#celus writes

“See,” Lambert murmurs in Ciri’s ear as he ties her wrists tight behind her back, “we want to be able to use that pretty mouth of yours like another cunt. Nice and easy to fuck. So we have to get you used to being throat-fucked like you’re a pretty little fleshlight.”

Her cunt pulses and her hands flex along, caught at the small of her back. The rope is tied tightly enough to dig, if she pulls, but not enough to cut off circulation. 

Which just means that he’ll be leaving her here for a while.

“Because you are a pretty little fleshlight,” Lambert continues, using his grip on her wrists to pull her up so she’s sitting back on her knees again. His fingers shove between her thighs to pet roughly over her cunt and her asshole, both already slick and gaping from the plugs he just removed. “These holes are already trained right –  we can fuck them whenever we want, as hard as we want, and you just cry for more, don’t you?”

She whines. “Y-yes, Sir!”

Lambert chuckles. “Exactly. Stay there.”

He stands from where he’d been crouched nearer her level, and she watches as he moves around the room, grabbing various things. Three large dildos, and lube, and one of the machines end up in front of her. She swallows back a reedy little noise.

“Wouldn’t do to leave our favorite fucktoy empty,” Lambert says as he grabs one of the dildos. He slathers it with lube and then circles behind her, and that’s all the warning she gets before the slick silicone is being forced into her cunt, much bigger than the plug he’d removed.

She wails, and he just laughs, pushing until the toy is sunk into her up to its fake balls. A second dildo is snatched from where it lays against her leg, and there’s the slick sound of more lube; this time she’s expecting the penetration, but it doesn’t make it any less overwhelming. With the massive cock already in her cunt, the one he’s shoving into her ass feels somehow even larger, and when both are sunk into her to the base, she can feel the way her flat stomach has gone round and cock-shaped.

“Good girl,” Lambert praises, somehow half-mockery. “Keep those nice and warm.”

He stands and crosses the room to grab something again, and this time when he returns he stands in front of her. 

“Open that pretty mouth,” he says, and then coos softly when she does. “Good.”

The gag is wide, wide enough that her jaw is already starting to ache a little even as he buckles it behind her head, but with it keeping her jaw wide open and her tongue flat and hanging out of her mouth, she can hardly complain. Once the gag is secured, Lambert pets over her extended tongue.

“That is a nice sight,” he says. “Maybe once we’ve got you nice and trained I’ll put you in this gag just to keep you on my cock all day.”

She immediately tries to say yes, Sir, but obviously can't, and Lambert laughs. He sinks three fingers into her open mouth, just rubbing them over her tongue at first and then slowly pushing them further, into her throat. She gags wildly, and then chokes, but he just keeps going, until his knuckles are pressed against her teeth and her vision is swimming. Just when she thinks he’ll choke her out like this, they pull back, but she barely gets a breath before he’s shoving them inside again.

He finger-fucks her throat like that for a long moment, eyes intent and burning on her reddening face, her eyes rolling back into her head with each violent gag. 

“Shame we can’t keep this and fuck your throat like the fleshlight it is,” he tuts, and finally pulls his hand away entirely. He turns to the machine in front of her and starts attaching the third dildo, then moving it around until it’s perfectly positioned so the head of the toy rests against her tongue.

Once he’s sure the machine is in place and sturdy, he uncaps another bottle of lube. Immediately, from the smell, she can tell this one is flavored; he pours a generous amount over the head of the toy, as well as into her mouth – she chokes when it starts to slide, thick and vicious, down her throat – and then he leans down and turns the machine on.

The speed is slow, for now, so she has time to prepare as the toy shoves into her mouth and then, inexorably, down her throat. She still chokes, of course, but the machine doesn’t care; the toy pulls out of her mouth at the same speed it shoved in, and then does it again, and again, and again. 

“Think we’ll leave it at that speed for a bit,” Lambert says. “I’ll be back soon.”

And with that, she’s alone. 

With nothing else to focus on, she fixates on the toy slowly fucking her throat, trying to time her breathing to its thrusts, clenching her fists to control her gagging. It doesn’t really work, until, after an hour – maybe? she’s not sure of the passage of time – it starts to. And then, when that starts to work, she can more easily focus on the feeling of it. 

The objectification, being left alone with a machine set to fuck her throat – to train her mouth into another easy, convenient hole to fuck. The pulsing arousal in her belly, how it just intensifies each time she gags around the thick toy and her cunt and ass clench down on the toys filling her guts. How she can feel each fake-veined inch of the toy as it sinks into her mouth, and then down her throat; the sore stretch as it pops into a space much too tiny for it – but that stretches to accommodate, all the same; the feeling of her throat bulging around it to match the bulge in her belly. 

