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Geralt had expected a lot of things when Jaskier finally came clean about not being human.
He’s not entirely sure if Jaskier knows that he knows; so far, Jaskier has been playing the part of completely normal human bard. Geralt knows that means one of two things: that Jaskier doesn’t want to talk about it, or he doesn’t know. He doesn’t want to ostracize Jaskier by assuming the latter, so he’s stuck close to the former, and just speculated inside his own head. It’s worked out fine.
Until, of course, it’s not.
The cold hits out of nowhere.
It had already been cold, of course – they’re on the side of a mountain in early winter. But all of the sudden it’s worse; the temperature drops and drops and drops, until even Geralt is tense, jaw trying to chatter. It happens in a matter of minutes, no warning, no chance to prepare.
They’re half an hour or more out from any of the safety stops. If he pushes Roach, he can cut that time.
“Jaskier,” he says, pointedly. The bard appears at his side from where he’d been trailing slightly behind, moving slowly because of the cold. He’s still tinged pink and breathing normally, but he’s clearly cold despite the wool clothes and two cloaks he’s wearing.
Geralt has no idea what the bard is. He’s relatively sure that this cold can kill him, either way.
“Geralt?”
He holds a hand down. “Up.”
Jaskier takes it, bracing, and lets Geralt pull him up onto the saddle. He’s a little clumsy, probably stiff, but Geralt just helps him arrange until he’s pressed back against Geralt’s chest, then urges Roach forward. She snorts, aggravated at the extra weight, but goes, and speeds up when he urges.
The cold gets worse as they ride, and Geralt starts to feel tendrils of proper panic set in. He ignores it and pushes Roach a little harder, promising to himself that he’ll spoil her once they get to the keep.
If they get to the keep.
He doesn’t think about it.
“This is bad, isn’t it?”
Jaskier’s voice is soft, but Geralt still flinches. They’re in a cave, sheltered and well-ventilated, and there’s a fire going, but the wood won’t last the night and it’s still freakishly cold outside. Even packed for winter and sharing body heat, Geralt can still feel the bite – certainly, Jaskier can, too, human or not.
“It’ll be fine,” he bites out, and adds another log to their fire. Jaskier shifts against him, and when Geralt turns his head to look, the bard is staring at him, something steely in his eyes. “What?”
“You’re worried.”
“Jaskier.”
“I can tell, Geralt.”
“Jaskier.”
“Geralt.” The steely look bleeds from Jaskier’s eyes to his mouth, the set of his jaw. Geralt sucks in a tight breath through his teeth.
“It’s…not ideal.”
“I thought massive understatements were my job.”
“You’ve never understated anything in your life, bard.”
The corner of Jaskier’s mouth twitches. “On a scale of one to that time we chased a doppler through Novigrad with the Eternal Flame on our heels.”
Geralt huffs a mockery of a laugh and drags a hand over his face. “Imagine if that priest wasn’t also a doppler,” he admits, quiet, and Jaskier makes a short, sharp noise.
“Well,” he says, and when Geralt looks at him again he’s nodding to himself. “Guess the cat’s out of the bag, then.”
“What?”
“Or, will be, in a few minutes – have you ever made a blood sacrifice?”
Geralt blinks. And then blinks again, his mouth hanging open like a dolt.
“Geralt?”
“Did you just ask if I’ve ever made a blood sacrifice?”
Jaskier nods. “Yes, obviously. Can Witchers go deaf? Anyway, answer the question.”
“I – yes. I have. Why are you asking?”
“With your own blood?”
“…Jaskier.”
“Answer the question, Geralt.”
“Yes.”
Jaskier claps, and it sounds oddly final. Geralt represses a shiver as the bard practically leaps to his feet, letting in a gust of freezing air around the cloaks and blankets they’ve been piled in.
“Good,” he says. “Then this should be relatively familiar.”
“Jaskier, what in the fuck are you talking about?”
The bard looks away from where he’s fiddling with his rings, meeting Geralt’s eyes. “I’m not human, Geralt, despite the,” he gestures at his whole body, “general appearance of it.”
“I knew that.”
Jaskier quirks a brow at him and Geralt frowns. “I did. I was trying to be respectful of the fact that you clearly didn’t want to talk about it.”
The bard’s expression softens slightly. “Oh,” he murmurs. “Well. Thank you. But the point stands: I’m not human.”
“What are you, then?” Geralt runs through his list of possibilities, and can’t come up with any more.
Suddenly, Jaskier’s expression changes. From frowning and pensive to – well, to wicked. He smirks and Geralt swears there’s an impossible spark in his eyes.
“Show, not tell,” he says, a phrase he parrots all the time, usually about his lyrics and poems. Before Geralt can open his mouth to reply, though, Jaskier is pulling his rings off and…changing. Geralt’s medallion jumps against his chest.
His skin darkens a bit, and jagged black tattoos crawl up his hands to disappear under the sleeves of his doublet and reappear at his throat, stopping at the very edge of his jaw. When he turns, his eyes shine unnaturally.
“Now, I need your blood.”
Geralt should probably ask more questions, or maybe freak out a little bit, but he’s…. Caught. Jaskier’s shining eyes are bottomless and keeping him held, though he can tell there’s no magical influence – it’s just him.
He reaches to his waist and grabs a short dagger, offering it up. Jaskier smiles, and his teeth are very, very sharp. Geralt swallows.
“Thank you, dear heart.” Jaskier speaks as he flips the dagger casually to hold it properly, and he catches Geralt’s fingers with his other hand, stopping him from dropping his arm. “Don’t flinch.”
Geralt barely even feels the nick of the blade; he’s too captivated with Jaskier’s eyes that haven’t left his, even as he cuts into Geralt’s arm. He feels the blood, though, warm and dripping down to the nest he built for them.
And then Jaskier leans down, still making eye contact, and catches the next drip with his tongue. A surge of heat rips through his gut and he groans, eyes squeezing shut to deal with the sudden overload of sensation, but it doesn’t stop. Jaskier latches on to the cut and sucks, and the pain of that is secondary, barely even noticeable compared to the sudden heat.
Jaskier’s hand around his wrist and his lips against Geralt’s skin and all of him, in such close proximity, he’s so hot. Geralt squirms, but finds that Jaskier’s hold on him is iron-strong, and even besides that, each sucking pull of Jaskier’s mouth makes his knees go weak.
Right now is not the time to start getting hard.
And yet.
The bard’s mouth pulls from his arm with a wet sound and a tingling ache, and when he turns his face, Geralt loses his breath. His mouth and too-sharp teeth are painted with blood, his eyes gone black like Geralt’s do on Cat, and the tattoos have inched up past his jaw to curl jaggedly around his cheekbones and frame his eyes.
He looks like a monster.
He looks like a god.
“Jaskier,” Geralt manages to wheeze, and the bard grins.
“Geralt,” he says, licking blood off his lips, and his voice feels like it echoes down to Geralt’s bones. He has no chance to catch the whimper that tumbles out of his mouth, and Jaskier’s brows shoot up at the sound.
