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crateofkate · 2 years

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Mom Adopts a “Dog”

So y’all keep blowing up my notes with the various Family Lore stories I’ve been telling, so I guess I should tell one on my parents now.

My Mother’s Father was part of the United Auto Worker’s Union, and during the 50′s and 60′s, was on strike a lot. My point is, grandpa got himself an entirely deserved reputation for being a sucker who loved animals, so people would dump thier pets on him. Hence, my mother grew up in a house with pets such as Picket the one-eyed tomcat, Tweety the Bald canary, Dummy the cat, Stupid Son of Dummy, Spooky Garbage Dog and Chiquita the Tarantula. Eventually Grandma put her foot down when Grandpa brought home Gerta the Saint Bernard.

I say all this because it provides some context for how the following occured.

Mom and Dad had just moved in together (my parents dated for six years and were engaged for 13 days, driving everyone on both sides insane), and unfortunately, My mother’s German Shepherd, Cops, has just passed away due to bone cancer. After mourning for a bit, Mom and Dad decided to get a dog together, as a couple.

For context, my father had never owned a dog in his life. His mother had ‘Pretty Bird” the budgie as a child but parrots are alien life forms, not pets.

So they go to the Palo Alto Animal shelter to adopt. The year was 1987, and at the time, Palo Alto was… not a great place. Lots of drugs, gangs and poor civic managment. Mom told me that she learned to identify different types of gunfire while living there. They get there, and mom explains that she’s always had a preference for Big Dogs, and the guy’s face lights up. Oh Yes, he says, We have a Big Dog. For expirienced owners, yep, adoptable today, here we’ll give you a discount even-

Somehow my parents were not suspicious about this.

They were shown to the Animal in question, a Gorgeous blue-sable beastie with pretty golden eyes who immediately pressed herself against the fence and gave them the best PUH-LEEEEEEASE TAKE ME HOME puppy eyes 100lbs of canine can do. Mom and Dad fall in love instantly. They sign all the paperwork and take her home for $10, and name her “Mazel” as in “Mazel Tov.”

Within the hour, it becomes clear that something is amiss.

Cops had lived with his kibble stored in a plastic garbage can in the garage for six years without incident. Mazel figured out how to open doors and got the locking lid off the can in six minutes, horking down about four pounds of the stuff before my mother notices that it’s been weirdly quiet. Most dogs bark at or chase squirrels. Mazel stalked and caught one the second day, presenting it to my mother like an offering. Mazel knew all her commands but would clearly stop to consider before obeying, and trained my dad to give her good treats within a week. The locks on the side-yard gate were undone, and she took a stroll around the neighborhood, but always retuned home for dinner.

After a week of gradually realizing that Mazel was smarter than most of the professors my mom worked with, they took her to the Vet for a routine checkup.

Dr. Hamada walked into the exam room, dropped the clip-board and said “Where the HELL did you get a Wolf?”

After a bit of prodding and a very-angry-dr.hamada-calling-the-pound, they determined Mazel was a high-content hybrid, probably with a husky, but was going to be a lil shit her entire life. OK, said Hamada, I don’t like destroying animals and you’ve got a lot of expirience with dogs, so I’m okay with letting you keep her, but you should keep her away from small children because her Prey Drive could kick in.

Two years later, mom got pregnant with me.

Mazel noticed instantly, and reacted by digging a large hole in the yard and catching even more squirrels for mom, because she needed the protein or something. That what you do when the Alpha Bitch is preggers, right? Dig a den and ply her with food? On the advice of my grandmother, my mom stayed overnight at the hospital once I was delivered, and dad went home with a shirt that had moms and my scent on it. Mazel spent the whole night puzzling over it.

The next morning, when mom came home with me, there was the sudden and instantaneous recognition of PUPPY!!!!!! :D:D:D!!!!! PUUUUUUUPPY!!!!!! and Mazel turned into the most aggressively maternal being I’ve ever met. Playing with me on the blanket, sitting under my chair at meals (I was a messy eater), sleeping under my crib, teaching me to walk by letting me hang onto her fur and shuffle around.

Dr. Hamada thought mom was a madwoman, until he saw me holding Mazel’s mouth open and sticking my face in so i could look at her teeth. He gave up when my mom announced she was pregnant with my sister.

I’m making living with a Wolfdog sound awesome, but it did come with some drawbacks:

Mazel did have to be muzzled at the vets, because she had Opinions about having things stuck up her butt.

HAIR. One of my chores growing up was to brush her out every week and I’d frequently end up with more hair than animal.

the only way we could reliably get her to stay in the yard was with an overhead tether with a STEEL cable, which she chewed through anyway.

Do you like waking up by being hit in the face with half a dead animal? No? Wolfdogs may not be for you.

More than capable of opening the fridge and eating everything if you’re not watching

Will get into everything if not otherwise occupied. Including eating your tax forms.

Howls along with sirens at 4 AM.

PROS of growing up with a wolfdog, as a small child in the 90′s

I was afforded a degree of freedom normally associated with a pokemon trianer. It was no big deal for me and my sister to walk three miles through my not-really-good neighborhood to the Froyo if I took Mazel with us. People tended to leave us alone when we had 100lbs of overprotective Apex Predator following us around.

