#gaetan fic
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last week's fics got revealed for the witcher flash fic challenge, which means I can finally publish mine here! i chose to write about letho, gaetan, and geralt having a threesome on a roof while they're all smoking that Wizard Weed. hope somebody enjoys this other than me; rarepair hell is more fun with friends!
E, 5.7K, Letho/Geralt/Gaetan. Warnings for inconsistent mishmash of Witcher canons, consensual drugged sex, recreational drug use (weed), top Letho, and established Letho/Gaetan. if you want to know more about the specific consent warnings relating to drug use, i put additional details in the end notes on AO3. enjoy!
also on AO3 if you prefer!
-
Geralt’s first clue that something is wrong is that, by all appearances, nothing is wrong.
The town is lovely, if not noteworthy; on his ride in he sees verdant pastures with fat livestock grazing happily on plentiful vegetation. When he stops to harvest some extra herbs nobody calls out ‘thief’ or anything worse. In fact, everyone he passes greets him with either a smile or a nod, nobody seeming too bothered by the presence of a witcher. This bothers Geralt immensely.
He reaches the epicentre; a small town square that smells sharply of a spice or herb he doesn’t recognize. There are bards playing soft music and carts heaped high with pastries, fruit, and charms for tourists. Geralt, technically a tourist, looks over the charms— they are all crudely fashioned, whether woven or carved, and all depict the same… tiger… bear… jaguar, thing. He can’t quite tell if it’s meant to be a warg or a big cat, only that its fur (?) is dark green and its expression is pleasant and wise.
Geralt grimaces, shaking his head at the shopkeeper. They grin and hold out one of the charms anyway. “For good luck,” they tell him.
Geralt can count on one hand how many times a stranger has wished him luck in recent memory. He frowns, tucking the charm away into a pocket of Roach’s saddlebags only because it has absolutely no trace of magic, and perhaps he could pawn it off later for something.
The next major clue that something is amiss in this hidden paradise is the empty noticeboard. Even a pleasant town like this should have at least a few complaints, if not contracts; even in perfect places dogs go missing and children get sick. But the board is bare, with no recent indentations from nails. Geralt’s frown only darkens.
“You,” he grabs a passing man by the shoulder; a lush, judging from his rosy cheeks and how his eyes hardly widen as Geralt holds him in place. But not the kind of drunk who might run around causing issues, just someone peacefully intoxicated in the early afternoon. He smells of wine and of that same indiscernible scent that lingers around the rest of the town square. “Why are there no contracts here?”
“Praise Sylva!” slurs the man. He doesn’t even shrug off Geralt, let alone throw a punch. Geralt, used to significantly harsher treatment from strangers, drops him in disgust. “If we did have any contracts, sure they would’ve been taken by the witchers what just came through here last… last week?”
This oddity, strangely, puts Geralt at ease. Maybe this town is only so peaceful because all its threats have temporarily been disbanded. While this means an empty coinpurse and stomach for him, it does bring him some temporary relief. “Oh?”
“Think they’ve been here since last week,” the man muses. “Two of them witchers, you know… One big fella. Biiiig fella. And one little bald one. Matter of fact, both of them bald… not like you!”
The drunk reaches out to touch his hair, and Geralt thankfully puts that terrible impulse to rest with a withering glare. “Where can I find these two?”
“Pub,” offers the man, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. Geralt leans around him to see said pub; there are horses tied up in front, although none familiar to him. When he categorises all the witchers he knows by hair or lack thereof, it isn’t hard to deduce who might be travelling together— despite how often the pair of them complain about each other.
Sure enough, when he opens the door to the (pristine, tastefully decorated, lively but not raucous) tavern, Geralt sees two witchers sitting on the same side of one table. It’s like a terrible joke waiting for a terrible punchline.
Already amused, he watches the ‘biiiig fella’ notice him first, and promptly deliver a sharp jab to his companion’s side; said companion lifts his head, sees Geralt, and then moves to put some space between him and Letho so quickly that he nearly falls right off the bench.
“Geralt,” Gaetan declares, a little too loudly. “I never expected to run into two witchers here! Shit, it’s like the beginning of a bad joke!”
Geralt takes a seat across from them, not bothering to hide his amusement. Letho looks amused too, although Geralt can only detect it because he knows the man so well; he quickly raises his cup to cover his smirk, but the damage has been done. Geralt exchanges a look with him, then turns back to stare at Gaetan. “I heard about the two of you, but I didn’t think there was any truth to it. You know how Cats love gossip.”
