@trickstermoose67

@round--robin

@rawrkinjd

@eya-trying-to-function

@persony-pepper

@elliestormfound

@lovelyrita1967

@kittynannygaming

@honeysuckletook

@sam-ships-it

@britishmysteries

@littoraly-art

@geralt-of-riviass

@tumbleweedtech

@alllthequeenshorses

@theprincessoffrost

@hey-its-sandra

@wolf-and-bard

@stinastar

@jaskierswolf

@freerunner4427

@medusa-queen-of-snakes

@doteddestroyer

@unyielding-as-the-sea

@etcorsolus

@mayrhain

@itsthelittlethingsnlife

The town is lovely, if not noteworthy; on his ride in he sees verdant pastures with fat livestock grazing happily on plentiful vegetation. When he stops to harvest some extra herbs nobody calls out ‘thief’ or anything worse. In fact, everyone he passes greets him with either a smile or a nod, nobody seeming too bothered by the presence of a witcher. This bothers Geralt immensely.

He reaches the epicentre; a small town square that smells sharply of a spice or herb he doesn’t recognize. There are bards playing soft music and carts heaped high with pastries, fruit, and charms for tourists. Geralt, technically a tourist, looks over the charms— they are all crudely fashioned, whether woven or carved, and all depict the same… tiger… bear… jaguar, thing. He can’t quite tell if it’s meant to be a warg or a big cat, only that its fur (?) is dark green and its expression is pleasant and wise.

Geralt grimaces, shaking his head at the shopkeeper. They grin and hold out one of the charms anyway. “For good luck,” they tell him.

Geralt can count on one hand how many times a stranger has wished him luck in recent memory. He frowns, tucking the charm away into a pocket of Roach’s saddlebags only because it has absolutely no trace of magic, and perhaps he could pawn it off later for something.

The next major clue that something is amiss in this hidden paradise is the empty noticeboard. Even a pleasant town like this should have at least a few complaints, if not contracts; even in perfect places dogs go missing and children get sick. But the board is bare, with no recent indentations from nails. Geralt’s frown only darkens.

“You,” he grabs a passing man by the shoulder; a lush, judging from his rosy cheeks and how his eyes hardly widen as Geralt holds him in place. But not the kind of drunk who might run around causing issues, just someone peacefully intoxicated in the early afternoon. He smells of wine and of that same indiscernible scent that lingers around the rest of the town square. “Why are there no contracts here?”

“Praise Sylva!” slurs the man. He doesn’t even shrug off Geralt, let alone throw a punch. Geralt, used to significantly harsher treatment from strangers, drops him in disgust. “If we did have any contracts, sure they would’ve been taken by the witchers what just came through here last… last week?”

This oddity, strangely, puts Geralt at ease. Maybe this town is only so peaceful because all its threats have temporarily been disbanded. While this means an empty coinpurse and stomach for him, it does bring him some temporary relief. “Oh?”

“Think they’ve been here since last week,” the man muses. “Two of them witchers, you know… One big fella. Biiiig fella. And one little bald one. Matter of fact, both of them bald… not like you!”

The drunk reaches out to touch his hair, and Geralt thankfully puts that terrible impulse to rest with a withering glare. “Where can I find these two?”

“Pub,” offers the man, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. Geralt leans around him to see said pub; there are horses tied up in front, although none familiar to him. When he categorises all the witchers he knows by hair or lack thereof, it isn’t hard to deduce who might be travelling together— despite how often the pair of them complain about each other.

Sure enough, when he opens the door to the (pristine, tastefully decorated, lively but not raucous) tavern, Geralt sees two witchers sitting on the same side of one table. It’s like a terrible joke waiting for a terrible punchline. 

Already amused, he watches the ‘biiiig fella’ notice him first, and promptly deliver a sharp jab to his companion’s side; said companion lifts his head, sees Geralt, and then moves to put some space between him and Letho so quickly that he nearly falls right off the bench.

“Geralt,” Gaetan declares, a little too loudly. “I never expected to run into two witchers here! Shit, it’s like the beginning of a bad joke!”

Geralt takes a seat across from them, not bothering to hide his amusement. Letho looks amused too, although Geralt can only detect it because he knows the man so well; he quickly raises his cup to cover his smirk, but the damage has been done. Geralt exchanges a look with him, then turns back to stare at Gaetan. “I heard about the two of you, but I didn’t think there was any truth to it. You know how Cats love gossip.”