WINNING at Pet Day at school. There wasn’t actually a compettion but Billy’s hamster sucks in comparison to an animal that is perfectly willing to demonstrate how she can snap an oak branch in half on command.

PTA moms losing their shit because Mazel would walk down the block by herself to come pick ups up from school.

Grew up associating the word “Bitch” with teeth and the willingness to rip an asshole’s face off for being rude. Never changed the definition.

Learned the I-Own-This Strut and Murder-Stare from the absolute best.

When she was 17, Mom and Dad decided to add another room on to the house. They rigged up the overhead tether so she could be outside but not underfoot for the contruction guys. One morning, mom came out to notice them all milling in the side yard entrance, muttering worriedly. When mom asked what was wrong, one of them explained that Carlos forgot to bring the Hamburger. What do you need a hamburger for? Asked mom, and they pointed down the side yard to where Mazel was sitting, doing her best Viscious Alpha Bitch Stare.

Apparently they’d never realized that she was on the VERY end of her tether there and couldn’t actually get to them, and had been scamming them for a big mac a day for a month. Mom had my six-year-old sister pull her away to show she wasn’t dangerous and tired her best not to laugh but kind of failed.

Mazel ended up living to be 19 and a half, and except for some minor arthritis, remarkably hale until the day she passed away in her hole in the back yard while taking a nap. I maintain that Death had to wait until she was sleeping to get a crack at her, or she would’ve taken his scythe for a chew toy.

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crateofkate · 3 years

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AAAHHHH HOLY HELL

Written for @whataboutthebard day 4

Title: Une Faim de Loup (A Wolf's Hunger)

Prompt: werewolves

Pairing: Geralt/Jaskier/Eskel

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: faun!Jaskier, werewolf!Geralt, werewolf!Eskel, size difference, breeding kink, knotting, rough sex, intercrural sex, anal sex, rimming, oral sex, belly bulge, cum inflation

The forest is alive with laughter and song and the clash of antlers as Jaskier makes his way away from the festivities. Beltane has always been his favourite celebration, long before he was even interested in participating in the mating ritual. It honours everything his poet’s heart holds essential; music and love and beauty. It is a celebration of life, and Jaskier has always loved life with a passion, delighting in its every gift.

Any other year, Jaskier would fuck away the night with a pretty doe or a handsome buck, maybe even join one of the Countess’ famed orgies. Tonight, though, Jaskier doesn’t have a mind to party, to flirt and drink and find a partner to celebrate the goddess of love with, to delight in the pleasures of the flesh under her pale round eye until the sky lightens and a new day begins.

His mother would throw a fit if she knew how blatantly he is disregarding her most important rule: don’t stray away from the herd at night. He mentally promises her to be back before dawn, with an excuse as to why she hasn’t seen him during the festivities. She probably hopes he’ll come back with a serious mate this time. Her inquiries about his love life have been more pressing lately, and her disappointment when he inevitably answers he is not ready for that kind of commitment yet is harder to bear every time. It is part of the reason he does not have the heart to be his usual sociable, joyous self tonight, preferring the company of the moon and stars than that of his own people.

It is already late enough that as Jaskier leaves the circle of warm light cast by the bonfires and lanterns hung in the trees he passes a few entangled couples, some of them mating unashamedly in plain sight. Lustful moans and cries of ecstasy accompany Jaskier for a while, and though he tries not to get distracted, his body alights with desire, reacting eagerly to the pheromones saturating the air.

The neck of his lute hits the back of his knees every few steps, his hooves making nary a sound on the soft forest ground as he follows the whisper of a babbling brook to the little sanctuary where he composes most of his songs and poems.

Under the silver light of the full moon, the little clearing has an eerie quality to it. A fallen tree lies across a small spring, green, plush moss covering the bark, making for the most comfortable of pillows as Jaskier jumps over and sits cross-legged.

His thoughts straying back to the lewd couplings he witnessed on his way here, Jaskier palms his half-hard cock with a huff, the pink tip peaking out of its sheath. Maybe he will bring himself to a lazy orgasm later, but for now, his body’s responsiveness to the sultry atmosphere of Beltane night is another reminder of his growing frustration. The hassle of finding a partner doesn’t seem worthy; after fucking every willing faun of his age and a good number of the older ones, every option feels stale.

He’s always loved his herd, his family, and the forest around them, but he’s never thought he would be so bored of it by the time he’d reach adulthood. He knows every nook and cranny of these woods, and nothing, not even the stars reflecting on the rushing water underneath him, holds any surprise or wonder for him anymore. If only he was allowed to travel, to wander away for a bit, over the edge of the woods and into the world, but that is strictly forbidden by the herd. A faun must content themself with what they have been given, and sing only of love, and the generosity of the forest, and never believe that the world has more to offer than this.

Sighing, Jaskier swings his lute to his front and rests his fingers over the strings. As he deepens his breaths and closes his eyes, he flicks his ears this way and that to take in all of the sounds of the night, letting its natural melody guide his hands to create a music of his own. He strums his instrument barely loud enough to hear, so as not to disturb the family of boars foraging close by, and lets himself be soothed by the breeze cooling his heated skin.