How if she forgets herself and chokes hard enough, she rocks forward and shoves the toy even deeper, until she’s certain it won’t come out – and then it does, pulling slowly out of her fucked-raw throat with an obscene, slick noise. 

By the time Lambert returns, she’s gone hazy, and has mostly managed to adjust to the machine’s pace, timing her breathing and swallowing so she’s not choking anymore. She’s also covered in a thick wealth of spit, dripping down her chin and smearing across her tits and rounded belly.

“Oh, very good,” Lambert says as he stops in front of her. It’s hard to keep her eyes open when the toy sinks to the base in her throat again, but she manages it with some minor fluttering, and he grins. “Perfect little fucktoy. I think we can turn the speed up a bit.”

He leans down and fiddles with the knobs on the machine, and slowly the toy starts to move in and out of her mouth at a quicker pace. Not too much quicker, though; she gags a few times and then manages to catch up to it, and Lambert coos approvingly.

“Very good.” He pets through her hair and just watches for a moment, how her eyes flutter and roll each time the toy sinks balls-deep. “Okay, a little faster.”

This time, the speed is enough of a change that it takes her a while to adjust. She’s hacking and choking and gagging harshly on the toy, but just like before it doesn’t care, and keeps sinking forcefully into her throat. Lambert watches with lust in his eyes as she struggles, and her cunt clenches so hard around the dildo plugging her it hurts a little.

The faster pace is near impossible to keep up with properly, but she manages a little bit, getting to the point where she’s only gagging on every third thrust or so.

Lambert pets through her hair. “Good little slut,” he praises. “Another few weeks of this, an hour or maybe two or three a day, and we’ll be able to use that little face-cunt in no time.”

– – – – –

Lambert keeps his promises.

Once a day for the next three weeks, Ciri is tied up on her knees, plugged with too-big toys, gagged wide open and throat fucked by a machine. 

After the first week, she barely gags anymore. After the second, the choking is down to nearly nothing. And after the third, Lambert can turn the machine up to its highest setting and let it ravage her throat and she only nearly passes out from the lack of air.

And then, one day instead of tying her up on her knees, he lays her out on a low futon, her head hanging off of the edge and at the perfect height for his cock, and says, “Time to test if you can handle the real thing. Be a good girl.”

Once again, she wants to say yes, Sir, but the gag prevents anything except a nonsensical, throaty hum. Lambert just chuckles and gets one hand in her hair, the other around her throat, and sinks his cock into her mouth. 

He starts off decently slow, but that doesn’t last long. Soon enough, he’s thrusting balls-deep into her throat with abandon, and she goes gag and choke, because she’d gotten used to the steady rhythm of the machine, but it’s not nearly as much as before the training.

Lambert, his hand tight around her throat to feel how his cock bulges it out with each vicious thrust in, seems delighted.

“Oh, that’s good, just like that – pretty, perfect little fleshlight, fuck. Yeah, just a bit more training with a real cock and you’ll be exactly what we want – a nice set of wet, easy holes that can beg to be ruined.”

That makes her choke in shocked arousal, and he just groans and sinks in as deep as he can get, balls pressed over her nose and cock obstructing her windpipe. She struggles, but it’s child’s play for him to catch her wrists and hold her down, and she can kick all she wants, she can’t reach him.

He pulls out just as she’s certain she’ll pass out, and that first gasp of air hits like a suckerpunch; the second makes her come, just like that, just from being savagely throat-fucked and then choked out from the inside.

Lambert laughs and leans forward to spank her cunt. She whines and jerks but keeps her legs spread, and he keeps spanking until her lips are welt-red and swollen. Somehow, she’s just wetter.

“Good girl. Now…I think I should start coming down your throat, get you used to that.”

– – – – –

Eventually, she’s able to take Lambert’s cock down her throat in any position he wants, with minimal fuss. Some of them require some lube, just because of the angle, but otherwise she’s perfectly able to hold still and let him use her mouth like she’s just another one of his fleshlights. 

She can even hold on to consciousness long enough for him to grind his entire orgasm out in the bottom of her throat, not a single drop of his cum escaping. 

“Good girl,” he tells her, each time she orgasms from being allowed to breathe after he’s used her throat to come. “So nice that it’s so easy to get you to come. Perfect little toy can do all of the tricks.”

Of course, once he’s certain she’s trained properly, he has to present her to the others for testing.