Before Gaetan can cuss him out in a hundred different languages or just pounce across the table and wrestle him to the ground, Letho brings up a broad hand and lays it on his companion’s shoulder. The change is immediate; the anger drains from Gaetan in an instant, and Geralt watches with a strange, curious hunger gnawing at the pit of his stomach. Then Letho says, “Well, we’ve heard you haven’t been travelling alone either,” and Geralt’s frown returns with a vengeance. “Where is the little bird?”
They all know he doesn’t mean Ciri. Geralt grinds his teeth together, and answers anyway, “She’s with Yen.”
“I meant the little songbird,” teases Letho, in that infuriatingly slow and deep voice that always cuts right to Geralt’s core. “The bards here are fine, but all they sing about is fucking Sylva.”
Desperate to get off the topic of Jaskier and to learn more information about this bizarre town, Geralt lunges on this. “What’s Sylva?”
Letho and Gaetan exchange a look that he can’t read, and then both turn to him. “You haven’t been to see Sylva yet?”
-
Sylva, as it turns out, is…
“A warg,” Geralt guesses. Letho and Gaetan, standing on either side of him, both shake their heads; he frowns. “No?”
“Tiger,” Gaetan says, as Letho tells him matter-of-factly, “Bear.” They lean around Geralt to glare at each other, and then Letho steps closer to the warg-tiger-bear thing.
What it is is uncertain, but a small amount chaos radiates from it. Geralt thinks, ruefully, of the charm he’d accepted without proper suspicion. The plant is massive, nearly the size of a real warg, but Letho moves towards it without hesitation. It looks similar to the sculpted bushes Geralt has seen in the gardens of disgustingly wealthy nobility, and in this lush rainforest a little outside the town, it nearly looks at home. Like a real creature slumbering in the woods, only instead of sinew and blood, one made of moss and dew.
Geralt tenses as Letho approaches the plant formation; Gaetan, either seeing his stress or feeling it through his witcher senses, reaches out to place a gentle, unasked hand on his shoulder. It’s exactly the same kind of tender physical comfort that comes easily to Jaskier, and it’s like no behaviour that Geralt has ever seen Gaetan display before. He can’t even think of any time he’s seen the Cat witcher touch anyone, except earlier when Letho touched him.
His palm is warm, and his pulse is slow but solid. The message is clear; relax. Ironic that a Cat is telling him to relax, and exponentially more ironic that Gaetan is that Cat. But Letho doesn’t seem worried about Sylva either, so Geralt doesn’t shove Gaetan off and, begrudgingly, relaxes.
“We thought it might be a sylvan at first,” Letho tells him.
He uses ‘we’ as casually as anything, implying a new depth to their relationship. From what Geralt had heard (from Lambert, by way of Lambert’s Cat lover who Lambert adamantly denies the existence of) Letho and Gaetan had only been hooking up occasionally. Hate-fucking had been the word of choice. This is anything but hateful, and from how Letho describes their investigations as though they operate as a unit, Geralt would guess it’s more than occasional.
He keeps quiet as the Viper continues; “You know. Sylva, sylvan… everyone in town swears by this big plant. Says it’s their god, it blessed their crops, their marriages, it brings them rain and shine when needed. We thought it might’ve been some benevolent spirit who chose this town. Easy pickings.”
Geralt thinks, sourly, of a town near Skellige that was similarly ‘blessed’ by a deity that had turned out to be a leshen. “Does it answer their prayers?”
“Not verbally,” Gaetan replies. “But they say Sylva brings love to the loveless, money to the destitute… There were no contracts when we got here either.”
“Hmm.”
“At first, we just intended to stick around for the night,” Letho continues. “Not often you venture into a nice place willing to host a witcher for free, let alone two. And Gaetan thought there was something else afoot, and couldn’t let it lie.”
The Cat shrugs. Geralt narrows his gaze, looking carefully at Sylva. He’d like to carve the big plant open and see what lies inside its branches; perhaps a godling with a penchant for animals has made their home there. But if Letho and Gaetan have already stayed here for nearly a week, they surely would have uncovered this beast’s dark secret by now. Hesitantly, Geralt prods, “And is there…? Something else going on?”
