bg3 loreposting

His first swim had been unplanned. Clumsy feet dumped him headlong into an aqueduct on the edge of the slum in Flea Bottom, and Dunk had sunk like a stone. He still remembered kicking his feet and waving his arms, the surface of the brackish water drifting further from his frantic reach with every suffocating instant. His chest had been ready to burst, then rough fingers found his hair and pulled hard.

Dunk breached the surface and came face to face with an irritated passerby, whom Rafe had begged to fish him out. Rafe hadn't known how to swim either, but that didn't stop her from smacking him on the back of the head and demanding to know what was wrong with him. From that day on, Dunk hadn't strayed into strange waters further than his ankles.

Deft fingers unfastened the burlap cloak from his shoulders, and when they moved to the knot at his tunic, he realized she was undressing him. He startled, raising his hands in alarm, "What are you doin'?!"

"The more clothes you have on, the harder it is to swim," She mused, glancing first at his waving hands, then to his flushed cheeks.

She wore only a light shift now herself. The color of cream and edged with simple lace, it stopped at her mid-thigh. Dropping his gaze to a particularly interesting pebble, he tried to steady his hammering heart, "This is hardly appropriate, m'lady! That is, a man and a woman undressing together."

"Stop trying to weasel out of your lesson! Besides, I'm no lady, Ser Duncan. You can stop pretending," She rolled her eyes, "But I am the only person you know who can swim."

Duncan opened his mouth to argue, but she cut him off cleanly.

"Besides, Egg. And you're not going to ask him to teach you."

"W-Well," Dunk tried to conjure up another excuse and failed, "I'm not a babe, I can undress myself!"

"Then get to it!" She dropped the loose ties of his tunic and turned, hurrying toward the water's edge. A splash, and the crystalline water rippled, parting smooth and cool at her feet.

In just his braies—A clean pair, thank the Seven!—Dunk watched her wade fearlessly into the lake, until the water bunched the fabric of her shift at her thighs. Golden rays of light reflected off the water, illuminating her in a warm glow. She became heavenly under the sun, reminiscent of otherworldly nymphs. The ones in children's tales, who lured passerby to their watery graves, and when she turned, reaching out to him with one outstretched hand, Dunk understood why those dimwitted men in the stories jumped so eagerly to their deaths.

Cool water kissed his ankles before he could think twice, and the pull of her hand drew him deeper. Fear churned his stomach, but he tried not to show it. Soon, the water lapped at his midbelly, and higher still for her.

"Let's stop here," She squeezed his hand firmly, then let it free in the water to gesture, "It gets deeper, just there."

"Should we turn around?" Duncan worried, his brow furrowed.

She snorted, "Don't be silly. It's perfect!"

Dunk stared at her, waiting for an explanation, certain that he looked as thick as an old oak tree without any of the wisdom.

She sighed as if it should have been obvious, "You'll still be able to reach the bottom, just wade in a bit further."

"W-why just me?!" Dunk felt his heart pounding, and he struggled to hear her voice over his memories of water rushing past his ears.

"It will be too deep for me, but it will be easier for you to float in deeper water," Unusually, her face showed no signs of mischief, but Dunk still hesitated. He avoided eye contact, his hands wringing together just over the water as he tried to keep his breathing steady.

She watched him for a moment, gaze narrowed. When she spoke again, her voice was low with surprise, "Is our brave Hedge Knight afraid of swimming?"

"Of course not!" Duncan scoffed.

"Oh, good! Then, you'll have no problem going deeper."

His face slackened, stunned. If Dunk didn't move, he'd have to admit to being petrified of a measly pond. Worse still, she'd never let him hear the end of it. Still staring daggers at him, she searched for any chink in his metaphorical armor. Pebbles dug into the flats of his feet as he shifted nervously. Dunk jumped when a warm touch stilled his worrying hands.

Her voice came softer, "Trust me, Dunk, I'll be right behind you. Just here, where it is still shallow enough for me to stand."

Dunk nodded, sweat gathering at the nape of his neck despite the cool lapping of the water. When he stepped forward, the pebbled bottom wasn't where he expected it to be. Yelping, he slipped deeper into the lake and immediately began to flounder.

"Dunk!" She surged forward to grip his shoulders, "Just stand up!"

He thrust his feet down and found his footing. Just as she promised, the water line lapped at his chest. Dunk went bright red, "Oh."

"What was that about not being afraid?" Barely restrained humor lilted her words.

"I didn't lie," He looked down, shaggy hair barely hiding his embarrassment, "It's not swimming I'm afraid of, it's the water."

For a long moment, neither spoke nor moved. Birds sang overhead, and the reflections of bright white clouds swam across the placid pond. Dunk's stomach flipped, certain that she thought him a coward now. He considered wading back out of the lake and walking back to camp, dripping with shame. Meanwhile, she regarded him thoughtfully, chewing on the side of her cheek in that telltale way.

She had a plan. Dunk cringed.

"The best way to conquer a fear is to face it head-on," She assured him, keeping a steady hand on his shoulder, "You're already doing great."

He looked up, surprised, "I am?"

"You are!" She grinned back at him, "And now you're going to learn to float."

"W-what do I do?"

"Turn around," She instructed, guiding Dunk to face the opposite direction. He tried to steady the rise and fall of his chest, missing the calm of her eyes. The water was beginning to feel like walls closing in, trapping him. A splash signaled her moving closer, and her hands found his shoulder blades, "Lean back into my hands until your feet leave the ground."

He shuddered out a breath and closed his eyes. She murmured whispers of assurance, like Dunk had taught her to do with the horses.

Did he look so much like a frightened horse? The thought sent his cheeks flaring red once again.

He began to lean back. At first, it felt like she wasn't going to be able to catch him. Dunk felt that familiar falling sensation and fought the urge to flail.

"Good," She whispered into his ear, and he stilled, "Just a little more."

When his feet left the scummy pebbles of the bottom, there was only a moment of heart-pounding free fall before her arms slid under his shoulders. She supported him easily with the help of the water. Water sloshed at his ears, and panic rose in his chest. Dunk winced despite himself.

"Be calm," She instructed, "Spread out your limbs and take a deep breath."

Dunk did as she said and gasped quietly when the water lifted him. Suddenly buoyant, he opened his eyes to the harsh glare of the sun and found her grinning down at him.

"You did it! You're floating!" She exclaimed, and they laughed together. Hers was boisterous and excited, and his was nervous but pleased.

"Good, now, concentrate on this feeling."

A lopsided grin on his face, Dunk closed his eyes again, focusing on his task of floating. It was unlike anything he'd felt before—Weightless in the languid movement of the lake. For the first time in his life, he felt small, encompassed by the vastness of the water around him, and it wasn't frightening. It was surrender.

Then, he realized that the way she held him meant the top of his head gently bobbed against her chest. He jolted, willing away the flush that threatened to move down his body. Dunk needed to find a distraction quickly.

He stuttered out the first question that came to mind, "How did you learn to swim?"

"Oh, uh," Her tone flattened, losing the enthusiasm from earlier, "My father taught me."

Dunk hummed, imagining a father and daughter bonding over a day of summer fun, "That must've been nice."

"Yeah," Her voice was clipped, and Dunk realized that somewhere along the way he had mispoke.

One eye peered open. She watched the distance blankly, thoughts somewhere far away. The noon sun cast a harsh shadow over her features, partially obscuring his view.

"I only meant," He felt himself lose buoyancy, and took another deep breath, rising again in the water, "If it was anything like this, then—Then, it must've been nice!"

"Yes," She agreed flatly, "It would have been nice."

Dunk fought the urge to bring his arms back in and wring his hands together. They were quiet again, but his head was loud, trying to determine what to say to make things right.

"I'm sorry—"

"Never mind that," She interrupted, "Now, you'll float by yourself."

"What?" Dunk exhaled completely, alarm quickly filling his chest.

"It's fine, Ser Duncan, you're ready to do it on your own."

Her hands slipped away before he could object. Left unmoored, his head submerged until water tickled the rims of his eyes, and the fear in his belly became too much to swallow. His legs bent, and the weightless feeling disappeared. Dunk sank. The water closed around him, and he was a boy again, drowning in the dark aqueduct. Water shot up his nose, and he wanted to scream. Distantly, he heard his companion yelling over his clamoring, but Dunk was too afraid to listen. He thrashed wildly. One arm paddled uselessly through the cool water, and the other hit something solid.

