Archive of Our Own

“What?” Eskel says, baffled.

“The little bastard’s done a runner, and even his best friend doesn’t know where he’s gone,” Rennes bites out, bracing his fists on his desk and glowering at Eskel. “Take your pack and go up the mountain - I’ve already got packs looking down the Trail and off to the sides.”

“Yes, sir,” Eskel says, rather dismayed, and does not add, ‘Lambert is too damn smart to think this is a good time to run away, so there must have been a reason for him to take off into the teeth of winter,’ or ‘Why are you sending us when we just got back from the Path,’ or even ‘Could you not call one of the best trainees in the keep a little bastard,’ because he knows none of those will do any good at all. Instead, he goes to collect Geralt and Gweld from their current soaking pool down in the hot springs.

And Voltehre, while he’s at it.

“I really don’t know where he is,” Voltehre says, staring up at the three of them with an expression of poorly-masked distress. Not very far up, either: at seventeen he’s a gangly thing, all knees and elbows, the too-short hems of his trousers suggesting he’s had a recent and rather impressive growth spurt. Eskel suspects, given the size of the lad’s hands, there’s another one on its way.

“We know,” Gweld says reassuringly. “We’re just hoping if we’ve got you along, you might be able to spot the sorts of places he might have gone.”

“Alright,” Voltehre says hesitantly, and takes the knapsack Geralt hands him. It’s mostly food and medical supplies, because whatever sent the fiercest trainee in Kaer Morhen haring off into the wilds just before the first big snowstorm of winter, there’s a decent chance it’s going to involve some sort of injury before all’s said and done.

They’re all wearing their heaviest fur coats as they head up into the forest, too: Geralt on point so he can put his twice-Grassed, omega-sharp senses to use, Gweld just behind him, Voltehre third, Eskel bringing up the rear. There’s a good chance the storm will hit before they find their quarry, and they’ll need to turn back due to the swiftly approaching snow, but they’ll all keep looking as long as they possibly can.

For the first few dozen furlongs, Eskel is reasonably sure this is a wild goose chase: Lambert probably headed down the Killer, or off into a side valley. But then Geralt’s head comes up and he sniffs the air and turns off the trail, moving faster. Eskel lengthens his strides to come up alongside Voltehre. “Is there somewhere up here that Lambert would hole up?” Because Lambert isn’t stupid: he’d be able to smell the oncoming storm as well as the rest of them, and would have hopefully been clever enough to go to ground, find a cave or even just a hollow under a tree to wait out the bad weather in relative safety.

Voltehre frowns. “I can’t think of anywhere,” he admits unhappily. “His favorite cave is east of the keep, not north. And Master Rennes already had someone check it.”

“What the fuck,” Gweld mutters, glancing over his shoulder. “And you’ve no idea why he ran?”

Voltehre shakes his head. “He’s been…weirdly squirrely for the last couple weeks, but it’s Lambert, he gets squirrely sometimes. Usually he tells me why, though! I figured I could wait it out until he got his head on straight.”

Eskel hums. “Anything else weird from the last couple weeks? Anything at all?”

Voltehre’s brow furrows, and he jumps over a tree root and ducks a low-hanging limb before replying, “Well, he’s been dousing himself in some weird-smelling potion. Makes him smell like the hind end of a nekker, honestly. He said it was a lab accident, but he’s better at alchemy than that. And -” he hesitates, then shrugs. “Usually we bunk in together. For warmth, you know.” And for comfort, Eskel expects - gods know that’s why he and Geralt and Gweld would share a bed, back before they were even a pack. “But he’s been sleeping by himself since he got squirrely.”

Eskel is starting to have a sinking suspicion he knows what’s going on. “Before he got squirrely,” he says slowly, “was he sick at all?”

Voltehre gives him a startled look. “Yes, actually. He got really nasty indigestion for three or four days. He’s cranky enough anyway that nobody else noticed, but…when it was just the two of us he’d just curl up in a ball and whine. It was awful.”

“Fuck,” Eskel says fervently. “Geralt? You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Like Gardis,” Geralt bites out, and starts moving faster.

“You know what the problem is?” Voltehre asks, wide-eyed and hopeful.

“I think so,” Eskel says. “We’ll see if I’m right.” He kind of hopes he isn’t, honestly. And if he is, he really hopes Lambert has found a decent cave to hole up in, because they’re going to be there a while.

Geralt leads them around a small knoll, and now, finally, Eskel can smell the scent he’s following. Most of it does, in fact, smell like the hind end of a nekker - how Lambert can bear to reek of it, Eskel has no idea - but the scent under that is rich and sweet, mouthwateringly so.

“Oh hell,” Gweld says softly.

“Yep,” Eskel replies grimly.

Geralt goes leaping up a scree-covered slope like a mountain goat, aiming for the cave Eskel can just make out at the top of it. Eskel skids to a halt. “Voltehre, with him,” he orders. “If anyone’s going to be able to talk Lambert into not trying to kill us all, it’s you. Gweld, with me. We’ll need firewood, and fresh meat if we can get it.”

Gweld nods. Voltehre gives them both a worried look and follows Geralt, taking laudable care not to plummet down the mountainside.

Eskel takes a deep breath and turns to start gathering deadwood.

*

Voltehre makes it to the top of the slope without falling, for which he is duly grateful, and stops next to Geralt, who is peering into the depths of the cave with a worried expression. “Geralt,” he hisses, “what’s going on?”

The three older Wolves clearly know what’s happening, but Voltehre doesn’t, and he’s - well, the Grasses mean he doesn’t panic easily, but he’s getting close. First Lambert gets sick, when they’re not supposed to be susceptible to that sort of thing anymore, and then he gets squirrely, and then he vanishes, and all of it without telling Voltehre anything, when they usually tell each other everything without hesitation -

“Late bloomer, like Gardis,” Geralt says softly.

“I don’t know what that means,” Voltehre says, trying not to sound plaintive and far too young.

Geralt glances over at him, golden eyes oddly sympathetic. “Ah.” He jerks his chin at the cave’s depths. “Lambert’s an omega.”

Voltehre’s jaw drops. “He’s - but -” But Lambert hasn’t got the right bits to be an omega! They’ve been bathing together for years, sharing a bed for almost as long - hell, they’ve gotten each other off almost every night they weren’t too tired (or, in Lambert’s case, too cranky) since they were fifteen! Voltehre would know if Lambert was an omega!

“Late bloomer,” Geralt says again. “Happens sometimes. Our year-mate, Gardis, he was eighteen.”

“Oh,” Voltehre says weakly. That…probably explains the horrible smell, if Lambert was trying not to let anyone find out he’d suddenly switched designation. Hell, Voltehre would probably have tried something similar if he’d suddenly become an omega. He’s very comfortable being a beta, thanks ever so. “So why’s he up here?”

“Because I didn’t want any of the fuckwits in the keep thinking me going into fucking heat meant they could get into my godsdamned pants,” a very familiar and extremely irritated voice answers him, and Lambert steps out of the gloom at the back of the cave, glaring at them both.

“Even me?” Voltehre asks, voice very small.

Lambert hunches his shoulders and looks away. “You’d’ve tried to talk me out of running,” he grumbles. “You’d’ve said I should go to the fuckin’ mages for healing, or something. I’m not sick. I’m just a fucking omega, gods all damn it.”

“I - well, alright, I might have, because I was worried,” Voltehre admits. “But - tell me what to do. Tell me how to help. That’s all I want, I promise.”

Lambert glances up at him, bites his lip, and sighs. “You brought the whole damn pack of ‘em?”

“They brought me,” Voltehre says. “I wouldn’t have found you without them.”

Geralt says quietly, “We want to help. That’s all.”

“Not gonna tell me I need a knot for my own damn good?” Lambert challenges him, bristling.

Geralt shrugs and shakes his head. “Fingers work. Toys if you’ve got ‘em. A knot’s nicer, but not needed.”

Lambert deflates a little. “Oh.”

“It’s good to have company, though,” Geralt adds. “Keep you from dehydrating. Keep you safe.”

“That’s what you’re offering, then?” Lambert asks dubiously.

Geralt shrugs again. “If that’s what you want. We’ll guard your nest or join you in it. Whichever you need.”

“Oh,” Lambert says again. He gives Voltehre a slightly wary glance. “You, too?”

“Whatever you need,” Voltehre pledges.

Lambert’s shoulders sag. “Fuck it,” he says. “Get in here. And those other two fuckers. I don’t know what the fuck I’m even doing, I just - couldn’t be in the damn keep. Didn’t want those bastards sniffing at me.”

Geralt nods like that makes perfect sense. “Thank you,” he says gravely, whistles a quick few notes down the slope, and follows Lambert in, Voltehre almost treading on his heels in haste and worry.

The cave is deeper than it looks, and bends so that the back of it can’t be seen from the outside. Lambert has set up a makeshift camp: a tiny fire, a bedroll, and a small heap of waterskins and a pack of what Voltehre expects is preserved food of various sorts.

Geralt glances around and nods. “Right,” he says, and puts his packs down next to Lambert’s before hunkering down on his heels beside the fire. “You’ve got questions?”

“So fucking many,” Lambert bites out, and collapses onto his bedroll - then looks up at Voltehre, who has hesitated at the curve of the tunnel, and gestures. “Come here.”

Voltehre sits down next to him a little warily, and Lambert promptly wriggles all the way into his lap, sitting between Voltehre’s legs and grabbing Voltehre’s hands, pulling them around to rest on his stomach. “I ache,” he says, wiggling a bit to get comfortable. “Your hands’re always warm.”

Voltehre hides a grin against Lambert’s shoulder, taking the demand as the silent apology it really is. He’s gotten good at understanding what Lambert doesn’t say, these past eight years. He worms his hands under Lambert’s shirts, spreading them out against Lambert’s skin, and tugs Lambert even closer, until they’re pressed together from hips to shoulders, as close as they can get while still dressed. Lambert doesn’t object; in point of fact, he relaxes, letting his weight rest back against Voltehre with a soft sigh.