Before Gaetan can cuss him out in a hundred different languages or just pounce across the table and wrestle him to the ground, Letho brings up a broad hand and lays it on his companion’s shoulder. The change is immediate; the anger drains from Gaetan in an instant, and Geralt watches with a strange, curious hunger gnawing at the pit of his stomach. Then Letho says, “Well, we’ve heard you haven’t been travelling alone either,” and Geralt’s frown returns with a vengeance. “Where is the little bird?”

They all know he doesn’t mean Ciri. Geralt grinds his teeth together, and answers anyway, “She’s with Yen.”

“I meant the little songbird,” teases Letho, in that infuriatingly slow and deep voice that always cuts right to Geralt’s core. “The bards here are fine, but all they sing about is fucking Sylva.”

Desperate to get off the topic of Jaskier and to learn more information about this bizarre town, Geralt lunges on this. “What’s Sylva?”

Letho and Gaetan exchange a look that he can’t read, and then both turn to him. “You haven’t been to see Sylva yet?”

-

Sylva, as it turns out, is…

“A warg,” Geralt guesses. Letho and Gaetan, standing on either side of him, both shake their heads; he frowns. “No?”

“Tiger,” Gaetan says, as Letho tells him matter-of-factly, “Bear.” They lean around Geralt to glare at each other, and then Letho steps closer to the warg-tiger-bear thing.

What it is is uncertain, but a small amount chaos radiates from it. Geralt thinks, ruefully, of the charm he’d accepted without proper suspicion. The plant is massive, nearly the size of a real warg, but Letho moves towards it without hesitation. It looks similar to the sculpted bushes Geralt has seen in the gardens of disgustingly wealthy nobility, and in this lush rainforest a little outside the town, it nearly looks at home. Like a real creature slumbering in the woods, only instead of sinew and blood, one made of moss and dew.

Geralt tenses as Letho approaches the plant formation; Gaetan, either seeing his stress or feeling it through his witcher senses, reaches out to place a gentle, unasked hand on his shoulder. It’s exactly the same kind of tender physical comfort that comes easily to Jaskier, and it’s like no behaviour that Geralt has ever seen Gaetan display before. He can’t even think of any time he’s seen the Cat witcher touch anyone, except earlier when Letho touched him.

His palm is warm, and his pulse is slow but solid. The message is clear; relax. Ironic that a Cat is telling him to relax, and exponentially more ironic that Gaetan is that Cat. But Letho doesn’t seem worried about Sylva either, so Geralt doesn’t shove Gaetan off and, begrudgingly, relaxes.

“We thought it might be a sylvan at first,” Letho tells him. 

He uses ‘we’ as casually as anything, implying a new depth to their relationship. From what Geralt had heard (from Lambert, by way of Lambert’s Cat lover who Lambert adamantly denies the existence of) Letho and Gaetan had only been hooking up occasionally. Hate-fucking had been the word of choice. This is anything but hateful, and from how Letho describes their investigations as though they operate as a unit, Geralt would guess it’s more than occasional. 

He keeps quiet as the Viper continues; “You know. Sylva, sylvan… everyone in town swears by this big plant. Says it’s their god, it blessed their crops, their marriages, it brings them rain and shine when needed. We thought it might’ve been some benevolent spirit who chose this town. Easy pickings.”

Geralt thinks, sourly, of a town near Skellige that was similarly ‘blessed’ by a deity that had turned out to be a leshen. “Does it answer their prayers?”

“Not verbally,” Gaetan replies. “But they say Sylva brings love to the loveless, money to the destitute… There were no contracts when we got here either.”

“Hmm.”

“At first, we just intended to stick around for the night,” Letho continues. “Not often you venture into a nice place willing to host a witcher for free, let alone two. And Gaetan thought there was something else afoot, and couldn’t let it lie.”

The Cat shrugs. Geralt narrows his gaze, looking carefully at Sylva. He’d like to carve the big plant open and see what lies inside its branches; perhaps a godling with a penchant for animals has made their home there. But if Letho and Gaetan have already stayed here for nearly a week, they surely would have uncovered this beast’s dark secret by now. Hesitantly, Geralt prods, “And is there…? Something else going on?”

