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“There he is!” Lambert cheers as Eskel saunters into the dining hall, confused at the greeting from Lambert of all people, “The Dragon of Kaer Morhen! Come tell us all about your adventures,” he winks and, ah… so it’s one of those nights.
Geralt is leaning back in his chair, smirking over the rim of his mug - Eskel can smell the White Gull from across the hall.
He flops next to Geralt, takes the mug of ale he’s handed; Lambert knows Eskel doesn’t like to drink heavily and asks, “What do you want to hear?”
A glint sparks in those honey-golds, “Heard a rumour,” his head tilts in that cute puppy way Lambert does when he’s really curious about something - Eskel doesn’t dare point it out, he’s not keen on getting a boot to the balls tonight.
“What kind of rumour?”
“Was passing through Brugge,” Eskel leans back in his chair, feigning nonchalance as he realizes what’s about to get brought up, “Went to spend the night in the brothel, and wouldn’t you know, I’m not the first Wolf they’ve had.”
“So?” Eskel prompts, eyebrow raising in challenge, “I can’t hire a whore?”
“Course you can, but they liked you. Saw my amulet and said if I treated them half as well as you did that I could have a damn discount.”
Eskel smirks, “Yeah? So what?”
“So, how many of them did you fuck for the whores to damn near fight over Witcher dick?”
Eskel smirks, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
It becomes a bit of a… thing. Every winter Eskel returns home to a myriad of questions about the stories Lambert, Geralt and even Coën have heard about him from the various brothels across the continent. He only frequents three or four of them, and not even very often, but word gets around fast in that industry and Eskel has become rather well known despite his efforts to keep his visits private.
It’s alright, he thinks. At least his brothers don’t know the real reason for his attendance.
–
The door creaks behind him, closes with a click. He latches the lock, the routine is almost second nature to him now, not needing any thought or planning, not after the years he’s spent in these beds.
The soft swish of curtains in the wind from the open window is barely audible over the din in the establishment below, laughter barely audible through the wooden floors. He’s sure he can only hear it thanks to his enhanced senses, he knows the lady here and knows she takes great pride in this place - has spared no expense to make sure her clients get the best.
His companion for the night is already in the bed that’s nestled neatly between the two open windows on the far wall, a candle flickering on the bedside table. He can see that, even under the soft, down-filled covers, they’re wearing the clothing that he had requested and he smiles a bit.
“Just going to stand there,” a soft voice taunts him, he can see the smile on the young man’s face smiling at him through the darkness, barely lit by the soft orange glow of the candles.
“Admiring the view,” Eskel says, shedding the first layer of his leathers as he moves to approach the bed.
“Is that so?” Lithe fingers pull up shoulder-length brown hair, into that oh-so-familiar loose bun he’s grown rather fond of over the past couple of years since Jasper became his regular. Or he became Jasper’s regular, rather. “You don’t pay for the view.”
“Doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy it.”
Jasper, that’s his working name, all the workers at this brothel are named for gems, (after a few years of seeing one another he told Eskel he was welcome to use his real name in private, but Eskel thinks if he does that he might get even more attached) huffs a little amused sound and rises to his knees to crawl forward on the bed. He pulls Eskel in closer by the straps on his gambeson and very carefully starts helping him undress.
“You bathed,” he remarks when Eskel is only left in an undershirt and his braies.
“You complained I was dirty last time.”
“You had monster blood in your hair, darling.” Eskel just shrugs. It’s a regular reality of his profession that he gets covered in viscera and doesn’t always have the means to clean it out. Jasper sighs, fondly exasperated, “Alright, off with your underthings then Witcher, I haven’t got all night.”
Eskel snorts and shrugs out of his undershirt, “Yes you do. Paid for it.”
“I keep telling you, you don’t have to pay me anymore.” Jasper says as shuffles back in the bed, resuming his earlier position propped against the headboard and several pillows.
“Not fair to make you take a night off. ‘Sides, I got the coin.”
Jasper’s lips purse in an adorable little pout, brown eyes locked on Eskel and he crawls up onto the bed with him, “Just send a letter before you, next time. Then I can take you home and we can have a proper relaxing time. I know the noise downstairs bothers you.”
Eskel grunts, shuffling under the covers and slotting himself between Jasper’s thighs, “Did you pick something out for tonight,” he asks, changing the subject instead of responding properly. Jasper notices, he can tell that much, but gladly doesn’t comment.
“I did. I think you’ll like it.”
“Always do.” Eskel shuffles down a bit, until he is fully laying between Jasper’s thighs, wraps his arms loosely around the smaller man’s waist, and lays his head on his abdomen, clothed in the softest of his cotton sleeping clothes.
A gentle hand smooths down over his hair barely a moment later and Eskel rumbles his approval.
“Comfortable?”
“Yeah.”
A bit of shuffling as Jasper picks up a book from the bedside table, opening it with one hand. The other stays brushing gently through Eskel’s hair, “To all the men I’ve loved before,” Jasper starts, voice low and warm. Eskel sighs, lets himself go boneless and relaxed under the gentle touches, “In the obsidian of night I dream of you lying next to me. Your eyes have always been my starlight, and when the dawn breaks I can only yearn for your constellations to return. Why must you always leave come the morn?”
He hums, drifts on orange-sweet words, time slow and thick like honey. Jasper always smells of oranges and honey, a combination that Eskel has learned to crave when the ground is too hard and the nights too cold.
With him there is only softness. Only warmth and tender touches, a gentle voice and soothing hands. With him, and with some of his other regular stops.
He is the dragon of Kaer Morhen, but not for his fire, nor his prowess in bed. His brothers may believe what he pays the lovely men who lay with him to tell them, he is the Dragon because of how he rumbles on nights like this - cuddled up and purring with contentment.