“Alright,” Lambert says to Geralt. “So I didn’t pay all that much attention to old Barmin waffling on about heats, because I thought I was a fucking beta and there’s not an omega in the world who’d have wanted to invite me into their nest.”

Geralt tilts his head slightly and offers Lambert a tiny smile. “Dunno about that.”

“...What?” Lambert says, baffled. Voltehre is honestly just as confused.

Geralt shrugs. “We weren’t gonna tell you til after you got your medallions. You both smell like pack. We were gonna offer to bring you in.”

“Urk?” Lambert croaks.

“Us?” Voltehre adds, because - them? Sure, Lambert’s an alchemy prodigy and the best swordsman among the trainees, and Voltehre himself is no slouch, but Geralt’s pack is the best of the best, everyone knows that. Twice-Grassed Geralt, almost-mage Eskel, and even-tempered Gweld, widely acknowledged to be the ideal of a witcher beta - and they were going to offer to let Voltehre and Lambert join them?

That’s the sort of thing Voltehre and Lambert didn’t even bother fantasizing about, curled up in a bed together with the covers pulled over their heads and their legs tangled together, whispering about their dreams for the future, once they got their medallions and were Wolves in full.

Sure, the older Wolves smell amazing, but neither Voltehre nor Lambert had assumed that went both ways.

“You,” Geralt confirms. “So. You’d have been invited into my nest. Still are, I guess.”

“Oh,” Lambert says, very weakly.

“We’re honored?” Voltehre offers.

Geralt smiles a little. “Don’t have to choose now. Can’t, before your Trial, anyhow.”

Lambert nods. “Right. Worry about that later.” He takes a deep, shaky breath, and presses back harder against Voltehre. “What’s heat actually like?”

Geralt shrugs. “First one’s the worst, ‘cause you don’t know what’s coming. Even with explanations. But. You’ll be hot.”

“No shit,” Lambert snipes. Geralt snorts. Voltehre nips at Lambert’s earlobe in silent admonition to be a little nicer to the man offering to explain what’s going on, and to his surprise Lambert shudders.

Geralt gives them a wryly sympathetic look. “Gonna be really fucking horny,” he says. “You can think about other things, but it’s hard. Like being drunk on really good Gull. Everything’s fuzzy. And you’ll want. So. Tell us what you’re willing to take now.”

“And then we won’t give you anything more than that,” a soft voice agrees from the cave entrance, and Voltehre jerks upright and looks over to see Eskel and Gweld standing there in the tunnel, laden with firewood, a brace of gutted rabbits hanging from each of their belts. “Can we come in?” Eskel asks gently.

“Oh, get the fuck in here,” Lambert grouses.

They both grin and obey, stacking their firewood neatly to one side and hunkering down next to Geralt near the fire. Gweld starts skinning the rabbits. Eskel gives Lambert a solemn look.

“We mean that,” he says. “It’s your decision. If you don’t want me in your nest - if you don’t want a knot at all this time - tell me now, and I won’t knot you, even if you’re out of your head enough to beg once your heat properly hits.”

“I won’t fucking beg,” Lambert snaps.

Geralt shakes his head. “You might. Takes everyone a little differently.”

“He gets talkative,” Gweld says, jerking a slightly bloody thumb at Geralt, who shrugs and nods. Voltehre gives Gweld an incredulous look. Gweld grins back. “No, I’m serious. He’s loud, too. What you’re like out of heat doesn’t mean much about what you’re like in heat.”

“I,” Lambert says, and hesitates. Voltehre curls around him a little more snugly, trying to offer comfort the only way Lambert is likely to accept it - silently, and with plausible deniability. Finally Lambert sucks in a deep breath and turns to Geralt, jerking a nod in Eskel’s direction. “He any good?” he demands.

Geralt smiles, a real smile, the widest one Voltehre’s ever seen the stoic Wolf wear. “Really damn good,” he says smugly.

Lambert swallows hard and turns to Eskel and Gweld. “He said you were gonna offer to bring us into your pack,” he says. Voltehre suspects none of the older Wolves can tell that Lambert is trembling slightly - Voltehre himself can only tell because he’s pressed so close.

“We were, yes,” Eskel agrees.

“Still will, after all this is over, unless you tell us to fuck off,” Gweld adds.

“Then I guess I’d better get used to being fucked,” Lambert says, voice wavering only a little. Voltehre holds him tighter.

All three of the older Wolves shake their heads. “Wrong,” Geralt says firmly.

“We do what you want,” Eskel adds. “Not what you think we expect.”

Lambert swallows again and turns his head to look at Voltehre. His voice is a tiny breath of sound, quiet enough that even the other Wolves might not hear. “I dunno what the fuck to do,” he whispers.

Voltehre takes a deep breath and tugs at Lambert until they’re both lying down, tangled together, then squirms until he can pull one of Lambert’s blankets up and over their heads, covering them both in slightly musty darkness. It’s not quite like being in their bed after curfew, but it’s as close as he can get. Outside their huddle, the older Wolves stay silent, thank goodness, not even asking what the hell Voltehre is doing.

He pulls Lambert close, nestling together like two spoons in a drawer, and murmurs in Lambert’s ear.

“If you could have anything in the world,” he breathes, the words that start so many of their late-night fantasies about a kinder world, one where they wouldn’t have cats’ eyes and too many bruises and a future that’s likely to be short and bloody and unpleasant, “anything at all - what would you have?”

Lambert takes a deep, shaky breath, then another. “I want everything,” he admits, so quietly Voltehre can barely hear it. “I didn’t even dream of it, but fuck, honey, I want everything they’ll give me. Everything you’ll give me.” He swallows. “Want you to be first.”

Voltehre bites back a startled whimper. Oh, holy gods.

“Anything you want,” he murmurs back, kissing the soft skin behind Lambert’s ear. “We’ll see you through.”

Lambert squirms abruptly, turning around until they’re facing each other, his breath hot against Voltehre’s lips. “Do you want that?”

“Fuck,” Voltehre says helplessly. Does he want to be the first person to share Lambert’s heat, the first to know what it’s like to fuck his prickly, brilliant friend? “Of course I do.”

“Oh,” Lambert says. “Well. Alright then.”

And leans in to kiss Voltehre, very softly, before sitting up and batting the blanket aside. “I want you to fuck me through my heat,” he says, fierce and almost angry, to the three older Wolves. “And I expect you to make it good.”

Gweld chuckles. Geralt smiles. Eskel just nods, slow and solemn, and says, “We will.”

*

“First things first,” Gweld says, as he spits the rabbits to go over the fire, “you should probably find a spring and scrub whatever that stink is off you before the storm hits. It’s not that we won’t fuck you if you smell like nekker shit, but I can’t imagine you want to smell that for your whole heat.”

“Uh. That’s…a good point,” Lambert says reluctantly, and gets up. “Spring’s around the corner.”

“I’ll come with you,” Voltehre says, rolling to his feet. “Some of it got on me, too. Did you have to make it quite that foul, Lam?”

They go off together, bickering cheerfully, and Eskel takes a deep breath and scrubs his hands over his face. He was not expecting to be given the privilege and responsibility of seeing another omega through their first heat - much less another omega who has the potential to become pack.

He wants to, of course he wants to, but it’s a little nerve-wracking all the same.

Geralt pads over and sits down directly in Eskel’s lap, looping his arms around Eskel’s neck and rubbing their noses together. “Gonna be fine,” he says quietly.

“I remember how much trouble Gardis had adjusting,” Eskel sighs. “I don’t want Lambert to regret this once his heat has passed.”

“He won’t,” Gweld says.

“You can’t know that.”

“Sure I can. That lad knows his own mind, and he told us what he wants. He’s not in heat yet. If he didn’t want you to knot him, he’d have said as much. Probably threatened to cut it off if you tried, too.”

Eskel pauses with his mouth open to retort, considers that, and huffs a soft laugh. “Alright, you’ve got me there. Lambert is not the type to suffer in silence. Or to put up with anything that doesn’t please him.”

“Good thing you like your omegas a little pushy,” Gweld says, grinning.

Geralt snickers, kisses Eskel softly but thoroughly, and gets up. “Coats off,” he orders. “Gonna start a proper nest.”

Eskel nods and shrugs out of his coat; with five people and a fire in this little cave, it will be plenty warm enough, even once they’re naked and the storm is raging outside. Gweld does the same, handing it over to Geralt, and then puts the rabbits over the fire and goes padding out to find the spring and wash his hands. Eskel sits back, watching Geralt turn their coats and Lambert’s blankets into a much more respectable nest, and hopes Gweld is right.

He probably is. He usually is, about people at least. Not about alchemy - he’s genuinely terrible at alchemy - but about people, yes.

Gweld and Lambert and Voltehre all come back together, jostling and bantering, and then stop in the entrance when Lambert stumbles to a halt and stares at Geralt and the newly-built nest. “How the fuck did you do that?”

“Practice,” Geralt says wryly. “My first one fell apart as soon as Eskel got in.”

“That was awkward,” Eskel agrees. “Thankfully it was on our bed, so it didn’t actually stop us from fucking, but it was a bit of a mess.”

“I’ll teach you,” Geralt adds. “Next time.”

Lambert looks a little boggled at that next time, but he nods. “Uh. Thanks,” he says, and pads over - he’s wearing his stockings and carrying his boots, and his hair and clothes are damp. He smells much less like nekker shit, and much more mouthwateringly sweet and rich.

He sets his boots down carefully off to the side and turns to look at the rest of them, hands flexing and clenching with nerves. Eskel rises slowly to his feet. Lambert’s not going to be a small man when he’s finished growing, but he’s smaller than Eskel - most people are - and Eskel doesn’t want to loom. Doesn’t want to make Lambert uncomfortable.