He doesn’t know what startles him out of his trance-like state. His brain his filled with music and it takes him a second to realise the forest has gone utterly silent around him. A bush ruffles nearby and Jaskier cuts the discordant twang of his lute with a flat palm over the strings, eyes open wide as his heart thrums against his ribs.

Whatever hides in those bushes, it is not the hungry boars, nor a hunting owl; he knows those sounds like he knows his own voice.

Everything is still for so long that Jaskier almost convinces himself that he imagined it, that the goblet of wine he drank before leaving the party is playing tricks on him. Until the moon is revealed from behind a cloud, casting a ray of silver light over the clearing. In the gently waving grass, two orbs glow, round and pale like twin moons fallen to earth.

Staring right at Jaskier.

The faun’s heart misses a beat as his body goes rigid, unable to do anything but watch and wait as the hulking form creeps closer, slow and low on the ground, glowing eyes never straying from Jaskier.

White-furred like a winter rabbit, it resembles a wolf except for its size and the rippling muscles of its massive shoulders. A few steps away from Jaskier, it blinks, and the pale moons of its eyes become warm, golden suns, their intensity utterly focused on the little, trembling faun.

Jaskier knows he should run, or scream for help. He also knows he would never make it alive if he did either of those things. There haven't been werewolves in these woods for longer than Jaskier has been alive, but every young faun has been told the tales of these merciless monsters that would snatch away naughty kids and not even leave bones to bury. Glimpsing at the sharp fangs protruding from the wolf’s mouth, Jaskier has no doubt these stories had their share of truth.

But the werewolf doesn’t act like he’s planning on ripping Jaskier’s throat off, though its breath stinks of fresh blood as it stops in front of him and rises to its hind legs, leaning closer. Jaskier is finally shaken out of his stupor and yelps as he scrambles backwards, almost falling off his perch. Holding his lute in front of him as if it’ll be any help as a shield, Jaskier closes his eyes, expecting the monster to bite his head off now that it has confirmed the faun isn’t just a strangely shaped log.

When nothing happens, Jaskier squints an eye open, finding the werewolf watching him with a curious tilt of its head. Slowly, it leans in, its large, clawed paws almost human-like in their shape, though Jaskier doesn’t doubt it could open his stomach with one swipe. Its gaze still locked with Jaskier’s as if gauging his reactions, the creature takes a deep inhale. Confused, scared to move even a finger, Jaskier lets himself be scented, wondering distantly if the werewolf is making sure he’s still fresh.

Apparently satisfied that Jaskier is not going to jump again, the creature pushes its wet snout under his jaw, warm, humid breath tickling his throat. Jaskier fails to hold back a surprised giggle, and the werewolf rears back to observe him again, its tail wagging tentatively.

Slowly, cursing his own terrible self-preservation instincts, Jaskier uncurls, pushing his lute aside. Keeping his eyes on the werewolf, he raises his chin, baring his throat and sending a prayer to the goddess — or any god listening — that the creature takes it as an invitation to continue its inspection and not to feast on Jaskier’s flesh and blood.

The werewolf seemingly understands as, once again, it leans forward, and puffs of breath brush Jaskier’s collarbone. It scents his armpits next, where Jaskier’s smell is the strongest, and the faun flushes bright red but doesn’t move, and then moves to his sternum, where it licks at the spot Jaskier spilled wine over himself earlier in the evening. This time Jaskier can’t keep himself from twisting away with a laugh. That doesn’t deter the creature, who continues its exploration, nosing at his soft stomach.

Emboldened by the werewolf’s peaceful behaviour, Jaskier raises his hand and pushes his fingers into the soft fur behind its ear. He scratches gingerly, and a pleased sound rumbles from the werewolf’s chest, before its snout drags along the trail of thick hair under Jaskier’s navel and buries its snout right between his legs, nudging his groin.

Jaskier yelps, curling forward reflexively at the unexpected stimulation on his sensitive prick, then pushes the large head away. “No! Bad!”

The werewolf goes willingly, though it doesn’t move far, staring at Jaskier with dilated pupils swimming in the gold of its irises. Its tongue lolls out the side of its mouth, drool gleaming over its fangs.

Flustered, Jaskier chuckles. “Guess you didn’t come here for my music, then.”

He’s pretty sure he doesn’t imagine the sarcastic look the creature gives him.

“Oh, well, don’t look at me like that,” Jaskier huffs. “I’m easy, but I’m not that easy. It takes a bit of seducing to get into my pants.”

This time, the skepticism in those golden eyes is unmistakable as they lower to the pink tip of Jaskier’s half hard prick, then rise back to his face.

“Well, what did you expect! Mating season has everyone a bit on edge,” Jaskier crosses his arms, pouting. “And anyway, I’m not arguing with you. You can’t even talk.”

Grumbling, the werewolf pushes away from the dead tree, taking its warmth with it as it leaves Jaskier alone in the clearing without a look back.

Jaskier stares after it for a long time, unbalanced, the remnants of adrenaline tingling under his skin. Well, he’d been wanting novelty and adventure. The goddess hasn’t disappointed.

Shaking his head, Jaskier slides his lute back on his lap and strums a few improvised chords, a song about moon-white fur and sun-gold eyes taking shape on his tongue.