There’s a beat of silence, and then Jaskier is smirking, a sound pouring out of him like a big cat’s purr. “Oh,” he says, licking his lips again. Geralt tracks the movement as if he’s in a trance. “Well, that’s certainly interesting. Is it the blood, or everything else?”
Geralt whines through his teeth, hyperaware of where Jaskier is now tracing hot fingers along his arm, curling around his elbow, heedless of the slow smear of blood before the cut finally starts to clot and heal. “I – yes,” he bites out, gasping when Jaskier’s other hand comes up and wraps heavy around the side of his neck, thumb brushing over the bulge of his Adam’s apple. The touch is just shy of burning, so hot it’s making Geralt sweat, but he just wants to lean into it.
“Hmm,” Jaskier’s smirk widens as he leans closer. “Even better.”
The kiss tastes of blood and the lightning tang of magic, and Jaskier’s canines catch around Geralt’s lip when the bard uses his thumb to tilt Geralt’s head. Geralt moans into the kiss and goes where he’s pushed, shuddering at the feeling of Jaskier’s skin practically searing his.
“Fuck,” Jaskier mutters when the kiss breaks, his bloody lips smearing over the corner of Geralt’s mouth, down his chin. “You’re – you’re different like this.”
“What?” Geralt pants, finally lifting his arms and grabbing at Jaskier’s clothes, tugging at the fabric until the seams creak.
“I can feel the Chaos in you,” Jaskier explains, hands dropping from Geralt’s arm and throat to fumble with his clothes. “You taste like power.”
“Wait til you meet Eskel,” Geralt blurts. Before he can consider the implications of that, though, Jaskier is stripped down to his smalls and crawling into Geralt’s lap, pushing away the blankets and cloaks still barely clinging to his shoulders.
The tattoos aren’t just on his arms and throat and face, they’re everywhere, crawling up his legs and cutting across his belly and Geralt’s mouth waters at the same time he breaks out into a sweat at the sheer heat Jaskier is giving off.
“Hot,” he hisses, and Jaskier’s kissing him again. Despite the minor discomfort of it, Geralt strokes his hands up Jaskier’s sides, across his shoulders, back down to tuck under his smalls and press the tips of his fingers into the swell of Jaskier’s ass. The bard whines into the kiss and bucks his hips.
“D’you like it?” Jaskier asks when their mouths part again. “Or is it too much?” As he speaks, he trails light fingertips over the curve of Geralt’s ear and cups his jaw. His eyes squeeze shut, the onslaught of such gentle, fiery touchy and Jaskier’s pitch-black eyes and blood-stained mouth just too much all at once.
“Yeah,” he answers, because both are true. Jaskier’s skin almost hurts, right on the line between comfort and discomfort, and he doesn’t know what to do with it besides squirm, and yet he just wants more.
Jaskier laughs, sharp and breathy. “Oh?” His other hand joins on Geralt’s face, thumbs sweeping across his cheekbones before they slide down his neck, to his collar, pushing his shirt aside. “Want more?”
“Yes,” Geralt whines, and Jaskier’s grin is sharp and wicked and makes his cock twitch desperately against his thigh.
“Good,” Jaskier purrs, and pulls harshly at Geralt’s shirt. He scrambles to pull it up, hearing seams tear when he pulls it over his head and tosses it away. As soon as it’s gone, Jaskier’s hands trail over his collarbone and down his chest, fingers lightly tracing the lines of muscles. He pushes, just slightly, when his hands settle below Geralt’s pecs, and Geralt falls back easily, as if Jaskier holds his strings.
He probably does.
The cold cave floor shocks his system and he shouts, back arching as he jerks. Jaskier laughs and presses him down, until he can’t escape the freezing stone, and he whines, eyes fluttering at the startling contrast between his front and back. “Jaskier,” he gasps, chest heaving against where Jaskier’s hands are pressing into it. “Jaskier, I – ”
“It feels good, doesn’t it?” Jaskier cuts him off, and even with his eyes gone pitch black and bottomless, Geralt swears there’s a sparkle of mischief in them. “The contrast. Makes everything feel so much more.”
And he’s not wrong. Geralt shudders and moans when Jaskier sweeps his hands down, to his waistband, and then back up, fingers curling over his shoulders. The heat where he’s touching is incredible, and so is the lingering feeling of heat where he did touch, and comparing it all with the cold at his back, sharp and absolute – he feels half out of his mind already, cock pressing uncomfortably at the front of his pants and throbbing.
“Fuck, look at you,” Jaskier mutters. “Want to ruin you, Geralt.”
“Please,” Geralt begs. He can’t even muster the energy to be embarrassed by his desperation, and he can tell that shocks Jaskier as short, well-kept nails dig little stinging lines into his ribs.
“Careful what you wish for,” Jaskier warns, low and dangerous, echoing into Geralt’s bones again. “You might just get it, Witcher.”
“Jaskier,” Geralt pants, throwing his head back and squirming. “Fuck, please. I need something.”
“Something?” Jaskier asks, hands sliding smoothly down to fiddle with the buttons on Geralt’s pants. “What could you need?”
His burning fingers slip below Geralt’s pants, below his smallclothes, tracing the very edge of his hip, and Geralt bucks.
“Touch me, please, fuck.”
Jaskier purrs, and before Geralt can try to beg again, he’s unbuttoning Geralt’s pants and tugging them down, down, until they catch at his boots. The boots are dealt with in short order, along with Jaskier’s smallclothes, and then Jaskier is putting those searing hands on his knees and spreading his thighs, pressing in between them like that’s where he belongs.
Geralt certainly wants him to belong there. “Oh, fuck.”
Jaskier’s palms press flat over Geralt’s hips, thumbs curving along the creases between hip and thigh, the touch edging into proper pain on the sensitive skin. Geralt whines and squirms, caught between trying to push away and pulling Jaskier closer.
“Look so good all spread out for me like this,” Jaskier rumbles, and his hands press a little harder to Geralt’s skin, the heat sinking in to the muscles until they loosen, Geralt’s legs going weak. One of his hands moves, circling in to cup Geralt’s balls, rolling them between his fingers and his palm. It’s intense, even more so when Jaskier trails a finger up the vein along the bottom of his cock. “Feel so fucking good, fuck, how does Yennefer ever let you out of her bed.”
He has to suck in a deep breath to even be able to speak, and even then it’s stuttered and slurred. “She – she d-doesn’t, usuall – ah – usually. Let me.”
Jaskier laughs, broken and breathy. “Ah, you have to escape, I see.” He pinches the head of Geralt’s cock between two fingers and rubs just slightly. Geralt whines and jerks like he’s being hurt, heels digging into Jaskier’s thighs and toppling him forward onto Geralt’s chest.
“Hm,” Jaskier rumbles, and then his mouth is at one of Geralt’s nipples.
“Ah, ah, fuck, Jaskier, please,” Geralt whimpers, head thrashing. Rolling his body to arch up into Jaskier’s mouth has the aftereffect of forcing him to grind his cock into Jaskier’s belly and his whimper cuts off with a squeak as his eyes roll.