“Yes and no,” Gaetan says. “Nothing spiritual— the local herbalist witch fessed up on our third day here. She said she maintains the plant and casts spells of protection on Sylva; small things, so that it won’t rot or catch any nasty infestations. But over the years, a whole local mythology has grown around this fucking plant. They really think the beast watches over them.”

Geralt stares. How anticlimactic— once more, unbidden, he thinks of the bard and how disappointed he would be in this story’s finale. Then, to divert his thoughts from Jaskier, he quickly says, “So… she maintains the hedge so that the town doesn't lose its spirit? That’s all?”

“Well. No.” Letho leans down to pluck a leafy section from the mossy beast. Sylva doesn’t move or protest in any way, despite the amateurish protective wards, and Letho cups his bounty carefully in both hands. With the same smirk he wore earlier, he murmurs, “That’s not all.”

-

“Praise Sylva,” Geralt proclaims to the stars above, which swim around in his blurred vision. From the streets below them he hears a distant whoop of agreement; although it might have been a birdcall. He lifts his head to check but can’t see over the lip of the rooftop, and craning his neck is immediately uncomfortable, so he relaxes back down on the straw beside Gaetan. “Praise fucking Sylva!”

“Now he gets it,” Gaetan grins, nudging Letho with his elbow. The Viper is curled up behind the Cat, one possessive arm slung over his chest; Gaetan reaches back to put the small bundle of herbs to Letho’s lips, and Letho inhales heavily, his breath igniting it once more. 

The skies are peaceful and free of clouds, and only the lightest breeze bothers them. Geralt still shivers as he watches Gaetan hold the joint up to Letho’s lips. They had told him of a concentrate that the herbalist crafted with Sylva’s leaves and sap, but this seems like a more organic way to ingest the offerings of the forest beast. And inhaling the plant directly won’t do too much damage, since their tolerance is much higher as witchers.

Geralt laughs quietly, thinking of how all this town’s problems were miraculously solved— not by a god, nor by anything posing as a god, but by an herbalist supplying the solution to all their maladies.

Gaetan and Letho both watch him, wearing matching soft expressions, as Gaetan takes the joint away from Letho to hand it back to Geralt. They’ve been lying on this rooftop for at least half an hour, and in that time the three witchers have moved very little. Geralt wonders if Letho has been holding onto Gaetan since they all first lay down. He notices now in clearer detail how close they are; their legs are pressed together. He wants to demand answers— how long have you been snuggling? How long have you two been travelling together?

He stays silent, his gaze snapping back up from their legs to meet Gaetan’s. The Cat looks amused, and brandishes the small bundle at Geralt. “Finish it off,” he insists, and Geralt does.

The plume of smoke that he exhales at the end of the bundle smells just like everything else in this town. He thinks, unwittingly, of Jaskier. Maybe he was wrong in his judgement earlier; maybe the bard would enjoy it here. Maybe, up on a rooftop like this, on a thick bed of straw, he and Jaskier could curl up together like Gaetan and Letho. 

He hasn’t been that close to Jaskier since the bard was younger and they would seek warmth from each other’s bodies on the cold and unforgiving Path. Back then, it had never blossomed into anything more intimate than what it was. Up here, assisted by the herb that keeps this place afloat, perhaps it could.

Geralt opens his eyes to see Letho and Gaetan still both watching him closely. Gaetan speaks all at once, almost as though he’s unable to stay silent any longer, “What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing,” Geralt lies calmly, rolling back onto his side to face the pair of them. He tosses the extinguished butt of the joint away from the straw pile, and lets out a heavy, deeply satisfied sigh. His face burns, his whole body tingles, and he wiggles his toes in his socks. Gods, he could use a nice long bath. “They have baths inside?”

Letho nods, but Gaetan retorts, “You don’t look too dirty; not for a witcher, anyway. That sorceress of yours finally teach you some basic hygiene?”

“She’s not mine,” Geralt rumbles. Once, the confession would have brought him pain to speak. Now he just utters it as plainly as he would any other fact. He and Yen haven’t belonged to each other in a long time; it’s better this way. She will never lose importance in his life, but the yearning that drove them both so mad has finally been put to rest. For her pleasure, Yen seeks out other, equally hygienic sorceresses now. And for Geralt’s—

Annoyingly, the Cat seems to read his mind. “That little bard, then?”

“Hmm.” Geralt stretches. “Don’t know what you’ve heard from Aiden, but it’s all a pack of lies.”