Geralt goes first. His cock is larger than Lambert's, but about the same size as the toy on the machine, and so taking him is easy, especially since he doesn’t give a whit about the resistance in her throat and just works his hips until he pops inside. That makes her choke, but it’s the only time she chokes while he uses her mouth to get off. He comes in her mouth, though, and makes her show it to him before he forces her to swallow all of it, including some that escaped the corners of her mouth that he shoves right back into her throat with his thick fingers.

Vesemir goes next, though he doesn’t really fuck her throat so much as grind into it. He lets her up for a gasp of air every few minutes or so, but otherwise he keeps her pressed tight and breathless to his lap, until he grunts and starts to come. After that, though, he does fuck her throat – hard and fast and deep, still spurting cum, and she gags and chokes on that but manages to hold his cock down her throat for nearly four whole minutes when he’s finally done. Her vision is blurry-black around the edges, but she manages, and the slap to her cunt that he gives her afterward feels like praise.

And then there’s Eskel. Eskel is a challenge no matter how many times she’s taken him – even if he’s fucked her that same day, she needs a little coaxing to get him back into her cunt or ass – and him fucking her throat proves to be the same. It takes a lot more work, and some lube, and a not-insignificant amount of force to get his cock into her throat, and she’s airless so much faster with him. Of course, that’s not going to stop him; he fucks her throat just as hard and fast as he would her cunt or her ass, no holds barred, and more than once she thinks she does pass out with her face pressed down into his lap, but if she does and he notices, clearly he doesn’t care.

He also fucks her for the longest, refusing to come down her throat until she’s in a near catatonic state with the lack of air and how dizzy his rough thrusting has made her. When he finally does come, though, he forces her to choke on it, lodging the thick, fat head of his cock just inside her throat so she can feel each pulsing slick of cum as it hits her throat and slides down, and she chokes violently on it.

He just moans and plugs her nose as he shoves all the way to the base again to grind against her face. 

The orgasm when he finally yanks her up and lets her breathe at the same time that Lambert spreads her cunt open and smacks three fingers harshly down on her clit does make her black out.

– – – – –

From that point on, she really does serve as a cocksleeve. 

She did before, of course – it’s her place – but now it’s even more literal. Lambert kept his promise of gagging her open and keeping her on his cock all day, several times, and Geralt has done it too. One of them will grab her as they pass and shove her onto their cocks, usually with some lube in consideration but nothing more.

Eskel half-expects to find Geralt sitting up and waiting for him.

It wouldn’t be the first time, after all. For years now, they’ve arrived to Kaer Morhen within a few days of one another, usually Geralt first; more than once, Geralt has refused to sleep for those few days so he doesn’t miss Eskel’s arrival.

It is sweet, even if it’s also frustrating.

But this time, with the moon frosting everything silver at its height in the heavens, Geralt is slumped over in his bed – or, well, their bed, really. Technically they still have separate rooms – Eskel’s down the hall, this one Geralt’s – but functionally, they haven’t had separate rooms in decades.

Just not much point in it, not when they’re already so entwined.

Geralt is snoring softly, hair feathered over his face, the furs pulls haphazardly around his shoulders in a way that tells Eskel he had probably not intended to fall asleep. Most likely, he’d planned to stay awake, like he usually does, and then – got cold, or uncomfortable sitting up, or something, and laid down instead.

His mistake, really; his Wolf has never been able to resist a nice, soft bed and warm furs. Knocks him out like a light every time.

Eskel chuckles to himself as he crosses the room, stripping his snow-damp clothes and paying no heed to where they land. Igni warms his hands so that he can touch Geralt without startling him awake with cold, and he climbs very carefully into their bed, inching underneath the furs at a glacial pace, monitoring the depth of Geralt’s breath and the speed of his heart. 

Sneaking up on a Witcher is nearly impossible, but Eskel and Geralt have been all but physically bound for so long, he can just about manage it. He rarely gets an opportunity like this, though – without the aid of a potion and Geralt knowing what he’ll be waking to.

They’ve discussed it, of course, and Eskel knows very well what Geralt does and doesn’t like or want, but discussing and doing are two very different things, and, well. It is rare that Geralt is like this – sleeping so deeply without aid, alone in their bed instead of waiting for Eskel to arrive before he lets unconsciousness take him. 

Eskel is hardly going to squander the chance.

He’s careful, as he lays his Igni-warmed hands on Geralt’s waist, slotting up behind him in the bed. His Wolf makes a low noise, snorting in his sleep, but doesn’t stir, otherwise, just snuffles a bit and goes back to snoring. Eskel ignores how his chest feels as if it’s expanding fit to explode and settles in closer, one hand sliding to Geralt’s belly while the other worms underneath his neck.