It’s only a few minutes before a movement in the tall grass catches his attention again, and this time when he raises his head his eyes meet two sets of twin moons instead of one.

The white werewolf is back, and with it, a larger, dark brown one, staring at Jaskier with the same intensity, though it seems reluctant to come closer.

All fear forgotten, Jaskier discards his lute for good and slides down the dead tree, landing softly on the mossy ground.

“Did you bring a friend?” Jaskier asks the white werewolf as it trots up to him and nudges under his arm, sneaking behind him, its fur tickling the small of Jaskier’s back. On its four legs, the werewolf reaches just under the faun’s shoulders.

The other one observes them from a safe distance while Jaskier scritches at the white werewolf’s chin with cooing sounds, its eyes — a warmer shade of gold, almost amber — traveling from Jaskier to its friend, assessing.

Jaskier fails to muffle a gasp when it finally comes out of the shadows and the stark light of the moon puts in evidence the rough pink scars marring the right side of its face, narrowly missing one beautiful eye. The werewolf’s ears flatten at the sound and it stops, looking uncertain.

“Come on,” Jaskier coaxes softly, extending one hand in its direction. “I won’t bite.”

The werewolf huffs but resumes its careful approach, until Jaskier can feel the warmth of its breath against his fingers. With an encouraging smile, Jaskier uncurls them, brushing against the damaged skin ever so gently. He startles when a low whine rises from the werewolf’s throat, afraid he’s hurt him, but the creature steps forward, nuzzling into Jaskier’s palm.

Behind him, the white werewolf lets out a sharp bark, and Jaskier chuckles. “I’m not forgetting you, darling, I’m just saying hi to your handsome friend.”

The amber-eyed werewolf rumbles lowly and Jaskier grins, stroking its cheek, as the other one slips around him to bump its friend under the chin, catching its attention, before turning back to Jaskier and slotting its snout under his ear again, giving it a great, tickling sniff.

Emboldened by the demonstration, the dark werewolf bullies his way closer and starts its own inspection, scenting the faun more delicately than its friend, who playfully nudges at Jaskier’s ribs. The faun squeaks and laughs, swatting at him, fluttered by the intensity of their attention but submitting himself to it willingly.

Only when a large, scarred snout slots itself between his thighs again does he protest. “Goddess, you both have terrible manners! That’s not a way to behave!”

The dark werewolf pulls away with a bashful expression, amber eyes wide and apologetic, and Jaskier can’t find it in himself to admonish him. “It’s okay, sweetling. I’m not mad,” he reassures, petting the creature’s incredibly soft ears.

The two of them crowd him, the white one at his back and the bigger one nosing at his collarbone, and when a deep, husky voice rumbles, “Smell good,” there’s no mistaking where it came from.

“You can talk?” Jaskier squeaks, staring in disbelief at the dark werewolf.

It shouldn’t be that surprising, really, the werewolves always talk in the old wives tales, but because the white one hadn’t replied to him, he’d assumed they were just slightly more sentient — and incredibly horny — wolves. He’s feeling a bit foolish about how liberally he’s been petting them now, but given how the white one is currently purring under his hand he assumes they don’t really mind.

Instead of answering Jaskier’s — admittedly stupid — question, the dark werewolf licks a stripe up the side of the faun’s neck. “Taste good, too.”

Jaskier’s cheeks warm, the fire of arousal, which had been banked until now, flares bright and hot in his belly. There is something about being sandwiched between two very large, very intimidating apex predators that does it for him, apparently.

He shouldn’t even be surprised..

The white werewolf shifts behind him and Jaskier yelps as something wet nudges between his arsecheeks, prodding at his hole. He jumps forward as the dark werewolf rumbles a laugh. “Geralt also thinks you smell good.”

Jaskier moans and buries his face in the dark fur of the bigger werewolf’s collar, hiding his blush as he answers, “Well, maybe Geralt should get a taste, too.”

The growl at his back has the hair on his neck rising, and then a slick tongue is laving up his crack. Jaskier’s moan morphs into a sharp cry as teeth nip at his twitching tail. His hips buck forward and his cock fully slides out of its sheath.

“Careful, little prey,” the dark werewolf hums. “He might eat you whole.”

Behind Jaskier, a rough, gravelly voice grunts, “Eskel,” a warning and a demand for permission all at once.

The faun straightens up with a shaky inhale, boring his eyes into a serious amber gaze. Despite the teasing, threatening quality of his words, the werewolf looks uncertain, searching Jaskier for a sign of fear. His hand fisting into Eskel’s fur, Jaskier stretches up to plant a kiss on the werewolf’s mangled lip, flicking his tongue over the gleaming tooth exposed by the scar.

“I am quite a mouthful.” Jaskier grins. “It’ll take the both of you.”

Eskel’s pupils expand visibly, and that’s the only warning Jaskier’s gets before the werewolf descends on him, his tongue licking into Jaskier’s mouth into the messiest — and hottest — kiss the faun has ever been given. He gives as good as he gets, his short tail flicking excitedly, spreading pheromones of his own in the warm bubble of their embrace. Both werewolves roar ravenously at the scent of his need and a hot, hard cock slots itself between Jaskier’s thighs, smearing precome over the coarse fur of his legs. Geralt’s wide paws come to rest on the faun’s waist, almost spanning it entirely, the claws pricking his skin sending sparks up his spine. The white werewolf ruts against him and Jaskier whines into Eskel’s mouth, high and desperate.