“Come on, Wolf! A handsome witcher like you, you really haven’t found anyone to make an honest man out of yet?” Gaetan scoffs. “I don’t believe that shit.”

“It’s not supposed to work like that for witchers,” Geralt speaks without thinking. Then he tenses; Letho and Gaetan are both silent and passive. If he struck a nerve, neither of them shows it. He apologizes regardless, “I’m not— not saying you two aren’t, uh, you know, just—”

“Bless him, he’s stammering,” Gaetan laughs meanly. He twists under Letho’s arm smoothly, without dislodging the Viper, and presses a kiss to his lips. Abruptly, the gnawing pit in Geralt’s stomach that has been bothering him since he walked into that tavern and saw them next to each other drops. Gaetan doesn’t pull away or make any attempt at hiding his affection; he kisses Letho long, and deeply, until finally pulling away only enough to whisper against his lips. Even if Geralt didn’t have supernatural hearing he thinks he would still be able to make the words out. “You never mentioned that the White Wolf was so shy, darling.”

“He wasn’t,” Letho mutters back. Geralt doesn’t have to see his smirk to know it’s there; he can hear it in the sly, almost challenging tone. The Viper lifts Gaetan up onto his chest with nearly no effort; if Geralt wasn’t already lying down, his knees might buckle. Gaetan adjusts to his new position atop Letho immediately, bracketing the witcher’s thick thighs with his knees and nosing happily at his neck. Letho glances over, his yellow eyes finding Geralt’s. “He's the one who taught me that naughty Gwent game, decades ago in Velen.”

Geralt’s breath leaves him all at once. He remembers those nights in vivid detail, but he hadn’t thought Letho would recall their handful of dalliances; they had never slept together more than one night in a row, and they’d never been sober.

Then again, Geralt considers, none of them are sober right now. His traitorous, fearful heart thrums. Geralt has never been seduced by two people at once before.

Letho brings one hand up to cradle the back of Gaetan’s skull, dropping the other to the base of his spine, and it occurs to Geralt that the Cat is actually not scenting his throat but biting it. He catches the sharp scent of lust in the air, although it’s impossible to determine who it might have arisen from. His head swims in a way he can’t entirely blame on Sylva’s herb.

“If you don’t want to,” Letho says, slowly as ever, “all good. It’s been a long time since you and I fooled around; I’m sure you’ve changed. I know I’ve got a couple new scars.” A tremor or twitch distorts his otherwise restful face for a moment; Geralt’s pulse rushes. Gaetan must be biting along one of those scars now. Letho’s breath comes a little faster as he continues, “But I can’t stop him once he’s got an idea in his head. So either get over yourself and come over here, or go inside and take a nice long bath.”

“And think of us while you do,” Gaetan chimes in, muffled by Letho’s thick neck. Without hesitation, the Viper reaches down to smack his ass; it happens so quickly Geralt nearly misses the motion. But he doesn’t miss the way Gaetan goes still for a moment, his whole body tensing up before he leans back against Letho’s palm, clearly eager for more.

Geralt gets over himself quickly. He rises up uncertainly on the bed of straw; both of the other witchers twist to look his way. When he crawls closer instead of standing, Gaetan blesses him with a rare, genuine smile. Letho nods, equally pleased, but doesn’t take his hands off of Gaetan. 

Maybe he has changed since their old hook-ups; even with the herb mellowing him out, Geralt feels strangely vulnerable up on his knees, looking down at the entwined pair. Quietly, he pleads, “Tell me where you want me.”

“Right there is perfect,” Letho rumbles. Without being asked, Gaetan clambers off of the Viper and over to Geralt. He rises up to meet him hard, kissing him like… well, it’s like no one Geralt has ever kissed before. He sinks into it, especially as Gaetan deepens their kisses, sliding his tongue shamelessly alongside Geralt’s. Geralt, to his great embarrassment, hears himself moan; then, because it feels so good, he does it again. The sound is unbelievably filthy, muffled by Gaetan’s clever tongue; Geralt sucks hard just to see the reaction and Gaetan, not to be outdone, groans into their kiss and reaches for the clasps of Geralt’s armour.

“Slow down, kitty,” Letho teases. Hearing that deep voice always does such dangerous things to Geralt, and now is no exception; he’s gratified to feel a similar response from Gaetan, whose hands still on Geralt’s chest although his mouth does no such thing. Geralt kisses back, chasing the sensation, until heavy hands come up alongside them, pressing them to lie down in the hay. “Slow down,” Letho urges. “Feel it out, first.”