This time, when Geralt stirs, it’s just to press closer, seeking Eskel’s heat in his slumber. Eskel bites his tongue and nuzzles behind Geralt’s ear, taking a deep, filling breath of him. He smells of cold and pine and dusty furs, but underneath it all, Eskel can always smell him. Mostly indescribable, but it’s his Wolf, all the same, as familiar as his own scent, something he would recognize even in death, he’s fairly certain.

He drags the palm he has on Geralt’s belly up, over his scarred chest, and then back down, detouring over one furred thigh, then back up again along his ribs, under his arm, and forward across his throat. He feels solid and hot and real in a way no one else ever does, to Eskel, as if everyone else will always pale to feeling Geralt pressed against him, under his hands.

He lets himself revel in it for a while, just sort of petting Geralt, up and down his chest and belly, over his hips and thighs and down to his knees, then back up to his collarbone and his throat. Throughout all of it, Geralt continues to snore, though he turns into some of the touches, arches and murmurs nonsensically as he presses closer to Eskel’s hand and body.

Encouragement, almost. Or at least Eskel has been told he’s free to take it that way, so he goes ahead and does just that.

Geralt lets out a breath that almost sounds like relief when Eskel starts kissing down his neck, and Eskel smiles into the crook of his shoulder, his hand slipping below Geralt’s belly and between his sharp hips instead, and then, with a careful shift, between his soft thighs.

He bites back a swear when he feels how hot and wet Geralt already is, as if his body just knows, even when he’s asleep. He mouths at Geralt’s throat, instead, kissing and sucking and licking along ever-familiar scars, the day-old stubble giving him minor rug burn on his cheek. His fingers slip around in the mess Geralt’s already made, but decades of practice make it easy to find his cock, already hard and twitching. He pulls at it, just once, feeling how the jolt of pleasure rolls through Geralt’s entire body and then out of him, in a thin, reedy little moan.

He still doesn’t wake up. Eskel’s cock twitches, too.

“So perfect,” he breathes, almost not even a sound, and slowly shifts so he can lean up and gentle Geralt onto his back. His Wolf goes where he’s tugged and pushed, arching against the bed with a little shiver before he’s relaxing back down, head turning toward Eskel’s arm where he nuzzles in close.

Eskel gives his cock another gentle tug, just to see how his mouth drops open, one of his legs kicking out, and then he moves his fingers again, petting through his slick, messy folds and down to his hole. Already, he’s hot and wet and swollen, and two of Eskel’s fingers slip in with no resistance at all, just a soft, wet sound.

Well, that, and Geralt’s breath rushing out of him on a startlingly loud moan.

Eskel is certain, for a moment, that this is it, this is the moment Geralt wakes up – hardly a tragedy, but cutting off some of the fun, he will admit – but somehow, that’s not what happens. Geralt moans and then whines, head thrashing from side to side twice, entire body rolling to shove his hips down, forcing Eskel’s fingers deeper into his hole, but that’s all he does. When he’s settled from that, even trembling slightly, he just turns his head back toward Eskel and snores again.

“God, Wolf,” Eskel hisses through his teeth, “fuck.”

He twists his wrist and traps the base of Geralt’s little cock under his thumb, then, and it’s easy, from there, to fuck him like this. Just two fingers to start, even though he knows Geralt can take much more, and a thumb rubbing soft and slick at the base of his cock, gentle but unstoppable, and – 

His cock throbs heavily at the broken, breathless sound Geralt makes as he arches from the bed and comes, thighs trembling and cunt clenching spasmodically around Eskel’s buried fingers.

He ducks down and mouths at Geralt’s throat, careful of his teeth and the roughness of his scars. “Good, so good, fuck, Wolf,” he breathes, and Geralt’s breath is stuttering in his chest, cunt still pulsing, but he’s still asleep.

Eskel is starting to think this might be too good to be true, but fuck it, he’s not going to look this gift horse in the mouth. 

He carefully pulls his fingers from Geralt’s body, not bothering to clean the mess from them, and then slowly moves again, until he’s on his knees between Geralt’s thighs. The shift of the furs lets in some of the colder air from the room, and Geralt shivers and grumbles, but still doesn’t wake; instead, he just pushes closer to Eskel, clearly just blindly seeking heat. Eskel grips his hips and helps, gently tugging him down the bed and then up, into Eskel’s lap, thighs spread wide around his hips. 

From there, it’s easy to lean down, caging Geralt’s limp body in with his own, pressing them together from their hips to their throats. Geralt murmurs some more in his sleep, turning his head and nuzzling against Eskel’s cheek before snoring loudly into his ear.