Jaskier just hums and switches nipples. Geralt thrashes some more.
Eventually, when Geralt’s nipples are puffy and red almost to the point of the bad kind of pain, Jaskier leaves off. He sits up a little and reaches out to grasp at Geralt’s arm, where the cut from earlier is all but totally closed. When his fingers brush over it, Geralt jolts.
“Can I have more?” Jaskier asks, voice low and sweet, and Geralt feels his cock spit precome between their bellies.
“Yeah, yeah,” Geralt nods almost frantically. “Whatever you want.”
Jaskier’s eyes lock onto his like they’re pulled by some arcane force. “Careful what you offer a god, Geralt.”
Geralt’s cock throbs so hard it hurts, punches a weak, breathy noise out of him. “Jaskier.”
The bard, the god, leans off to the side to grab the dagger he dropped. When he straightens, he hooks one hand under Geralt’s right knee and pulls it up, until his calf is resting on Jaskier’s shoulder. His grip slides down, cupping the back of Geralt’s thigh, and he groans at the burning touch.
When the point of the dagger presses to the inside of Geralt’s thigh, just slightly lower than would be significantly dangerous, Geralt whimpers. The blade turning and dragging, feather-light over his skin, is both better and worse; the slide of the edge is causing a psychosomatic echo of pain, but the cold of the blade is raising goosebumps on his thighs, his arms.
“Jaskier, please.”
The cut is shallow, but more than enough to bleed, and as soon as Geralt registers the sting of the cut the dagger is thumping to the nest and Jaskier is ducking down to seal his mouth over the wound. None of the blood even makes it to the blankets, this time, barely even makes it a few inches down Geralt’s thigh.
“Ah, fuck!” Geralt’s hips jolt, the sucking motion of Jaskier’s mouth paired with the heat of him and the pain making him spasm. “Jaskier, Jaskier.”
His body twists, not really trying to get away or closer, just moving, trying to do anything with the torrent of sensation roaring through him. Jaskier’s free hand presses heavily into his belly, though, pinning him down, and when Geralt looks down the god is just turning his head to look up.
There’s more blood this time, smeared over Jaskier’s mouth and chin, his cheek as he turns his face to look up at Geralt with those eyes, black as pitch and just as trapping. Geralt moans when Jaskier licks his lips clean and then turns his head again to lick obscenely over the cut that’s still sluggishly bleeding.
“You taste divine,” Jaskier purrs. “And I would know.”
The sound that trips out of Geralt’s mouth at that is a bastard between a grunt and a moan, something pulled up from his stomach by force, and his cock drools against his belly. “Please fuck me.”
“With pleasure, darling.”
Jaskier sits up, leaving the cut on Geralt’s thigh with one more long, slow lick, and then leans over again, this time to rummage through one of his nearby packs. When he returns, he has a bottle of oil in his hands, and Geralt shivers. The bard sees it and smirks at him.
The dagger is tossed to the side again so that Jaskier can shuffle closer, and the bottle makes a distinct little pop as it’s opened that makes Geralt shiver again. Jaskier’s smirk just widens, and he carefully tips the bottle, pouring a line of slick over Geralt’s balls.
He whines at the sensation of it spreading, dripping down his cheeks. How cold it feels, compared to the sweltering heat that Jaskier is giving off.
Jaskier’s fingers trail after the oil quickly, scooping the drips up and painting them between his cleft, touch feeling the hottest yet on the sensitive skin of Geralt’s hole.
“Fuck,” Geralt hisses, throwing his head back and panting. He tries to spread his legs more, give Jaskier more room, but his hips creak in protest. Jaskier just chuckles and shushes him, petting his clean hand over the top of Geralt’s thigh where his knee is still hooked over the bard’s shoulder.
“You already feel amazing on the outside,” he murmurs, eyes fixed on where his fingers are swirling over Geralt’s entrance. “How much better is the inside, hm?”
“Please, please,” Geralt gasps, and Jaskier hums. A single slick fingertip sinks into him, the burn of Jaskier’s skin matched with the burn of stretch, and Geralt whines, balls drawing up tight as he fights not to come at just that touch alone.
“Sweet Melitele,” Jaskier growls the words. “Take me in so easily, dear heart, look at you.”
“Jaskier, please.”
“I know, darling, I know. I’ll take care of you, don’t worry.” That fingertip slowly becomes a whole finger, each thrust slow and steady and torturous. The motion makes Geralt feel like he’s being pulled inside out, and he’s sobbing, hips jerking up. Jaskier hums, petting his thigh again, and starts to twist his wrist with each thrust, his knuckles pulling Geralt a little wider with each pull.
“More, more, please, Jaskier,” he begs after a bare handful of minutes, voice starting to crack. “Need more.”
“I should have known you’d be greedy,” Jaskier laughs. A second finger flirts around Geralt’s rim, making him whimper needily. “You’ll get what you need, darling, and I only want blood you give willingly.”
The implication behind that – the idea of Jaskier fucking him bloody – hooks into Geralt’s belly and twists. He groans. “Still – still willing,” he chokes out, eyes squeezes shut as that second finger finally sinks into him, the burn spreading up his spine and settling at the base of his skull.
Jaskier makes a low, dangerous sound. “Behave, Witcher,” he growls, and Geralt just moans, reaching up to pull at his own hair just for something to do with his hands.
A third finger teases in not too long after the second, maybe even too fast, but Geralt just tips his hips up and begs wordlessly for more. Jaskier turns his head at one point and scrapes sharp teeth along the side of Geralt’s knee, just threatening the thin skin in the bend of it.
“Jaskier,” Geralt pleads.
“Almost, darling,” Jaskier soothes. He sinks those three fingers as deep as he can get them, turning his wrist once they’re buried and pushing his palm up, until the heel grinds against Geralt’s perineum. Geralt shudders and clenches down around the god’s burning knuckles. The feeling of so much concentrated heat sunk inside him is making him delirious, caught desperately somewhere between pleasure and wrong, but in the best way.
The bard really is going to ruin him. Geralt’s throat clicks as he swallows.
Finally, after a handful more thrusts, Jaskier removes his fingers. That distinctive pop sounds again, and Geralt opens his eyes and tips his head up just in time to see Jaskier slicking his own cock. At the sight of the slick, ruddy head of it popping out of Jaskier’s fist, Geralt whines.
Jaskier just chuckles, breathy. “Desperate for it,” he teases, but all the same he presses forward, one hand landing next to Geralt’s side while the other guides his cock. The first press makes Geralt keen, makes Jaskier growl so loud Geralt swears he can feel the ground rumbling beneath him. The god goes slow, slow enough that Geralt gets to really feel the unnatural heat sink into him, spreading through his belly.
“Fuck, fuck,” he whines. He’s hyperaware of the heat of Jaskier’s body contrasted with the freezing air, the even colder floor he’s lying on, the measly heat of the fire’s last embers at his toes. “Jaskier, Jaskier, please.”