“Easy for you to say,” Gaetan grunts, pulling back from Geralt slowly. As if it taxes him to do so. “You’ve already had him.” Geralt, still high, follows the heat of his mouth until he realizes that Gaetan is actually moving away. Then he leans back into the straw underneath him, slightly embarrassed to have been slow on the uptake. Usually witchers are two moves ahead of their partners in bed.

Gaetan doesn’t seem to notice, or perhaps he just doesn’t mind; his hungry gaze is still fixed on Geralt. Letho, kneeling beside them and watching Geralt with the same intensity, purrs low in his throat, “He’s wanted this for a long time, you know. Ever since I mentioned what you and I used to get up to, Wolf. It’s a big fantasy for him.”

“Shut up,” Gaetan whispers, in a tone that clearly indicates he wants Letho to do anything but.

Geralt reaches down to rub himself through his armour; two sharp amber gazes follow his movement. Under the moonlight, he feels like he’s performing for them. He walks that thought back quickly enough that it can’t do any damage, and asks Gaetan, “What are you waiting for?”

“Permission,” the Cat breathes. Geralt almost nods; but before he can give his tacit approval of anything and everything Gaetan wants from him, Letho nods, placing his broad hand on the back of Gaetan’s narrow neck. Geralt flushes with pleasure. Not his permission, but Letho’s. This is his first time feeling like an outsider during lovemaking; he’s sensing there might be a few firsts crossed off his list tonight, and he finds he doesn’t mind at all.

Gaetan pounces, drawing his trouser fastenings free of his armour and then shoving the whole kit down and off. Geralt’s cock springs up, already leaking at the tip— maybe the herb was an aphrodisiac as well. Or maybe he just feels that good, half-naked with two attractive witchers in front of him, both intent on making him feel great. Gaetan lowers his talented mouth to the head of Geralt’s cock, and Geralt slams his head back down against the straw.

It lands with an unsatisfying thud, but looking up at the starry night is easier than watching the Cat devour him. The pressure, wetness, and warmth feel unbelievable anyway; Geralt stifles a moan as Gaetan sinks down, taking his length into his throat.

Letho is there, striking quickly as always— quick enough to take him by surprise. Geralt gasps as Letho grabs his head the same way he’d held Gaetan’s skull. The Viper’s fingers are likely large enough to do some serious damage if he wanted; he lifts Geralt’s head, and Geralt doesn’t struggle, too awed by his strength. “Look,” growls Letho, pressing his head down until his chin touches his chest.

Helpless, he looks. Gaetan bobs up and down on his length, sucking it in sloppily every time it nearly slips out of his mouth. The witcher’s slender hand is wrapped around the base, because— Geralt realizes with a jolt— he can’t fit all of it in his mouth. Geralt itches to reach down and make him try anyway, but he doesn’t want to have bad manners. He’s not the one in control here anyway. 

Letho’s fingers weave through Geralt’s hair, as though the Wolf is in any danger of running. He murmurs against his ear, “Should’ve made him drink a Killer Whale beforehand,” and Geralt’s cock pulses at the filthy idea. “Bet then he’d be able to take you without choking.”

“Fuck you,” Gaetan pulls off to angrily retort, and it takes great self-control to avoid coming all over his face. “I don’t need any fucking potion!”

To prove his point, and rise to Letho’s bait, the Cat lowers his mouth slowly until Geralt can feel his throat clenching around  his cock, and he can’t help but dribble a little. Gaetan, to his immense credit, doesn’t choke; instead he hollows out his cheeks and starts sucking Geralt off with renewed effort, until he’s taking him to the root every time.

“Letho,” Geralt chokes out, a warning meant for both of them. But Gaetan doesn’t pull off, and the Viper doesn’t move to make him do so. Letho’s deft, thick fingers creep through the loose ponytail still holding Geralt’s hair up, and he tugs— not hard enough to really hurt, but firmly enough that the stars in the sky fall right into Geralt’s vision and then shoot through his cock down Gaetan’s throat.