He bites his lip against a laugh and shifts back a little, so he can kiss along the soft, vulnerable stretch of Geralt’s throat, then along his collarbone, and further, down to his chest, tracing along the long-familiar scars there, barely even noticeable from age and all of the other, newer scars to obscure them. Eskel has the shape of them memorized, though, because he memorized the shape long before they were scars – when they were still wounds, fresh and tightly-stitched from the work one of the mages had done, upon Geralt’s request, to remove the extra fat that still remained after his second Trials.

Geralt shivers again, arching closer to Eskel’s mouth, and Eskel grins, sliding his hand under his Wolf’s back to help, holding him in the arch so they’re pressed even tighter together at the hips.Like this, all he has to do is shift a little to the side and he can grind them together, his cock slipping easily through the wet mess Geralt’s made, the feeling of Geralt’s cock throbbing and twitching against his just as thrilling as it always is, as it always has been.

“Perfect, Wolf, gods,” Eskel breathes, and moves from worshiping those scars to mouthing over his nipples, already puckered and hard, probably mostly from the cold but definitely not just that. Geralt gives a low, rumbling little groan as Eskel sucks at them, hips jerking, and Eskel grunts at the friction of it, forgetting to mind his teeth for a split second.

He freezes as Geralt makes a high, pitched noise, and once again he’s certain that this will be the moment Geralt finally wakes. He finds himself holding his breath, even, waiting for Geralt to grunt and open his eyes.

It never happens. Instead, Geralt makes another rumbling sound in his chest and sighs, then shifts, turning his head to the side and letting out a long breath. 

Eskel can feel his cock dripping precome, making even more of a mess between Geralt’s thighs. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, all but a whine, and leans to one side so he can get his fingers between them again.

This time, he doesn’t worry too much about gentle or careful. He’s fairly certain that if Geralt hasn’t woken up yet, he probably won’t, at least not until Eskel gets his cock into him, and fuck, if that doesn’t make him throb. He starts with two fingers again, just to be sure, but adds a third quickly after, and then, when Geralt just whines and rolls his hips up, a fourth, too. 

It’s a bit harder to rub at his cock with four fingers buried in his hole, but Eskel has plenty of practice with it, and he hardly minds the difficulty or strain on his wrist. The sound Geralt makes this time, when Eskel rubs at the base of his cock with his thumb, is almost more of a shout. 

He just presses harder, then, curling his fingers to catch on that soft, sensitive spot just inside him. Geralt gives that same almost-shout, and for the first time reacts more than some squirming and sound, his fingers tightening in the sheets to their side, nearly enough to tear the thin fabric.

“So good, Wolf, so fucking perfect,” Eskel whispers, and leans forward to mouth up his throat, soft and open-mouthed and wet. Geralt reacts to that by twisting his head back and away, offering up more pale skin, his still-sleep-deep breathing stuttering a little.

Eskel’s cock jumps between them, flexing so hard that the pulse of precome that follows splatters over Geralt’s belly. 

“One more, Wolf, wanna feel you come around my fingers again,” he murmurs, sucking at Geralt’s earlobe before kissing his way back down to his chest to nibble and suck at his nipples. “Just like this, gods you feel so good….”

He moves his fingers faster, then, still keeping them curled so he can rub against that perfect spot, murmuring endearments and encouragements around sucking kisses to Geralt’s chest. Between the lack of defenses Geralt’s slumber offers, body lax and limp even as he trembles and twitches, and Eskel’s decades of experience with Geralt’s body, it doesn’t take very long.

“Go on, just like this, fuck, Wolf,” Eskel is nearly babbling at this point, holding on to his own self-control by a thread, overtaken by how much he loves Geralt – in general and like this, sleep-soft and open and trusting, knowing that Geralt trusts him to do this, to take pleasure from and give pleasure to him when he’s unconscious. He’s grinding against Geralt’s hip almost absent-mindedly, more focused on the movements of his fingers, making sure that he’s doing everything he can to give Geralt more pleasure.

He feels the moment the tension snaps in the way Geralt’s hips jolt and his breath cuts short and then speeds; this time, it’s intense enough to have his little cock swelling up, and Eskel quickly shifts to get his other hand around it, squeezing tight and massaging with his fingers as Geralt’s cunt squeezes around his knuckles.

“Good, Wolf, so godsdamned perfect,” he breathes, his own cock threatening to swell with nothing more than some measly friction and the bone-deep satisfaction of getting Geralt off without even waking him up.