“Please what?” Jaskier asks, all teasing lilt, as he finally pushes in to the hilt. Geralt can feel the way his cock twitches and his eyes flutter and roll.
“Fuck me, fuck me, please,” Geralt babbles. Jaskier laughs.
“Of course, love.” Jaskier swivels his hips, pulling his cock a bare inch out and then grinding it back in, and Geralt sobs, hands back to tearing at his own hair as he’s practically overwhelmed by heat and fullness.
He’s still babbling, half of it not even words. He’s strung out and so hard it’s starting to hurt, and all he can feel is heat and cold and full, so full he might burst. No clarity comes to him when Jaskier starts to fuck him proper; he just falls further into this temporary madness, babbling and drooling and shouting each time Jaskier’s cock presses against his prostate.
“Feel so fucking incredible,” Jaskier growls. “Tight as a fucking vice and that fucking Chaos, it’s pouring off of you like sweat, darling, I can taste it.”
“Jaskier.”
“I have you, dear heart.”
It doesn’t even take a single stroke to send Geralt reeling off the edge, barely even a touch; Jaskier presses the heel of his palm against the base of him and curls delicate, searing fingers around him, and he’s gone. He’s certain he must be screaming, but he can barely hear anything over the rapid beat of his heart, the rumbling growl that Jaskier lets out when he clenches down around the bard’s cock.
“Yeah, just like that, love, yes.” Jaskier’s thrusts turn quickly into deep, rough rutting, wild and rhythmless.
Geralt whines at the stimulation as he starts to come down. “Please,” he begs. “Please, want to feel you.”
“Fuck.” Jaskier shouts, and the fire at his back flares sudden and high. Geralt flinches back from the sudden roar of heat, but Jaskier’s hands digging into his hips and pulling him down mean he can’t do much more than shift his legs as he feels the inhuman heat of Jaskier’s spend settle into his guts.
“Ah, ah, ah.” He finds he doesn’t even have words for the sensation, just gasping and moans. When Jaskier leans forward and sinks sharp teeth into his pec, framing his nipple with what will absolutely be a bloody bite mark when he lets go, Geralt screams.
Jaskier just growls, licking up the blood when he finally releases the bite. “Mine,” he rumbles, and Geralt shudders.
“Yours,” he agrees.
When Jaskier first touches Eskel, after a lengthy explanation of exactly who and what he is, he’s nearly fucking bowled over.
“Holy fuck,” he mutters, unable to stop himself from sliding his fingers up from Eskel’s hand, over his wrist, feeling the way his pulse thumps steady and slow beneath the near-overwhelming buzz of Chaos on his skin.
“Wh-what?” Eskel blinks and looks at Geralt.
“The Chaos,” Geralt explains, while Jaskier is still basking, stunned, in the sheer amount of power pouring off this sweet, unassuming Witcher. “He can feel it.”
“This is more than some mages I’ve met,” Jaskier mumbles. “Melitele’s tits, Eskel.”
The Witcher colors slightly. “What?” he asks again, almost sheepish this time.
“Given the right training, you could level a city,” Jaskier says frankly, and from the way Geralt snorts, the hunger in his voice isn’t hidden.
With his fingers still pressed to Eskel’s wrist, though, he feels the way the Witcher’s heart rate trips and spikes, so at least he’s not alone.
It doesn’t take more than a handful of sweet words to convince them.
Geralt is on board as soon as Jaskier suggests it; Eskel takes a little convincing, mostly because he’s entirely too noble and doesn’t want to disrespect his brother or Jaskier; and Lambert…well.
Lambert insists upon a battery of tests on Jaskier’s person to ensure he really is what he says he is, and then agrees. Rather enthusiastically, in fact. Jaskier honestly considers the time and blood spent entirely worth it to see that desperately hungry look on the youngest Witcher’s face.
All the same, it does have to be talked about.
“Do you need blood?” Eskel asks, hovering around the edge of the room Jaskier has chosen as his own. He and Geralt sit on the bed, side-by-side, and Lambert is lounging on a chair by the hearth.
Jaskier shakes his head. “No,” he says. “It’s just a…particularly powerful offering. When Geralt and I were caught in that freak freeze, I needed it, because I needed the boost to break the bind on what I am. With that broken, other offerings are just fine. No offerings is…mostly fine, too.”
“Mostly?” Lambert prods.
“I’ll get weaker without them,” Jaskier says. “When I was bound, it didn’t matter; the only power needed was to hold the glamour, and I can do that at my weakest, since the rings amplify it. Now that I’m…well, free, as it were, I don’t need them, but I’ll be weak without.”
“You keep talking about being bound,” Eskel says. He’s stopped pacing, now, but still keeps his distance. “What do you mean? Did someone do that to you?”
Jaskier shrugs a shoulder. “Yes and no. I chose it. Someone else had to do it, though.”
“You…chose it?” Geralt asks.
“Yes.” Jaskier turns to look at him more clearly. “I wanted to experience humanity. Properly.”
“How long did you spend like that?” Lambert sounds more interested now than he has for most of the conversation. Jaskier looks over to him.
“…six, seven hundred years? Give or take.”
There’s a heavy pause, and then Eskel asks, “How long have you been alive?”
Jaskier laughs. “I don’t have a number for that. I haven’t always been – well – me, not the way you know me now, but I’ve been around. Before the Conjunction, at least.”
Another moment passes by in silence, and then Lambert is making a sharp, derisive noise. “Enough talk,” he says. “Eskel, if you’re gonna be hesitant and weird that’s fine, but I, for one, would like to get fucked.”
Geralt chokes on his next breath, and Eskel’s eyes go wide. Jaskier snorts.
“Forward, aren’t you,” he teases. “Come here, then.”
Lambert is out of the chair and climbing onto the bed in the space of a heartbeat, clambering right up into Jaskier’s lap.
“Mm, good boy,” Jaskier praises, and watches the way Lambert’s pupils expand. He drags his hands lightly over the Witcher’s sides, over his soft tunic. Clothed and having sat so near the low fire, Lambert doesn’t exactly feel cold, but he’s not warm, either – almost nothing feels properly warm to Jaskier, aside from actual flames. It’s an interesting sensation, then, to touch someone and feel the heat they give off without properly feeling it.
For Lambert’s part, he seems taken aback by the heat of Jaskier’s touch even through soft linen.
“Ah,” he gasps, squirming. Jaskier pauses at the hem of his tunic, tugging lightly with his fingers. “Yeah, yeah, go ahead.”
The Witcher helps him pull it up and off and then Jaskier’s palms are pressing into his sides, just above the jut of his hips. Lambert hisses but doesn’t pull away, just squirms in Jaskier’s lap a little.
“Good?” Jaskier asks. Geralt, still to their side, snorts. “Hush, you,” Jaskier reprimands. “Lambert?”
“Yeah, s’fine, more.”
So Jaskier gives him more; he slides his hands up Lambert’s torso, cupping and counting his ribs – covered well, thankfully, by winter weight – and then sliding forward to trace over his pecs. Lambert lets out a little whine when he flicks over the Witcher’s nipples, so he does it again, and again, and then tries pinching.
