Possible fic prompt: Jaskier at Kaer Morhen learns about axii. Whether it is just Geralt or Eskel and Lambert too is your call. He wants them to use axii to turn him into a doll, where they have total control of his body. They can move him into any position, relax or tighten his muscles, make him feel any sensation, and he can't mentally override their control. Whether he can come on his own is up to you.
Thoughts?
I decided to change it juuust a little bit, hope that’s ok!! I just tweaked it so that Geralt & Jaskier have used axii before, to make it easier on worrywart Geralt pffft but thank you for this!! I loved writing it!!
——
Geralt has only been back at the keep for two weeks and he’s entirely over the way his brothers keep making faces over his scent.
“Stop it,” he growls one day, narrowing his eyes at Lambert. “Don’t make me remind you of what happens when Aiden stays here. The both of you make the whole keep smell like sweat and sex all winter, not just yourselves.”
Predictably, the youngest cub rolls his eyes, pretending he’s not flushed at the reminder of all that, and scoffs. “At least mine was another witcher,” he retorts. “You brought a bloody bard.”
That is true, at least, the words themselves are. The tone Geralt could do without. Jaskier had grown bored of Oxenfurt, didn’t care for the Temerian court, had too many exes in Redania, threatened to gouge out Valdo Marx’s eyes if he went to Cidaris… In short, he had every excuse in the book whenever Geralt asked him where he planned to spend the winter. It had been with a begrudging sigh and a long look that he’d finally invited Jaskier to spend the time in Kaer Morhen with his family—an invitation that Jaskier had almost not waited to hear the full sentence of before he had agreed, enthusiastically.
Geralt had put on a show of how the other witchers might put his head on a spike, but he’d been pleased, really. And Jaskier, well. Jaskier had seen right past his gruff and saw the quiet hope glimmering in his lover’s eyes. So he’d simply patted Geralt’s shoulder, declared, “Then I shall charm them into taking my head from the spike and sewing it back to my body,” and went about fussing and nattering over the long journey ahead.
But Geralt wasn’t going to let Lambert get a word in edgewise. Especially when Lambert listened to Jaskier’s nightly performance just as raptly as the rest of them did.
Geralt folds his arms. “I fail to see how that’s worse than walking in on you being bent over the dining table with Aiden’s cock up your ass.”
“Oh, that’s it!” the witcher cries. He hardly gets to his feet, though, before Eskel’s hand finds the crook of his elbow, drags him back down to the bench, careful not to disturb the game of gwent they have going on. Lambert shoots him a nasty look; Eskel ignores him.
“I don’t care what you two are doing,” Eskel rumbles calmly, only taking his hand from his youngest brother when he turns to pouting and puffing instead of looking for a fight. “But I am curious how you do it. Keep quiet, I mean. Your little bird can’t keep himself from talking or whistling or making some kind of noise for five minutes. And yet I never hear him. Just you.”
Eskel knows it’s not just Geralt. Based on the facts that both of them share a room and they both smell like each other so much that he’s mistaken one for the other on entrance to a room based on scent alone, it isn’t a solitary affair. Plus, having a room only part of a hallway from Geralt’s own ensures that he can hear the two go giggling inside of it at night, hear Jaskier’s bitten off keens, his keens and sighs, just as surely as he can hear Geralt’s rough promises and pleased groans. But the mystery lies in the fact that, once the two hit the mattress, it’s almost as if…
Almost as if Jaskier disappears. Geralt continues on, he knows, but until much later on, until after Geralt comes, there’s no sound from Jaskier. And when Jaskier does eventually talk, all it is is sleepy mumblings and the type of quiet pillow talk that Eskel purposefully tunes out, giving the two lovers their privacy, even though he never can make out those soft words. He just doesn’t get it. A gag would help, certainly—but not that well. Not to the point of complete silence.
Something glitters in Geralt’s eyes, then. Eskel frowns at it. His brother doesn’t often show a mischievous side of himself anymore, but he knows it’s there. After all, Geralt had been the one, so long ago, to help him tie a string to a bee, to keep it as a pet. Vesemir had tanned their hides for it, but while the Trial of the Grasses could take away a lot, they couldn’t take away everything.
“I use axii on him.”
Something bitter and rancid curls in Eskel’s stomach. The same goes for Lambert; he can sense the witcher tense next to him, sit up straighter. But before either of them can get any further, Geralt holds up his hand, placating.