“You’re sure?” he asks gently.

“If you keep asking that I’m gonna start thinking you’re just here out of fucking pity,” Lambert spits.

Ah. Eskel shakes his head and reaches down to run a hand over the bulge of his codpiece. “Does this look like pity to you? You smell mouthwatering. But I don’t want you to regret this when your heat is done.”

Lambert’s eyes stay locked to Eskel’s crotch for a very long moment, his mouth hanging open just a little. “I smell good?” he asks, in a very small voice.

“Yes,” Eskel says simply.

“Very good,” Gweld agrees.

“Delicious,” Geralt confirms.

“You always smell good,” Voltehre says. “Except when you douse yourself in nekker shit.”

“It wasn’t fucking nekker shit,” Lambert grumbles. “Uh.” He swallows. “I…don’t know what to do.” It looks like the admission cost him a lot to say aloud.

Eskel takes a deep breath and holds out a hand. “Do you trust me? Trust us?”

“I would’ve stabbed you already if I didn’t,” Lambert snaps. Voltehre sidles over and presses himself against Lambert’s side, and Lambert calms visibly. Eskel is going to have to praise the young beta later - he’s doing beautifully at keeping his omega on an even keel. But right now, Eskel needs to be focused on Lambert, who, thank fuck, says, “Yes, I fucking trust you.”

“Come here, then,” Eskel invites. “Both of you.”

They move in very good unison, the same way Geralt and Gweld do when they fight side by side, approaching only a little warily. Eskel waits until they’re well within arm’s reach to put a hand on Lambert’s waist and reel him in, so Lambert is tucked against him with Voltehre pressed against the prickly young omega’s back.

“Deep breaths,” Eskel advises Lambert softly. “This close to heat, if you like my scent, it’ll help calm you down.”

Lambert gives him a brief glare. “Of course I like your fucking scent, who the hell wouldn’t?” he demands, and buries his nose against Eskel’s throat, breath hot against the scent gland as he breathes in deeply. He sags, trusting most of his weight to Eskel, and breathes out in a long slow sigh.

Voltehre smiles and nuzzles at the back of Lambert’s neck. “That’s better, yeah?” he whispers.

“Yeah,” Lambert murmurs.

Eskel smiles and lifts his free hand to touch Voltehre’s chin, tilting the young beta’s head up a little so Voltehre can meet his eyes. “How do you want to work this?” he asks. “Just focus on Lambert? Or are we allowed to touch you, too?”

Voltehre’s eyes go wide. “You’d want to?” he asks, voice breaking slightly in the middle of the question.

“Yes, of course. It isn’t only Lambert we want for our pack, you know. Or in our bed.”

“Oh,” Voltehre says. “Um. You. You can touch me, yeah.”

Eskel nods. “You won’t be half out of your head with heat,” he says. “So tell us, if you don’t like something - or if you think it’s something Lambert wouldn’t like, once his heat is over.”

“That’s one of our duties,” Gweld puts in quietly. “Us betas. Looking out for our omegas, when they can’t watch their own backs for a little while.”

Geralt nods solemnly.

“I will,” Voltehre promises. “And I - you all smell really, really good.” He looks very sheepish. “Um.”

Eskel grins. “So do you.” Voltehre’s scent is light and sweet, a nice counterpoint to Lambert’s richness. “Can I kiss you?”

“Yes?” Voltehre says, voice squeaking a little. Eskel chuckles. So does Lambert, who lifts his head slightly from the crook of Eskel’s neck, turning so he can watch as Voltehre leans forward, squishing Lambert between them. Eskel leans forward, too, and their lips meet in a chaste, careful kiss.

“Pretty,” Lambert mumbles.

“Yeah, it is,” Gweld agrees. Geralt hums approvingly.

“And can I kiss you?” Eskel asks Lambert softly.

“You’d fuckin’ better,” Lambert grumbles, and straightens from his comfortable slump. Eskel grins and slides his hand up to cradle the back of Lambert’s head, scratching his fingers gently through the short-cropped dark hair, and kisses Lambert sweet and soft and easy.

Lambert melts, Voltehre and Eskel taking almost all of his weight. Eskel’s prick throbs in the suddenly too-tight confines of his codpiece. Fuck, if that’s how Lambert will be in his heat - fierce little Lambert going soft and pliant and eager under him - Eskel isn’t sure how he’s going to make it all the way until the lads have passed their Medallion Trial to claim them for his pack.

Lambert’s scent deepens again, growing richer and thicker on the back of Eskel’s tongue. Full heat isn’t that far away - less than a quarter of an hour, if Eskel is any judge. Maybe much less.

Lambert blinks dazedly up at him as Eskel leans back. “Fuck.”

“That’s really pretty,” Voltehre murmurs. “Damn.”

Eskel grins at both of them. “Shall we move this to the nest?”

“Fuck yes,” Lambert says, standing up straight again and starting to yank at his tunic laces. “Come on, clothes off, I want Geralt to show me how to make ‘em all part of my nest.”

Eskel laughs and obeys. Yes. This is going to be fine.

*

Lambert isn’t entirely sure what he’s doing, but going on instinct and sheer horniness has gotten him kissed by Eskel and Voltehre is a solid warm presence at his back, radiating safety, and there’s a nest waiting for him and the whole little cave smells like the only pack of Wolves he really considers worth any respect at all - worth a hell of a lot of horny daydreams, too, which he never thought would come to anything but hey, here he is, apparently he’s a fucking omega and his lover and his heroes are going to fuck him through his first heat.

There’s a non-zero chance he’s fallen down the mountain and hit his head and is hallucinating as he dies, but if that’s the case then he’ll fucking well take the hallucinations and hope he at least gets to get fucked before blood loss kills him.

He yanks his tunic off and kicks out of his pants and is hopping on one foot trying to get his stockings off, rather flattered by the speed at which everyone else is also undressing, when he realizes that his conversation with Voltehre earlier was maybe not quite loud enough for the other Wolves to hear. He stops with one stocking on and one dangling from his hand, swallows hard, and says, “Voltehre first, alright? I - I want Voltehre first.”

And thank fuck, none of the older Wolves so much as bats an eye. “Good choice,” Gweld says, giving him an approving little nod.

“Smart,” Geralt agrees.

“Very sensible; best to start with someone familiar,” Eskel says, also nodding.

“Um,” Voltehre says faintly. “I. I mean, yes, of course I want to, but - uh - Lam, I don’t know what to do!”

Which…is fair, Lambert has to admit. They’ve explored the myriad possibilities of hands and mouths and thighs and simple rutting against each other, but actual fucking when both parties are betas involves the sort of time and privacy and preparation they honestly really haven’t had. It was - well, Lambert was assuming that after they got their medallions, they’d be able to get a room of their own, just the two of them, and then they could figure out fucking, during the long winter nights while they waited for their turn to go out on the Path. He’s made plans for the sorts of slick he’s going to brew up, having pestered old Luca into showing him the more extracurricular book of recipes he keeps around.

None of those plans involved being an omega and getting fucked without any slick except what he’s going to generate for himself. Which. That’s going to be very strange.

“We’ll help,” Gweld says easily. “Don’t worry. It’s honestly not as hard as you’re worrying it’ll be.”

Geralt snorts and grins. “Better be reasonably hard,” he says dryly, and Lambert gapes at him.

“Since when do you tell dirty jokes?”

Eskel chuckles. “Oh, he’s got a terrible sense of humor. Just doesn’t let it out much except around pack.”

“Oh,” Lambert says, feeling vaguely flattered. “Uh. Well, alright then.” He gives Voltehre what he suspects is a slightly shaky grin. “You’re good at following directions.”

“Better than you are,” Voltehre retorts, smiling shakily back, and steps forward, shirtless and with his trousers hanging unlaced off his hips, to cup Lambert’s face in his hands and kiss him gently. “Alright. I’ll - I’ll do my best.”

“Your best’s always pretty damn good, honey,” Lambert whispers. Voltehre’s sweet, pleased smile is more than worth knowing that the older Wolves doubtless heard Lambert being something other than a complete prick.

Sure enough, all three of them are smiling at him when he turns back around. “What?” Lambert grumbles as he gets his other stocking off.

“You two balance each other very well,” Eskel says mildly. “You should get in the nest first, Lambert. Make sure it’s comfortable, and make it smell like you. And -” he sniffs the air and gives Lambert a wry smile. “Probably quickly. You’re getting very close to full heat.”

Ordinarily Lambert would, in fact, bristle at being given even very gentle orders, but his skin is all prickly like he’s got goosebumps, and he’s overwarm even though he’s naked, and there’s something odd and shivery going on in the pit of his stomach, and the scent of the three older Wolves and Voltehre is making his mouth water even more than it usually would. So maybe Eskel has something of a point.

He eyes the nest. It looks…pretty sturdy, actually. Especially with Geralt quietly and apparently contentedly adding all of the clothing he and Gweld have taken off to the edges of it, rolling up tunics and trousers to make a sort of bulwark that he tucks under the spread-out coats and blankets. Lambert doesn’t want to mess it up.

“How do I get in without - uh - breaking it?” he asks.

Geralt looks up and smiles at him. “Just step in. Sturdier than you think.”

“Alright,” Lambert says, and steps warily into the center of the nest, then folds down to sit - and then to sprawl, the soft fur of the coats feeling fucking amazing on his oversensitive skin. “Fuck, this is great.”

Geralt chuckles. “Good.”

“You’re teaching me how to do this once my heat’s over,” Lambert informs him, and looks up at Voltehre, who is still wearing his trousers. “Come on, give your kit to Geralt and get in here.”

Voltehre startles and grins, then finishes stripping with hasty inelegance and almost trips over the edge of the nest as he scrambles in. He flops down next to Lambert, bracing himself on an elbow and grinning. “You look relaxed.”