“Fuck!” Lambert arches toward him, cock twitching visibly in his pants, and Jaskier grins. He’s still wearing his rings, the glamour acceptable if not perfect without the bind to pair with it, so he doesn’t look as frightening as he did when he and Geralt first fell in together. But he’s certain it’s still a wicked look, considering the feeling burning in his chest.
Eskel appears closer, round the side of the bed that Geralt’s on. His eyes are wide and dark, and Jaskier crows in triumph internally. “Will you take the glamour off?”
Jaskier pauses where he’s still teasing at Lambert’s nipples and considers. “I can,” he says. “But I look significantly less human without it.”
Lambert huffs a laugh. “That’s not a deterrent,” he says. “Especially not for him.”
Geralt chuckles, too, and Eskel colors but doesn’t look away from Jaskier.
“Alright,” Jaskier agrees, and pulls his hands from Lambert’s body just to slip the rings off and set them to the side No longer bound, he can barely feel the change; but from the gasp of air Lambert sucks in and the weak, shuddery sound Eskel makes, it must happen quickly.
Like this, all of his senses are amplified. He can see better, down to the almost-invisible freckles on Lambert’s face, the little bead of sweat making its way down his throat; he can hear three too-slow heartbeats, Lambert’s slightly elevated but nothing like a human heart, and his own, mostly human but irregular. Taste and smell and touch are sharpened, too, so when he presses his hands back to Lambert’s skin he groans.
“Fuck,” he mutters, and goes back to teasing at Lambert’s nipples, reveling in the buzz and crackle of Chaos thrumming just under Lambert’s skin. His is the weakest of the three, but it’s still incredible.
Lambert is panting, either from the heat or the stimulation, Jaskier doesn’t know. He leaves off the Witcher’s nipples finally to slide his hands up and wrap them around the back of his neck.
“Come here,” he says, and Lambert whimpers softly as he follows Jaskier’s pull, until they’re kissing. The first time Jaskier’s teeth catch his lip, he squeaks; the second time, he moans. Jaskier grins into their kiss. “You like them,” he assesses, and Lambert grunts but doesn’t deny it, instead just pulling back and offering his neck.
“I’ve seen that bite mark on Geralt,” he says, eyes molten gold and nearly as hot as Jaskier’s skin. “All you need is willingness, right?”
Jaskier swallows, licking across his teeth. “Yes.”
“Then here I am, willing. I want one.”
He doesn’t stop to consider it for too long; Lambert’s a grown man, a grown Witcher, and he more than knows the implications of this, after all the discussions of the last few days. He pulls Lambert closer again, licking obscenely across his neck before he sinks his teeth in.
If the feeling of Chaos is intense, the taste of it is better. There are no words for it, but as the copper tang of Lambert’s blood fills his mouth, he can taste it, and he moans. Lambert does, too, hips jerking; Jaskier can smell his precome, bitter salt in the humid air between them. Geralt and Eskel make their own sounds, too, to the side, but Jaskier isn’t focused on them.
Teeth still buried in Lambert’s neck, still licking up blood where it wells around the points, he slides a hand down and shoves it into Lambert’s breeches. They’re loose, luckily, and it’s easy to get a hand around his cock. It’s slick with precome and throbbing alongside the Witcher’s slowly-rising pulse. Jaskier reluctantly lets go of the bite, licking up the remaining blood, and starts to stroke.
“Ah, fuck, fuck,” Lambert’s eyes are squeezed shut as his fingers try to dig bruises into Jaskier’s skin. “It – ah, hot,” he whimpers, but he fucks forward into Jaskier’s palm, squirms closer, so Jaskier doesn’t stop. It takes a bit of trial and error but soon enough he’s nailed down what Lambert likes, stroking slow with his grip tight, twisting around the head.
“Jaskier,” Lambert whines, high and breathless, and comes suddenly. Jaskier grunts and works him through it, shuddering at the feeling of it on his fingers, his palm. It makes a mess of Lamber’s breeches and Jaskier’s shirt alongside their skin, but that hardly matters. Much like Lambert’s skin, his spend is not cold but it’s not hot, either, and the dichotomy of knowing it is hot to normal touch but cool to him sends him shuddering again.
Finally, when Lambert is gasping and trying feebly to squirm away, Jaskier lets go of his cock. He brings his messy hand up to clean the mess, groaning at the bitter, lingering taste, overlaid with the intensity of Chaos. Lambert whimpers and swoops forward as soon as Jaskier’s hand is out of the way to kiss him, messy and uncoordinated but enthusiastic all the same. Jaskier reaches around to grab at his ass, kneading the muscle and feeling the way Lambert rocks into it.
“More,” Lambert breathes against his mouth. “Want more.”
“Hm?” Jaskier slides one hand underneath Lambert’s breeches and smallclothes, fingers teasing at his cleft. “More of what?”
“Everything,” Lambert groans, dropping his head onto Jaskier’s shoulder. “Fuck, fuck, hot.”
Jaskier smirks and concentrates for a moment; he can tell it’s working when Lambert squeaks, entire body jolting away from and then toward Jaskier’s hand, and then away again, unsure.
“Ah, you – you can – fuck.”
“I could brand you, if I wanted to,” Jaskier murmurs, right into Lambert’s throat, where the marks from his teeth are already starting to heal.
Lambert gives a pitchy whine. “Please fuck me.”
When Jaskier turns his head toward Geralt, the Witcher is already holding a bottle of oil out to him, smirking and stroking his cock with the other hand. Eskel, meanwhile, has pulled a large, plush chair close to the edge of the bed and is sprawled in it, eyes still wide and dark with arousal, a prominent bulge in his pants.
Jaskier snorts and takes the oil before bringing on hand up to Lambert’s chest to nudge him back. “Lose the pants,” he says, and suddenly Lambert switches from reluctant to eager as he scrambles backward onto the bed to struggle out of his clothes. Jaskier does the same, though with significantly more composure.
It takes less than the space of a breath for Lambert to crawl back into his lap once they’re both naked. The Witcher gasps and hisses at the heat of Jaskier’s skin bare against his, but doesn’t hesitate to shuffle closer, slinging scarred arms over Jaskier’s shoulders and pulling him into a kiss.
He doesn’t bother to be careful of his teeth as he kisses back, and Lambert whimpers into it, hips shifting restlessly in Jaskier’s lap. Jaskier encourages him closer, until he’s grinding his cock into Jaskier’s belly and whining, mouth going slack as he loses himself to the sensation. Jaskier grins and kisses over the edge of his jaw, down his throat, while he carefully coats his fingers in slick.
The first fleeting press at his hole makes Lambert moan and push back to chase it. Jaskier chuckles and torments him a bit, little pushes and teasing swipes over Lambert’s hole until the Witcher is whining for it, cock drooling copiously between them.
“Please, please, please,” Lambert pleads, dropping his forehead to the crook of Jaskier’s neck. “Please, Jaskier.”