“Fuck,” he pants, lowering his gaze and trailing a hand down his own body to squeeze at the tapered head peaking from between his thighs, wondering at the size of it compared to his palm. He whimpers, trembling at the overwhelming want coursing through his veins.

“Goddess, I need that inside me,” he mumbles as he pushes Eskel away from where he’d been licking and nipping at his freckled shoulders, bruises blooming already on the faun’s tanned skin.

Wriggling out of the werewolves’ embrace, Jaskier pads over to a thick patch of green grass, looking back at them as he kneels on the cushy ground and grabs one of his arse cheeks, spreading it as he holds his tail obligingly out of the way.

“Is one of you going to breed me, or should I take this somewhere else?” He asks archly when neither werewolf moves, staring at him with wide eyes and their considerable pricks hanging red and angry between their legs.

Falling back to his front legs, Geralt stalks forward, a predatory glint in his eyes, and Jaskier shudders with anticipation. The werewolf fits himself behind him again, paws covering his ass and spreading him further, rubbing his cock over the exposed crack.

Eskel joins them, kneeling in front of Jaskier, and the faun eagerly drops to his elbows licking his lips at the sight of the massive, drooling cock standing proudly from Eskel’s lap.

He’s going cross-eyed, wondering if he’d survive taking that monster into his throat, when Geralt licks a long, hot stripe from Jaskier’s balls to the base of his tail, dipping only briefly, teasingly into his fluttering hole. Jaskier shouts with mingled surprise and pleasure, pushing back with a plea for more when Geralt blows a cool breath over the wet area, sending shivers wracking through the faun’s entire body.

The werewolf indulges him, grabbing his hips and lifting them high, so high that Jaskier’s knees no longer touch the ground, and buries his snout into his arse, no longer teasing, his tongue lapping and prodding at Jaskier’s hole relentlessly.

His prick weeping precome over his quivering stomach, Jaskier whimpers and begs, head hung between his elbows as he watches the way Geralt devours him. It’s filthy and slick and intoxicating, and Jaskier’s body is burning up with it.

A large paw threads through his hair carefully, and his head is tugged back, met with the mouth-watering sight of Eskel’s cock bobbing just inches from his mouth. Even mindless with pleasure, Jaskier understands what is expected of him, and he lets his jaw fall open, not even trying to muster the coordination for a proper blow job but offering a slack, wet hole for Eskel to fuck.

The werewolf rumbles approvingly, rubbing the flushed head of his cock over Jaskier’s waiting tongue at the same time as Geralt finally breaches his hole.

“G— ah!” Jaskier gasps, and Eskel’s prick slips out of his mouth to slide over his cheek, leaving a wet trail. Eskel releases a low laugh and gives Jaskier a second to get used to the sensation of Geralt’s agile tongue licking at his inner walls.

When Jaskier’s breath has evened a little, he squeezes one of Eskel’s thickly muscled thighs and the werewolf takes his mouth again, thrusting deeper this time, though Jaskier can barely take half of it before choking around it.

“Fuck,” Eskel growls as Jaskier sucks and swallows as well as he can, and pride swells in the faun’s chest when he tastes a splurt of bitter precome.

Despite his girth, Eskel is gentle as he fucks Jaskier’s mouth, and the faun lets himself be grounded by the steady rhythm of the werewolf’s hips and the growing ache of his jaw as Geralt continues to open him.

Filthy sounds fill the clearing and Jaskier moans at the idea that someone from the herd might hear them. Let them, he thinks. Let them hear just how good I’m being fucked, how much I’m loving it.

It sends him spiraling faster than he can control, his prick slapping against his stomach and his hole clenching around Geralt’s tongue as the tension coils tighter and tighter in his balls.

He is standing just over the edge when Geralt pulls away from him, leaving him empty, the furl of his hole fluttering as saliva runs down his crack.

“Ah, f— fuck!” Jaskier yells as his hips thrust into empty air, seeking friction. The waves of pleasure recede, leaving behind frustration and unspent, buzzing energy. Whirling back, Jaskier snarls at Geralt, “You… asshole! I was almost there!”

The werewolf lowers Jaskier to the ground with a shit-eating grin, white fangs gleaming and heat simmering in his eyes, and Jaskier’s knees almost immediately give out when Eskel leans down to whisper in his ear, “Wouldn’t you rather come on his cock?”

Jaskier is only spared from sprawling to the ground like a newborn foal by the strength of Geralt’s grip over his hips. “Well, get on with it, then,” he snaps, though his voice comes out breathy and unstable.

Eskel’s dark chuckle raises the hair on Jaskier’s nape, and the werewolf looks over his head to speak to Geralt. “Give our needy little prey what he deserves, wolf.”

As if he’d only been waiting for the permission, Geralt throws the faun over his shoulder and stands up with a deep growl, crossing the few paces back to the dead tree and sprawling Jaskier on top of it, belly down. The moss is comfortable enough and Jaskier whines as he bucks his hips, his impatience rekindled by the pressure on his groin.