“It’s fucking comfortable,” Lambert grumbles without any actual bite. “Come and kiss me.” He wants more kisses, and he’s about to be in heat, which according to the older Wolves means he should get what he wants.

“Yes, Lam,” Voltehre whispers, and leans down.

This, at least, Lambert knows how to do; they’ve gotten plenty of practice over the last two or three years. He laces the fingers of one hand through Voltehre’s messy golden curls and opens his mouth to Voltehre’s probing tongue, and lets himself forget, for just a moment, everything but the kiss.

Voltehre’s weight is a familiar comfort, and Lambert lets his legs fall open, cradling Voltehre between them and arching his hips up as their pricks rub together. Voltehre moans softly against his lips.

And then a wave of heat and lust rises up from the back of Lambert’s mind, and all he can think is that he wants.

*

Voltehre makes a startled sound as Lambert’s grip on his hair and shoulder tightens and Lambert whimpers desperately into the kiss, his hips juddering up against Voltehre’s weight. Lambert’s scent has gotten much richer all of a sudden; it fills Voltehre’s senses, making him feel almost drunk himself.

“Ah, there we go,” someone murmurs. Voltehre raises his head to find that the three older Wolves are waiting just outside the nest. Geralt gives them a small, sympathetic smile. “Lambert, may we join you?”

“Get in here,” Lambert pants, and hauls Voltehre back down into another kiss.

Three more bodies settle beside them: Gweld on one side, Geralt on the other, and Eskel tucked up behind Geralt, all of them watching but not quite touching. Lambert is shuddering under Voltehre, tiny desperate whines falling from his lips.

“Give him your leg to rub against - he’ll feel better after the first peak,” Gweld murmurs. Voltehre nods as best he can and shifts so that one of his legs is pressed firmly against Lambert’s prick - and the slickness below it, which is new and strange - and Lambert makes a hoarse, hungry sound and claws at Voltehre’s shoulder and arches up, thrusting against Voltehre’s thigh without any rhythm at all until suddenly he goes tense and then sags back against the nest, gasping for breath against Voltehre’s lips. The salty smell of spend spreads through the air, and Voltehre can feel the wetness against his hip.

“Better?” he asks softly.

Lambert blinks dazedly up at him. “Yeah. Fuck. ‘S good.” He shudders again. “Come on. Fuck me.”

Voltehre nods and swallows. He has to do this right. Lambert is trusting him - trusting him to be first. He sits back on his heels; Lambert whines softly at the loss of Voltehre’s weight, but Geralt leans in at once and claims his lips in a shockingly gentle kiss. Lambert tangles a hand in Geralt’s hair and clings.

Voltehre traces a hand down Lambert’s familiar chest and stomach - he knows every curve and scar, has kissed each one many times ere now - and over his equally familiar prick to the new bits, down between Lambert’s legs, the slick folds that Lambert didn’t have three weeks ago. No wonder he was as mad as a wet archgriffin; it must have hurt like hell, having his bits shift around like that.

Lambert shivers at the gentle stroke of Voltehre’s fingers. Gweld gives Voltehre a cheerful smile. “Good,” he says encouragingly. “Start with one. He’s nice and wet already.”

Voltehre nods and bites his lip and does as he’s told, sliding a single finger very carefully between those new, slick folds and into the tight heat of a very new part of Lambert’s body. Lambert gasps into Geralt’s kiss.

“Slow and easy,” Gweld says softly. Voltehre nods again. Slow and easy - he can do that. And Lambert’s body wants this - opens for Voltehre’s tentatively probing fingers with startling ease, without any sign of pain at all. Lambert’s hips hitch up against Voltehre’s touch and he gasps and whines and shudders, and his still-hard prick twitches hard against his stomach - all the signs Voltehre has learned to read as being good, just…a little different now.

“Come on,” Lambert demands at last, pulling his mouth away from Geralt’s for just long enough to speak. Voltehre swallows hard and shuffles carefully into place, Lambert’s legs spread wide around Voltehre’s hips.

He bites his lip hard enough to draw blood as his prick sinks into Lambert for the very first time. It’s so good: hot, and wet, and tight, and Lambert arching up against him eagerly, making delicious noises of desperate hunger. Everything Voltehre has ever dreamed their first time might be like, just…slightly shifted.

For one thing, he didn’t anticipate having three other people watching him learn how to fuck. It’s a little nerve-wracking.

He clings to Lambert’s hips and his own composure with white-knuckled hands, and starts to move, jerky and unpracticed at first, determined that Lambert will peak before he does. That he’ll do this right, by all the gods.

It’s Eskel who reaches over Geralt and curls a big hand around Lambert’s prick, stroking in counterpoint to Voltehre’s thrusts, and thank fuck, that’s enough to bring Lambert over in not very long at all. His cunt ripples around Voltehre’s prick, and Voltehre can’t help the cry he lets out, nor the way he presses deep and spills without any warning at all.

He almost topples forward; Gweld catches him, supporting him long enough for Voltehre to steal a kiss from Lambert, who looks dazed and pleased, flushed and panting and so beautiful it takes Voltehre’s breath away; and then Gweld helps Voltehre tumble to the side, curling around him and stroking his hip gently.

“Well done,” he murmurs in Voltehre’s ear. “Better than I did, my first time. I came before I was even all the way in Geralt, and he wasn’t even in heat.” He coaxes Voltehre to turn his head a little, and cranes his own neck to kiss the blood from Voltehre’s lips and teeth. “Well done,” he says again as their lips part.

Voltehre swallows and nods and lets himself relax against the other beta, feeling small and young and safe cradled in Gweld’s arms, Gweld’s broad chest against his back and his breath hot against Voltehre’s hair.

Lambert’s head lolls to the side, and he gives Voltehre a sweet, dazed grin. “‘S good,” he says, sounding half-drunk. “Always so good to me, honey.”

Voltehre smiles back. “Always,” he promises.

Lambert’s smile widens, and then he shivers, and his scent sweetens again. “Need more,” he says plaintively.

And Eskel rises to his knees, shuffling around until he’s beside Lambert, and grins down at the young omega.

Voltehre swallows hard. It’s the first time he’s seen Eskel properly hard, and it’s -

“Will that even fit?” he squeaks.

Eskel grins at him. “Yes,” he says. “I won’t hurt him.” He reaches down and catches one of Lambert’s hands, guiding it down to his prick; Lambert’s fingers only barely meet around its girth. Lambert’s jaw drops.

“Want that in me,” he says hoarsely.

“Soon,” Eskel says soothingly. “Up on your knees; it’s easier for the first time you take a knot.”

“Much,” Geralt agrees.

Lambert struggles up onto his knees, Geralt helping him stay balanced, and turns, Eskel’s hands on his hips guiding him, to go down on his elbows. Voltehre can’t decide whether to stare at Lambert, presenting so perfectly, skin gleaming in the firelight, or at Eskel’s astonishing prick.

“Now you know why we call him the Dragon,” Gweld murmurs in his ear.

“I thought that was a joke about his Igni,” Voltehre says weakly.

“It is,” Eskel says, shooting him a wicked grin. “Just not only about the Igni.”

Lambert makes an astonishing sound, a sort of shuddery moan, and his elbows give out, leaving him panting facedown into the fur coats of the nest. Voltehre blinks and realizes that Eskel has slid one hand between Lambert’s legs and has at least one finger buried in Lambert’s cunt -

Not one, three, he sees as Eskel draws his hand almost all the way out and eases it in again, wringing another of those gorgeous shuddering moans from Lambert’s throat.

“Nice and wet,” Eskel says approvingly. “You did well, Voltehre.”

“Good?” Voltehre says faintly. The praise does something to him, makes him go all shuddery and weak against Gweld’s chest.

“Gonna be so pretty, watching your prickly pup take our alpha,” Gweld murmurs in his ear. And he probably means ‘ours’ as in his and Geralt’s, but it sounds like he means Voltehre’s, too - Voltehre’s and Lambert’s - like they’re really part of the pack already.

“Please,” Lambert gasps, and Eskel draws his hand away and strokes his slick hand over his prick and shuffles forward, somehow graceful even on his knees, to slot the head of his prick between Lambert’s trembling thighs.

Lambert manages to turn his head, though it looks like it takes enormous effort, and meets Voltehre’s eyes. His pupils are so wide that Voltehre can barely see any yellow around the edges, and his cheeks are flushed apple-red, and he’s panting, open-mouthed and desperate.

“There we go,” Eskel murmurs, and his hips ease forward.

Lambert’s eyes roll back and he melts against the nest, all the tension draining from his back and shoulders, until he’s clearly held on his knees only by Eskel’s big hands wrapped around his hips. “Fuck, yes,” he gasps.

“It’s good?” Voltehre asks quietly.

“So good,” Lambert says, and then moans, thin and wavering, and Voltehre looks to see that Eskel’s hips have come to rest snug against Lambert’s ass. Eskel lets go of Lambert with one hand to stroke his back gently.

“Well done,” he says. “That’s all of it.”

“Except the knot,” Geralt says. Eskel snorts.

“All of it except the knot, yes,” he agrees. “Doing alright?”

“‘S gooood,” Lambert croons. He looks utterly blissful, all his usual bristling and snarling wiped away by pleasure. It’s beautiful.

“Ready for me to move?” Eskel purrs.

“Yesssss,” Lambert says, and then his eyes fall shut and he makes the most gorgeous little warbling whimpering sound as Eskel draws back and thrusts in again with a sinuous, graceful motion of his hips.

“Fucking hell,” Voltehre whispers.

Gweld chuckles softly. “Gorgeous, just like I thought it would be,” he says, and his hand slides from Voltehre’s hip to curl around Voltehre’s prick, which is most definitely hard again. “May I?”

“Yes, please,” Voltehre says, a little desperately. Gweld chuckles and wriggles a little closer, and Voltehre can feel his prick trapped hot against the small of Voltehre’s back -

“You can - between my legs?” he offers hesitantly.