He comes for a long moment, and the other witcher sucks him down through all of it, swallowing up Geralt’s spend like Letho told him to. Perhaps they have a code; perhaps they don’t need one. Geralt gasps, loud and clear into the night. It is a small mercy that no one hears— even in a town so forgiving and welcoming, he’s sure they wouldn’t appreciate their beauty sleep disturbed by a bunch of high witchers getting it on above the local inn.

When he comes back down to reality, brain still addled and blood still rushing, he sees Gaetan moving around him to kiss Letho. Geralt turns his head so as to properly watch, figuring it’s his turn to enjoy the show. But Letho just bites Gaetan’s lip hard enough to make him gasp once before pushing the Cat away again. “He’s not done with you, Wolf,” rumbles the Viper. “Just reminding me how you taste.”

“Fuck,” says Geralt, his softening cock making a valiant effort to harden again. He reaches down to carefully, gently roll his balls in his palm, and Gaetan, watching closely, licks his lips. Weakly, the Wolf mutters, “You two will be the fucking death of me tonight.”

“Praise Sylva,” Gaetan teases, blowing a kiss in Geralt’s direction. Geralt reaches up half-heartedly to try to catch it, reflexes slowed by the excellent orgasm and the remainder of the herb.

All three of them chuckle at that, and then Letho bends down, still laughing softly, to give Geralt a real kiss. It feels so natural and right that his heart swells; he can’t remember why he ever stopped seeking out the company of the other witcher. And he’s feeling just relaxed enough to actually share the sentiment.

Softly against Letho’s mouth, Geralt whispers, “I missed this.”

Letho smirks and kisses him once more. “Me too,” he rumbles. “Hope you’re ready to go again, Wolf; I brought along a special toy to open you up so you can take me. Just like the old days.”

The special toy in question happily replaces Geralt’s hand on his balls, honest-to-fuck purring as he rolls them between his fingers and then slides his slick hand lower. He must have oiled his fingers while the other two were distracted; clever fucking Cat. 

Geralt gasps into Letho’s mouth, and then again as Gaetan breaches him with two digits. Letho chases the noises and draws more out, sucking on Geralt’s tongue. He kisses the same way as Gaetan does; Geralt supposes that makes sense, given that they must practise with each other.

Then the Viper pulls back, rummaging through the bag Geralt failed to notice before. He retrieves another sprig of the plant, tearing off a long leaf with his thumb and starting to crush the mossy flower into smaller pieces with his palm. Geralt stares closely as Letho rolls up the bundle of herbs one-handed, and the witcher mistakes his fascination for apprehension. “Don’t want it?”

“Don’t need it,” Geralt confirms, and then, a second later as Gaetan crooks his fingers inside, “but, but, fuck! Might feel nice…! Shit, Gaetan, anyone ever tell you you’re fucking good with your hands?”

“Just wait ’til you feel my cock,” Gaetan laughs. His fingers twist again, hitting the same sensitive spot that makes Geralt’s head spin; no smoking required. He slides in another finger and it barely stretches him. “Take a hit, Wolf. Might help you relax a bit.”

“Funny, you telling me to relax,” Geralt huffs, even though— shit, had he already said that? He manages his best frown even as he practically fucks himself on Gaetan’s long, skilled fingers. It feels different than when he’s been fingered in the past; he’s more on edge. Maybe that’s because of Letho’s hot presence next to him. Geralt wonders if anyone has ever seen him get fingered before.

Maybe once— at a brothel in Novigrad— there hadn’t been proper partitions between the rooms but instead fluttering curtains— between sweating through his shirt and trying not to make too much noise he swore he saw bright blue eyes fixed on him from the next room—

“Give it to me,” Geralt demands, roughly. Letho and Gaetan laugh, but not unkindly. Smoothly enough that it’s clear he’s done this many times over the last week, Letho casts a small Igni and lights the blunt, heavily inhaling its thick, strong smoke. With the same smooth motion and in the same instant, Gaetan pulls out his slick hand. Letho bends down, cupping Geralt’s jaw with broad fingers, and blows smoke into his open mouth— just as Gaetan finally slides into his ass, teasing Geralt with just the tip of his thick length.

“Ah, sh-shit,” Geralt coughs, surprised. Letho doesn’t let him up, and Geralt inhales most of the hit without coughing again. His lungs fill with the hazy smoke and his mind blissfully clears. Gaetan pushes the head of his cock in and out of Geralt, seemingly enjoying himself as he pants every time it catches on the entrance. Geralt chokes out, “You’re bigger than the toy.”