Geralt stops his movements by covering the faun’s body with his, snarling into Jaskier’s ear. When the faun stills, panting and whimpering low in his throat, Geralt straightens and spreads Jaskier’s cheeks again, the wet tip of the werewolf’s cock rubbing into his entrance.

Resting his flaming temple on the cool, dewy moss, Jaskier meets Eskel’s eyes, the werewolf watching them both as he strokes his own cock with languid swipes of his clawed hand, almost matching the pace of Geralt’s rutting.

Just as Jaskier is drawing the breath to request the werewolf stop being such a fucking tease and get on with it, Geralt pushes in in one long, hot slide, forcing the faun to open around him without a pause for him to get used to the intrusion. It burns, and Jaskier chokes as he struggles to get enough air in his lungs, but still Geralt doesn’t stop until his hips meet the back of Jaskier’s furred thighs.

Resting his sweaty forehead over the plush green moss, Jaskier takes a shaky inhale, breathing around the sensation, willing his body to relax. When he feels like he can take Geralt without splitting open, he turns his head on the side, gazing at Geralt over his shoulder.

“Come on then, what are you waiting for?”

A wild look fills Geralt’s amber eyes and Jaskier wails as the werewolf pulls out almost completely before slamming back into him, the faun’s body sliding forward with the force of his thrust. He has no time to recover as Geralt fucks into him again and again, Jaskier jostled this way and that, trying to get a good grip on the dead tree but only managing to rip chunks of moss.

Geralt remedies the problem by grasping Jaskier’s flailing arms, pulling them behind his back and holding them in a lock with one large paw, while the other rests on his left hip. With the added grip, Geralt can pull him back on his cock with each deep thrust, and Jaskier wails at the relentless drag of the burning shaft over his inner walls. His hooves hover over the ground, and he has no leverage or any sort of control over the situation, a powerless prey to the ravenous creature ravishing him.

Geralt fucks him without grace or finesse, rutting into him like the mindless animal Jaskier would have believed him to be an hour ago. As it is, Jaskier is going cross-eyed with intense, all-consuming pleasure, drool slicking his lips. The rough friction of the moss over his sensitive prick has him crying out again and again, along with the broken moans slipping from his lips every time Geralt finds his prostate with an abrupt thrust.

Jaskier reaches the edge fast but then he can’t seem to fall, the desperation building inside him with every drag of Geralt’s cock glancing over his prostate. He can’t touch himself and he can’t arch his hips to give Geralt’s ploughing a better angle. No amount of begging seems to sway the werewolf, who keeps on rutting and grinding and fucking without obvious rhythm. He’s stuck, Geralt taking his pleasure inside Jaskier’s body without much regard for Jaskier’s own, but it’s the most aroused the faun has ever been.

Geralt’s thrust become choppy and erratic after an unknown amount of time. Jaskier feels loose and like he’s ready to snap at the same time, and he doesn’t immediately notice the growing bulge bumping against his hole every time Geralt slides inside him. The confused sound that escapes his lips turns into a surprised shout when it pops inside, stretching him even wider. Geralt snarls, drooling over Jaskier’s sweaty back, and pulls out again, the knot — and Jaskier’s eyes go wide as he realises what it is — making a squelching sound as it pops out.

It catches on Jaskier’s rim with every thrust now, growing larger and larger as Geralt approaches his peak, growling and snarling like an enraged beast, his claws tearing chunks out of the dead tree, splinters flying around them and falling to the ground. Jaskier is mewling with it, scared and eager for the knot to stretch him, fill him, wreck him.

Fangs prick at Jaskier’s freckled shoulder, grazing his skin in the ghost of a bite, and finally, Jaskier spills with a shout, clenching hard around Geralt’s knot, preventing it from slipping out. Geralt howls, thrusting another couple of times before he reaches his own peak, grinding against Jaskier’s ass as his cock pulses load after load of come deep inside him. It pushes Jaskier’s stomach to rub against a pool of his own semen, smearing it all over himself, but he’s too out of it to protest, mouth gaping, twitching with the last waves of his orgasm.

Geralt’s movements weaken, his cock still milking come into Jaskier, and the werewolf whines as he licks Jaskier’s shoulder.

“Good boy,” Jaskier slurs, face smooshed into the moss, his entire body tingling.

Gathering him in his arms, Geralt lowers them to the ground, propping himself up against the fallen tree, Jaskier cradled on his chest. The faun cries out as the shift in position jostles the knot inside him, and Geralt pets his sides apologetically.

“How long will it take to go down?” Jaskier asks when his sensitivity has receded a little, burying his face into Geralt’s neck, breathing in the warm, musky scent of his fur.

“Not long now,” comes Eskel’s voice from above him, and Jaskier turns his head to find him close, watching the both of them with warm amber eyes. Jaskier shivers, both from the weight of that gaze and the cool breeze over his damp skin, and the dark werewolf crawls closer, enclosing the faun between his and Geralt’s bodies. Eskel noses at Jaskier’s chest, the faun wriggling weakly when the wet snout brushes at his nipples. A long, warm tongue laves over his stomach, and it takes Jaskier’s come-addled brain several second to understand Eskel is lapping at the seed smeared over him.