“Yes and no,” Gaetan says. “Nothing spiritual— the local herbalist witch fessed up on our third day here. She said she maintains the plant and casts spells of protection on Sylva; small things, so that it won’t rot or catch any nasty infestations. But over the years, a whole local mythology has grown around this fucking plant. They really think the beast watches over them.”
Geralt stares. How anticlimactic— once more, unbidden, he thinks of the bard and how disappointed he would be in this story’s finale. Then, to divert his thoughts from Jaskier, he quickly says, “So… she maintains the hedge so that the town doesn't lose its spirit? That’s all?”
“Well. No.” Letho leans down to pluck a leafy section from the mossy beast. Sylva doesn’t move or protest in any way, despite the amateurish protective wards, and Letho cups his bounty carefully in both hands. With the same smirk he wore earlier, he murmurs, “That’s not all.”
-
“Praise Sylva,” Geralt proclaims to the stars above, which swim around in his blurred vision. From the streets below them he hears a distant whoop of agreement; although it might have been a birdcall. He lifts his head to check but can’t see over the lip of the rooftop, and craning his neck is immediately uncomfortable, so he relaxes back down on the straw beside Gaetan. “Praise fucking Sylva!”
“Now he gets it,” Gaetan grins, nudging Letho with his elbow. The Viper is curled up behind the Cat, one possessive arm slung over his chest; Gaetan reaches back to put the small bundle of herbs to Letho’s lips, and Letho inhales heavily, his breath igniting it once more.
The skies are peaceful and free of clouds, and only the lightest breeze bothers them. Geralt still shivers as he watches Gaetan hold the joint up to Letho’s lips. They had told him of a concentrate that the herbalist crafted with Sylva’s leaves and sap, but this seems like a more organic way to ingest the offerings of the forest beast. And inhaling the plant directly won’t do too much damage, since their tolerance is much higher as witchers.
Geralt laughs quietly, thinking of how all this town’s problems were miraculously solved— not by a god, nor by anything posing as a god, but by an herbalist supplying the solution to all their maladies.
Gaetan and Letho both watch him, wearing matching soft expressions, as Gaetan takes the joint away from Letho to hand it back to Geralt. They’ve been lying on this rooftop for at least half an hour, and in that time the three witchers have moved very little. Geralt wonders if Letho has been holding onto Gaetan since they all first lay down. He notices now in clearer detail how close they are; their legs are pressed together. He wants to demand answers— how long have you been snuggling? How long have you two been travelling together?
He stays silent, his gaze snapping back up from their legs to meet Gaetan’s. The Cat looks amused, and brandishes the small bundle at Geralt. “Finish it off,” he insists, and Geralt does.
The plume of smoke that he exhales at the end of the bundle smells just like everything else in this town. He thinks, unwittingly, of Jaskier. Maybe he was wrong in his judgement earlier; maybe the bard would enjoy it here. Maybe, up on a rooftop like this, on a thick bed of straw, he and Jaskier could curl up together like Gaetan and Letho.
He hasn’t been that close to Jaskier since the bard was younger and they would seek warmth from each other’s bodies on the cold and unforgiving Path. Back then, it had never blossomed into anything more intimate than what it was. Up here, assisted by the herb that keeps this place afloat, perhaps it could.
Geralt opens his eyes to see Letho and Gaetan still both watching him closely. Gaetan speaks all at once, almost as though he’s unable to stay silent any longer, “What’s on your mind?”
“Nothing,” Geralt lies calmly, rolling back onto his side to face the pair of them. He tosses the extinguished butt of the joint away from the straw pile, and lets out a heavy, deeply satisfied sigh. His face burns, his whole body tingles, and he wiggles his toes in his socks. Gods, he could use a nice long bath. “They have baths inside?”
Letho nods, but Gaetan retorts, “You don’t look too dirty; not for a witcher, anyway. That sorceress of yours finally teach you some basic hygiene?”
“She’s not mine,” Geralt rumbles. Once, the confession would have brought him pain to speak. Now he just utters it as plainly as he would any other fact. He and Yen haven’t belonged to each other in a long time; it’s better this way. She will never lose importance in his life, but the yearning that drove them both so mad has finally been put to rest. For her pleasure, Yen seeks out other, equally hygienic sorceresses now. And for Geralt’s—
Annoyingly, the Cat seems to read his mind. “That little bard, then?”