She had hurried to steady Dunk again, but did not account for the fear that controlled him. He wrapped a vice grip around her wrist and pulled himself up, hard. The force sent her slipping beneath the water's surface as Dunk pushed himself up for air, and now the bottom of the lake was out of her reach. Taking a heaving, hacking breath and kicking desperately, he was barely aware of the body that struggled beneath him.

"Stand!" Her face briefly broke the surface before sinking again.

Dunk's gaze darted around hysterically. All he could see was the water around him, and all he could think about was how he was so far from land. Nails dug fiercely into his bicep, scratching red welts down his arm as she pulled herself up again. Her legs kicked more skillfully than his, enough to keep them bobbing at the surface, but his size kept her anchored beneath him.

"Just stand," She croaked, choking on water, "Dunk, please!"

She dipped back beneath the water, but her frightened cries had cracked through the wall of fear. With a clearer head, Dunk extended his legs and found the shifting lake bottom again.

It was then that he realized what he'd done.

Dunk wasted no time in gathering her into his arms and pulling her up from the depths with all his strength. She sputtered, desperate for air, but water burned in her throat. With her pressed to his chest, Dunk pushed for the shore. The water did not slow him as he ran.

"Seven fucking hells," He gasped, "Forgive me."

When the water stopped at his ankles, he collapsed with her to the shoreline. Her slip clung to her form, the fabric now limp and transparent. Dunk hardly noticed, too distracted by how she shivered against him. Her arms were leaden at her sides, too heavy with exhaustion to lift herself. Rivulets of water ran down her cheeks, red with exertion, and he clumsily wiped them away with his thumbs.

"I'm a fool," He bit, furious with himself, "An utter fool."

She coughed again, shaking her head. He knew that she was upset with him, so Dunk continued his tirade of self-flagellation.

"There's something wrong with me, I didn't mean to, I swear it—"

"Are you—" She tried to speak, but her garbled words turned into a wretch. A small geyser of lake water burst from her lips, and Dunk flinched. She wheezed another breath, looking frustrated.

"An idiot, yes, I know, I'm just an—"

"No," She rasped, then dissolved into a coughing fit.

"No?" He froze in confusion.

Eyes fluttering blearily, she lifted her head to look at him, "Are you okay?"

Dunk blinked down at her, bewildered as shaking hands cupped his face. Gingerly stroking the line of his jaw, she searched for any sign he was unwell. A strange emotion was hidden in the purse of her lips. It reminded him of those brief morning moments when Ser Arlan would wake, head-poundingly sober, and the memories he ran from briefly caught up with him. Then, he'd call for Dunk to bring him the wineskin.

"It's my fault," She breathed, beginning to sound like herself again, "I pushed you too quickly."

"You didn't. I should've—" Dunk tried to argue with her, to take the blame back, but he couldn't think of how. He wanted to wipe the worry from her face, but settled for warming her arms with his hands, "It's alright."

"It's not!" Voice raised, frustration was clear in her tone. She stopped herself, squeezing her eyes shut. When she opened them again, the pain seemed further away: "I should've let you decide when you were ready."

One of her hands had slipped to the nape of his neck, her nimble fingers carding through the mess of hair. With their chests flush together, Dunk became acutely aware of the pound of her heart through the soft press of her breast. The tangle of their legs felt suddenly intimate, and the way her slip rode up her thighs, threatening to expose her ass, sent his heart racing.

"I'm sorry, Dunk."

Her gentle touch, her kind words, it was all overwhelming. It was like the time he'd stumbled into a Tyroshi merchant caravan and broken a vase. Not a single soul had spoken in the common tongue, and he'd ended up running away. Just like then, Dunk knew she was speaking to him, but it was foreign.

All he really understood was that he wanted her closer.

Mind fuzzy and unsure what else to do, Dunk tilted his head down and pressed his lips to hers. The kiss was soft and tasted of uncertainty, but that didn't stop the low moan it pulled from his lips. Dunk stopped dead. A flush heated his cheeks and quickly spread to his neck, then chest. He pulled away, and for a short moment, they stared dumbfounded at each other. Dunk began stammering a string of unintelligible apologies, but he didn't get the chance to go on for long.

Her open mouth crashed into his, and Dunk made a shameful, strangled sound, half surprise, half pleasure. He expected her to pull away and taunt him. Instead, she responded eagerly, scrambling to straddle his lap. Dunk's grasp tightened awkwardly on her upper arms as she pressed into him. She kissed him hungrily, arms wrapping around his neck and urging him closer.

Dunk had kissed before, but never like this. Adrenaline still burned in his veins, feeding the flame of his desire until he ached with it. He felt oafish and inexperienced. Tempered by shyness, Dunk pulled away.

"What's wrong?" She breathed.

"I don't—" Dunk hesitated, "I don't want to ruin it."

"Ruin what?"

"This," His gaze lingered curiously on the way she chewed the inside of her cheek again, but was quickly distracted by her kiss-swollen lips, "Whatever this is. Please, don't let me ruin it."

She leaned closer, her lips grazing his jaw as she whispered, "And if I want you to?"

It might've been the gravel in her voice, or the dark light in her eyes, but Dunk seized her hips and rolled until she was pinned beneath him. One calloused hand glided down her thigh, caught the divot of her knee and brought it to notch at his hip. Dunk claimed her mouth, oblivious to the triumphant smile that had spread across her face.

They groaned together, his tongue slipping hot against hers. Dunk was panting and wild. The anxious voyeur of his mind had gone, and he thought only of the woman he held in his arms. Only the thin fabric of their wet smallclothes separated them, and he forgot himself. Dunk rolled his hips.

She gasped, her head dropping back at the sensation of him rigid and burning against her. His mouth left her lips and found her neck, where he trailed wet kisses from her earlobe to the slope of her shoulder. Each kiss tasted of spring water and amber. He rolled his hips again and the sweet friction made him dizzy.

"So good," She exhaled, palming at the corded muscles of his back, "You're so good."

Her words rang like sept bells in his ears and Dunk's hips jolted abruptly. Stars burst behind his fluttering eyelids and he whined into her neck, stock still aside from his twitching cock spilling into his braies. The pleasure was all encompassing. It felt like floating, like surrender.

A quiet call of his name brought Dunk down from his climax.

"Dunk," She asked, "Did you—"

He jumped from her as if she had become a bed of hot coals. A conspicuous stain formed on his braies as he stammered, "No! I mean—Yes! Gods, I'm so—"

"Ser?" A young voice called from the treeline, and Dunk considered that death might be a preferable option to whatever seventh hell he was currently living in. Not wanting Egg to know he couldn't swim, Dunk hadn't told him of their lesson, instead choosing to let him believe they had gone out to gather kindling for the night's fire—A task that wouldn't take more than an half an hour. It had surely been longer than that now.

Wide eyed, they scrambled for their clothes. Dunk wiggled into his trousers and she slipped her dress over her head. When Egg stepped into view they were both decent, but still frazzled and dripping wet. Egg's discerning stare darted between the pair, then to the pond, then back to the shirtless knight.

"A pond is…a rather strange place to gather kindling," Egg wondered, deadpan but with mischief gleaming in his eyes.

"Oi!" Red as a hawthorn berry, Dunk deflected poorly, "Quiet, before you earn a clout to the ear!"

"Sorry, Ser," The boy demurred, "It's just that Sweetfoot has a stone fixed in her hoof, and she only allows you near when she's hurting."

Huffing, Dunk gathered his belongings and stomped back toward camp without lacing up his boots, "Well, why didn't you just say so!"

They watched Dunk storm off, muttering under his breath the whole way. Once the hedge knight was out of earshot, Egg turned to appraise her as she stood on wobbly legs. A twig stuck haphazardly from her hair.

"Why is your dress backwards?" Egg quipped.

She replied coolly, "I'm trying something new, Egg."

"And how is that working out for you?"

The draw of the mountain haven had never been so strong before. It promised respite after an arduous season on the path, and what's more, Eskel anticipated a guest. Eagerness turned his stomach.