At this point, he knows an awake Geralt would be telling him to get on with it, so as soon as Geralt’s finished panting and clenching rhythmically, Eskel takes his hands away and shifts again, setting the head of his cock against the swollen, messy hole his fingers just vacated. Even just that sensation, the hot, silk-slick press of Geralt’s folds around him, has his heart stuttering alongside his breath. He fumbles one hand to Geralt’s hip and the other to the bed, using it to lean on as he rocks his hips and slowly sinks inside.

Geralt whimpers, loud and high, and Eskel doesn’t bother pausing to see if he’s woken, now. If he has, well, he’ll be thrilled with the wake up call; if he hasn’t, then Eskel gets a little more time with him pliant and soft and perfect like this.

“Good, Wolf, gods you take me so well – like you were made for it, for me, swear you were, fuck – ”

It takes a good bit of self-restraint, but he stops when he’s hilted, letting Geralt’s body adjust to the stretch, giving himself a chance to catch his breath so he doesn’t shoot off immediately. It’s been years, decades since he’s been able to see his own cock through Geralt’s belly, but all the same he drags his palm over the spot, putting gentle pressure there as he settles his thumb and index finger on either side of Geralt’s cock, still swollen hard and pulsing. 

He takes another few moments to steady himself, and then he’s moving again, rocking his hips in tandem with his fingers, tugging and squeezing at Geralt’s cock in the same rhythm. Already, even with the minutes to calm down, he can tell this will go quickly – he’s too wound up, and Geralt feels too fucking good, tight and searing hot and clenching around Eskel’s cock like he could pull him any deeper.

It’s awkward, to bend at the waist and get his mouth back on Geralt’s chest, his throat, but he doesn’t care about the strain in his arm or his shoulder. Leaving his mark on Geralt’s skin, tasting him, is much more important than some soreness later.

“Feel like heaven, Wolf, gods, each year I think I remember how sweet you are and I’m wrong every time,” he whispers, right into Geralt’s ear, knowing that even if he can’t really hear the words, the idea will come across in his dreams.

More than a few extra rounds have happened, like this, just because of Geralt describing the shape his dreams took while he was asleep under Eskel’s hands and ministrations.

Already, his knot is swelling, and each time he shoves it into Geralt’s messy hole and pulls it back out, he’s whining, unable to control the noise even if he wanted to. He’s not entirely sure he would even notice Geralt waking up, if he did right now, vision starting to blur as his hips stutter, grip on Geralt’s swollen little cock spasming along. 

“Gonna – fuck, Wolf, gonna tie you – been too long, you feel so fucking good.” He bites his way down Geralt’s throat, only just remembering to be gentle with it, until he finds the gnarled scar in the crook of his neck that fits the shape of Eskel’s mouth perfectly. It was one of the first scars Geralt ever earned, shortly after the ones on his chest, and as unconventional and barbaric as it may have seemed to anyone outside of them, Eskel has a matching one on his shoulder. 

At this point, there’s no need to try and open the tissue again; it’s long settled and stopped trying to shift and meld away, but he mouths across it all the same, dragging his canines along the rough surface of it and fitting them into the indents. 

“Fuck, fuck,” it’s getting harder to roll his hips back, his knot nearly catching on each thrust, and his breath is going erratic to match the pace of his hips, “gonna – gods, Geralt, c’mon, with me, just like this – let you knot my mouth, later, but wanna – ah, fuck, fuck – wanna feel it now – ”

It takes – more focus than it should, but he manages to tip his hips up, using his knees to hold Geralt at the right angle, making his cock grind over that inner sweet-spot with the thrusts he has left, and he feels the effect of them in how Geralt’s thighs tense bruise-hard around him, how his cunt clenches even harder and makes it near impossible to shove his half-flared knot back in.

“Like this, just like this,” he’s babbling, shifting his hand to wrap his fist around Geralt’s swollen cock, squeezing it tight at the same time he finally manages to sink his knot inside one last time and tie. “Fuck!”

For a split second, he thinks the odd echo of the word is just the blood rushing in his ears, but then he feels Geralt’s arms around his shoulders and blunt nails tearing into his back and he realizes that apparently knotting him was the thing that finally won over his dead sleep.

“Es – Es…. ‘Skel, fuck, fuck, please – ” 

He’s breathless and whining and Eskel barely has the wherewithal to hush him, instead just dragging his mouth up and over the curve of his jaw until he can find his mouth. The kiss is messy, more spit and tongues than any sort of coordination, but Eskel doesn’t mind, and from the way Geralt moans right into his mouth, he doesn’t, either.