“Hmm.” Geralt stretches. “Don’t know what you’ve heard from Aiden, but it’s all a pack of lies.”
“Come on, Wolf! A handsome witcher like you, you really haven’t found anyone to make an honest man out of yet?” Gaetan scoffs. “I don’t believe that shit.”
“It’s not supposed to work like that for witchers,” Geralt speaks without thinking. Then he tenses; Letho and Gaetan are both silent and passive. If he struck a nerve, neither of them shows it. He apologizes regardless, “I’m not— not saying you two aren’t, uh, you know, just—”
“Bless him, he’s stammering,” Gaetan laughs meanly. He twists under Letho’s arm smoothly, without dislodging the Viper, and presses a kiss to his lips. Abruptly, the gnawing pit in Geralt’s stomach that has been bothering him since he walked into that tavern and saw them next to each other drops. Gaetan doesn’t pull away or make any attempt at hiding his affection; he kisses Letho long, and deeply, until finally pulling away only enough to whisper against his lips. Even if Geralt didn’t have supernatural hearing he thinks he would still be able to make the words out. “You never mentioned that the White Wolf was so shy, darling.”
“He wasn’t,” Letho mutters back. Geralt doesn’t have to see his smirk to know it’s there; he can hear it in the sly, almost challenging tone. The Viper lifts Gaetan up onto his chest with nearly no effort; if Geralt wasn’t already lying down, his knees might buckle. Gaetan adjusts to his new position atop Letho immediately, bracketing the witcher’s thick thighs with his knees and nosing happily at his neck. Letho glances over, his yellow eyes finding Geralt’s. “He's the one who taught me that naughty Gwent game, decades ago in Velen.”
Geralt’s breath leaves him all at once. He remembers those nights in vivid detail, but he hadn’t thought Letho would recall their handful of dalliances; they had never slept together more than one night in a row, and they’d never been sober.
Then again, Geralt considers, none of them are sober right now. His traitorous, fearful heart thrums. Geralt has never been seduced by two people at once before.
Letho brings one hand up to cradle the back of Gaetan’s skull, dropping the other to the base of his spine, and it occurs to Geralt that the Cat is actually not scenting his throat but biting it. He catches the sharp scent of lust in the air, although it’s impossible to determine who it might have arisen from. His head swims in a way he can’t entirely blame on Sylva’s herb.
“If you don’t want to,” Letho says, slowly as ever, “all good. It’s been a long time since you and I fooled around; I’m sure you’ve changed. I know I’ve got a couple new scars.” A tremor or twitch distorts his otherwise restful face for a moment; Geralt’s pulse rushes. Gaetan must be biting along one of those scars now. Letho’s breath comes a little faster as he continues, “But I can’t stop him once he’s got an idea in his head. So either get over yourself and come over here, or go inside and take a nice long bath.”
“And think of us while you do,” Gaetan chimes in, muffled by Letho’s thick neck. Without hesitation, the Viper reaches down to smack his ass; it happens so quickly Geralt nearly misses the motion. But he doesn’t miss the way Gaetan goes still for a moment, his whole body tensing up before he leans back against Letho’s palm, clearly eager for more.
Geralt gets over himself quickly. He rises up uncertainly on the bed of straw; both of the other witchers twist to look his way. When he crawls closer instead of standing, Gaetan blesses him with a rare, genuine smile. Letho nods, equally pleased, but doesn’t take his hands off of Gaetan.
Maybe he has changed since their old hook-ups; even with the herb mellowing him out, Geralt feels strangely vulnerable up on his knees, looking down at the entwined pair. Quietly, he pleads, “Tell me where you want me.”
“Right there is perfect,” Letho rumbles. Without being asked, Gaetan clambers off of the Viper and over to Geralt. He rises up to meet him hard, kissing him like… well, it’s like no one Geralt has ever kissed before. He sinks into it, especially as Gaetan deepens their kisses, sliding his tongue shamelessly alongside Geralt’s. Geralt, to his great embarrassment, hears himself moan; then, because it feels so good, he does it again. The sound is unbelievably filthy, muffled by Gaetan’s clever tongue; Geralt sucks hard just to see the reaction and Gaetan, not to be outdone, groans into their kiss and reaches for the clasps of Geralt’s armour.