A guest, Eskel huffed to himself, Geralt and Lambert would never let him hear the end of it.

Just one contract stood between Eskel and the repose of winter, the hearth of his true home, and it made him careless. Tracking the incubus wasn't difficult. Eskel followed the scent of sex and blood to a secluded cave between hunting grounds. Flat, white eyes watched Eskel approach the lip of the cave, its cloven hooves propped atop two dead bodies—A husband and wife, both missing from the closest village.

"Hello, Witcher," It crooned, adorned with great ivory horns sprouting in spirals from ash grey skin, and an innocent smile stretching across plush lips, rouged with blood. Incongruous and perverse. "Malak welcomes you."

Succubi or incubi, it made no difference; seduction was always the first line of defense. Malak sang a siren's song of fucking and rutting until the sun rose, and sank, and rose again. Not a wholly unattractive offer, but after hundreds of years on the path, Eskel was far more shrewd.

"Sorry to disappoint," Rolling his shoulders, Eskel unsheathed his silver blade. It was balanced in his palm, ready for the hunt. He breathed out, centering his focus, "But I've got a contract."

Malak sneered, flashing its red-stained teeth, "Disappointing indeed, Malak has heard tales of Witcher… prowess."

"Don't worry, we'll still have some fun together." Eskel rushed forward, steps quick and silent against the stone ground of the cave. Hoofbeats echoed loudly as the incubus sprang to meet him.

Eskel quickly realized that his quarry was no common incubus.

Malak was a greater incubus and fought with the ferocity of the hells. The sounds of flesh rending under silver and claw filled the cave as they raged against each other. It was stronger and faster than any hellbeast he'd fought before, but ultimately, Eskel backed Malak into a corner. The scent of its blood, so deep red it was black, was potent. It smelled of sex and death, heady and intoxicating, like a whorehouse. The gurgle in Malak's lungs promised it was not long for the plane of the living.

Unbeknownst to Eskel, there was a final card up Malak's sleeve.

Its dying deed was to impale itself on the brandished silver, chest cracking as it slid down the sharp edges until it was flush with Eskel's leathers. Soft, bloodied lips collided against his and pulled Eskel into a rapturous kiss. Its foul tongue pushed into his dazed mouth, and with a vile wheeze, flooded Eskel's throat with a thick, rich ichor that sizzled and dissolved before he could spit.

"You think me a monster, Witcher?" Malak laughed, death rattling in its chest, watching as Eskel wretched in vain, "Soon, you will know the meaning of the word."

The incubus spasmed, agonized as Eskel's shaky hands wrapped around his sword's hilt and pulled it free, a triumphant grin still twisted across its face. The blade glinted as it arched through the air and kissed Malak's throat in a bloody cascade.

A horned head on his left and a disembodied torso on his right, Eskel fell exhausted and panting to the cave floor. The tingling heat from his lips spread rapidly through his body, burning like a wildfire as it went. His very soul felt oily and contaminated, greasy with a stubborn stain. Already, Eskel felt his body struggling to process the poison, and he knew the onslaught of symptoms would run fast and hot.

Eskel needed his bestiary.

Twilight flickered overhead as the sound of beating hooves filled the air. Scorpion galloped into the quiet camp, carrying her poorly witcher. Every jolt and tremor of the ride back to camp sent a shudder of strange pleasure through him, and by the time Eskel returned, he was hot with desire. All but falling from the saddle, Eskel landed on wobbly feet and stumbled across the browning grass of the clearing. Dual swords slipped from his shoulders and clattered down by the cold embers of last night's fire.

His mind slipped in and out of reason, governed by a delirious need that came in waves. It took every last bit of his rapidly diminishing self-restraint not to drop his trousers and touch himself where he stood. The thump of his heartbeat, usually slow and steady, pounded erratically in his ears.

Being a witcher was foul work, so he kept the belongings he didn't want covered in monster viscera in a discreet place near his current camp. Shaking hands slid the pack from a long-felled log at the center of camp. He tore open the top flap and removed a fresh waterskin, a bottle of superior swallow, and a leather-bound bestiary.

He winced. The soft light of sundown pierced his blown pupils, and the gentle chorus of night birds rapped painfully at his skull. Even the clothes on his back felt oppressive, made worse by the fever scorching his skin.

Eskel burned inside, too.

A blaze that aimed to blacken him from the inside out. It started at the base of his belly and emanated out in terrible waves that threatened to bring him to his knees. Uncorking the vial, he tossed back the contents with a gulp and choked down the swill. Swallow tasted of wintergreen and rotting fish on a good day, but now it burned like acid in his throat. The mutilated flesh of his leg began stitching shut, but the potion did nothing to quell the all-over ache of his body.

"Shit," he cursed.

Desperate to wash away the burn, he wrapped his lips around the mouth of the cool waterskin and drank deeply. The crisp water was broken glass in his raw throat. Coughing violently, Eskel threw down the traitorous waterskin, his mouth drier than at the start.

Fuming and thirsty, he seized the bestiary instead. Eskel searched for the correct entry, flipping clumsily through the yellowed pages. Sweat dripped from his furrowed brow and no matter how gentle he tried to be, the paper tore under his fingers. His jaw clenched apprehensively, a tight feeling of unease joining the burning in his belly as recognition set in.

For the first time since he was a pup, Eskel was uninhibited.

After the Trial of the Grasses, he had felt like a stranger in his own body. Beast and man were joined together inside of him, but did not live harmoniously. Not at first. Swords bent and bodies bruised too easily under his hand. Something howled beneath his skin, demanding to be loosed from it's cage and Eskel quickly realized that without restraint, he was no better than the monsters he trained to hunt.

Complete control is what kept the beast leashed, and Eskel felt his slipping away.

The harsh tear of paper snapped him back to the present. Eskel brought the page closer, cursing how Vesemir's neat handwriting swam under his scattered focus.

Incubi: Greater and Lesser.

Unlike Succubi, who often mean no harm and are motivated only by their insatiable lust, incubi take a demented pleasure in killing their quarry. Sadists all, incubi care less for slaking their desires and more for feeding them by any means necessary. Taking as much pleasure from the kill as the rut, incubi have been known to wipe out entire villages before moving on to the next.

Greater Incubi pose an even more notable threat. Not only are their physical abilities far beyond those typical of the species, but they also possess a hidden danger. Poisoned blood, a powerful aphrodisiac that serves as a punishment for those who would dare shed it, making trouble for Witchers in particular.

Its effects occur only upon ingestion, but beware, this is a threat that should not be taken lightly. Anyone who ingests the substance will be called to act upon their basest desires without heed for themselves or others. Humans who are unlucky enough to have tasted Greater Incubus blood will succumb to madness and die, no matter what they do to satisfy themselves. Witchers who fall prey to this underhanded trick fare slightly better, but only if they indulge. An affected Witcher must hope the object of their deepest desire is near, or perish within a matter of hours.

Be warned, the blood of a Greater Incubus will alter both mind and body to the point that one resembles more of an animal in heat than a creature with sentience. A weak will crumbles quickly under the poison's effects, and those who find themselves in contact with the affected should tread with caution, as they are not wholly themselves.

A crude drawing of erect genetalia signed off the entry, likely penned by a young Lambert back when Vesemir would punish him by having him study the text. Eskel would have found it funny if his own erect length wasn't throbbing painfully against his thigh.

"Shit," He hissed, a pit widening in his stomach.

He read the entry again, but his mind wasn’t playing tricks. The same words stared back at him. Eskel needed to fuck, or die. He nearly laughed at the absurdity, but he could feel the truth of it deep in his core. A journey to the closest brothel might’ve been plausible, but the barest thought of someone who wasn’t her sent a piercing pain through his skull.

It had to be her.

Despite straining to keep them open, Eskel's eyes fluttered shut. Memories of the bathhouse in Skellige flooded his mind, where he'd shared a private room with his traveling companion and employer—A bewildering and clever sorceress.

Eskel swore long ago not to involve himself with sorceresses, but contracts had been sparse. So, when she'd stepped through a shimmering portal holding a fat pouch of gold, necessity quickly won over sense. After all, Vesemir always taught that dull swords made for a dead fool.