Eskel squeezes his hand around Geralt’s little knot, tightening the grip until Geralt’s breath stammers and his body tries to jackknife, only stopped by where his hole is caught on Eskel’s knot and Eskel’s body in the way. When his lips smear away from Geralt’s, his Wolf is screaming, clawing up and down his back wildly as he rides his own overwhelming orgasm.

They come down slowly, more or less together, their breathing syncing easy, and their heartbeats right behind. Eskel mouths over that mark on Geralt’s throat again and gets a weak, reedy little moan about it, Geralt turning his head to mouth at its twin on Eskel’s throat. 

“Fuck, ‘Skel,” he rasps, after a moment. “How long – gods, I feel good.”

Eskel snorts, kissing along his jaw to find his mouth again. “Got you to flare in your sleep,” he murmurs. “Don’t know what time it is.”

“Wanted to stay awake,” Geralt sighs, and Eskel can hear the pout in it even before he leans back to find the expression on Geralt’s face.

“Mm, I’m glad you didn’t,” he replies, and hitches Geralt’s legs higher on his waist so he can twist and flop on to his back, grunting at the flare of pleasure as Geralt settles over his hips, cunt clenching around his knot again. Geralt is panting, too, at least.

“Yeah, I can tell,” he mumbles, but he lays down on Eskel’s chest without a fuss, yawning. “...gonna be sore, later.”

Eskel hums, already starting to drift off with his head on the pillows and Geralt’s weight pressing him down. “‘ll make it up to you,” he promises around a yawn of his own. “...later.”

Geralt huffs, but nuzzles his head under Eskel’s chin all the same. “You’d better.”

“Promise I will.” Even if Eskel didn’t know that Geralt’s just being a brat for the sake of it, he’d promise his Wolf just about anything under normal circumstances; slowly falling asleep under his weight, still tied, Geralt could get whatever he wanted out of him.

“Mm. Night, ‘Skel.”

She’ll give her boss credit where it’s due – he looks like he’s going to piss himself, but he doesn’t stammer when he speaks, and he looks her right in the eye, too.

Doesn’t change the fact that, “I’m serious, Ms. Vengerberg. This company social is non-negotiable, and I expect to see you there,” is the last thing she wants to hear.

– – – – –

Really, she wouldn’t care – socials are boring, and holiday socials are worse, but they’re part and parcel to this level of office work; socializing gets deals made, and nepotism is strong in any industry – but the thing about a company-wide social is that everyone is there.

Everyone. Including her boss’ boss, who is a lech and a creep, and about half a dozen other very rich, powerful men who all seem to find total delight in hitting on her and letting their hands wander.

Which is also part and parcel for the industry, really, but unlike the poorly-socialized troglodytes on her team, or the random assistants and pencil pushers she encounters in her day-to-day, she can’t pin them to a wall and threaten the integrity of their testicles if they don’t knock it off and mind their own business.

Or, well, she could, if she was alright with losing the job that she did not fuck anyone to get, thank you very much, but instead slaved at a desk for nearly ten years for. 

She squints at the light still on in her boss’ office and sighs, pulling her phone out of her purse.

> to: Geralt >> I’m coming over

She puts her phone back without waiting for a response, gathers her things from her desk, and lets the authoritative click of her heels on tile soothe her as she marches to the elevator.

– – – – –

Geralt is already there at the door to let her in when she pulls up, and he looks concerned.

“Everything alright?” he asks, as she reaches the step, holding out a hand, and she bypasses it entirely just to hug him. He feels nice and comfortably solid in her arms, and he’s warm, too, especially when he wraps his arms around her in return. She almost forgets that they’re standing halfway into the doorway of his house in the middle of December.

“Fine,” she mutters, even though it’s technically a lie. Well, it’s a lie and it’s not; she is fine, she’ll be fine, she’s just…grumpy. Not thrilled about having to figure out what to wear – what to dress Geralt in – for a semi-formal, professional gathering on short notice.

Ignoring the fact that she’s known about this shindig for two months, she didn’t think she’d have to attend, so she hadn’t worried about it.

“You sure about that?” Geralt asks, running his fingers through her hair. 

She swats at him, mostly show, muttering, “You’ll ruin the curls I worked so hard on this morning.”

He snorts. “It’s nearly ten o’clock, Yen,” he points out. “And the snow has already done that. C’mon, come inside.”

She huffs and lets him pull her into the warmth of the house, lets him prod her into a seat on the couch, and continues to let him as he bustles about, bringing her a liberally spiked hot chocolate and a blanket before he settles next to her.

“Jaskier?” she asks, raising the mostly-whiskey hot chocolate, and Geralt snorts again, nodding. She tips her head onto the back of the couch, giving her a small sightline to the kitchen. She can’t see Geralt’s flighty, live-in menace, but if she focuses she can hear him humming. “This had better be the good whiskey, boytoy!”

