chest. “You want Jaskier’s cock, don’t you? You have to behave.”
A jerk goes down Geralt’s frame, and his lips peel just barely back from his teeth.
Eskel slaps him across the face, hard enough to turn his head. Taking Geralt’s jaw in a hand, he leans in. “Are you in control, and needy? Or do you need to be put down again?”
Geralt swallows around a dry throat, “Needy.”
Eskel’s smirk is a relief, “I know.”
“Please,” Geralt whines.
There’s not usually much more to Geralt’s vocabulary when he’s in one of these moods, but Eskel’s about to be lodged in his throat anyway, so he decides not to tease.
He pulls off the last of his own clothes, crowds above where Geralt’s head is laid back, then tilts his hips and feeds his cockhead into Geralt’s waiting lips. Geralt whines at the first taste, throat working as he laps at the crown. But Eskel doesn’t move, just holds himself there.
He thumbs over Geralt’s throat, “Gonna see my dick in your throat, Wolf. You’ll choke on it, right here.”
Geralt’s answering whine is even sweeter than the last.
At Geralt’s garbled syllables around the head of his dick, he looks over where Jaskier’s fucking Geralt open with two fingers. His rim squeezes tight around even Jaskier’s musician’s fingers. “How many are you going to give him?”
“Just two, he’s gagging for it,” Jaskier breathes, petting over the expanse of one of Geralt’s milky thighs with his other hand. “The more desperate you are, the more you like to feel it, right sweetheart?”
Geralt makes affirmative noises beneath him, but his breath starts to catch in his chest right as the tension he has on his legs goes a little slack.
“We’ll fill you up now, stay with us,” Eskel soothes, sinking his dick into Geralt’s mouth. It’s only a moment before Geralt catches up and his lips seal around the girth of him – not an easy feat, but one Geralt takes pride and obvious satisfaction in. He feels the resistance of the clutch of Geralt’s throat, “A little more,” he lies, and keeps pressing until his dick forces its way in. “Taking me so well, keep breathing,” he says, feeling under his thumb when Geralt strains around him.
By the time he’s properly tucked into Geralt’s throat, there’s a prickle of sweat at his neck. He can feel the press of Geralt’s nose to his sack; all that’s left visible of Geralt’s face is the taut ring of his lips around Eskel’s dick. He tears his eyes away from where he’d been watching Geralt take him, back to Jaskier.
He’d likewise fit his cock into Geralt in the meantime, and is fucking slowly into him now, hands landing over Geralt’s to press his legs further, expose him more.
“How’s he feel?”
Jaskier’s eyes flutter briefly closed as he thinks, “Sensitive, twitchy. Does he need it a little rougher?”
Eskel palms over Geralt’s jaw, “He’d love it.”
Jaskier doesn’t need further encouragement before he’s throwing his weight into the thrusts, wrapping his fingers around the curve of Geralt’s hips. They take Geralt from each end, rough and overwhelming in a way that Eskel thinks might be the final step to bringing Geralt back to himself.
His throat distends around Eskel’s cock each time he sinks in, and he slows for a few strokes just to watch it happen. Jaskier is no better, “Fuck, Eskel,” he groans, grinding his hips, “Looks obscene.” Geralt’s throat works around him, a few choked attempts at swallows which he gladly keeps fucking through, dragging the seizing clutch of him along his length.
Each thrust relaxes him into the position, until he knows Geralt must not be able to get any air, completely at his mercy. Geralt’s biceps and forearms flex as he hikes his legs up from where they’d gone slack from pleasure, and then he melts again as neither Jaskier or Eskel let up.
As the only human, Jaskier is always the first to go. He curses lowly through it, barely able to keep his eyes open as it surges through him. His hips keep grinding in as he works himself through it, and Eskel can nearly feel it with him for how his scent surges and his heartbeat rushes along with each pulse of cum.
Geralt can feel it too, based on the moan that follows Eskel’s dick on an outstroke. When Jaskier starts to pull away, though, the noise gets louder – and suddenly Geralt is whining with a throat full of cock as his hole bears down on emptiness. “Jask,” Eskel rasps, and Jaskier is already nodding and sitting himself down on the bed.