“He asks for it,” he clarified. “Or, rather, it’s a better solution to a… Proclivity of his.” Eskel only frowns harder, so Geralt continues. “Awhile ago, he asked about getting some sort of substance that would take away his abilities to do much of anything. He wanted to be fucked while drugged. But he’s a human.”
“Fucking fragile things, humans are,” Lambert says.
Geralt nods at him, assenting silently. “I didn’t want to risk it. That’s a dangerous state to put anyone in. And even if it didn’t kill him, I wasn’t going to have him addicted to some two-bit hedge witch’s concoction. So I offered axii instead.”
The explanation helped to soothe Eskel. Jaskier had already proven himself to be of eclectic sexual tastes; he was in a relationship with a witcher, for the gods’ sakes. Plus, Geralt was right. Addiction was a horrible thing. If to the wrong substance, it led to a horrible, agonizing, slow death. If to a better substance, one miscalculation was all it could take to bring things to a speedy halt. With axii…
With axii, Geralt would be able monitor Jaskier’s emotions and cause no harm to his body. He could also withdraw the effects at any time—whether that be for something going wrong during sex or something happening on the path, with all the dangers a witcher and their companions faced. Compared to the bard’s request, it was, admittedly, many degrees safer.
“And you’re sure he likes it?” he askes, just once, just to make sure. Their signs are only supposed to be used in a fight. They hurt people, primarily, besides the protective few. It’s only been two weeks, and Eskel is surprised to find himself already protective over the little bird, as strange as it sounds even to him.
“Likes it enough he requests it at least once a week.” Geralt had been more careful than the other brothers after their Trials—after Blaviken. For him to act so blasé, so unconcerned about it, must mean that he’s telling the full truth. That, as improbable as it sounds, Jaskier really does enjoy to be axii’d. It’s a strange thought, but the more Eskel considers it… Well, he’s seen just how fearless Jaskier can be, living here with four witchers, so he probably shouldn’t be all that surprised.
He and Lambert share a look. It seems Lambert is thinking the same thing. For all intents and purposes, Geralt appears to be telling the truth, and they doubt that Jaskier wouldn’t speak up if he really didn’t enjoy it. So he gives Lambert a tiny nod, and turns his gaze back to his cards.
That’s the end of it.
That should have been the end of it.
It isn’t the end of it.
It doesn’t happen that night. No, that night, all three of them get a little more than tipsy, playing their cards long into the night. Eskel retires to his room, Geralt after him, and though he can hear his brother greet Jaskier, there are no sounds after that—from either of them.
No, nothing happens that night. It’s the next night when that something does happen.
Jaskier and Geralt talking, conversing, isn’t unusual. Sure, they’re a little quieter than usual, but—well, Eskel knows that energy fluctuates. He’s even considering that this might be another quiet night when, inevitably, Jaskier’s first moan seems to sneak its way through the cracks in the walls. Eskel sighs. He scrubs his face, lighter on the side with the scars to not aggravate them, and resigns himself to a night spent listening, wondering if he’ll head the little bird sing, or if Geralt will—axii him, apparently. But just as Eskel is turning onto his side away from the closest wall to the other room, Jaskier’s voice comes, plaintive and wanting, louder than he’s been with Geralt since they arrived at the keep.
“Eskel…”
Every nerve in Eskel’s body seems to light on fire. He freezes, then turns his head back, looking towards the far wall, as if it might have an answer for him. It, predictably, says nothing. But it doesn’t take long before Jaskier keens again, sighs, and his name slips from the bard’s mouth once more.
He doesn’t understand it. It’s certainly not him with Jaskier. And Geralt is there, so in all its unlikelihood, it isn’t the bard having some alone time with a fantasy of him. No, this is—
“Eskel…!”
—this is something else.
His brother chuckles, the sound carrying over. And then it gets louder, strangely enough, and a thump, and—oh, gods. Geralt has Jaskier pushed against the closest wall to him. Fuck.
“Like that, little bird?” Geralt said, and well, he was doing this on purpose. Geralt never called Jaskier little bird. That was Eskel’s nickname for him, one not used by any of the others, seeing as they had their own for him. Jaskier’s answering moan had Eskel swallow hard enough for it to click. He didn’t know exactly what Geralt was doing but he thought he could imagine it—his brother lifting Jaskier against the wall, those long legs wrapped around Geralt’s waist, a look of awe on Jaskier’s face.