Jaskier keens when Eskel’s attentions turn to his spent cock, licking at the tip to tease out the last droplets of come, and when the faun pushes his head away, the werewolf noses his way down his sheath and balls to where Jaskier and Geralt are still tied. Geralt’s knot is only now starting to go down, deflating slowly, and Eskel laps at the semen that leaks out of Jaskier’s hole. When Geralt finally slips out, a rush of come following it, Eskel replaces it with his tongue, curling inside Jaskier’s abused hole.

The faun sobs at the sensation, both soothing and too much, but submits himself to Eskel’s thorough cleaning. When the werewolf is satisfied, he rises, fitting himself between Geralt and Jaskier’s open legs. His large, heavy cock rubs in the crease of Jaskier’s hip as he leans down to nose at his neck, and then further to nip at Geralt’s ear affectionately when the white werewolf lets out a needy rumble.

He pulls back, straightening up, his paws coming to spread Jaskier’s thighs further, and watches where his cock slides against Jaskier’s, teasing his prick out of its sheath again. Mating season always does wonders on the faun’s stamina, and he’s never been so grateful about it.

“Please, Eskel, I want—“ Jaskier whines when the werewolf doesn’t do anything to move things along, his gaze locked on their weeping cocks. One large paw comes to trap them together against Jaskier’s stomach, and the faun gasps, though the friction is far from enough to do anything else than taunt him.

The werewolf rumbles, his gaze dark, and when Jaskier lowers his eyes to see what he’s looking at, he almost comes all over himself.

Eskel’s cock slides over his flat stomach, the tip reaching almost all the way up to his navel, and Jaskier keens at the thought of it inside him, tearing him apart. His impatience rekindled, he hooks his ankles behind the werewolf, pulling his hips flush against Jaskier’s backside and demanding, as archly as he is able to when he’s burning up with want, “Are you gonna put that thing inside me, big boy, or do I have to find someone else to breed me full?”

The werewolf’s fangs flash in the moonlight as he smiles, a dangerous, predatory glint in his eyes. Still, he is gentle when he hikes Jaskier’s hips higher with an arm wrapped behind his back, almost folding him in half, cradling his head in his broad palm. Underneath them, Geralt purrs lazily, content with his head resting on Jaskier’s shoulder to observe the proceedings.

With the last of Geralt’s come slicking the way, Eskel slides in a slow, smooth glide, coaxing Jaskier to open for him as the faun tries to relax. It’s the largest cock Jaskier has ever taken, and it fills him to the brim, but his body welcomes it, needs it. Every one of his nerve ending sings, and Jaskier gasps wetly as Eskel bottoms out.

Pulling out slowly, until only the tapered tip of his cock stretches the rim of Jaskier’s hole, Eskel breathes huskily, “Good?”

Jaskier has to remember how to form words, mouth gaping open as he stares sightlessly into the starry sky, but he manages to answer after a moment, eager for Eskel to fill him again.“Y— yes, very good, Eskel, fuck— please, move, I need it—“ Jaskier’s pleading is cut off with a sharp cry as Eskel complies, sliding home again.

The werewolf builds a slow and steady rhythm, so controlled in contrast to Geralt’s earlier mindless rutting that Jaskier mewls in confusion. He would try and fuck himself back on Eskel’s cock to encourage him to go faster, but Geralt’s paws are on his hips, preventing him from doing anything else than writhing helplessly.

A weird sensation in his stomach makes Jaskier lower his eyes, and he gasps at the sight that greets him. With every deep thrust in, a small bump appears in Jaskier’s lower belly, his skin stretching over the tip of Eskel’s cock. One hand comes to cradle the bulge like a precious thing, mesmerised by it, and Eskel growls wildly, possessive and as desperate as Jaskier is feeling.

The press of his hand makes the sensations even more vivid, and Jaskier pants at how Eskel seems to touch the deepest parts of him, hoping he isn’t drooling over himself. With how boneless and desperate he feels at the way he is being used, he really can’t be sure.

Underneath him, Geralt shifts and whines, slowly getting hard again, his dick rubbing against Jaskier’s lower back. Mad with desire, Jaskier hears a stream of pleading nonsense spill from his lips, begging for more even though he feels like he’s going to explode at the slightest touch.

One of Geralt’s paws leave Jaskier’s hips and soon after Jaskier can feel the nudge of his cock against his hole, where Eskel is still thrusting rhythmically. The faun cries out in both arousal and alarm, wanting Geralt to slide in next to Eskel even though he knows there is no way for him to take it. He finds himself hurtling fast towards his peak as he imagines the both of them knotting him.

Eskel growls and snaps at Geralt, the two of them fighting for control, for the right to Jaskier’s body, while the faun is jostled, limbs weak and unresponsive, between them.

The dark werewolf gets the upper hand and Geralt grumbles but submits, his cock slipping to Jaskier’s lower crack again. Eskel licks into the other werewolf’s mouth, affection filling his amber eyes, and Geralt accepts it begrudgingly, though Jaskier can feel the jump of his cock at the sloppy kiss.