Jaskier hums. “You beg so pretty, Lambert,” he praises softly, and finally stops teasing. One finger sinks in slow but steady, that sensation of not-quite-cold making Jaskier gasp lightly as Lambert moans nonsensically about heat.
He rocks that one finger in and out for long minutes, reveling in the way Lambert squirms and shakes for him, the spark of Chaos that’s more intense inside. To their side he can hear Geralt and Eskel panting, the slide of skin on skin. He grins and licks over the marks from his teeth on Lambert’s throat, sliding a second finger around his rim and delighting in the desperately wanting sound the Witcher makes.
A second finger sinks in easily, even as Lambert whimpers and clenches down. Jaskier hums, wordless and soothing, and ducks down to mouth at Lambert’s nipples, grinning when a gentle scrape of teeth makes Lambert buck forward with a whine. The motion shoves Jaskier’s fingers all the way to the knuckle, and the sound Lambert makes in response is breathless and pleading.
“Fuck, fuck, please,” Lambert manages to wheeze, lifting his head to look Jaskier in the eye. His pupils are blown wide, almost round, the gold sliver that’s left practically glowing in the low light. He’s flushed from the tips of his ears to his collar, and Jaskier wonders if it’s just the heat or if Lambert just colors like that.
He’ll have to watch the youngest Witcher with one of the other two at some point to find out.
“Please what, darling?”
“More.” Lambert’s lashes flutter and his head tips back when Jaskier crooks his fingers. “Fuck, please, more. Can – ah – I can take it.”
“Oh?” Jaskier doesn’t really mean to growl, but the sound of it makes Lambert whimper, makes Geralt and Eskel suck in sharp breaths. He glances to them, finds that Eskel has his cock out now, and the looks caught when Jaskier meets his eyes. Jaskier just licks his lips and turns back to Lambert. “Can you really?”
He withdraws his fingers, giving a pleased hum when Lambert whines and presses back to chase them. It takes a bit of fumbling to get more oil on his fingers, especially with Lambert squirming desperately to try and get his fingers back, but he manages, chuckling at the weak, needy little sounds spilling out of Lambert’s mouth. Fingers sufficiently slick again, he presses three to the already-puffy rim of the Witcher’s hole and presses.
Lambert keens. “Ah, ah, fuck, yes please – fuck, oh. Hot. Hot.”
Jaskier grins, reaching up to tangle his free hand into Lambert’s hair and pull him down. The kiss is messy, Lambert’s mouth practically slack against his, but Jaskier doesn’t mind. Considering the sound Geralt makes at the sight, their audience doesn’t either.
“Feel fucking incredible,” Jaskier mumbles into Lambert’s mouth, dragging the point of his canine lightly over the swell of his lip. It splits like threadbare cotton under a blade, blood beading up that Jaskier licks away with a quiet, greedy sound. Lambert groans, blunt nails digging into Jaskier’s skin and leaving little crescent marks. “Do you want me like this?”
“Just want you,” Lambert pants, sucking on the bloody split in his lip. Jaskier hisses, and their next kiss tastes of copper and magic, Lambert making broken sounds against his tongue. It takes a little effort, but he manages to sink all three fingers inside Lambert’s body, knuckles pressed up against sensitive skin, and there’s a chorus of groans about it.
He grins and sucks on Lambert’s lip himself, worrying at the split until it has to sting, but Lambert just makes a garbled, wanting noise and tries to ride his fingers, hips shifting restlessly. Jaskier rewards him for it by moving them himself, slow, probing strokes as he spreads them wide.
Lambert practically chokes, shuddering and digging more scratches into Jaskier’s shoulders. “Fuck – yeah, yeah, please,” he begs, still shivering lightly as he rides back against the pressure. His cock bobs between them, drooling copiously, and Jaskier drags his palm from around the nape of his neck down his chest, until he can wrap overheated fingers around the Witcher’s heavy balls. To his side, he feels the bed shift, but doesn’t pay it any mind for now.
“Ah!”
Jaskier grunts at the vicious clench of Lambert’s body around his knuckles and grins, licking at the sweat beading at the hollow of his throat. “So good,” he murmurs, nipping lightly at the edge of a collarbone. “Think you’re ready?”
“Yes, yes, have been for fifteen minutes,” Lambert grouses, and Jaskier laughs. The nip turns into a proper bite, enough to draw a little trickle of blood; not nearly enough to scar like the one on his throat will, though. Lambert cuts off the rest of his grumbling with a high whimper at the pain. Jaskier’s grin widens and he licks up the drops of blood before taking his hand away and shoving Lambert off his lap and onto the bed.
“Hands and knees, then,” Jaskier says, shifting onto his knees himself, and Lambert groans before scrambling into position. Jaskier throws a look to Geralt and Eskel, delighted to find that Geralt has moved into Eskel’s lap while they watch.
Eskel has one arm wrapped around Geralt’s chest, the other around his hips, one hand curled around his cock as he strokes it lightly. While Jaskier watches, Geralt pointedly rolls his hips back, making Eskel hiss and tip his head against the back of the chair for just a moment before he’s gathering himself again. Jaskier smirks and winks at them, then turns his attention back to Lambert.
“Good boy,” he praises, reaching forward to wrap one palm around Lambert’s nape. The motion and the grip make Lambert tip forward, his hips raising up as he collapses down to his elbows, then his chest. Jaskier grinds his hips forward, Lambert’s comparatively lukewarm skin making him shudder as he leaves a trail of precum over the Witcher’s thigh, his ass cheek. “Look so pretty like this.”
Lambert makes a sharp noise, something right in the middle between pleased and indignant, and Jaskier chuckles, squeezing where he’s still gripping the back of the Witcher’s neck.
“It’s true,” Jaskier says lightly, and then shifts to line himself up. Lambert gasps and shifts back, pleading with everything except words, and Jaskier growls quietly. The sound of it gets him a soft chorus of gasps and a little whimper from Lambert. “Going to be prettier impaled on my cock, though.”
“Fuck, please,” Lambert pants, and Jaskier finally gives him what he wants.
The first thrust is slow, Jaskier trying to be considerate and savoring the slick slide, the startling temperature difference between Lambert’s skin and his insides as well as between the Witcher and Jaskier.
Lambert makes a weak, shivery noise, mostly breath. Jaskier pets down his spine, fingers light, and moans at the way Lambert clenches down.
“Hot,” the Witcher hisses, pressing his forehead into the bed. “Fuck, fuck, it – shit, Jaskier, you….”
“Too much, darling?” Jaskier asks, gently. He can lower his temperature, but not nearly as much as he can increase it. He keeps up the petting, though, while he waits for a response.
“Hn,” Lambert grunts, squirming around and clenching down again. Jaskier hisses, hips jerking involuntarily, and Lambert whines. “S’fine, just – fuck, move.”
“Gladly.” Jaskier grasps at Lambert’s hips and rolls his hips, more of a grind than anything else, and chuckles when Lambert whimpers and shifts back against him. He squeezes the Witcher’s hips, half because he just wants to feel the plush give of the skin and half as warning before he really starts to move.