Maybe his eyes would be a little glassy, a little unfocused. If this strange scenario is anything to go off of, as well as the new information from nights past, Jaskier is under axii’s effects. The thought hits Eskel hard—Jaskier thinks he’s being fucked by him.
And he’s enjoying it.
Unbidden, Eskel’s cock gives a twitch in his trousers. He grimaces; yes, for some reason, Geralt is putting on a show for him. But does that make his interest any less appropriate?
Apparently, propriety doesn’t matter much when Jaskier gasps and whines and starts to moan in earnest, Eskel’s name on his lips, falling in broken stutters and high pitched moans. Eskel tries to resist. He does. But gods, he’s imagining the way Geralt must be filling Jaskier to the hilt, how he must be holding his hips in a bruising grasp as he fucks up into him against the wall, wonders how many marks are going to be left trailing the bard’s throat come morning with Geralt purposefully staying away from Jaskier’s mouth to let his sounds come unimpeded. And Eskel—Eskel may be a witcher, but he is just a man at his core. He can only resist for so long before his hands are pushing the blankets down from his hips and his fingers are pulling at the ties to his breeches.
His cock, swollen and red and hard as hell, comes free. There’s already a bead of precum at the slit; Eskel isn’t sure he’s ever heard anyone but his brothers moan his name like that, and certainly no one after he’d gained his scars. It sets him alight in a way he hasn’t felt in a very long time; he nearly groans as he wraps his fingers around himself, a soft sound that, judging by the barely-there pause and then the uptick in Jaskier’s noises, a sound that Geralt had picked up on.
Eskel closes his eyes. He spreads the precum down his shaft until he’s just barely slick enough to not be uncomfortable. He listens, focuses in; if he pays attention, he can tell the difference in what’s happening. He can hear the whoosh of Jaskier’s breath when Geralt pulls out—can hear the tremble in his voice when his brother slams back in. He sets his pace by that, matching it as best he can. Imagines his fist is Jaskier’s tight body; imagines he can feel Geralt watching the whole thing, pleased by his brother wrecking his lover.
He’s both surprised and not when he finally climaxes—surprised at his short stamina, not surprised by the fact the little bird can wring something so quick out of him. With a few grunts Eskel’s cock pulses, twitches, and he spills into his hand, the sticky white seed making a mess. He can’t find it in himself to care. He feels good—really fucking good—and can’t help but wonder, briefly, if Geralt’s show means that he’d be willing to share.
Jaskier cums not long after, his shouts reaching a crescendo, Eskel’s name a slurred, pleading thing in his mouth. He hears Geralt growl and imagines that, too—his brother’s seed filling his little bird, the copious amount of it, the way it surely drips from Jaskier’s hole and leaves a mess on his thighs. That—and Eskel’s sudden desire to swipe up that cum with his fingers and press them into Jaskier’s mouth—makes his cock twitch again, interested. But though witcher refractory periods rival any human man’s, this is too short a time, even for him.
Instead, Eskel listens to Geralt take Jaskier to bed, the frame squeaking just a bit as they settle in. Soon, he hears Jaskier, too low to understand the words but tired and slow and happy, rumble pleasantly alongside Geralt’s own words. He’s had a good time, then. It makes something… Warm, almost, curl in his chest, like a cat contented with their new owner.
Hmm. Maybe he’ll have to talk to Geralt about this, come the morning. For now, though, Eskel lets sleep take him, pleasant dreams of golden eyes and a sweet singer’s voice soothing him all night long.
——
For all of Eskel’s intent, however, he isn’t the second wolf of the keep to get a bite out of Jaskier. No, it’s Lambert who rises to the bait, who doesn’t wait, doesn’t ask.
Of course, that can absolutely be owed to the fact that, considering Geralt’s room isn’t close enough to Lambert’s to be heard, they have to go somewhere else for it. That somewhere else being the hot springs beneath the main castle.
Geralt and Jaskier are already in the springs when Lambert comes down, always fond of a morning soak to prepare himself for the day to come. He wakes up early for it, to keep out of trouble with Vesemir’s strict ‘chores and training first’ priorities. Winter is the only year he’ll bother to get up this early. He hates mornings otherwise.