“Slow down, kitty,” Letho teases. Hearing that deep voice always does such dangerous things to Geralt, and now is no exception; he’s gratified to feel a similar response from Gaetan, whose hands still on Geralt’s chest although his mouth does no such thing. Geralt kisses back, chasing the sensation, until heavy hands come up alongside them, pressing them to lie down in the hay. “Slow down,” Letho urges. “Feel it out, first.”
“Easy for you to say,” Gaetan grunts, pulling back from Geralt slowly. As if it taxes him to do so. “You’ve already had him.” Geralt, still high, follows the heat of his mouth until he realizes that Gaetan is actually moving away. Then he leans back into the straw underneath him, slightly embarrassed to have been slow on the uptake. Usually witchers are two moves ahead of their partners in bed.
Gaetan doesn’t seem to notice, or perhaps he just doesn’t mind; his hungry gaze is still fixed on Geralt. Letho, kneeling beside them and watching Geralt with the same intensity, purrs low in his throat, “He’s wanted this for a long time, you know. Ever since I mentioned what you and I used to get up to, Wolf. It’s a big fantasy for him.”
“Shut up,” Gaetan whispers, in a tone that clearly indicates he wants Letho to do anything but.
Geralt reaches down to rub himself through his armour; two sharp amber gazes follow his movement. Under the moonlight, he feels like he’s performing for them. He walks that thought back quickly enough that it can’t do any damage, and asks Gaetan, “What are you waiting for?”
“Permission,” the Cat breathes. Geralt almost nods; but before he can give his tacit approval of anything and everything Gaetan wants from him, Letho nods, placing his broad hand on the back of Gaetan’s narrow neck. Geralt flushes with pleasure. Not his permission, but Letho’s. This is his first time feeling like an outsider during lovemaking; he’s sensing there might be a few firsts crossed off his list tonight, and he finds he doesn’t mind at all.
Gaetan pounces, drawing his trouser fastenings free of his armour and then shoving the whole kit down and off. Geralt’s cock springs up, already leaking at the tip— maybe the herb was an aphrodisiac as well. Or maybe he just feels that good, half-naked with two attractive witchers in front of him, both intent on making him feel great. Gaetan lowers his talented mouth to the head of Geralt’s cock, and Geralt slams his head back down against the straw.
It lands with an unsatisfying thud, but looking up at the starry night is easier than watching the Cat devour him. The pressure, wetness, and warmth feel unbelievable anyway; Geralt stifles a moan as Gaetan sinks down, taking his length into his throat.
Letho is there, striking quickly as always— quick enough to take him by surprise. Geralt gasps as Letho grabs his head the same way he’d held Gaetan’s skull. The Viper’s fingers are likely large enough to do some serious damage if he wanted; he lifts Geralt’s head, and Geralt doesn’t struggle, too awed by his strength. “Look,” growls Letho, pressing his head down until his chin touches his chest.
Helpless, he looks. Gaetan bobs up and down on his length, sucking it in sloppily every time it nearly slips out of his mouth. The witcher’s slender hand is wrapped around the base, because— Geralt realizes with a jolt— he can’t fit all of it in his mouth. Geralt itches to reach down and make him try anyway, but he doesn’t want to have bad manners. He’s not the one in control here anyway.
Letho’s fingers weave through Geralt’s hair, as though the Wolf is in any danger of running. He murmurs against his ear, “Should’ve made him drink a Killer Whale beforehand,” and Geralt’s cock pulses at the filthy idea. “Bet then he’d be able to take you without choking.”
“Fuck you,” Gaetan pulls off to angrily retort, and it takes great self-control to avoid coming all over his face. “I don’t need any fucking potion!”
To prove his point, and rise to Letho’s bait, the Cat lowers his mouth slowly until Geralt can feel his throat clenching around his cock, and he can’t help but dribble a little. Gaetan, to his immense credit, doesn’t choke; instead he hollows out his cheeks and starts sucking Geralt off with renewed effort, until he’s taking him to the root every time.
“Letho,” Geralt chokes out, a warning meant for both of them. But Gaetan doesn’t pull off, and the Viper doesn’t move to make him do so. Letho’s deft, thick fingers creep through the loose ponytail still holding Geralt’s hair up, and he tugs— not hard enough to really hurt, but firmly enough that the stars in the sky fall right into Geralt’s vision and then shoot through his cock down Gaetan’s throat.