A foremost scholar of astromancy and the conjunction of the spheres, she planned to map the night sky meticulously. This meant traveling into parts both treacherous and unknown, and the treacherous and unknown meant monsters. Monsters meant that she needed a witcher, so Eskel became her escort across the continent.

Until they'd met, all of her research had been done in gilded observatories, and to say that she was woefully unprepared for any environment that didn't offer a full library would be an understatement. She'd jump at any odd noise in the trees, and slept so fitfully in the cold that Eskel took to sleeping in whichever direction the wind blew from so they might both get some sleep. He thought her a fretful sorceress who merely played at adventure, that is, until they encountered the first real danger they'd met on their journey.

Eskel had only managed a few glancing blows on the feral rock troll when she felled the creature herself. With a clench of her gloved fist, the troll collapsed to the ground, a mess of blood and boiled brain dripping from its bulbous nose.

"If you can do that," Eskel asked, still panting from his bout, "What the hells do you need me for?"

"What can I say?" Roguish and wind-swept, she grinned at him, "I like watching you wave your swords around."

She was as sharp as his newly smelted blades and twice as dangerous. For months onward, they shared a fire, food, and more than enough mishaps. Eskel watched her find ease in the wilds and, even more surprisingly, with him. Slowly, her bedroll crept closer to his, and her touch lingered when they passed the waterskin. No change, no matter how minuscule, escaped Eskel's notice, and despite knowing better, he could not bring himself to discourage it. In fact, he found himself changing as well.

He would stall before dismounting Scorpion, if only to feel her pressed to him a moment longer. He feigned ignorance of common constellations just to hear her voice, and as she spoke, his gaze would fall to her lips again and again. Eskel could no longer deny that his heart was lost to her, but a romance between a sorceress and a witcher was begging for trouble, and the last thing Eskel wanted was to trouble her.

A striga contract is what did him in.

The shebeast had been stalking the stormy isles and tormenting defenseless caravans for months. Under the full moon, they discovered a rickety wooden coffin buried in unhallowed ground—The striga's resting place. His sorceress insisted on accompanying him, eager to watch Eskel lift the curse the striga was born from. Together, they waited for the moon to hit its peak.

Eventually, the ghoul pulled herself stinking and shrieking from her grave dirt, and Eskel trapped the creature in melee. They kept her from returning to the safety of her crypt, fighting until orange light reflected off dark water, but even after the third rooster's crow, the curse remained unbroken. The curse was too powerful to remove.

"We have to put her down!" Eskel yelled to his companion as he backed the striga to the cliff's edge.

"Then do it, Witcher!" She cried, white-hot energy crackling on her fingertips. Blood dripped from her temple to her chin. They were both exhausted. The striga had swiped a blow before Eskel could intervene.

Vicious claws dug deep into his shoulder just as he readied his killing blow. Eskel stumbled, swallowing a bellow of pain as he lost his footing. For a moment, he and the striga teetered over the edge of the rock face together, when a precise shock of lightning hissed past his ear and blasted the shebeast's arm clean from her body. The timely intervention by his companion was the only reason Eskel hadn't plummeted over the side with his quarry. He steadied himself and planted a heavy boot on the striga's chest. With a heave, Eskel sent her screaming into a watery grave.

Then, they dragged themselves to the nearest bathhouse in silent agreement, bleeding and smelling of ozone.

Eskel was gripped entirely by the phantasm of his memories. He recalled the dancing shadows cast by flickering candles on stone walls and rivulets of steaming water that dripped down his chest. Earthen oils and dried sea moss had scented their water, soothing sore muscles and enveloping them both in relaxing, verdant vapor. Every reminisced sensation became real and pulled Eskel further into the delirium of his poisoned mind.

The dim candlelight and steam had obscured her form, but the sound of that silk robe sliding down bare shoulders and onto the wood-paneled floor had been deafening. Eskel had looked away, but it was torture with her constantly, infuriatingly, in his periphery. The shadow of her body through the scented water was branded in his mind; the mere memory of her naked shape was enough to set him rigid and wanting.

He draped a hot towel over his face and tried every trick he knew to tame his growing arousal. A naked hag, a gutted drowner, a bloated ghoul, but every splash and satisfied sigh had brought him right back to her. Eventually, blessedly, she'd announced that she was returning to her rooms and left him to his agony.

Eskel satisfied himself that night.

He'd put up a good fight. Attempted thoughts of eager strumpets, tempting succubi lovers, even the one nice girl from that inn a hundred years ago, but each time he came close, Eskel was inexplicably drawn back to her. He came hard to the thought of her washing, slowly, skin lathered with that damn honeysuckle soap, and again to thoughts of taking her from behind, her still wet hair tangled in his fist.

The next day, Eskel had been so ashamed that he hadn't been able to look at her.

That same shame burned in him now, accented by unbearable waves of desire that rolled over him with each painstaking gasp. Eskel was unmoored. Grappling for the discarded waterskin, he poured the contents over his face. The water cooled his fevered brow for a brief moment, enough to pull him from the brink.

Eskel laughed bitterly at the absurdity of his impending doom. The cure may as well have been true love's kiss for how likely he was to have it.

A letter from Yennefer arrived the night before, declaring a state of emergency. Something about the spheres being unbalanced and needing her expertise to figure out why, so she'd left before dawn and wouldn't be returning anytime soon. Before leaving, she took his hand into hers and asked him to be safe. Eskel assured her he would be, and hadn't meant to lie. Her hands had been soft and cool against his.

Eskel jolted, surprised by the tremor of desire that stirred his cock. He pushed the feeling down, but arousal overwhelmed him so completely that he doubled over with want.

Visions of her unlacing his breeches to stroke him with those soft hands played in his mind. He scrubbed one hand down his face, like this might be a dream he could wake from, but his need only grew more ravenous. It was deep and hungry, and Eskel would do anything to feed it. The incubi's final words echoed in his ringing ears.

You think me a monster, Witcher? Soon, you will know the meaning of the word.

Sick understanding washed over him.

He had barely controlled himself in the bathhouse, and that was without incubus blood burning in his belly. If she were here, with her shining eyes and exposed throat, Eskel knew he wouldn't be able to stop himself from taking her. Disgust coiled tightly in his belly. He wanted to believe this was the incubi's curse, but he knew the truth. It only brought forth what was already there.

A monster.

"No," Eskel growled aloud to no one.

He would happily choose death if living meant doing what his body begged him to, but he'd prepared for the end every witcher expects: Blood, gore, and if they were lucky, a bit of glory, but not this. Not reduced to the thrashing, howling beast he'd caged so long ago. Despite this, the small part of Eskel that was still capable of experiencing anything other than crippling desire was strangely at ease knowing she was safe.

A flash of velvet caught his eye, and he reached back into the rotted log to retrieve the smaller, finer pack that she'd tucked behind his. It contained some keepsakes, a few of tools of her trade, and a change of traveling clothes.

When attending her duties as a sorceress, she favored lush layers of deep reds, as if she were a sweet, chilled wine. With Eskel, she preferred to dress casually. Often sporting a loose tunic that drooped to display her collar bones, and comfortable trousers that hugged the curve of her ass. Thoughts of her in nothing but her underclothes crowded his pounding skull.

Lace, maybe, the color of mulled wine, like all her cloaks.

His cock twitched at the image of her lying before him like a gift wrapped in spice-red lace. Instinctively, Eskel brought the burgundy velvet to his nose and inhaled deeply. His chest swelled with her scent. The potent aroma of amber and honeysuckle washed over him, his hips bucking excitedly.

Eskel was swimming in it. In her. The smell of her hair when she would mount Scorpion in front of him, nestled between his thighs for hours, and of her body, shivering by the fire, fresh from bathing in the cold stream. After pushing his lust down many times before, Eskel could do it no longer.

Accepting defeat, he palmed himself, groaning and rutting into his hand. He clutched her bag to his chest and imagined it was her rubbing frantically over his cock. The burning was only momentarily soothed before intensifying, and as the blaze of his body grew, it began to feel like he was thrusting into grit. He released his twitching length, sending his fist colliding into the dirt next to him.

No sooner did he stop than visions of his sorceress started again, so vivid and exquisite that Eskel hardly registered they weren't real. He saw her kneeling between his spread legs, leaning down to press wet kisses to his inner thighs. Her phantom gaze watched him intently, daring Eskel to use her open mouth.