But regardless, the two lovebirds are in the water when he comes in, Jaskier sat on Geralt’s lap with his back to the wolf’s chest, his fingers playing absently with the witcher’s hands where they are loosely wrapped around his waist. They’re talking, Jaskier’s head tilted back on his shoulder, but Lambert doesn’t bother to listen in. Instead, he scoffs, rolling his eyes as he strips out of his night clothes and steps into the water. The wolves all lost a good chunk of their sense of modesty around each other decades ago—a close childhood, a communal hot springs, and sparring, and wrestling, and skinny dipping in the cold mountain stream only about a mile from the keep doing quite well at getting rid of personal boundaries.
And that didn’t include the nights that Lambert had spent with one of his brother’s cocks in his ass or the other way around.
If Jaskier was going to stick around, he might as well get used to it—all of it.
To his credit, though, Lambert only sees a glimpse of a flush on the bard’s cheeks as he gets into the water, grunting as the heat warms him up, arms splaying out on the edge of the rocks behind him. It’s better than he was expecting. Though Jaskier had seemed to be full of surprises ever since coming to Kaer Morhen.
“What do you think, Lambert?” the bard asks then, his intelligent blue eyes striking into him, the smile on his face playful and warm. He doesn’t elaborate further though—and Lambert wonders if he should have been paying attention.
“Fuck do I think about what?” he asks. His brow arches.
“Should Geralt and I try to spice things up in the bedroom?” Jaskier asks and Lambert—Lambert isn’t expecting that. He sputters for a moment, eyes darting to Geralt’s face, but his brother seems as unfazed as ever. “Not that things are boring, per se,” Jaskier continues. “But it can be fun to change things around sometimes!”
“The fuck are you—“
Geralt’s growl interrupts Lambert’s startled demand. He bites Jaskier’s ear; Lambert is treated to the sight of the bard’s eyes fluttering, practically rolling back in his head, his throat bobbing and straining as he tries to keep a moan from escaping. “Insatiable,” Geralt says, and Lambert, shifting, internally cursing his body’s reaction to the bard’s obvious pleasure and Geralt’s low accusation, thinks he should probably leave them to it.
He doesn’t make up his mind quick enough.
Geralt’s eyes catch his across the springs. “You need more than one cock to satisfy you, don’t you?” he rumbles into Jaskier’s ear. The bard’s face flushes; he presses his lips together, shivering, and opens his mouth. Before he can get anything out, though, Lambert watches his brother raise his hand, hover it to the side of Jaskier’s head, and trace the form of axii in the air.
“Go on, then,” he says, unconcerned, still watching the other wolf. “Tell Lambert how much you need him.”
Jaskier’s features go slack. Any embarrassment he might have had slides off; his dazzling blue eyes grow glassy and smooth, his hands dropping loosely into his own lap. A shudder passes through him and his brows pinch upwards in the center, like he’s empty and wanting.
Oh, gods, that’s hot.
“Lambert,” comes Jaskier’s breathy sigh, his gaze never faltering from him. “Please. Please, I need you.” He stays loose against Geralt, though—pliant and soft. He shifts up and then makes a noise, bright and plaintive, lashes fluttering. In a startling moment of clarity, Lambert realizes it’s Geralt that moved him. That Geralt has just thrust his cock up inside Jaskier.
Has Jaskier been full this whole time?
The mild interest he had blossoms, Lambert’s prick hardening, growing. “Geralt, the fuck are you—“
Again, his brother cuts him off. “I already told you,” he says, rolling his hips up, Jaskier breathing a soft, ‘Lambert…’ It’s distracting, almost painfully so. “He likes it.” Another thrust up; another keen; another plea. “He likes the idea of sharing, too.”
He can’t fucking say no to that.
Lambert narrows his eyes. “Yeah?” he challenges, gaze flickering between Jaskier and Geralt’s faces. “Fine. Bard, come here.”
To Geralt’s credit, he doesn’t so much as flinch when Jaskier practically tumbles off of his cock. Jaskier is uncoordinated—slow. It’s almost like he’s a little drunk, and Lambert finds himself reaching for him before he’s all the way over, hands on his hips, steadying him the rest of the short journey. Jaskier drops down into his lap;his head rolls from one shoulder to the other, before he leans forward and rubs his cheek inelegantly against Lambert’s shoulder.
“Need you,” Jaskier whispers. He presses a clumsy kiss to Lambert’s shoulder; his hands stay loose at his sides, even as his hips give a short, twitchy kind of roll, his hard cock brushing against Lambert’s own. “Please. Please, Lambert.”
Jaskier is so warm in his lap. He’s decadent; Lambert knows the bard has muscles, has seen them on display the few times he’d watched Geralt train him. But like this? With the magic keeping him calm and relaxed and without tension, he’s soft. It’s intoxicating. It’s incredible.