He comes for a long moment, and the other witcher sucks him down through all of it, swallowing up Geralt’s spend like Letho told him to. Perhaps they have a code; perhaps they don’t need one. Geralt gasps, loud and clear into the night. It is a small mercy that no one hears— even in a town so forgiving and welcoming, he’s sure they wouldn’t appreciate their beauty sleep disturbed by a bunch of high witchers getting it on above the local inn.
When he comes back down to reality, brain still addled and blood still rushing, he sees Gaetan moving around him to kiss Letho. Geralt turns his head so as to properly watch, figuring it’s his turn to enjoy the show. But Letho just bites Gaetan’s lip hard enough to make him gasp once before pushing the Cat away again. “He’s not done with you, Wolf,” rumbles the Viper. “Just reminding me how you taste.”
“Fuck,” says Geralt, his softening cock making a valiant effort to harden again. He reaches down to carefully, gently roll his balls in his palm, and Gaetan, watching closely, licks his lips. Weakly, the Wolf mutters, “You two will be the fucking death of me tonight.”
“Praise Sylva,” Gaetan teases, blowing a kiss in Geralt’s direction. Geralt reaches up half-heartedly to try to catch it, reflexes slowed by the excellent orgasm and the remainder of the herb.
All three of them chuckle at that, and then Letho bends down, still laughing softly, to give Geralt a real kiss. It feels so natural and right that his heart swells; he can’t remember why he ever stopped seeking out the company of the other witcher. And he’s feeling just relaxed enough to actually share the sentiment.
Softly against Letho’s mouth, Geralt whispers, “I missed this.”
Letho smirks and kisses him once more. “Me too,” he rumbles. “Hope you’re ready to go again, Wolf; I brought along a special toy to open you up so you can take me. Just like the old days.”
The special toy in question happily replaces Geralt’s hand on his balls, honest-to-fuck purring as he rolls them between his fingers and then slides his slick hand lower. He must have oiled his fingers while the other two were distracted; clever fucking Cat.
Geralt gasps into Letho’s mouth, and then again as Gaetan breaches him with two digits. Letho chases the noises and draws more out, sucking on Geralt’s tongue. He kisses the same way as Gaetan does; Geralt supposes that makes sense, given that they must practise with each other.
Then the Viper pulls back, rummaging through the bag Geralt failed to notice before. He retrieves another sprig of the plant, tearing off a long leaf with his thumb and starting to crush the mossy flower into smaller pieces with his palm. Geralt stares closely as Letho rolls up the bundle of herbs one-handed, and the witcher mistakes his fascination for apprehension. “Don’t want it?”
“Don’t need it,” Geralt confirms, and then, a second later as Gaetan crooks his fingers inside, “but, but, fuck! Might feel nice…! Shit, Gaetan, anyone ever tell you you’re fucking good with your hands?”
“Just wait ’til you feel my cock,” Gaetan laughs. His fingers twist again, hitting the same sensitive spot that makes Geralt’s head spin; no smoking required. He slides in another finger and it barely stretches him. “Take a hit, Wolf. Might help you relax a bit.”
“Funny, you telling me to relax,” Geralt huffs, even though— shit, had he already said that? He manages his best frown even as he practically fucks himself on Gaetan’s long, skilled fingers. It feels different than when he’s been fingered in the past; he’s more on edge. Maybe that’s because of Letho’s hot presence next to him. Geralt wonders if anyone has ever seen him get fingered before.
Maybe once— at a brothel in Novigrad— there hadn’t been proper partitions between the rooms but instead fluttering curtains— between sweating through his shirt and trying not to make too much noise he swore he saw bright blue eyes fixed on him from the next room—
“Give it to me,” Geralt demands, roughly. Letho and Gaetan laugh, but not unkindly. Smoothly enough that it’s clear he’s done this many times over the last week, Letho casts a small Igni and lights the blunt, heavily inhaling its thick, strong smoke. With the same smooth motion and in the same instant, Gaetan pulls out his slick hand. Letho bends down, cupping Geralt’s jaw with broad fingers, and blows smoke into his open mouth— just as Gaetan finally slides into his ass, teasing Geralt with just the tip of his thick length.
“Ah, sh-shit,” Geralt coughs, surprised. Letho doesn’t let him up, and Geralt inhales most of the hit without coughing again. His lungs fill with the hazy smoke and his mind blissfully clears. Gaetan pushes the head of his cock in and out of Geralt, seemingly enjoying himself as he pants every time it catches on the entrance. Geralt chokes out, “You’re bigger than the toy.”