Gaetan shoots him a brilliant, beautiful smile, then rewards him for the praise by reaching down to pick up Geralt’s knees and sink into him fully. Geralt pants at the stretch, finally breaking a sweat; Letho, caring as ever, brushes the hair back off his forehead. “You’re being so good for him,” promises the Viper quietly. “He’s going to make you feel so nice.”

“Yeah,” Geralt gasps. With his bare legs held up by Gaetan, who’s barely flexing, he feels untethered from the earth and even more vulnerable than before. The herb takes effect quickly, and while it feels wonderfully different from any witcher liquor or fun potion, he has to briefly fight off the strange sensation of floating up into the endless starry sky.

Then he becomes conscious of his own socks, his ankles softly rubbing against Gaetan’s sweaty back with every push inside. Straw pokes into Geralt’s back underneath him, where his armour and shirt have rolled up out of the way thanks to all the motion. The slight itchiness calms him, but also annoys him.

Then, finally, after what feels like forever, Letho has a hand in his hair and pulls it so slowly that it feels tender. “So pretty,” coaxes the Viper, and Geralt obediently turns to him. Letho has lost his pants too; Geralt nearly laughs at the three of them only in their shirts. Like witcher initiates fooling around late at night, too scared to fully undress and get caught.

Geralt isn’t scared at all. He reaches up to place a hand on Letho’s chest, grabbing a fistful of his shirt. The Viper gets the memo, and he disrobes faster than any human could. Geralt stares in wonder, and Gaetan’s pace slows; he still fucks Geralt but now it feels like he’s hitting deeper and deeper every time. Geralt groans, unable to restrain the noise, bouncing with every thrust forward, and Letho says, “Cat, how you doing? Feel as good as you thought it would?”

“Better,” Gaetan mumbles, adjusting his grip on Geralt’s legs. “Way better. Fuck, Geralt, thank you.”

“Don’t be fucking stupid,” Geralt gasps. “Thank you, asshole.”

“Had to repay you somehow,” the Cat whimpers. Geralt turns to face him as sharply as he can, and when he sees Gaetan smiling down at him his nerves are instantly set at ease. This wouldn’t have felt as good if it were just repayment, or a favour to a friend; Gaetan genuinely wants this. His hands are shaking as he holds up Geralt’s knees, a surefire sign that he’s close to his release. When he tries to speak again, he stutters through it, “Gonna— gonna come in you, alright?”

“What a gentleman,” teases Geralt breathlessly, even as Gaetan rocks him with every thrust. Mimicking what the Cat had said earlier, he turns to look at the Viper. “Bless him, he’s stammering. Letho, I never thought your bitch would be so shy.”

Gaetan swears a string of broken curses and pushes deep inside Geralt, filling him— it feels hotter than fire, and he groans just as loudly as Gaetan. Then Letho, with a few pulls that almost look lazy in counterpoint, strokes himself off and, before anyone else realizes he’s about to, comes all over Geralt’s face.

“Fuck,” Geralt breathes, reaching up to wipe dripping come off his chin. Before he can clean any of it off, Gaetan lunges, lowering himself onto Geralt without pulling out. The movement and closeness makes Geralt gasp again, and he doesn’t stop breathing hard as Gaetan licks over his face and jaw shamelessly. “Fucking gods damn, you two,” Geralt mumbles. Then, because he’s in a fucking amazing mood, and his cock is still hard as hell, he dares to push it further; “I thought the plan was for Letho to come inside me too?”

“Plan hasn’t changed,” Letho grins, in a crooked sort of way that makes precome leak out of Geralt’s already red, sore cock. It smears against Gaetan’s stomach and Geralt struggles to find his breath, still grappling with the weight of Gaetan’s cock inside him. “Night’s still young, Wolf.”

-

In the morning— the late, late, very late, technically the next morning, for clarification— the three witchers walk out of the inn, freshly bathed and full and content. None even bear a limp to betray how they so defiled the roof of the good, friendly, spiritual town. No one passing seems bothered at all with the presence of a witcher, let alone three.

As they pass by the farms on their way out of town, a stablehand who beat his hangover with Sylva’s help yesterday recognizes Geralt. He claps delightedly at the sight of the trio, paying little mind to their intimidating armour or six swords. “Wow! That’s not something you see every day!” cries the man. “Three witchers walk out of a town— gods, it’s like a bad joke!”