“Oh, you sweet thing,” Gweld murmurs, and shifts, pulling his hips back and coaxing Voltehre’s legs apart just long enough to slot his prick between them, then curling around Voltehre and getting his hand back on Voltehre’s prick. He moves hips and hand in perfect unison, mirroring Eskel’s long, unhurried strokes, and Voltehre reaches out to clasp one of Lambert’s trembling hands and cling. Lambert’s grip is shaky, but he holds on as tightly as he can, and the sounds falling from his open mouth are beautiful desperate moans as he shakes apart under Eskel’s patient rhythm.

Somewhere on Lambert’s other side, Geralt is touching himself, too; Voltehre can hear the slick sounds of his fingers working between his legs, and catch tiny glimpses now and then. Under other circumstances he would rather like to stare, but just now even the White Wolf at his pleasure cannot hold a candle to Lambert falling to pieces in ecstasy.

Lambert comes without anyone touching his prick, a shuddering wave of pleasure that makes Eskel grunt and break his rhythm for just a moment as he clearly tries not to follow Lambert over. Voltehre is rather impressed he doesn’t, actually. Gods know Voltehre couldn’t hold out. Though Eskel does admittedly have a lot more experience at this sort of thing.

“Good,” Eskel rasps as he starts moving again. “That’s perfect, Lam. Want you to feel good.”

“‘Ess,” Lambert slurs, mouth slack with pleasure. “Want. Knot.”

“Peak for us again, and I’ll give it to you,” Eskel murmurs. “One more, to wear you out properly, hm?”

Lambert shudders and moans, and Geralt eels around somehow to stick his head under Lambert and let Eskel’s steady thrusts push Lambert’s prick into his open mouth. Lambert makes a sound like a strangled howl, and his hand tightens on Voltehre’s, and he peaks without any warning at all, trembling like an aspen in a high wind.

Geralt swallows every bit of it before he wriggles away, and only then does Eskel growl, a deep reverberating sound that fills the cave and echoes from the stone walls, and curl forward over Lambert, and go still, his hips pressed tight to Lambert’s ass.

Lambert’s eyes go wide and he shoves himself back against Eskel and howls, a long wavering yell of pleasure and triumph and satisfaction.

Gweld makes a low sound against the back of Voltehre’s neck and tightens his grip and adds a twist to his next stroke, and Voltehre makes an undignified, startled noise of his own as his second peak is wrung out of him. It takes him harder than he expected it to; he’s dazed with the pleasure of it, with the scent of Lambert’s heat all around them, with the sight of Lambert caught beneath Eskel and so clearly loving every moment of it.

Gweld makes another low, satisfied sound, and his hips buck against Voltehre’s, and Voltehre has just the presence of mind to press his legs tighter together as Gweld comes, spend spilling sticky-hot over Voltehre’s thighs.

Somewhere on Lambert’s other side, Geralt lets out a soft, pleased sigh.

Slowly, Eskel lowers himself and Lambert down onto their sides, so that Lambert is facing Voltehre with Eskel curled around him. “There we go, Lam,” he murmurs, stroking Lambert’s side and hip gently. “Rest a bit, hm?”

Lambert gives Voltehre a small, shockingly sweet smile and closes his eyes. “Yeah,” he says vaguely. “Mm. Big.”

Eskel chuckles. “I am, yes. And you took me very well.”

Lambert looks distinctly smug.

“And you look damn pretty caught on his knot, too,” Gweld puts in, and kisses the back of Voltehre’s shoulder. “Geralt, can you get those rabbits before they burn?”

Geralt rises, a long pale vision in the firelight, and steps gracefully out of the nest, though he gives Gweld a sardonic look. “Letting me help with the cooking?”

“Taking it off the fire isn’t cooking,” Gweld says, chuckling. “And I’d do it, but I have a very sweet armful and I’m not letting go.” He kisses the back of Voltehre’s neck and nuzzles contentedly at his hair, rumbling softly deep in his chest.

Geralt snorts. Voltehre can feel himself blushing.

“Unless you want me to?” Gweld checks softly.

Voltehre blushes harder. “Um. No,” he says, leaning back against Gweld’s chest a little more comfortably. “This is nice.”

“So it is,” Gweld agrees. “And you’re doing very well, too, you know. First heat’s pretty scary even if you know it’s coming, like we did. Going in cold and still keeping your wits about you is pretty damn impressive, lad.”

“It is?” Voltehre says, wincing when his voice cracks a little.

“Yes,” Geralt says, setting the cooked rabbits carefully off to the side. “Quick learner. Good self control.” He steps back into the nest and settles down cross-legged on Eskel’s other side. “Want to learn something else?”

“...What?” Voltehre asks, not sure if he should be excited or slightly scared.

“There’s nothing quite like peaking while you’re on a knot,” Geralt says, smiling slightly. “Come on, Esk’.”

Eskel chuckles and gathers Lambert against his chest, then rolls carefully onto his back, bringing Lambert with him so Lambert is sprawled out atop him, splayed out like a sacrifice on some very strange altar. Lambert whimpers but doesn’t object.

Geralt beckons Voltehre. “C’mere.”

Voltehre swallows hard and pulls reluctantly away from Gweld, who pats his hip gently and lets him go. He ends up kneeling on Eskel’s other side, looking down at Lambert, whose head is lolling back against Eskel’s shoulder as he pants softly. His prick is somehow still hard, and his…his cunt is spread so wide around Eskel’s thick knot, it doesn’t look like it could possibly be real.

“Like this,” Geralt says, and shifts so he can lean down and lick a stripe from the base of Eskel’s prick up over the slick folds of Lambert’s cunt and up his prick. Lambert yelps and jolts, and Eskel wraps his arms around him and holds him steady.

“Oh fuck,” Voltehre says faintly. “Lam? Can I?”

“Do it,” Lambert gasps. “Oh, fuck.”

Voltehre scrambles around until he can kneel between Eskel’s legs - Eskel obligingly spreads them apart, which spreads Lambert wider, caught helpless on Eskel’s knot and whimpering for it -

They taste like salty spend and something much sweeter that must be Lambert’s slick, and Voltehre knows there’s no finesse to his half-desperate licking but he must be doing something right because Lambert is whining, high and frantic, and his prick is twitching with every stroke of Voltehre’s tongue over his folds, and Eskel is growling deep in his chest, hips twitching in abortive little thrusts that make Lambert moan between the whines.

“Slow,” Geralt says, stroking a hand down Voltehre’s back in a soft, steady rhythm, and Voltehre slows, leans into the gentle caress and starts to move in time with Geralt’s hand, licking up over the base of Eskel’s prick and the thin tender skin of Lambert’s entrance stretched around it, up further through the slick-sticky folds and up the underside of Lambert’s prick until he can catch the tip of it in a sucking, careful kiss that makes Lambert gasp his name in broken syllables.

It doesn’t take more than half a dozen repetitions before Lambert tenses and whimpers and peaks, prick spilling weakly against his stomach and cunt clenching around Eskel’s knot. “Fuck,” he gasps. “Oh, fuck, Voltehre.”

Voltehre sits back on his heels, licking his lips, and looks at Lambert spread out and wrecked beneath him, flushed with heat and pleasure, looking like something out of a very good dream indeed.

“Well done,” Gweld says thoughtfully from off to one side. “Quick learner, indeed.”

Geralt chuckles. Eskel grins and nuzzles at Lambert’s hair. “Very quick,” he agrees. “Want another one, Lam? Or nap a bit until the next wave hits?”

Lambert makes a muzzy, incoherent little noise and flails a hand vaguely in Voltehre’s direction. Voltehre catches it. “Nap,” Lambert decides. “Wi’ Voltehre.”

“Of course,” Eskel agrees, and it takes a little squirming, but they end up with Eskel and Lambert on their sides again, and Voltehre on his back with Lambert’s arm and leg draped over him, holding him close.

“We’ll clean up a bit,” Gweld says gently. “You lot rest. You’ve earned it.”

Voltehre gives him a grateful smile, snuggles closer to Lambert, and closes his eyes.

*

Eskel dozes a bit as Gweld and Geralt move around, wiping all of them a little cleaner and mending any bits of the nest that have fallen apart. Lambert is a sweet warmth around his knot and tucked against his chest, and Voltehre looks absolutely adorable wrapped in Lambert’s arms like a child’s comfort object and clearly delighted to be there. They’re good for each other: Lambert’s ferocity mellowed by Voltehre’s sweetness, Voltehre’s hesitance made bolder by Lambert’s example.

As surprise first heats in the middle of the wilderness without any chance to prepare go, this one is going quite well indeed.

Eskel wakes properly when Geralt comes back into the cave, having evidently stepped out for a moment; his hair and skin are dusted with snow. “Wind’s howling,” he says quietly.

“Storm’s hit, then?” Gweld asks wryly.

Geralt nods. “Can’t see more than about ten feet.”

“Guess we’re here for the duration.” Gweld sits back on his heels from where he’s been dismantling the cooked rabbits. “Gotta say, as places to have a wilderness heat in a storm go, this is pretty damn nice.”

Eskel chuckles at hearing his earlier thought echoed, and then grimaces slightly as his knot finally goes down and his softened prick slips out of Lambert’s cunt with a squelching sound. Lambert makes a faint whining noise and cuddles closer to Voltehre, who instinctively replies with a soft soothing sound and a nuzzle against Lambert’s hair that makes him go limp with sleep again.

“Gods, they’re so sweet together,” Gweld murmurs.

Eskel gets up, careful not to jostle them, and wipes himself clean-ish with someone’s shirt before he joins his packmates by the fire. “So sweet,” he agrees, as Geralt settles beside him, resting his head on Eskel’s shoulder. “I know we’d all agreed we were going to offer them a place after their Trial, but - they’re ours now, aren’t they?”

“Mm,” Geralt agrees, nodding.