Gaetan shoots him a brilliant, beautiful smile, then rewards him for the praise by reaching down to pick up Geralt’s knees and sink into him fully. Geralt pants at the stretch, finally breaking a sweat; Letho, caring as ever, brushes the hair back off his forehead. “You’re being so good for him,” promises the Viper quietly. “He’s going to make you feel so nice.”
“Yeah,” Geralt gasps. With his bare legs held up by Gaetan, who’s barely flexing, he feels untethered from the earth and even more vulnerable than before. The herb takes effect quickly, and while it feels wonderfully different from any witcher liquor or fun potion, he has to briefly fight off the strange sensation of floating up into the endless starry sky.
Then he becomes conscious of his own socks, his ankles softly rubbing against Gaetan’s sweaty back with every push inside. Straw pokes into Geralt’s back underneath him, where his armour and shirt have rolled up out of the way thanks to all the motion. The slight itchiness calms him, but also annoys him.
Then, finally, after what feels like forever, Letho has a hand in his hair and pulls it so slowly that it feels tender. “So pretty,” coaxes the Viper, and Geralt obediently turns to him. Letho has lost his pants too; Geralt nearly laughs at the three of them only in their shirts. Like witcher initiates fooling around late at night, too scared to fully undress and get caught.
Geralt isn’t scared at all. He reaches up to place a hand on Letho’s chest, grabbing a fistful of his shirt. The Viper gets the memo, and he disrobes faster than any human could. Geralt stares in wonder, and Gaetan’s pace slows; he still fucks Geralt but now it feels like he’s hitting deeper and deeper every time. Geralt groans, unable to restrain the noise, bouncing with every thrust forward, and Letho says, “Cat, how you doing? Feel as good as you thought it would?”
“Better,” Gaetan mumbles, adjusting his grip on Geralt’s legs. “Way better. Fuck, Geralt, thank you.”
“Don’t be fucking stupid,” Geralt gasps. “Thank you, asshole.”
“Had to repay you somehow,” the Cat whimpers. Geralt turns to face him as sharply as he can, and when he sees Gaetan smiling down at him his nerves are instantly set at ease. This wouldn’t have felt as good if it were just repayment, or a favour to a friend; Gaetan genuinely wants this. His hands are shaking as he holds up Geralt’s knees, a surefire sign that he’s close to his release. When he tries to speak again, he stutters through it, “Gonna— gonna come in you, alright?”
“What a gentleman,” teases Geralt breathlessly, even as Gaetan rocks him with every thrust. Mimicking what the Cat had said earlier, he turns to look at the Viper. “Bless him, he’s stammering. Letho, I never thought your bitch would be so shy.”
Gaetan swears a string of broken curses and pushes deep inside Geralt, filling him— it feels hotter than fire, and he groans just as loudly as Gaetan. Then Letho, with a few pulls that almost look lazy in counterpoint, strokes himself off and, before anyone else realizes he’s about to, comes all over Geralt’s face.
“Fuck,” Geralt breathes, reaching up to wipe dripping come off his chin. Before he can clean any of it off, Gaetan lunges, lowering himself onto Geralt without pulling out. The movement and closeness makes Geralt gasp again, and he doesn’t stop breathing hard as Gaetan licks over his face and jaw shamelessly. “Fucking gods damn, you two,” Geralt mumbles. Then, because he’s in a fucking amazing mood, and his cock is still hard as hell, he dares to push it further; “I thought the plan was for Letho to come inside me too?”
“Plan hasn’t changed,” Letho grins, in a crooked sort of way that makes precome leak out of Geralt’s already red, sore cock. It smears against Gaetan’s stomach and Geralt struggles to find his breath, still grappling with the weight of Gaetan’s cock inside him. “Night’s still young, Wolf.”
-
In the morning— the late, late, very late, technically the next morning, for clarification— the three witchers walk out of the inn, freshly bathed and full and content. None even bear a limp to betray how they so defiled the roof of the good, friendly, spiritual town. No one passing seems bothered at all with the presence of a witcher, let alone three.
As they pass by the farms on their way out of town, a stablehand who beat his hangover with Sylva’s help yesterday recognizes Geralt. He claps delightedly at the sight of the trio, paying little mind to their intimidating armour or six swords. “Wow! That’s not something you see every day!” cries the man. “Three witchers walk out of a town— gods, it’s like a bad joke!”