A frustrated whine curled from his throat as he hurried to loosen the laces of his breeches enough to wrap one calloused hand around himself. Eskel's head fell back as he stroked himself, keening loudly at the sweet friction. His cock trembled the way it did when he was close to spilling, and for an exhilarating moment, Eskel believed he would come.

Then, his cock stilled, and the impending climax faded. Eskel tried desperately to find it again, but had to pull away; his grip splintered wood on the sensitive skin. Immediately, he throbbed again, red and leaking against his belly. Abstaining was unbearable, but any attempt at quelling his desire only worsened it.

Eskel fractured in two. One part horror, one part pleasure as his mind and body were locked in a cycle of fiendish torment.

Panic gripped him, and the padded armor about his shoulders suddenly felt far too tight. Suffocated and sweltering, Eskel tore at the latches of his gambeson and pulled it over his head. Desperate fingers shredded his linen undershirt, baring his heaving chest to the cool night air, but even the bracing wind could not soothe his fever. Eskel fell to the grass, rolling fitfully to his back and tossing half-nude on the ground. He understood that he must look pathetic, but shame no longer had hold over him, not when the incessant need of his swollen cock was driving him to madness.

Pressing the velveteen bag to his scarred cheek, its gentle caress was a small reprieve. He fantasized about how that caress might feel all over his body, the barrier between fantasy and reality dropping away. Eskel was trapped in a waking dream so intense that he felt spectral hands roaming down his chest, his arms, his cock. They moved languidly, stroking with a tenderness so excruciating that he knew it had to be her.

Then came a whisper. Carried on the night wind was his name in her voice, more lovely than birdsong. His eyes fluttered open in time to catch a glimpse of wine-red disappearing into the treeline, the color of her cloak trailing behind her as she ran.

Eskel didn't register getting to his feet, or the pound of soil beneath his boots as he made chase. Carnal desire controlled him, focusing him completely on the evasive specter. Where she dodged branches and roots, Eskel crashed and stumbled. Like a shadow, she was always just out of his reach, and every near miss brought him closer to madness.

Eskel stopped, a broken sob ripping from his chest and echoing in the clearing. The moment he stilled, the feeling of hands over his body began again. This time, cupping his balls, sliding up to his cock, and teasing the raw head. Sobs grew into growls, and when her red-draped form flitted through the trees again, he didn't hesitate.

Eskel hunted.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Luckily, Yennefer's urgent letter had rather dramatized the situation with the spheres. Her friend had innumerable skills as a sorceress, but reading a starmap was not one of them. Once any likelihood of an impending conjunction was dismissed, Yennefer bashfully opened a bottle of Est Est as an apology.

They lounged together on a sprawling chaise, with Yennefer listening attentively as she received a beginner's course in starmap progressions. However, the smooth finish of the dark fruit gradually loosened their lips, moving their conversation from conjunctions to witchers.

"And how is our 'Red Wolf'?" Yennefer asked, her signature smirk teasing over the rim of her wine-filled goblet.

"Red Wolf!?" She grinned back at her fellow sorceress in exaggerated disbelief, "I’m afraid Eskel is not quite as renowned as your Geralt. He hasn't been honored with such an epithet yet."

"Perhaps, you could be the first to honor him," Yennefer teased, a double meaning dripping from her words, "The trials altered them in many ways, but removal of the ego was not one of those modifications. In my experience, they enjoy having it stroked once in a while."

"Well, then I suppose I should defer to you," She paused, taking a deep pull from her cup. She did not often or readily share what was on her heart, but the earthy red called her to divulge all her woes. Besides, if anyone could aid her in understanding the inner workings of a witcher's mind, it was certainly Yennefer.

"I am having a rather difficult time determining what strokes my breed of Witcher enjoys."

Yennefer sputtered, surprised by her uncharacteristic forthrightness. Quickly recovering, she quirked one judgmental eyebrow, "Surely, it cannot be that complex."

"That's what I thought too," She sighed, exasperated, "I'm coming to accept that there is simply nothing between us."

"Horseshit," Yennefer hissed, leaning forward conspiratorially, "Eskel invited you to winter at Kaer Morhen!"

She stared down at the sanguine liquid, hearing Yennefer's words but not quite letting them settle inside. It was true that an invitation to winter with witchers was an honor—A showing of trust akin to a wolf offering up its soft underbelly. She'd accepted eagerly, almost too eagerly. Her cheeks, already flushed with alcohol, heated anew at the memory of trying to play off her love-struck giddiness as excitement about creating a winter map for the stars above the keep. She had gone on and on about how there were enough uncharted star positions atop that mountain for three winters' worth of work. She cringed at the memory, squeezing the bridge of her nose in embarrassment.

"In all the years I've known him, Eskel has never once brought a guest for wintering," Yennefer interrupted her pity party, "That should be all the evidence you need!"

"You know that I prefer evidence of a more tangible sort," She waggled an eyebrow at Yennefer, a weak attempt at disguising hurt with humor, but it was surprisingly effective. The tipsy sorceress snorted inelegantly, sending them both into bouts of uproarious laughter. Grasping at each other, they keeled over with giggles so contagious that all feelings of dejection were pushed far from her mind.

Their laughter faded, and Yennefer leaned against her, resting a rouged cheek on the burgundy silk of her shoulder, "For such simple creatures, they do tend to overcomplicate everything."

Yennefer thought for a long moment, "If your mutt is anything like mine, honesty will come when you least expect it,” She paused, "And when he is at his most irritating."

After staying later than intended, she was sent on her way through a portal of Yennefer's making. Her own attempt had been messy and broken, distorted by her eagerness to return to Eskel and a fair bit of wine.

A chill shot down her spine as she stepped through the portal, draining the pleasant buzz of alcohol that had warmed her skin and replacing it with prickling unease. The wood was dead silent, eerily absent of the night song that had become her comfort. No chirping bugs or hooting birds, even the breeze blew silently through gnarled tree branches.

A harsh whinny pierced the uneasy quiet.

Scorpion, Eskel’s prized warhorse, trotted nervously from the shadows. Her feathered hooves stomped erratically against the dirt as she frantically tossed her head. The last time she witnessed steadfast Scorpion this agitated was when Eskel had gotten himself cornered by a pack of dire wolves near Temeria. And even then, the loyal beast had been rearing back, ready to bash in their skulls. Now, she paced timidly, her large eyes focused intently in the direction of camp.

With dread needling in her chest and hands raised in that universal gesture of peace, she approached slowly. The pin cushion feeling intensified when she realized Scorpion still wore her riding gear, heavy saddlebags, and all. Eskel leaving her untended was unheard of. When she'd taken a nasty swipe from a ghoul, and most would have written the horse off as dead, Eskel meticulously treated the wound throughout the night to ward off infection.

Voice hushed and soothing, she inched closer. Once she was close enough to gather Scorpion’s reins in one hand, she slid a comforting touch down her sleek black mane with the other. The horse huffed with recognition, her deep brown eyes flicking between the familiar sorceress and their nearby camp. Scorpion nudged her arm with the white fuzz of her nose, as if urging her to investigate.

A strangled wail broke through the trees, startling the pair. Prolonged and guttural, it sounded like an animal strung in a wire trap.

She abandoned caution, “Eskel!”

When no answer came, she dropped Scorpion’s reins and gathered her skirts. She sprinted toward the noise, cursing at how her legs tangled in the fabric and struggling through the underbrush. Her heart sank when she broke past the treeline and stumbled into the carnage of their camp.

Their belongings were scattered haphazardly across the clearing, and strangely, all the clothes from her pack looked as if a wild animal had shredded them. A small branch cracked underfoot as she stepped forward, straining to see in the grey dark. Midnight was fast approaching, and no fire had been set.

It didn't matter if it was a blistering summer night or the frigid midwinter, Eskel always made a fire. He’d even bashfully admitted how he'd listen to the crackling embers and pretend he was back in Kaer Morhen. He told her how it would help him to sleep.

Her boot knocked against something heavy and drew her back to the present. Looking down, her stomach plummeted to join the dual swords that sat abandoned at her feet. They were both sheathed and forgotten, the hilt of the silver blade smudged with traces of a strange substance, the color of blood but that glimmered like an oil slick in the sun.