“Can’t be official,” Gweld points out. “Rennes would throw a fit, and nobody’d back us.”

Eskel grimaces. “I know. But -”

Gweld shrugs and nods. “Oh, you’re right.” He glances over at the young Wolves in the nest, and his smile goes soft and fond. “I wanted them anyway, but after having had ‘em like this there’s no way I’m giving them up, not unless they decide they don’t want to be ours.”

Geralt nods. “They’re pack,” he says. “Even if we have to wait a year to tell.”

There’s a soft sound from the nest, and they all look over to see Voltehre watching them with slightly hazy eyes, one arm wrapped around Lambert, who has his face buried against Voltehre’s throat. “Why?” Voltehre asks quietly. “Why us?”

Eskel glances at Gweld and Geralt, then meets Voltehre’s eyes squarely. “It would be easy to say it was because Lambert’s an alchemy prodigy and you have an eidetic memory,” he admits. “Or even just because your scents mesh perfectly with ours. And those are part of it, sure. But the rest of it is just - you. Your sweetness and Lambert’s ferocity both. Your devotion to each other. The way you fit so well together, and the hope that you might fit that well with us, too. That’s why we want you.”

“Oh,” Voltehre says wonderingly.

“Should we ask why you’d want us?” Gweld lilts, grinning.

“Who wouldn’t?” Voltehre blurts.

Gweld chuckles fondly. “Oh, there’ve been a fair few people who’ve said they’d never want any part of us. Geralt’s too taciturn, I’m too puppyish.” He slants a wicked grin across the fire. “Eskel’s prick’s too big.”

“Bullshit,” Lambert mutters, not raising his head from Voltehre’s throat. “‘S perfect.”

Eskel can feel himself blushing a little. “Glad you think so.”

Geralt chuckles and gets up, collecting a pair of waterskins and most of a rabbit, and pads into the nest to kneel down beside the lads. “Need to drink,” he says. “Heat takes it out of you. And should eat, if you can.”

Lambert grumbles at being moved, but doesn’t actually protest, and ends up sitting slumped back against Geralt’s chest, sipping from the waterskin Geralt holds to his lips. Voltehre, the sweet lad, sits up and drains most of the other waterskin and starts eating - one bite for himself, and one bite torn off and held out to Lambert, who takes the food from his fingers like a baby bird. Eskel suspects he wouldn’t have eaten for any other reason than that it’s Voltehre offering. Most omegas are deeply uninterested in food during their heats. But Eskel would also have some trouble not eating if it was Voltehre holding out a bit of rabbit with such hope and affection in his eyes.

For that matter, he can’t help taking the rabbit Gweld holds out to him, and devouring it bones and all while Gweld takes half of another. Heat takes it out of the alpha, too.

They manage to finish off most of the rabbits like that, and then Geralt nuzzles at Lambert’s throat and murmurs, “May I clean you up?”

“Sure?” Lambert says, sounding a little confused. Eskel smirks to himself. He knows what Geralt means.

And sure enough, Geralt maneuvers Lambert flat onto his back, flops down on his belly, lifts Lambert’s legs onto his shoulders, and dives open-mouthed and ravenous for Lambert’s cunt and prick.

Lambert makes a gorgeous noise of mingled shock and arousal, and grabs at Geralt’s hair with one hand and Voltehre with the other.

Voltehre, after a moment of astonishment, obligingly curls down to kiss the slightly frantic moans from Lambert’s lips, stroking Lambert’s chest and shoulders soothingly as Geralt alternates between swallowing Lambert’s prick all the way to the root and licking deep into Lambert’s cunt.

Gweld sidles over and leans against Eskel’s shoulder. “That’s really pretty.”

“Yep,” Eskel agrees. The contrast between Voltehre’s golden hair and Lambert’s dark, the way their lips meet and part again as Lambert gasps for breath - the arch of his back and the tension in his arm, his fingers tangled in Geralt’s pale hair - the sheer bliss on Geralt’s face and the way his hips are thrusting gently against the nest - it’s very, very pretty indeed.

“Probably should warn them Geralt’s always like this,” Gweld says thoughtfully after a moment.

“After Lambert’s heat is over,” Eskel replies dryly.

“Oh, yeah, sure, no point doing it now,” Gweld agrees. In the nest, Lambert throws his head back and wails with pleasure; Voltehre, sensible lad, takes the beautiful opportunity to plant a line of sucking kisses down Lambert’s bared throat. Geralt swallows his prick down again and hums.

Lambert goes completely still for a long moment, back arched at an improbable angle, and then peaks with a howl that echoes off the ceiling and goes utterly limp. Geralt raises his head again, looking immensely smug.

“Fuck me,” Lambert rasps.

“Yes,” Geralt agrees gravely. “Who?”

Lambert takes a shaky breath and lets it out in a whine, and manages to prop himself up on an elbow. Voltehre eels around until he’s half under Lambert, supporting him. Eskel suppresses the urge to coo at both of them for being too adorable for words. Adorable is not a word he’s used to thinking of during heat, of all things, but Voltehre is so sweet, and Lambert so beautifully trusting of his friend - his mate, Eskel suspects, or will be soon - that there really isn’t any better word.

“Want you,” Lambert says, meeting Geralt’s eyes and then looking up at Gweld and Eskel. “All of you. Want to be full.”

Eskel’s mouth goes dry, and his prick throbs. “All of us?” he asks softly. “In what order?”

Lambert swallows. “Geralt, Gweld, Voltehre, then you again,” he says, and he may be in heat but this is a lull between waves; his eyes are clear and focused, his voice is steady. He knows exactly what he’s asking for.

“What you want, you’ll get,” Eskel promises solemnly.

Lambert nods and lets his head fall back against Voltehre’s shoulder. Voltehre nuzzles at his hair, affectionate and worried. “You’re alright?”

“It’s…really good, honey,” Lambert admits, in a whisper so soft Eskel’s not sure if he was supposed to be able to hear it.

“I thought you’d hate it,” Voltehre confesses, just as softly. “Being…well…not in control.”

Lambert chuckles. “Yeah. Me too. But.” He glances over at the older Wolves, who are all trying unsuccessfully not to look like they’re eavesdropping, and smirks a little, then turns his head to nestle against Voltehre’s throat. His voice is so quiet Eskel really can barely hear it.

“I’m safe,” he whispers, and Eskel’s slow heart turns over in his chest. “I’m safe with you.”

Geralt makes a low sound and nuzzles at Lambert’s hip. Gweld hisses softly between his teeth.

“We’re keeping them,” he whispers in Eskel’s ear. “I don’t care what the fuck Rennes says, we’re keeping them.”

Eskel just nods. Rennes can bluster and yell all he likes; Eskel’s pack will be quiet about it until Lambert and Voltehre have their medallions, but the two young Wolves are theirs, and Eskel will cheerfully murder anyone who tries to take them away. Up to and including the Grandmaster of their School.

Lambert’s scent thickens and sweetens again, and he shudders in Voltehre’s arms. “Fuck,” he gasps. “Oh, fuck.”

Geralt rises up on his knees, grinning down at the younger omega. “Yes?”

“Please,” Lambert whines, and sags back against Voltehre as Geralt kisses him and reaches down between them to guide his prick into Lambert’s cunt.

Eskel groans softly and gets to his feet. He needs to be closer. Those are his omegas making those gorgeous noises, and he needs to be right there.

*

Voltehre has, occasionally, had idle daydreams about the three older Wolves currently sharing Lambert’s nest. They’re gorgeous and so very competent, the heroes of all the trainees, Kaer Morhen’s golden sons. As far as Voltehre knows, every trainee has fantasized at least once about being allowed into the big bed the three share.

The fantasies, Voltehre can now say from personal experience, do not hold a candle to the reality. The older Wolves are so gentle, and so careful, and so gloriously self-assured - and so very, very good at everything.

Voltehre wants to ask Geralt for lessons in giving a blowjob. He wants to be cradled in Gweld’s arms again, feeling small and young and safe and wanted. He wants to know what it’s like to be under Eskel - to see if he can even take the massive prick which gave Lambert such pleasure. And oh, he wants to be right here, right now, holding Lambert steady as Geralt thrusts into him with the same inexorable rhythm as the tides, and Lambert gasps and whimpers and opens for it, spreading his legs wider and begging with every line of his body.

Safe with you, Lambert said, and he is - Voltehre will slaughter anyone who dares hurt his friend, if Lambert doesn’t get there first - but he doesn’t need to protect Lambert now. Not when Geralt’s hand is so gentle cupped around Lambert’s cheek, coaxing him into tiny sipping kisses; not when Gweld has snuck a hand between the two omegas and is stroking Lambert’s prick in perfect counterpoint to Geralt’s thrusts; not when Eskel is just watching, hot-eyed and pleased, waiting with seemingly endless patience for his turn.

His turn, which will come after Voltehre’s, because Lambert wants Voltehre again. Because Voltehre did a good enough job the first time. That’s a bright spark of pleasure in the back of Voltehre’s mind. He didn’t make a mess of it. He did well.

Lambert’s moans reach a fever pitch, and he shudders in Voltehre’s arms, prick spilling over Gweld’s hands and his own stomach. Geralt grins.

“Good,” he croons, and kisses Lambert again. “Yes?”

“Good,” Lambert agrees dazedly. “Fuck.”

Geralt’s smile grows oddly wicked - Voltehre has never seen him smile like that before - and he leans down to murmur in Lambert’s ear. Voltehre can only just hear him, but oh, he can feel what the words do for Lambert, the way Lambert shudders in his arms.

“Feels good, being full, doesn’t it?” Geralt murmurs. “Feels right.” Lambert whimpers. “Gonna be so full by the time we’re done. Me and Gweld and your sweet Voltehre, and then Eskel filling you to the brim. I’ve never been that full.”

Lambert shudders harder, gasping and arching up against Geralt, clearly climbing towards a second peak.