Lambert looks up at Geralt, just to be sure. His brother had a tiny smirk on his face. More than that, his hand has moved below the water, and Lambert doesn’t need to see it to know that he’s stroking himself, enjoying the sight.
It’s permission enough. With his own grin forming, Lambert glides his hand down Jaskier’s body, over his hips and thigh and then back up again. He presses between his cheeks; the hole there is loose, open. No doubt Geralt’s cock is responsible, of course. It does make this better. Even though Jaskier might not be as tight as normal, he’s already stretched; Lambert doesn’t have to waste any time.
“Come on, bard,” he says again, this time dragging his hips forward. He waves his hand beside Jaskier’s head himself, casting the spell, feeling the tingle of the magic linking them together. It feels good to be in control. “You’re gagging for it, might as well give it to you. Gonna fuck your pretty ass ‘til you’re begging me to stop instead.” Of course he won’t—not unless they talk about it first, when Jaskier isn‘t influenced by magic. But it’s fun to threaten it, anyway.
With a wanting keen, Jaskier doesn’t fight him. His gaze is smooth and untroubled; he lets Lambert lift him, guide him. The witcher’s cock catches on his rim and he shivers; Lambert drags him down, quick and harsh. He relishes in the bright cry that comes from the bard, the shiver turning into a shudder, his fingers twitching but ultimately stilling by his sides once again.
“Gods, look at you,” Lambert crows, pulling out and slamming back in. The poor bard has no choice but to be rocked with it, his muscles loose, his body warm and slick for Lambert to ravage. “Nothing but a pretty little plaything, huh? Bet you’d do anything for us like this.” Jaskier whimpers; Lambert can’t resist the urge to bite at his throat, adding a bruise alongside the ones his brother has left the past few days. Jaskier is not his, not totally, but he’s his for the moment. His until the spell wears off, until the bruises fade. Lambert will take what he can get.
His thrusts get harder. It’s so fucking good. Jaskier lays against his chest, limp and open, taking his pounding without complaint. The pinch in his brow is from pleasure; the pleas that fall from his lips are sweet and sincere. Lambert knows he’ll have to thank Geralt somehow—something big, something precious. A new saddle for Roach, perhaps. Or something else. He doesn’t know—but it’s obvious that being given this opportunity is worth something expensive and important. And that goes for the bard, too. Lambert will have to make sure to bring something good back for him next winter.
He has no doubts that Geralt will bring him next winter.
Lambert can feel himself getting close. Geralt himself is working his cock faster, harder. Feeling a prickle of heat, he smirks. “Bard,” he says, waiting until Jaskier makes a keening sound. “You’re not allowed to cum until both Geralt and I have, understand?” It’s cruel—it’s mean. But Jaskier only sobs and slurs out an affirmative, and Geralt himself grunts in approval. “Good boy.” The title makes Jaskier’s cock twitch against Lambert’s stomach; he smirks and files that information away for later.
Then, he grabs Jaskier’s waist, and rams up into him. He sets a brutal pace, drawing choked sobs from Jaskier, the bard’s body taking the fucking without complaint. He has to help settle his head in the crook of his shoulder again at one point, Jaskier lost to the pleasure, but then he’s back at it, chasing the high, the heat, the pressure.
When Lambert comes, he does so loudly, his grunting and huffing joining the echoes of Jaskier’s moans against the rocks around them. He fills the bard, his cum coating his insides, and he can’t help but rock a few more times up into him, as if to push it all deeper inside him. But Jaskier, like the good boy he is, is still hard and aching against his belly.
“Turn around,” Lambert orders, adding an extra burst of axii for good measure, watching Jaskier’s pupils constrict and then dilate under the magic’s persuasion. The bard’s legs are shaky, weak as a fawn’s as he turns around, only successful because of Lambert’s help. He doesn’t bother pushing his cock back inside him. Instead, Lambert reaches up and pushes two fingers into his mouth, opening his jaw wide. “You’re going to let my brother use your mouth,” he rumbles against his ear, just as Geralt had at the start of this. His other hand reaches down and strokes Jaskier’s cock, slow and even, the weak writhing of the man only serving to make this all better. “And once you’ve swallowed every drop, you’ll get to cum. Got it?”