She called for Eskel again, her sad whisper met by a wall of silence. Tears pricked at the rims of her eyes, "You damn, foolishWitcher—"

Her head shot up. The shadows around her shifted, and instinct called crackling energy to her fingertips, a warning to whatever was watching that she wasn't prey. A hulking figure stepped free of the forest. It dragged toward her, distorting the shafts of moonlight that shone through reaching branches as it moved. Then, she heard her name in Eskel's rumbling baritone, and her magic died in her palms.

She stepped toward him, "Eskel-"

Cold, unblinking eyes stared her down. They shone yellow in the dark, no flicker of the warmth or affection she had grown accustomed to. Instead of his typical confident gait, Eskel was hunched over, mouth hanging open, and panting like a dog. His shredded singlet hung tattered from his shoulders while half-unlaced breeches slid sinfully down his hips. The smell of stress and sex that wafted from him in an unsettling perfume left her reeling.

Instinctually, she stumbled back, feet dumb with fear.

A pained grimace stretched tightly over his scars, distorting his features beyond recognition. He seemed to stare into the beyond, eyes tracing the trail of a ghost unseen in the trees, but then Eskel raised his head, scenting the air. She watched in dawning horror as those thin-slitted pupils bloomed, darkening his gaze completely. Eskel was hunting.

Then, sallow eyes snapped to hers, frighteningly lucid.

Eskel was hunting her.

As she turned to run, she knew it was in vain. Even without the length of her skirts or the wine leading her limbs, she would have been too slow for Eskel, whom she once watched outrun a wild boar. Tripping feet took her as far as the nearest tree before his savage grasp twisted into her hair. Briefly, she wondered why she hadn't conjured a portal or a blast of wind to push Eskel away, but then the air was knocked from her lungs and all rational thought along with it.

Her back slammed against jagged bark, then her head, creating dark spots that danced across her vision. Her struggle was brief and pitiful, ending when Eskel pinned one arm above her head in a bruising grip. Her other arm stuck uselessly against his heaving chest. A knee parted her thighs, and unyielding hips pinned her against the trunk. Through the fog of pain, she felt Eskel's hard length searing through her clothes. Relentlessly, he pressed himself to her, inhaling deeply and scenting that delicate honeysuckle, soured by her acrid terror. Cold nausea shivered through her body and threatened to send her wretching as she fought to think through shock.

Who was this?

It couldn't be Eskel, who asked her permission before helping her down from Scorpion. Not the same man who'd protected her from a diving harpy by covering her body with his own, and had the nerve to apologize after. Eskel, who averted his eyes respectfully and made polite conversation when she'd dropped her robe, trying to seduce him in that damned bathhouse like an imbecile.

"Please!" She choked, her face turned away, and one hand pushing weakly at his chest, "Eskel, stop!"

At her plea, the carnal strain drained from Eskel's face, morphing into guilt, then disgust. The fog gripping his mind had blinked.

Eskel could see again, and staring back at him were her eyes, shining with terror. This was no fiction of his mind. His sorceress was truly there, and he had her caged under his traitor's body while he rutted into her like an animal. Eskel dropped her wrist like it was a brand, bile burning his throat when her face distorted in pain.

"You," He searched her for injuries, terrified by how good it felt to have her pressed to him, "You're not supposed to be here."

She flinched away from the hand that lifted to graze her cheek. It was a touch that she might've leaned into under any other circumstance. Eskel no longer writhed against her like a dog in heat, but still, she willed him back.

"What's happening?" The distraught crack of her voice pierced Eskel's chest, cutting cleanly through his bewitchment long enough to grasp ahold of himself.

He dropped hard to his knees, head hung, and his fists clenched painfully at his sides. Grunting with the effort of restraining himself, Eskel tried, but could not wholly force himself away with the incubus blood compelling him toward her.

At her feet was perhaps the most feared creature on the continent, but she could tell by the tremble of his shoulders that this submission was temporary. Veins icy with fear, the thought of fleeing once again seemed an attractive option. She could open a portal, silently; she'd only need to make it—

"Do not run," Eskel snarled, as if he knew what she was thinking, "You won't make it."

She knew he was right. Hunted and cornered, she summoned what little of her bravery was left and spoke evenly, "Explain yourself, Witcher."

"I need you—" Eskel's lifted his chin, his gaze unshakeable in its conviction, "I need you to kill me."

"Kill you?" Shock instantly shattered any facade of detachment, her voice rising shrilly. She expected tell of a curse, or a mutated ghoul bite, not Eskel begging for death.

Quick as a snake, he snatched her hand and pressed it to his forehead. Bewildered, she watched Eskel swallow a moan as the contact shuddered through him, "You know what to do." His eyes squeezed shut, "It'll be easy."

One spike of pressurized air right at his temple would end all of this in a moment. He had seen her kill like this a hundred times before. It was easy when it was a stray ghoul or beastly witch hunter. She pictured Eskel's skull crumpling beneath her palm and felt a fresh wave of nausea roll over her.

He grew desperate at her hesitation, "I'm already dying—"

"No," She decided, hissing through clenched teeth.

Frustrated, Eskel's eyes darted over the set of her jaw and narrowed eyes. He knew that look well. Ever curious and thorough, she would only move forward once she had the information she needed.

"I've been poisoned," Eskel conceded.

She raised an eyebrow, "I'm not familiar with any poison that elicits these symptoms."

Effort trembled in the slope of his great shoulders, troubled by unseen injuries. Fitful hands curled slowly into the fine fabric of her skirts, brushing desperately at her ankles. Her eyes traced the toned slope of his shoulders, to the cut of his stomach, and down again to the rigid outline of his cock straining against leather trousers. The scarlet tip peeked from his waistband, red and raw like he'd been stroking himself for hours to no relief.

It was torture to watch Eskel like this, panting like a sinner on his knees. Now that she had been given space to breathe, to think, she wanted his touch again. She craved it, rough and feverish on her body, but her hopeless pining was the least of their concerns.

"Tell me," She begged, "What did this to you?"

Eskel looked away, "Greater Incubi blood."

She swallowed hard. Her knowledge of the realm's monsters was not encyclopedic like his, but one didn't need to be a seasoned witcher to connect these dots. Carding her fingers gently through Eskel's dark hair, she soothed the damp strands from his forehead, "Let me help you."

"Yes!" Eskel moaned, forgetting himself in a jarring display of need, then immediately stiffened, "Wait, no, I mean—You can't!" Dazed, he shook his head and gazed up at her with those too-wide pupils, "You can't help me."

"Why not?" She demanded.

He hesitated slightly before answering in a half-hearted riddle, intended to stray her from the truth, "There is no potion or poultice I can take to end this affliction."

"What is it that you aren't saying?" Her fingers tightened in his hair and pulled sharply, "Speak."

Eskel's resolve crumbled with a loud moan, "You—You're the cure," He gasped, "That which I most desire!"

She froze, her mouth dropping in a silent 'o' of realization. Vulnerability gleamed in his golden eyes, dread hidden in the clench of his jaw. Eskel spoke quickly, "I would never ask that of you, just incapacitate me before I lose control again—"

"Yes," She agreed, breathless with excitement, then blinked before quickly correcting, "Not the incapacitation! Yes to, uh…"

Eskel went rigid with disbelief. Absentminded hands drifted from her ankles to stroke the slope of her calves as he searched for any modicum of hesitation. A shiver pebbled gooseflesh across her skin, "Yes, to you."

"No!” He blinked hard, like he was forcing himself from a dream, and looked at her like she was the crazed one, "You don't understand what you're agreeing to—"

"I do—"

"You don't!" All at once, Eskel became the fearsome witcher that villagers warn their naughty children of. Hardening, he became a vision of cold marble and bloodthirst. An apex predator staring down its kill. He bared his teeth to her, snarling, "I am untethered."

She stood her ground. This act was one she'd seen many times before, and it wouldn't scare her away now. Cupping Eskel's face, her thumbs stroking softly over the scarred plains. Each caress wiped away his witcher's mask little by little, until only the heart she knew knelt before her.

"Yes," She breathed again.