“We all want you,” Geralt continues, and Voltehre has never heard him talk this much before. “Want you so much. Eskel’s half mad with it, and Gweld is desperate to have you. And your sweet Voltehre has you safe, doesn’t he?”

“Safe,” Lambert gasps. “Fuck, yes.”

“Safe and full and wanted,” Geralt purrs. “Just like you deserve.”

And that’s enough to push Lambert right over another peak, arching back against Voltehre and crying out breathlessly.

Voltehre doesn’t know if he’s ever been this aroused in his life.

Geralt makes a low, almost wounded noise as he peaks, and sits back slowly on his heels before half-tumbling sideways into Eskel’s arms. Voltehre has just time to see Eskel catch him, roll him onto his back, and slide four fingers into Geralt’s cunt -

And then Gweld is moving to crouch over Lambert, looking down with an expression Voltehre can only call ravenous. “My turn next?” he murmurs.

Lambert is still shuddering from his last peak, but he reaches up with a shaky hand and pulls Gweld close enough to kiss. “Please,” he pants against Gweld’s mouth.

Gweld grins. “Got an idea,” he says, and looks at Voltehre. “Let me?”

Voltehre isn’t sure what to do with being looked to as the arbiter of what Lambert might want, but nothing Gweld has done so far has been any less than delightful, so he nods.

Gweld’s grin widens, and to Voltehre’s surprise he stretches out on his back and beckons. “Come here, sweethearts,” he croons. Lambert flails a little, uncoordinated as he never is; Voltehre loops an arm around his chest and helps him up onto his knees, straddling Gweld’s hips. Lambert braces his hands on Gweld’s chest, swaying a bit, and Voltehre somehow ends up behind him, almost sitting on Gweld’s legs, holding Lambert steady.

“That’s it,” Gweld murmurs, reaching down between them to hold his prick steady. “Take what you want, fierce little Lam.”

Lambert whines deep in his chest and sinks down onto Gweld’s prick; his arms give out as their hips meet, and Voltehre catches him before he can faceplant into Gweld’s chest, tugging Lambert back until he’s leaning against Voltehre’s chest instead, shivering and whining deep in his throat.

“Oh, that’s gorgeous,” Gweld murmurs, and curls his hands around Lambert’s hips. “Hold him steady, sweet thing.”

Voltehre nods, shifting so he’s well braced, and then Gweld lifts Lambert - not far, but enough that Lambert gasps and whimpers - and pulls him down again as he thrusts his own hips up, and Lambert yelps and jolts in Voltehre’s arms.

Voltehre holds him steady and nuzzles at his throat and tries not to whimper himself as he watches Gweld fuck Lambert through another peak, hips and hands moving in perfect coordination, not even seeming to notice Lambert’s weight. And yes, witcher strength is very useful, but Voltehre hasn’t seen it used for this sort of thing before, and the way the muscles move in Gweld’s arms, the sheen of sweat on his chest, the half-feral grin on his face as he stares up at Lambert falling apart above him - as he looks, now and again, at Voltehre with just as much hunger -

“Touch him,” Gweld orders. “Want to feel him come on my prick.”

Voltehre swallows hard and frees one hand to stroke down Lambert’s chest and stomach - and then, on some strange impulse, down past Lambert’s straining prick to where Gweld is buried deep in his cunt. Voltehre traces his fingers around the thin skin of Lambert’s entrance, and Lambert makes a high, cracked, desperate noise.

“Oh fuck yes,” Gweld says, and Voltehre does it again, again - and on Gweld’s next thrust he curls his finger and pushes and his finger slides in beside Gweld’s prick and Lambert peaks in a silent spasm, arching like a drawn bow and shaking, tears leaking down his face as he stares wide-eyed at nothing at all.

“Holy fuck,” Gweld gasps, and his hips stutter upward, and Voltehre pulls his hand away so he can brace Lambert a little more firmly as Gweld follows Lambert over his peak with a strangled growl.

Voltehre guides Lambert down to lie on Gweld’s chest, and Gweld wraps his arms around Lambert; both of them lie there panting and clinging to each other.

Voltehre glances off to the other side of the nest, and discovers that Eskel is spooned up behind Geralt, both of them watching the other three with eerily similar contented looks on their faces. “Well done,” Eskel murmurs.

Voltehre doesn’t know what to do with the shivery pleasure he feels at the words, so he tries not to worry about it. He gets up, a little shakily, and finds another waterskin by the side of the nest; when he collapses gracelessly next to Gweld and Lambert, Gweld sits up, Lambert cradled in his lap, so Voltehre can hold the waterskin to Lambert’s lips.

Lambert drinks thirstily, draining almost half of the skin, and then Gweld takes it with a nod of thanks and drinks most of the rest. There are a few swallows left for Voltehre; he drains it and tosses it back out of the nest, and for a moment he’s not sure what to do -

And then Lambert reaches for him plaintively, and Voltehre knows exactly what to do. Gweld helps Voltehre gather Lambert into his arms, into his lap, cradling his friend close - well, it seems a bit silly to keep claiming they’re only friends when Voltehre has fucked Lambert through the start of his heat and they’ve both admitted they want to be part of the older Wolves’ pack. When their devotion is part of why the older Wolves even want them.

His beloved, then.

Voltehre cradles his beloved close, nuzzling at his hair and crooning soft sounds deep in his throat, and Lambert nuzzles back, pressing messy kisses to Voltehre’s cheek and throat and shoulder.

“Want you,” Lambert mumbles.

“Yes,” Voltehre says, and nudges Lambert’s cheek until Lambert looks up and Voltehre can kiss him, as deep and slow and sweet as he always wants to kiss Lambert, and tumble them gently onto the furs of the nest. Lambert wraps his arms around Voltehre’s shoulders and his legs around Voltehre’s hips, and Voltehre pulls away just far enough that he can shove a hand between them and line the head of his prick up with Lambert’s dripping cunt, and then he lets Lambert pull him in, braces his elbows on either side of Lambert’s head and sets his knees against the furs and rolls his hips as slow as he can bear, kissing Lambert desperately to distract himself from how fucking good it feels to be buried deep in tight, wet heat.

Lambert lets him. Lambert opens for him, clings to him, doesn’t try to force Voltehre faster, just takes what Voltehre gives him and moans into their kisses, sweet and pliant as he never is. What you’re like out of heat doesn’t mean much about what you’re like in heat, Gweld said, and oh, that’s proving to be very true indeed.

Voltehre suspects he’s going to like fucking Lambert when Lambert’s not in heat, too - going to like being pinned down and ridden hard, going to like being fucked when they can find the time and privacy, going to like Lambert being as fierce and demanding and bitey as he usually is. But he likes this, too: this pliant vulnerability, this uncharacteristic gentleness. Likes knowing Lambert feels safe enough to be this vulnerable. Knows Voltehre will keep him safe.

“Love you, Lam,” he whispers, so soft he thinks not even the other witchers will be able to hear.

Lambert’s hazy eyes clear, just a little, and he smiles up at Voltehre. “Love you, honey,” he replies, just as quietly.

And maybe he’ll never say it again, outside of heat - Voltehre’s dear prickly beloved, sharp-edged and fierce and so protective of his soft underbelly - but that’s alright. Once is enough. Voltehre kisses him again, and thrusts harder, and Lambert moans into the kiss and peaks almost gently, shivering slightly beneath Voltehre, fingers digging into Voltehre’s shoulders hard enough to bruise. It’s that tiny bit of pain that tips Voltehre over, too, and he kisses Lambert through their peaks, kisses him deep and soft and slow, like they’ve got all the time in the world to share this moment. Maybe they do.

*

Eskel really is trying very hard not to coo at the two young Wolves tangled up together and so lost in each other that he suspects they’ve both forgotten they aren’t alone in the nest. Which under other circumstances might be slightly annoying, but as it is, they’re so damn adorable he can’t be offended.

“They’re sweet,” Geralt murmurs.

“So sweet,” Eskel agrees. Also very, very beautiful, both separately and together. At some point when Lambert isn’t in heat, Eskel would rather like to get his hands (and mouth, and prick) on Voltehre, but for right now, as the only alpha in the nest, he needs to save his knot for where it will do the most good.

Which is going to be in Lambert’s cunt, in the not too distant future. This wave of his heat has been partially sated by Geralt and Gweld and Voltehre, but if Eskel can trust his nose, it’s going to come roaring back into life soon. And Lambert did ask for Eskel to be last.

But Eskel can be patient. He’s certainly not going to interrupt the frankly adorable little cuddle pile Lambert and Voltehre are currently engaged in. He beckons Gweld, instead, who gets up and skirts around the edge of the nest and curls up against Geralt, so Eskel can wrap his arms around both of his packmates - well, two of his packmates, now, and damn, how is he going to manage to hug all four of them? He’ll have to get creative - and nuzzle at them happily while they wait for Lambert’s heat to spike again.

Which it does, after a little while, heralded by another wave of that delicious rich scent and a bitten-off whimper. Voltehre sits back on his heels slowly, kissing Lambert one more time as he does so, and looks over at the tangle of older Wolves.

Eskel grins and extricates himself carefully. “Trade you,” he offers.

Voltehre chuckles and looks down at Lambert. “Ready for Eskel?” he checks.

Lambert nods. Voltehre smiles and leans down to kiss him again. “How d’you want him?”

Lambert blink hazily at him for a moment, then shifts, movements sloppy and inelegant with heat, until he can roll onto his front and get his knees under him, back sliding into a perfect curve as he presents.

And then he reaches out with one arm, flailing slightly, and tugs at Voltehre. Voltehre laughs and lets himself be maneuvered into place under Lambert, like an extra layer of padding in the nest. Lambert nestles his head into the crook of Voltehre’s neck and raises his hips higher, a pleading whine rising from his lips.

Geralt makes a thoughtful noise as Eskel carefully moves to kneel straddling Voltehre’s legs. “Should suggest Eskel fuck him into me,” Geralt murmurs to Gweld.