He fits his fingers right back in Geralt’s soft hole, three this time, and presses them hard up against the walls as he strokes. “Geralt, love, you’re doing so well. Being such a good fuck for Eskel and I,” he says, still out of breath from orgasm. “We’re not leaving, won’t let you go empty.”
Geralt’s quietened by the end of it, instead just mewling sweetly as Jaskier plays with him.
He wraps his other hand around Geralt’s cock – blooded and heavy over his belly. “I was watching this while I was filling you up, just wishing I had an extra hand.”
He’d likely be useless to actually intervene, dumb and slow from pleasure, but Eskel can’t help but watch cautiously. It seems Geralt’s succumbed to the same weakness, though, for all the response he seems to have is the tightening of his abdomen as he forces himself not to move.
“I’ve got him,” Jaskier says, looking up at Eskel. “I want to watch you ruin him now. Give him a reason for all those growly grumbles later, hm?” He adds, just teasing a fingertip over the velvety crown.
That, and the pulse of pre down his throat, is enough to do Geralt in. His dick throbs hotly in Jaskier’s hand as he starts to shoot over his own chest, arching just barely to force Jaskier’s fingers in him deeper. Eskel slows to a stop, feeling his dick throb in time with Geralt’s, and adjusts his weight so at least Geralt might have a better chance at breathing.
He pets over Geralt’s jaw as his heart-rate comes back down.
Then Geralt’s tongue swipes over the underside of his dick, and there’s the sweet pressure of his mouth sealing over Eskel again. “Asking for trouble, Wolf,” he says, not moving. Geralt swallows around his dick. “Spoilt,” Eskel tsks, and readily drops his hips to the right angle for thrusting once more.
He doesn’t hold back, trusting in both Jaskier and Geralt. The slap of his hips and sack against Geralt are loud now in the otherwise stillness of the room, and Jaskier’s admiring gaze is molten where it passes over them. He keeps his fingers petting gently at Geralt’s hole while Eskel ravages his mouth, nothing but force and the determination to fuck his cum into Geralt’s palette.
He’s about to tell Eskel how much he wants to see him paint Geralt’s pink mouth with his seed when Eskel lets out a deep huff, eyelids fluttering as his muscles tense and he rolls his hips against Geralt’s face. “There you go,” Jaskier breathes, watching them both – how Geralt swallows desperately around both cock and cum, and how Eskel’s face finally goes slack with pleasure. “That’s what you both needed, wasn’t it.”
He ruts into Geralt’s mouth a few more times before slowly stilling, then pets over his jaw again, “Wolf.”
Geralt’s abdomen tightens, his throat flexes, his calf twitches, and then he releases a leg to slowly cup Eskel’s hand in his own.
“You were very, very good for Jaskier and I,” Eskel rumbles, eyes darting up to meet Jaskier’s. Geralt makes a noise, indistinguishable, around his softening cock. “Jaskier’s going to pull out first, and then I will, and then we’ll clean you up. Jaskier’s going to stay with you while I get water and towels.”
Geralt’s noise is quieter, but acquiescent. Jaskier pulls his fingers free slowly, and pets over Geralt’s skin once he’s out, making sure Geralt isn’t suddenly left without him.
Eskel slides out with a nasty sound from Geralt’s throat, and holds him in a palm as he pulls back. He runs his fingers through Geralt’s sweaty hair as soon as he has access.
His wolf still has his eyes shut, leaning into his hand and panting open-mouth as he catches his breath. His face is a mess of drool, what are probably tears mixed with sweat, and cum. “Can I come hold him?” Jaskier asks, and Eskel nods easily.
He sets Jaskier up on some pillows, and Geralt cradled in the crook of his arm.
They haven’t moved when Eskel returns. He wipes down Geralt’s face a few times before attending to their hands, then to the broad strokes over chests, backs, and limbs, before finishing between Geralt’s legs. He grizzles whenever Eskel has to move him, and quietens just as quickly when Jaskier bribes him with a kiss to his cheek, then temple, then forehead, then nose, and so on that by the time Eskel is done, he’s certain there’s not an inch left unkissed.