Again, Jaskier gives a mumbled, slurred agreement. Lambert looks expectantly at the other witcher—and sure enough, Geralt gets up. He comes over, his cock hard and at attention against his scarred stomach, a sight glorious enough on its own. Lambert keeps his fingers in place, holding his mouth open. Geralt takes his cock in his hand when he’s close enough; Lambert pulls his fingers away just as the other wolf presses the head inside Jaskier’s mouth.
It’s a glorious sight. Geralt rocks into Jaskier’s mouth, the sounds the man makes muffled, his glassy eyes adoring up at him. Lambert keeps stroking his cock; his newly freed hand moves to wrap loosely around Jaskier’s throat, holding him still—feeling it when Geralt works his way far enough inside for the bard’s throat to bulge, to press out against Lambert’s fingers. “Look at you,” Lambert smirked, rubbing a thumb over Jaskier’s slit and loving the sob he got in return. “You just needed your pretty little whore mouth fucked too, didn’t you? Needed cum inside you that badly, you’ll take it however you can get it. Filthy fuckin’ slut.”
Jaskier’s cock twitches again and tears well in his eyes. The tether between them from the spell is a godsend in this case; Lambert feels nothing but pleasure and want through the temporary bond. So he lets Jaskier’s tears spill over his cheeks, making the jewels of his eyes that much prettier.
Geralt’s thrusts are turning harder by then. Lambert bites his neck again, feeling the heat of the broken blood vessels bloom under his lips. “Swallow it, bard,” he says, tightening the grip on his throat just a little. “Every drop.”
When Geralt cums, Jaskier doesn’t disappoint. He swallows—and he swallows and swallows and swallows. Witchers arent exactly known for natural amounts of seed, after all. A little leaks out the corners of his mouth and drips down his chin; white tinged saliva connects his tongue in a string to Geralt’s cock when the witcher finally pulls out from his swollen, red lips. It’s a gorgeous sight, made even better by Geralt bending down and kissing him, licking away the remnants of cum, even lapping at his tears.
“Good boy,” Lambert praises. He speeds up his hand, no longer teasingly slow. “So good for us. You can cum now, bard. Good job.”
And Jaskier does. All it takes is a few more strokes before his lax body shivers and his eyes roll up in his head, before his fingers twitch and his mind goes white with pleasure and Lambert feels his cock pulsing in his hand as he spills himself into the water.
As long as Geralt will allow it, he’s going to do this again, and again, and again.
——
The next gwent game is decidedly more interesting.
The three young witchers play, Vesemir gone to bed long before. Jaskier is there, too. He doesn’t play, though. Not the cards, anyway. No, he’s laid out on the table, out of the way of the game, axii keeping him loose and relaxed and soft and slick. Or, well—not slick, perhaps. No, that comes from the witchers.
Two players go against each other. The third spends his break playing with Jaskier, however they might please. The game ends and the players rotate—and Jaskier is never bereft.
Lambert groans at his bad luck against Eskel as Geralt holds Jaskier’s knees up and open, his sounds breathy and small and cute as Geralt pounds into him. Eskel smirks at Geralt’s expense with a weather card as Lambert holds Jaskier’s head over the edge of the table, stuffs his throat full with his cock and makes him swallow just as much cum as he paints the bard’s face with. Geralt pretends to cheat to get Lambert riled up while Eskel holds Jaskier up on the pile of pillows and blankets they’ve put on the ground just for him, the bard’s face to the floor and ass in the air as Eskel lets his rougher nature take hold just for these few moments, fucking him like an animal, growling promises of breeding Jaskier full of wolf pups, their lovely personal bitch taking every drop of cum that he can hold, and more besides.
It’s one hell of a good night. By the end of it, Jaskier is struggling to keep those empty blue eyes open, his belly coated in his own release and bulging a bit from the releases of the wolves inside him, blissed out and fucked out and exhausted. Little changes when they remove the axii from him; besides holding onto Geralt as he carries him down to the hot springs to clean him, and whispers his thanks to all three of them, and eating and drinking what the wolves give to him, he’s just as tired and worn and content as his other self.
And sure, tomorrow he’s going to be sore as fuck. He’s not going to be interested in anything for a few days before giving in to the siren call of the wolves and their pleasure. But he’s also going to wake up happy, and he knows that as he snuggles in between all three of them, the mess of blankets becoming their bed for the night, a pile of witchers that keep him warm both in body and in heart. He’s going to wake up surrounded by his pack, his family, his lovers.
He’s going to wake up, and he’s going to be in his new home.