“Hng,” Gweld gasps, a punched-out lustful sound that Eskel honestly agrees with wholeheartedly. That would be - gods. It would almost be like fucking both his omegas at the same time, and that pleases something deep in the instincts Eskel tries so hard not to give into, something raw and primal and possessive that wants to take and keep and own.

He sets that thought carefully aside for later, because now is also very, very good. Now is Lambert presenting so godsdamned perfectly, hips high and thighs glistening with his own slick and his other mates’ spend; now is Voltehre cradling Lambert’s head to his throat, looking up at Eskel with immense trust on his pretty face, his golden hair a messy halo around both their heads.

Now is the privilege and responsibility and immense pleasure of seeing Lambert through his first heat, and making it one he will never regret.

Eskel curls his hands around Lambert’s hips and eases forward. His prick looks huge as it presses against Lambert’s cunt - much too large to fit - but Lambert opens for it, a soft moan rising from his chest, opens easily and without any hesitation. They both groan when the head of Eskel’s prick slides into him, and then Lambert starts to whimper, high and thin and desperate, as Eskel presses deeper. He also spreads his legs wider and tries to push back, to take Eskel in more quickly, so Eskel’s not worried that the noise is one of pain. No, that is pleasure, pleasure too deep to express in words.

Eskel himself is panting open-mouthed, the scent of slick and heat surrounding him. Off to one side, he can hear Gweld fucking Geralt, Geralt moaning with every thrust, but that is…not irrelevant, his mates are never irrelevant, but less important, just now, than the way Lambert is still so fucking tight around his prick, than the gentle way Voltehre is stroking Lambert’s back, than the shuddering whines rising from Lambert’s throat.

Eskel keeps his movements slow and smooth and easy until his hips are pressed to Lambert’s ass, prick hilt-deep in Lambert’s cunt. Lambert melts against Voltehre, gasping silently against the beta’s throat.

And then, just to see what will happen, Eskel draws his prick out slowly and snaps his hips back in, filling Lambert in a single swift thrust, and Lambert yells, shoving back against him and clawing at the coats of the nest.

“Oh, do that again,” Voltehre breathes, eyes wide.

Eskel chuckles and does, and Lambert wails for it, thrashing between them - not trying to get away, just too overwhelmed to keep still. Eskel’s hands on his hips and Voltehre’s arms wrapped around him keep him in place, and Eskel fucks him hard and fast and very nearly ruthless, and Lambert howls for it, shoves back against Eskel’s hands and rips a hole in one of the coats and fills the whole cavern with the scent of pleased, heat-drunk omega.

Eskel can’t actually hold out long under such circumstances. He just barely manages to hold back his peak until Voltehre gets a hand down between them and wraps it around Lambert’s prick and Lambert comes hard, cunt rippling around Eskel’s prick - and that’s too much, far too much, for even Eskel’s self-control; he shoves in deep, grinding against Lambert’s ass, and his knot swells to lock them together in a wave of ecstasy that picks Eskel up and tumbles him about like a bit of seaweed in the Skellige surf.

He comes back to himself to find that he’s managed to remain upright, which is good, and Lambert is gasping his way through another peak with Voltehre’s hand around his prick, cunt squeezing Eskel’s knot so wonderfully that it almost hurts, which is better. Voltehre is a damn good lad, and Eskel will tell him so as soon as he has the wherewithal to form words again.

Also, off to the side, Gweld has his entire fist buried in Geralt’s cunt and Geralt is making the gorgeous wounded noises that mean he’s having a really good peak, so that’s also very good and Eskel is muzzily proud of his pack’s wonderful betas, looking after their omegas so very well.

It’s Voltehre who guides Eskel and Lambert down onto their sides and gets up to grab some of the bandages the older Wolves brought along for just in case and wipe all three of them mostly clean. Eskel catches his hand once Voltehre has tossed the filthy cloth back out of the nest, and draws him down into a kiss. “Good lad,” he murmurs as they part.

Voltehre makes a soft, startled sound and smiles, sweet and shy.

“Voltehre’s th’ best,” Lambert mumbles, sounding halfway asleep or possibly just dazed with heat and pleasure.

“So he is,” Eskel agrees, grinning, and kisses the back of Lambert’s head. “You’re a lucky man, to have a mate like him.”

“Mine,” Lambert agrees, flailing an arm out until Voltehre lets himself be caught and cuddled. And then, after a pause, Lambert adds, a little grudgingly, “Ours.”

Eskel does not coo. “Ours,” he agrees softly, smiling at Voltehre over Lambert’s head. Voltehre looks slightly stunned and very happy.

“Definitely,” Gweld agrees, as he and Geralt come clambering over to cuddle up on Voltehre’s other side. Geralt looks blissfully dazed, as he does after particularly good sex; Gweld looks very smug, which he doubtless deserves.

The scent of Lambert’s heat is ebbing - not just sated by a knot, but easing entirely. Well, first heats are often short; and honestly, if Lambert’s heats aren’t terribly long, that’s all to the good. Eskel loves Geralt’s heats, of course he does, but three full days of heat-sex is enough to exhaust even a witcher. Hopefully having Voltehre and Lambert there for the next one - well, no, not the next one, not this winter, but the one after that - will help a bit.

But for now they can all get a bit of a nap while Lambert’s heat ebbs, and then they can get cleaned up and poke their heads out to see how bad the storm is, and while they wait it out, they can talk about how this is going to work, this pack of five.

*

Lambert stands straight-backed in front of Rennes’s fulminating glare, hoping the Grandmaster won’t notice that his fingers are tangled tightly with Voltehre’s in the concealing folds of their coats.

“You little brat,” Rennes snarls. “I ought to -”

Eskel clears his throat. “All due respect, Grandmaster,” he says. “Lambert’s a late-blooming omega, and was seeking safety for his first heat.”

The Grandmaster’s scowl gets darker, but he jerks a reluctant nod. “The extenuating circumstances are noted,” he grumbles. “You’re on pot-washing duty for a month, brat.”

It’s a much lighter punishment than Lambert honestly expected, and he’s not actually daft, so he just nods instead of saying anything.

“Out,” Rennes growls, and Voltehre tugs Lambert away before Lambert can say anything to make Rennes’s mood worse. Lambert has to admit, if only to himself, that Voltehre probably has the right idea just now. He doesn’t want Rennes paying too much attention to them. If he does, Rennes might notice that Eskel and Geralt and Gweld didn’t just help a newly-bloomed omega through an unexpected first heat to be kind.

Which is still fucking mind-boggling, actually, that the older Wolves want Lambert and Voltehre to be part of their pack. Voltehre, sure, Lambert can see that - hell, he’s noticed half a dozen of the packs of older Wolves eyeing Voltehre and thinking very obviously about how well a good-natured young beta would suit their dynamics. He’s also noticed them looking at him and thinking very clearly that his undeniable skill - he’s good, he knows he is, with a sword and with alchemy and with bombs - is not worth his equally undeniable bad temper.

But Eskel and Geralt and Gweld said both. He remembers that even through the heat-haze that shrouds the memories of the last few days. They said both and they meant it and Lambert doesn’t quite understand why they want him as well as Voltehre, but he’s greedy enough that he’s going to take what they’re offering, when it’s something very like a dream come true.

Assuming he and Voltehre survive to claim their medallions, of course, but Lambert will fucking well do anything to make sure that happens, so he’s going to take it as read that it will.

“Come on, down to the baths with us,” Eskel says briskly once they’re all out in the corridor. “Snowmelt’s fine for a quick scrub but I want to soak.”

“Snowmelt is not fine for a quick scrub,” Gweld objects as the older Wolves sort of herd Lambert and Voltehre ahead of them down the stairs. “It’s fucking cold.”

“Effective,” Geralt says mildly.

Lambert glances over at Voltehre, who grins back and murmurs, “Nobody’s going to believe us if we tell them the finest pack in the keep are this silly.”

“Hey,” Gweld laughs, and then, “Wait. Finest pack in the keep?”

“Well, you fucking are,” Lambert says, turning to frown at him. “Everybody knows it.”

Eskel and Geralt glance at each other. Gweld raises his chin and preens visibly. “Damn right we are,” he says, throwing an arm around each of his mates’ shoulders. “And we’re only going to get better.” He wiggles his eyebrows at Lambert, inviting Lambert to fill in the bit Gweld can’t say aloud yet: once we add you.

Yeah, Lambert understands why that has to be kept a secret. Rennes would throw a fit, and while Lambert doesn’t know what sort of punishment the Grandmaster could levy against a pack who claims new members too young, he suspects it’s incredibly harsh, and might well fall on them and not him. Though Rennes dislikes him enough that he might well catch some backlash, too. And Voltehre might, as well, which is absolutely unacceptable.

So yeah, this winter he and Voltehre will pretend that the older witchers’ helping Lambert through his unexpected first heat was nothing but a kindness, and Eskel and Geralt and Gweld are nothing but another pack of Wolves, better than any of the others but not special for any other reason. And next fall, Lambert and Voltehre will earn their medallions. And then when their pack gets home next winter -

Then, then they can all stake their claims.

Lambert squeezes Voltehre’s hand and grins. He’s looking forward to that.

For a wonder, the future actually seems to hold something more than a filthy, miserable job and a lonely death. It has pack in it, now. Pack, and Voltehre, and something very like hope at last.

*

(That spring, Eskel and Geralt and Gweld pause at the base of the Trail, and look at each other, and nod, and turn to go back up by a slightly different route.

Old Speartip is one deep sleeper. Soon enough, he’ll sleep much deeper. And this is why they aren’t supposed to take the lads into their packs before the final Trial:

Because Eskel and his pack will do anything to protect their own.

Including ensuring that the worst part of the Trial of the Mountains, the cyclops who claims so many boys…never gets a chance at theirs.)