“Ah, ah, fuck,” Lambert pants, hands clawing at the sheets. “Fuck, that’s – hn, please, please. Faster.”
Jaskier hums and moves faster, growling again as Lambert tightens and cries out. “Feel so fucking good,” he hisses, head spinning with the rush of Chaos, the spark of power that sinks into his gut and makes itself at home as a flame. “Perfect, Lambert, you’re perfect.”
He shifts his hips, shifts Lambert’s with his grip, until Lambert gives a sharp sob and thrashes. Jaskier grins, something that probably looks more like he’s baring his teeth as a threat, and fucks harder, reveling in the way Lambert thrashes and clenches down around him.
For a long moment that’s all there is, the slick sound of Jaskier fucking into Lambert’s body while he cries out and sobs breathlessly for it, the sound of Geralt and Eskel keeping themselves entertained while they watch. Jaskier is buzzing, and he’s almost certain his markings have started to glow; it usually only happens during ritual, but there’s so much energy in the room right now it wouldn’t be shocking.
Especially since all of that energy is, in technicality, being dedicated to him. He shudders and groans.
“Fuck, fuck, Jaskier,” Lambert slurs out, voice cracking in the middle. “Gonna – ah.”
Jaskier makes a sound, he’s certain, but he can’t really be sure if it’s a sound his Witchers can hear. He’s starting to lose it a little, edging close himself, and it’s been so long since he’s been swept up like this. It’s exhilarating.
He shifts to blanket Lambert’s back, nuzzling his nose behind the Witcher’s ear. “Come,” he says. “Give it to me, darling, I want to feel it.”
Lambert keens, sharp and long and high, hips shuddering as Jaskier sinks into him and grinds deeper, fingers digging bruises into the Witcher’s hips.
“Yes,” Jaskier hisses, eyes rolling as he bites at the nape of Lambert’s neck. “Yes, just like this, Lambert, fuck.”
“Ja – Jask,” Lambert hiccups, more whimper than word, and comes.
Jaskier snarls, rutting into him for a few short minutes while he clenches and shudders before Jaskier is coming, too, filling Lambert up and fucking it back out of him with the messy shoves of his hips. Lambert is whining, thighs trembling as he mumbles out, “Hot, fuck, hot, hot…,” and pushes his hips back.
He manages not to sink his teeth clear to the muscle of Lambert’s shoulder, but only barely. They’re both panting as they come down, and Jaskier slowly pulls out before rolling to the side so he can gather Lambert into his arms. The Witcher just collapses into his embrace and gasps for air.
Jaskier turns his head to look at Eskel and Geralt. The two of them are still tangled together, but it looks like Geralt came at some point, judging by the mess on his belly. He can’t see if Eskel got the same pleasure, but either way the scarred Witcher looks content where he and Geralt are kissing lazily. The angle is off, so Jaskier is able to see the flash of their tongues, the way sharp canines catch and pull at lips.
He shudders, skin still buzzing with power. When he looks down at his own body, the markings are glowing faintly. He wonders what his eyes look like – black, like Geralt got to see, or the red-orange of embers. It’s been so long since he’s felt power like this, felt so strong and fed, that he can no longer tell how much it takes.
Not that it matters, really. When Eskel and Geralt finally break their kiss and turn to look at Jaskier and Lambert, the lust in their eyes only intensifies. Whether he looks like the savage god he is or not, they look like they’d like to eat him alive.
He thinks he might let them try.
“Eskel, darling,” he murmurs, and there’s an odd quality to his voice, one he hasn’t heard in centuries. It makes all of them shiver. “I do believe it is your turn, if you’d like.”
“I would,” Eskel says, voice rough, and Lambert shivers against Jaskier’s chest, tucking his face into his neck. He files that information away for later.
“Then come here,” Jaskier prompts, smirking, and Geralt climbs out of Eskel’s lap just to collapse into the chair in his place. Eskel steps up to the bed but doesn’t climb onto it, just tilts his head and looks for a moment.
Jaskier lets him, still petting over Lambert’s back. Eventually, Eskel opens his mouth and then closes it, frowning slightly before he does it again, and then again. Jaskier hums and gently pushes Lambert away, letting helping the Witcher sit up before he’s crawling off of the bed and straight into Geralt’s lap. Geralt, for his part, just opens his arms and lets it happen, still watching Eskel.
“Come here, darling,” Jaskier beckons, and Eskel hums, climbing onto the bed and settling just in front of Jaskier. He doesn’t let the Witcher settle for long, though, reaching up and getting a hold on Eskel’s shirt to pull him down. He tips back as he does, so it ends with Eskel sprawled over Jaskier’s body, their legs tangled.
Eskel huffs, and Jaskier chuckles, wriggling around until he can get his legs wrapped loosely around Eskel’s thighs. The Witcher leans into him, dropping from his arms to his elbows, and Jaskier tips his head back to let him bury his nose against his throat.
After all, it’s not like Geralt hasn’t been telling Jaskier about his brothers since they’ve arrived.
He threads the fingers of one hand through Eskel’s hair, pushes the other hand beneath the worn linen of his tunic to get at scarred skin. Eskel shudders in his arms, moaning softly when Jaskier applies pressure to his scalp and massages gentle circles.
“Tell me what you want,” Jaskier murmurs, lips ghosting over Eskel’s ear. “I’ll give it to you.”
Eskel makes a low rumbling sound and turns his head to catch Jaskier’s mouth. The kiss is deep and messy and possessive from the start, and Jaskier can’t help the way he surges into it, entire body lighting up with the Chaos pouring off Eskel and into him. Eskel grunts lightly at the way Jaskier clings to him, but adjusts easily, one arm shifting from holding his weight up to wrapped around Jaskier’s back to pull him closer.
Jaskier pulls back from the kiss only to trail a series of near-threatening bites down Eskel’s throat. The Witcher just growls, almost more of a purr, and sets to giving Jaskier his own marks, from collarbone to the hinge of his jaw.
“Want to fuck you,” Eskel whispers, breath making Jaskier shudder as it creeps down his neck along with the electric tingle of Chaos.
He has to tear his head back from Eskel’s throat before he gives the Witcher a bite to match Lambert’s. “Fuck,” he hisses, considering the thought and shuddering. That much concentrated Chaos literally inside him might actually be more than he can handle.
“Don’t freak out if I start to glow,” he pants, and Eskel snorts. “Why are you still wearing clothes?”
“Let me go and I’ll fix it,” Eskel says. Jaskier gives a dramatic groan but lets go, turning to the side while Eskel clambers off the bed to grab the oil.
When he turns back, Eskel has lost his shirt and his boots and is working on his pants. Lambert is mouthing lazily at Geralt’s throat, eyes barely visible but clearly staring at Eskel, while Geralt slowly works their cocks together, also staring at Eskel.
Lambert does just turn red like that, no heat required. Jaskier grins.