Eskel's breathing quickened, his chest brushing tantalizingly against her thighs as he stared up at her as if she were a dream. With the tainted blood burning in his belly and his sorceress offering herself so freely, once he let go, there would be no holding back.

Fear flickered across his face, "Once we start, I won't be able to stop."

"I trust you," She was certain.

Elation and surprise flooded his chest, then were quickly smothered by a savage wave of arousal. Eskel grit his teeth and tightened his fists, wanting nothing more than to give in to instinct. He wanted to free the beast that scratched inside his skin, pull her to the ground, and bend her down in front of him.

But Eskel wouldn't. Not yet.

"Say you want me," He pleaded.

"I want you," She answered without hesitation, "I've wanted you."

Eskel slid the swaths of her silk skirt up to her waist, reveling in the expanse of her legs until he was greeted by burgundy lace, teasing in its sheerness. He tried bunching all of the fabric into one fist, but it slipped like water through his fingers. Trying to help him, her hands fumbled for the ties, but Eskel had already decided that she had plenty of dresses.

He tore at the waistband of her skirt and dropped it carelessly to the ground. Eskel heard her heart rate accelerate in shock, but he didn't stop. One hand braced her hip as he freed her of the obstructing lace with a flourish. Eager hands slid to the plush of her ass and lifted with ease. Then, with one leg hiked over his shoulder and the other stabilized, she was bared to the cool night air.

Eskel teased the bridge of his nose up the inside of her leg until his hot, erratic breathing stopped just over the apex of her thighs. He inhaled, shuddering, his eyes rolling at the scent of her honeyed arousal. She glistened before him, and saliva pooled under his tongue in carnal anticipation. He was on borrowed time, but now that she was slick and open before him, he couldn't give a damn.

His mind emptied as she melted on his tongue, and all at once, the incubus blood that had blistered in his veins for hours dulled into warm bliss. The soft velvet of her cunt soothed his burning throat, and his trembling cock threatened to spill just from the act of tasting her. She played on his tongue, dewy and sweet, as he laved over her with wide, frantic strokes. He moaned, desperate for more.

Eskel slipped down, deft tongue gently coaxing her open before retreating to lap at her clit again, then back down, pushing deeper.

He palmed the fat of her ass, kneading the tender flesh. His fingertips dug fiercely into the plush of her thighs, holding her squirming hips fast as he flicked over her clit with sharp, side-to-side licks that pulled cries of his name from her lips. She overwhelmed his senses. Her breathy moans, her honeysuckle slick, the feel of her fluttering as she readied to come. She was nearly there, and he needed it on his tongue.

Again, he slipped down to her entrance and lapped sloppily at the sensitive skin before returning to her peak. His pointed tongue circled her bud firmly, again and again, bringing the quiver of her cunt to a breaking point.

The taught twine of her orgasm snapped with a cry, the rush of dew on his lips bringing Eskel to the edge of his own sudden release. He shuddered beneath her, losing himself in the motions of his working mouth and bucking hips as pitiful half-bursts of spend twitched from his cock and puddled in his trousers.

Eskel didn't slow. She writhed as he latched onto her still sensitive bud and sucked, but with nowhere to run, she had no choice but to yield to his demanding mouth. His orgasm was broken and unsatisfactory, but he'd tasted relief, if only a fraction, and was demanding more. One finger grazed over her, gathering her slick and pressing softly, testing her give and meeting no resistance.

Slipping inside, her moans were a chorus to his ears. He motioned sharply, once, then twice, and another finger joined the first. Eskel moaned with her, dizzy with the feel of her wrapped around his fingers. He began slowly, savoring the way his thick fingers split her heat, but soon broke into a breathless pace. Eskel fell into a trance, his tongue flicking steadily over her clit, up and down, side to side, while his fingers kept at speed. Incessantly, Eskel stroked that ridged spot with only one focus in mind—To drink from her.

"Eskel," Her voice was quiet, coiled as tightly as the muscles of her core that squeezed his fingers.

A throaty moan and an increase in tempo were Eskel's response. She arched, stunned gaze lifting to the night sky, while her standing leg went limp. With her weight now on his shoulder and palm, he continued to serve her. Each curl of his fingers pushed the air from her lungs, keeping her silent and pliable while his swollen cock leaked in anticipation of what was to come.

When the tension in her core burst against his fingertips like a flooding levee, stars danced behind his eyelids. Every sweet swell that rushed his waiting mouth was an intoxicating reprieve from his burning blood. He could drink an entire case of her, drown in her, and die happily. Keeping his feverish rhythm, Eskel drank until she clenched around his fingers again, writhing against his face and soaring through her second orgasm. He drank until his chest dripped with her slick and her legs kicked. He drank until she went still above him and her hands fell limply to her sides.

When Eskel finally slipped from her, his fingers came away covered in strands of arousal. He licked them clean while she watched, slumped against the oak tree. A sheen of sweat covered her skin despite the chill of the evening. Rising to his feet, a flicker of guilt in Eskel's chest as he pushed down his soiled trousers. He knew he should slow down, but when his freed cock bounced against her soft belly, reason was forgotten.

His calloused hands found her ass again, palming the downy skin and savoring the way her skin felt on his. He tucked his forehead to her shoulder and wished that she'd fuck him, want him, love him, without death as their voyeur.

"Eskel," She whispered, "Take me."

He lifted her, leaving his longing behind when her soft legs wrapped dutifully around his waist. She slipped against his weeping cock, and they moaned together as the fat head of his cock notched at her sex. Eskel felt the last vestiges of his restraint disappear. Lancing forward with a brutal snap of his hips, he sank into her. The soft vice of her hot cunt pulled a low wail from his throat as he bottomed out against her tremoring hips.

Eskel was different again. Not completely altered, like when he pursued her through the woods, but it was clear he now had no other goal besides driving deeper and deeper into her. Each heavy drag of his hips seared through her, the pain melting into mind-numbing pleasure as he built a relentless rhythm.

Relishing every rigid inch, she held fast to Eskel's shoulders, her nails digging into the corded muscle of his back. The jagged bark of the tree bit into her back, but she felt only the intoxicating drumming of his cockhead, in and out. Her staccato moans echoed in the clearing, mirroring Eskel's wild panting with every wet thrust.

Eskel pulled down the bodice of her dress, freeing her breasts and taking a peaked nipple into his hungry mouth. Canines grazed the sensitive skin before his lips closed around the nub and sucked hard. His hot mouth teased and bit, every swipe of his tongue sending her fluttering around him. Thorough in his ministrations, Eskel only moved to her other breast once the first was suitably marked, and indulged again. Eager to feel him in return, she dragged one hand down the planes of his chest and belly. Her fingers traced over long-healed scars and solid muscle, savouring the cut of his body. His hot skin under her palm sent ripples of excitement to her core.

When Eskel pulled away from her bitten chest with a wet pop, she was flushed and dizzy. A thin line of saliva trailed between them, and his dark hair was slicked to his forehead by exertion. Blown pupils studied her own mussed hair and the way her bruised breasts bounced over the top of her ruined bodice. The way she dripped messily down her thighs and ass, soaking his cock. Eskel committed it all to memory.

Burning under his reverent gaze, she wondered if the way he looked at her now—Like she might've secretly hung the very stars she studied—was just another side effect of the poison. What if it was all a sickness? And once they fucked, and lay spent on the forest floor, would Eskel ever hold her this closely again? Would he even bear to look at her?

Eskel's slowing hips drew her back to the present. An indignant noise of complaint died on her lips when the grip on her thighs shifted to underhand. Still buried inside her, Eskel turned them both until his back pressed against the tree and, without missing a second beat, began to bounce her on his cock.

Controlling her hips with ease, he lifted her until she rested just at the head of his cock before allowing gravity to drop her down again. He buried himself again and again so deeply that she felt him in her stomach. Mouth wide open, she gasped for air as Eskel's unceasing pace drove her peak higher and higher, until she was overwhelmed completely. She went limp, dark spots dancing over her vision as she pulsed around him, moaning brokenly as she came.

Eskel howled as the demanding clench of her cunt took him to the edge of pleasure, but didn't quite tip him over. Desperate, oversensitive, and still ensnared by the incubi's curse, he fell with her to the ground.