She hears a clatter and then a laugh. “Would I ever dare give Geralt’s dearest ice queen anything else?” he shouts back, and she rolls her eyes, then turns back to Geralt.

“Gonna tell me what has you over here so late, and so suddenly?” he asks, pulling absolutely no punches, and not for the first time Yennefer curses the effect Jaskier has had on her boyfriend.

It’s a good effect, don’t get her wrong, but she kind of misses when she could keep her upsets to herself and brood for a while before he’d try to pry. Now he pretty much refuses to let her unless she explicitly asks him to drop it, and gods, she hates asking like that. 

“I told you about that Yule party at the office,” she says. “The company-wide one.”

Geralt nods, and steals the mug from her hands to take a sip before giving it back. When she raises a brow, he gives a lopsided little smile.

“It’s the good whiskey,” he says, and she isn’t sure if he’s just being a ridiculously cute little thief, or trying to assure her that Jaskier was genuine, but either way it makes her laugh.

“Alright,” she says, and takes a drink herself. It is the good whiskey, in fact, and she sighs, relaxing a little more into the couch. 

“So what about the party?”

“We have to go,” she says. “Or, well, I have to go, and I am not bearing that without a partner. And you look sufficiently scary when you’re frowning to keep the, ah, handsier executives from descending like hawks.”

She expects Geralt to groan, or maybe laugh at her wording, but all she gets is silence, and when she turns to look at him he looks…almost pained.

She raises her eyebrows again. Geralt gives her a look that she thinks is meant to be a smile, but looks more like a grimace.

“It’s the weekend before Yule, right?” he says, and as soon as the words are out of his mouth, Yennefer remembers.

He’s flying out to go see family, that weekend, and won’t be back until the day before Yule. 

“Fuck.” She downs the rest of the hot chocolate in one go, and then is disappointed that there’s not more alcohol in it. “Fuck!”

She can’t ask him to stay, not for something so petty and unimportant as an office party. Not when he hasn’t seen his brothers in months, and his father for even longer than that. She doesn’t even want to ask him to stay, because frankly, she likes him better when he’s recently seen his brothers – he makes better decisions when he can get all of the chaos out with them.

“Sorry,” he says, and she’s about to tell him not to be, it’s not his fault, but Jaskier is appearing at the side of the couch before she can even open her mouth.

“I’m free that weekend,” he says, and there’s a twinkle in his eye that spells so much trouble.

And she wants to say no, immediately, because Jaskier is…fine, she guesses, but he’s firmly Geralt’s, and Geralt’s problem, specifically. They don’t not get along, but she finds him irritating and obnoxious and over-the-top, and she’s happy Geralt has him, of course she is, but she’s never quite figured out what it is Geralt sees in him, because…. Well, he’s Geralt. He’s stoic and kind of emotionally constipated and prefers quiet nights in unless Lambert has wheedled him into a stupid bet, and Jaskier is….

Well, they met when Geralt got dragged to a drag show at a gay club, and they’d left a mess of glitter in Geralt’s old apartment that had never quite left, which should tell anyone exactly what kind of person Jaskier was.

And is, for that matter.

But before she can manage to make herself say it, tell him no, absolutely not, I’m not going anywhere with you, she finds herself…thinking about it.

Sure, Jaskier isn’t as scary as Geralt, but usually the presence of a boyfriend is plenty enough to ward off all but the most heinous of assholes, and for those, well.

She’s seen video evidence of Jaskier breaking a homophobe’s wrist with one hand and some well-applied physics before, so – she knows he’s plenty capable of being scary, even if most of the time he looks like a gust of wind and a well-placed insult could end his life.

“I…. Do you own a suit?”

“I own ten suits, for your information,” Jaskier grins, and when Yennefer blinks at him, genuinely shocked, he clarifies. “One for each color of the rainbow, plus pink, black, and gray.”

She drops her head into her hands and groans. “Of course. Of course.”

Geralt, still to her side, snorts and takes the empty mug from her lap, leaving the couch to go put it away, or maybe refill it, she isn’t sure. Jaskier remains right where he is, cackling like a madman.

Gods, she is so fucked.

“Fine,” she says. “You can come with, for the sake of my sanity and my career, but I swear to the gods, Jaskier, if you don’t do as you’re told, I will make you regret it.”

Jaskier is still grinning, all perfectly straight, white teeth, when she looks back up at him, and Geralt returns with a full mug, entirely whiskey this time, gods bless him.