Impatient, feeling petty at being ignored by the two werewolves while one of them is buried hilt deep into his ass, Jaskier moans and mewls exaggeratedly, blinking wide, wet eyes at Eskel. “Please, Eskel, I need you… I need more…”

It does bring the attention back on him, though Eskel’s smirk is knowing, and he chuckles when Jaskier curses him as he pulls out entirely, leaving his hole gaping open, empty and clenching around nothing.

Jaskier screams in frustration, his hooves kicking in the air, trying to land a blow on the infuriatingly smug werewolf, but Eskel catches his ankles in one paw, tugging him closer.

The faun allows himself to be manhandled with a pout until the werewolves settle into a new position, Eskel and Geralt kneeling in front of each other while Jaskier hangs suspended between them, his back against Eskel’s chest and his knees hooked over Geralt’s arm.

Again, Eskel’s cock breaches his hole as the werewolf lowers him into his lap, the new angle pushing a raw whine out of Jaskier’s lips. The werewolf resumes fucking him with his ever steady thrust, and Jaskier loses himself to it, head thrown back on Eskel’s shoulder, until something pokes at him and he opens his eyes with effort to see the head of Geralt’s cock peeking from his thighs. Thrusting in and out, wetting Jaskier’s fur with precome, Geralt drags his cock over the faun’s balls as he uses his thighs like he did his hole.

Between the paired sensations of Eskel’s cock splitting his ass, hitting his prostate every time, and Geralt stimulating his prick as he fucks Jaskier’s thighs, it’s not long before the faun peaks to his second orgasm, pushed out of him with a cry.

Eskel gentles his thrusts, avoiding Jaskier’s oversensitive prostate, but neither he nor Geralt stop completely. They drag their own pleasure out of Jaskier’s body for what feels like hours to the almost delirious faun, a pliant ragdoll for them to fuck their seed into.

When finally Eskel locks up and comes, grinding into Jaskier until the faun’s stomach bulges the slightest bit, Jaskier sobs in relief. Geralt follows soon after, popping his knot in the tight clench of Jaskier’s thighs, covering the faun’s torso with stripes of hot come, matting his fur and pooling into the hollow of his throat.

Before it has even time to cool, Jaskier slips into an exhausted sleep.

Blades of sun-warmed glass caressing his skin wakes Jaskier a few hours later. Smiling at the tell-tale scent of sex that clings to him, he stretches languidly with a jaw-cracking yawn, deciding against opening his eyes just yet.

He snakes a hand down his torso, bypassing his still-sensitive cock to prod at the tenderness of his puffy hole. All traces of come and sweat and dirt has been washed away from his body, but when he plunges two fingers into himself, he finds he’s still wet there, marked with the evidence of last night’s incredible coupling. With a self-satisfied sigh, he brings his sticky digits to his mouth, cleaning them with lazy licks.

A soft but heartfelt “fuck” startles him and he opens his eyes to meet a familiar golden gaze in a not-at-all familiar face.

The man looking down at him has long, tangled white hair and smells distinctly of wet fur. He seems as surprised and confused as Jaskier is feeling, but before the faun can speak up, another voice calls from the direction of the little stream.

“Ah, you’re finally awake, little prey.”

A very naked and very wet man with brown skin and a mean scar across his right cheek walks towards them, droplets of water sliding enticingly down the soft lines of his body.

“Eskel?” Jaskier squeaks, his throat suddenly very dry.

The tanned man nods with a smile as he crouches down next to him, amber eyes soft and warm. “How are you feeling?”

“I— good, thank you,” Jaskier stammers, blushing a deep red as a twinge in his core reminds him of just what exactly he let those two handsome men do to him a few hours prior.

“Here, drink some water,” Eskel hands Jaskier a flask filled with fresh spring water. “You should eat too. Geralt picked some berries while you were asleep.”

Geralt’s frown is belied by the pretty pink flushing his cheeks as he offers Jaskier a handful of plump wild strawberries, and the faun accepts them with a tentative smile, his stomach rumbling accordingly. The tart taste of the berries bring water to his mouth, and he jumps a little when Geralt noses at his neck, sniffing, much like he had done in his wolf form.

“Fuck, Esk,” the man groans. “He smells like the both of us.”

A possessive arm snakes around Jaskier’s waist and he lets himself be pulled flush to Geralt’s sun-kissed body, holding back a smirk. “That’s not really surprising, given that you came all over me, as well as inside.” And damn, if Jaskier doesn’t feel smug about it.

Both men groan and Eskel tips forward to cover the faun with his body, biting his lips and licking into his mouth, while Geralt’s fingers slip down to prod at Jaskier’s hole. The faun hisses, and the men immediately pull away, worry and uncertainty written into their eyes.

“As much as I’d love going another round with you two looking like this,” he encompasses their glorious nakedness with a flourish of his hand, “I don’t think I’ll be up for the challenge for at least a day or two.”

Eskel and Geralt exchange a long, meaningful look as the white-haired man lowers his head to nibble at Jaskier’s freckled shoulder, and Eskel huffs, shaking his head good-humouredly. “We’re heading south for the summer to meet our brother. I think you’d like him, and he, you. I mean, if you… were keen on accompanying us.”

Glee bubbling in his chest at the thought of adventures and songs and lots and lots of mind-blowing sex, Jaskier brushes a sweet kiss on Eskel’s flushed cheek. “Oh, darling. Just try and get rid of me now.”

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