Hitting his knees, Eskel lay her out on the grass before pushing her legs back until the tops of her thighs pressed flush with her belly and her calves draped over his shoulders. Spread completely, she watched him drive into her cunt with renewed vigor, focused solely on chasing his relief and the rush of hot spend leaking around his still hard cock. An involuntary sob tore from her lips, and as tears of ecstasy slipped down her cheeks, she found that her slack arms were too weak to wipe them away.

Eskel inhaled sharply next to her ear. He'd scented the salt of her tears. She longed to assure him, to tell him what they meant, but each brush of their feverish bodies sent waves of heady pleasure to her core that left her tongue tied. Her cunt clenched erratically, and with some concern, she realized that she was going to come again.

"Fuck!" She cried, her red-rimmed eyes wide with impending pleasure, "Eskel, I can't-"

"Sorry," Eskel held her closer, but turned his face from hers, "Sorry, so, so sorry-"

His voice was drowned by the rush of her orgasm, rendering her mind blank with a ruinous pleasure. Distantly, she heard herself screaming Eskel's name as he met the deepest parts of her. The delicious drag of his cock stretched each wave into sweet torture and pushed her deeper into pleasure.

When she finally blinked the haze of her last climax from her bleary eyes, she found Eskel watching her. Guilt underwrote the pleasure of his slack mouth and blown pupils, and she needed to wipe it clean.

Tilting her chin, she captured his desperate mouth in a kiss, deep and sweet. Eskel yielded immediately. His lips slotted over hers hungrily, and when their tongues met, Eskel whined into her mouth. He pressed himself to her entirely, his hips losing their tempo and beginning to stutter erratically.

Unlike before, roaring and wild, Eskel was quiet. He trembled with the effort of his climax, every muscle in his body contracting with ecstasy. With each roll of his hips came a rush of liquid heat that flooded her core and amplified the slick noises between them. Mouth pressed hard to hers, he whimpered, and she swallowed each warm honey sound as Eskel spilled, and spilled until she was full in a way she'd never imagined.

The filthy flood of seed breached the seal of his cock and surged out of her with every twitch of his hips. Spend pooled on her belly, slid down the curve of her ass, and when even more followed in its wake, her head spun with the realization that Eskel was still coming. Eskel cradled her head with one hand, while the other slid to the divot of her back and pressed her closer, angling even deeper. He cried out again as he did, overstimulated but unable to stop himself.

Relief caught in her throat when Eskel finally relaxed, and his cock began to soften inside her. Exhaustion washed over her like a rip current, and her vision began to blur. With Eskel resting boneless atop her, still recovering from his high, she couldn't catch her breath. Her hand was clammy and damp when she pushed weakly at his shoulder.

Eskel lifted his head, looking lost and exhausted. Barely aware of the soft body smothered beneath him, he jumped when his cock slipped free from her snug heat and blinked down at her. Moonish eyes processed the bruises that bloomed down her neck and chest, concentrating in dark splotches around her overworked nipples. His gaze dropped to her thighs, finding bruises the shape of his fingertips littering her skin. Unable to bring himself to look at the crest of her thighs, Eskel's stare found the ground.

He didn't want to see the evidence of how he used her.

She huffed. Eskel had lifted some of his weight from her, but not all, and she desperately needed space to breathe. When she pushed at his shoulder a second time, she thought her touch might have burned him. Eskel jumped, shifting to sit in the cool grass. Shimmying his trousers to his hips, he tucked away his flaccid cock, his eyes not once leaving the ground.

Eskel looked whole and hale, but he wouldn't look at her.

Her mouth turned sour. Flashes of Eskel—Bared teeth, his body crashing into hers, the shocking crescendo of his finish—still played in her mind. Her thighs clenched together, and she cringed with the unbearable realization that she was an idiot. Their passion was a figment of the incubi's blood, a necessity for his survival, and she should have known better.

Suddenly, her position felt unpleasantly vulnerable. Wincing, she brought her thighs together, moving slowly, her joints tender from overexertion. Her hiss of discomfort brought Eskel's worried stare back from the dirt, but it felt soiled.

"What is it?" She snapped, and his mouth opened to speak, but closed again infuriatingly quickly. Indignation was white-hot in her chest as she gathered scraps of her clothes to cover herself and tried not to look pitiful.

Shoulders slumped and fists tight in his lap, Eskel started, "There aren't words—"

"I am not a child, Eskel. Don't coddle me," If he was going to reject her, she demanded that he have the spine to speak plainly. She set her jaw, "Say it."

"I hurt you," His stare darted over her body before burying itself in the grass again.

She scoffed, "This is nothing! You've seen me take far worse. Don't you remember the time in Velen with the wraith?"

"It's not about that!"

"Then, do tell, Witcher! What is it about?" Her voice was purposefully cruel as she found herself infuriated by another verbal parry. Eskel was becoming agitated as well. She knew it by his clenched jaw and rolling shoulders, but she needed him to stop hiding from her. She would see him, even if it hurt, even if it meant pulling back the curtain herself.

"I'm sorry," Eskel rasped.

There it was. The pity before he broke her heart.

"Sorry for what?" Her voice cracked, and she flinched, trying to recover by forcing nonchalance, "Bedding a sorceress? You're hardly the first Witcher in history to do that—"

"No! Not that," He bit back at her, voice sharp but quiet, "Never."

The hope that ignited again in her chest felt like a hundred needles, and she nearly choked on the pain of it. She cried, "Just sayit!"

Eskel's head lifted, the veil of dark hair falling away from his face and revealing a man cracked open. She froze, her mouth going slack with shock. Bloodshot eyes burned like embers back at her, and sorrow pulled his lips downward, but it was the slight wobble of his chin that siphoned air from her lungs.

"For being something to be afraid of!" Eskel roared now, "For being a monster!"

"Eskel," Stunned by his admission, she stuttered, "It was the incubus blood—"

He didn't stop, "It wasn't, not completely. I wanted you, and I would have done anything to have you! I could have killed you," Eskel's face crumpled further, "That's what happens when a Witcher…"

He quieted, but she wouldn't let him finish there, "When a Witcher what?"

"Loves someone!" Eskel yelled, then stiffened as if he couldn't believe his own tongue.

"You…love me?" She asked, frozen in her own disbelief. Night sounds kept them company as they sat, silent and staring at each other.

"Yes," Eskel breathed, "I love you." He continued, stammering, "And I am sorry, because that places you in danger. It is selfish, even if you could love me back—"

Her lips found his for the second time that night, silencing Eskel's absurd martyr ramblings as she clambered into his lap and pulled him to her. Strong arms wrapped around her waist as he rose to meet her. She tilted his jaw, kissing Eskel deeper and pouring into it every ounce of the longing she'd felt for ages.

Despite his earlier protests, his embrace tightened, and they moved together like a waterfall over an eroded rock face, breathtaking and familiar. They knew what the other wanted before it had to be asked for, and each offered it freely. The fever was gone from Eskel's lips, and in its place, she found a curious openness. He didn't understand what she was doing, but didn't want her to stop.

And, Gods, she never wanted to stop.

She kissed him until she was lightheaded, and Eskel was the one to pull away, knowing she needed to breathe. He panted up at her, stars in his eyes and a soft, confused smile on his face. That Eskel had the audacity to still be confused nearly bent her over in a fit of laughter.

"I do," She sighed, dropping her forehead to meet his, "I love you too. For so long, I've wanted this."

Eskel's brow ticked subtly, his tone even with a touch of doubt, "You wanted this?"

She huffed a laugh, rolling her eyes before kissing him once again. It was sweet and soft. Eskel shivered at the unfamiliar sensation. He'd had many lovers, but none before that kissed him like this, like he was precious. He was intoxicated by it.

"Like I said before," Their lips brushed as she spoke, "I've wanted you."

"I'm sorry it happened this way," Eskel whispered, sounding dangerously close to sulking again. She wouldn't have it.

"I'm sorry it took a near-death experience to remove your head from your ass, though, I suppose that's to be expected from a Witcher."

This time, Eskel kissed her. He moved purposefully, finally understanding. They had all the time in the world, and he knew exactly how he wanted to use it. When he pulled away, the barest hint of a grin lifted the corner of his mouth.