He turns back to Eskel as the Witcher climbs back onto the bed, and goes to open the oil to pour some on his fingers. Eskel reaches out lightning-quick and stops him.
“I want to,” he says. “Hands and knees.”
It’s a question phrased like an order, and Jaskier grins. He sits up closer and kisses Eskel, slow and chaste, a tease meant to make the Witcher want to follow him, then flips over onto his belly before raising up onto his knees and elbows. He wiggles his hips, meant to be just as much temptation as his kiss was, and Eskel growls.
The swat to his ass is unexpected, but not unwelcome. Jaskier gasps, then groans, shoving his ass back toward Eskel. The combination of the light sting of pain and the lingering sear of Chaos is delicious. Eskel makes a short, sharp noise, but hits him again, a little harder.
“Ah, yeah,” Jaskier moans, dropping his head to the sheets. He’s already hard again, the surge of power from Eskel’s touch more than enough to get him going. “Fuck, Eskel.”
Eskel hums and gives him two more hits, rapid and sharp, before Jaskier hears the oil opening. He whines softly and shifts his hips back again. The Witcher is quick, though, and before Jaskier can suck in the breath to beg, there’s the press of one wide, slick finger at his hole.
Realistically, he doesn’t need the prep. He’s a fucking god.
But it feels nice, and besides, the sound Eskel makes when that finger starts to sink into Jaskier’s body is sinful.
“Hot,” Eskel mutters, but doesn’t pull back, and Jaskier just grins against his own arm, clenching down to feel the shape of the finger spearing him open. It feels impossible that it’s a single finger, but considering what Jaskier caught a glimpse of between Eskel’s legs, well….
His Witchers are certainly proportional.
Hmm. His Witchers. He likes the sound of it, and considering the marks two of them bear from his teeth….
“Gods,” Eskel hisses, once his finger is sunk to the knuckle. He probes Jaskier open slowly, though Jaskier doesn’t really know if that’s for his sake or Eskel’s.
“Literally, darling,” Jaskier teases, and Eskel makes a soft noise. Jaskier grins to himself again and rocks back against the finger inside him, moaning when Eskel presses down gently. “Ah, yeah, fuck. More.”
Eskel takes him at his word, a second finger pressing in next to the first, probably too quick if Jaskier were human but he’s not, so he just bucks back into them and whines when the callouses tips scrape over his prostate. The combination of their temperature difference – more pronounced with Eskel inside Jaskier, enough that his skin really does almost feel cold to Jaskier – and the electricity of Chaos is good. Better than anything else Jaskier has ever felt, in fact, and he wasn’t exaggerating earlier when he told them how long he’s been around.
“Fuck, yes, please,” he breathes, rocking along in rhythm with the way Eskel is fingerfucking him. “Want your cock, darling, please.”
“One more,” Eskel says, firm but clearly strained. Jaskier huffs and clenches down on his knuckles, rolling his hips at the same time. Eskel hisses and retaliates by jabbing at his prostate. Jaskier’s thighs tremble wildly.
“Hurry, then,” he demands, that odd vibrating echo back to his voice. To the side, Lambert whimpers and Geralt groans. Jaskier shifts to turn and look at them, and finds that both of them are a mess, covered in cum and panting against one another as they watch Eskel open Jaskier up. He smirks at them, then shouts and turns to bury his face into the sheets again when Eskel forces his fingers apart inside Jaskier’s body.
After a few more spreading motions, Eskel retreats for more oil and comes back with three fingers. Jaskier groans and bears down against the pressure of them, gasping sharply when the tips sink in and then Eskel shoves. Being so suddenly full when everything else has been so slow makes Jaskier’s vision spot, and his cock throbs. A surge of Chaos follows the vicious thrust of Eskel’s hands, and for a wild moment Jaskier wonders if Eskel can control that, but doesn’t get much chance to think about it.
“So fucking tight,” Eskel hisses, distracting him with a pointed thrust against his prostate. “Too fucking hot inside, going to fucking ruin me. Never going to want anyone else, fuck.”
Jaskier can’t help the sound he makes at that, something deep and rumbling and extremely inhuman. He hears the fire in the hearth, mostly burned down to embers, flares high and roaring. All of his Witchers gasp, and Eskel whines, fingers pulling out of Jaskier’s body unceremoniously.
He hears the slick sound of Eskel coating his cock and growls, knowing he’s losing his grip on the façade of humanity. Eskel doesn’t seem to mind, though, as he sprawls over Jaskier’s back, his weight forcing them down until Jaskier’s pressed fully to the bed.
Of course he could fight it, but why would he?
“You’re glowing,” Eskel mutters into his ear, sounding strained. Jaskier opens his eyes to find that he’s right, all of his markings gone from black-grey with a little light to pure, white-hot beams. He groans, and then laughs, voice still inhuman, and cants his hips up as best he can while still letting Eskel’s weight pin him to the bed. Eskel’s hips shift, too, and his cock grinds over Jaskier’s hole, thick and not-quite-cool.
“Fuck me, Witcher,” Jaskier growls.
Eskel whimpers and reaches between them to line up before doing just that. He doesn’t even bother with slow, either too desperate himself or understanding Jaskier’s impatience. The first thrust is rough, deep and sharp, and the rest are the same, the size of him taking Jaskier’s breath away.
The Witcher’s arms wrap around him, one worming under his chest and the other coming around to cup Jaskier’s jaw. He drags sharp teeth over the pounding pulse in the wrist next to his mouth, unable to stop himself, and Eskel groans.
“Do it,” he says, snarling against Jaskier’s ear as he ruts. He presses his wrist more firmly against Jaskier’s panting mouth. “I want one, too. Might as well collect the set, hm?”
He barely even pauses to think before he’s turning his head and sinking his teeth into Eskel’s wrist, blood gushing into his mouth. He drinks it down with a subverbal sound that shakes dust from the great stone ceiling, and distantly he hears Geralt swear, but he doesn’t care.
Eskel’s cock feels cold against his insides, and his blood is rich copper and immense power, flooding into Jaskier with all the grace of a tsunami. Jaskier can’t care about seeming human right now. He’s not human, he’s a god, and the things they’ve given them tonight could destroy entire worlds with their power, if he tried to focus it.
“Fuck, fuck,” Eskel whines, voice strained and pitchy. “Fuck, Jaskier, you’re – ah, hot, fuck.”
He can’t pull his teeth from Eskel’s wrist to answer, still feeding on his blood like some kind of addict, but Eskel doesn’t sound like he’s complaining, anyway. The feeling of his cock flexing inside Jaskier’s ass confirms that theory.
The fire flares again, higher and higher until the light blinds even Jaskier, and he comes, roaring like some kind of beast with his teeth still sunk into Eskel’s wrist.
Eskel whimpers, broken and soft, and follows him down.
Three days later, Vesemir fixes the four of them with a stern look over breakfast.
“If you’re going to bring the castle down doing it, go outside to fuck each other,” he says, tone brooking no argument. He levels Jaskier with a pointed look. “I’m certain you can keep warm enough.”
Jaskier chokes on his porridge.