The shortest of the witchers, wearing a Cat medallion on his chest and a face-splitting grin, throws back over his shoulder, “Yeah, you should hear the fucking punchline!”
#vipurr fic#vipurr#letho fic#gaetan fic#letho x geralt#is there a portmanteau for gaetan/geralt or letho/geralt... help i hate tagging#my writing#flash fic challenge
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So I saw this video of a beefy guy making a cake and thought he looked like Letho and then the thought of Letho making cakes refused to leave me alone so in typical me fashion I wrote almost 4k words about it.
Ships: Letho/Gaetan
Modern AU
Rating: T
Warnings: grief, candid discussions of murder, mild allusions to gore, PTSD, Gaetan, OOC bullshit, drug addiction, discussions of prison and incarceration.
Letho is 30 when he’s granted freedom.
Reasonably, many government officials and gossip rags will claim, he shouldn’t have gotten his freedom at all; too violent, too sick in the head, too volatile. But they’d promised as part of his plea deal, as part of the kickback for turning himself in after he’d killed the man that killed his brothers: parole in ten years with good behaviour. And he has been, good that is. He even got a degree, worked in the prison kitchens, read all the classics. Model prisoner.
But now he wants to make something with his hands.
They ask him, at his parole hearing, what he plans to do with his life after prison, what he’s gonna do with this gift they’re giving him.
“I think I’ll make cakes” he says.
They laugh like he just told the funniest joke in the world.
He starts small; just baking for himself at first. The kitchen in his studio apartment is cramped and the oven is inconsistent but he makes it work. He’s a felon, now, and people don’t like renting to felons so he has to take what he can get. There, in the harsh light of the bare bulb in that apartment with the peeling wallpaper and the smell of damp, life gets a little sweeter.
Once he’s mastered the texture of the sponge he moves on to frosting. An ancient stand mixer is procured from a secondhand shop and put to rigorous work crafting buttercream and meringue and ganache until he’s happy with it, until it makes his taste buds sing when he sticks a fingerfull of it in his mouth. He’s scientific with it, exacting, adding more or less of different ingredients and taking detailed notes. It passes the time, fills the lonely empty stretches of his day when he’s not at work or lying awake staring at the ceiling and wrestling with sleep.
He reads, in one of the self-help books he brings with him on his commute to and from the hospital where he works doing laundry, that drawing is sometimes helpful, therapeutic, that to give an image to the problem is sometimes easier than trying to describe it with words. He picks up decorating tips and piping bags on his way home, digging through the bins of baking supplies at the only twenty-four-hour shop in his neighborhood while the baffled cashier watches him, ghostly and exhausted in the 3am fluorescent light.
He gets fired from the hospital.
They don’t tell him why but the implication is that he’s scaring people. He wonders if these people have ever been actually scared in their life. If he was trying to frighten them they’d know it.
He doesn’t draw the horrors or the anger or the injustice, doesn’t draw Serrit and Auckes and their cold, dead, faces or the way their killer had looked with his brain on the pavement Letho standing over him with the smoking gun. No he doesn’t draw any of that. He draws the nice things, things that make him smile, decorating his cakes with painstakingly copied flowers, little fondant frogs in a little buttercream pond, the fanciful design of the dishes his mom used when he was a boy. Life Affirming. He just learned that term and is trying to apply it everywhere he can. Even though he can’t afford to keep his lights on, even though he hasn’t slept in weeks.
He gets work doing night security for a warehouse. It’s boring, mostly, but the hours line up with his insomniac schedule and the pay is enough to keep him in flour and icing sugar to his heart's content. After a few months he starts bringing his extra baked goods around and leaving them in the breakroom. No one mentions it but the cupcakes are always gone when he goes to retrieve the tray at the end of his shift which he takes as a good sign.
That is until one night he goes to take his four-am break and finds someone else there, mid-bite. It’s one of the truckers that bring in the night deliveries, big guy, almost as big as Letho is, wearing a patched red flannel and a baseball hat. When he turns Letho nearly recoils at the sight of the massive scar marring the left side of his otherwise handsome face.
“Oh man” the trucker says, eyes closed in pleasure “I dunno who makes the damn cupcakes y’all always have around here but they’re the best damn things in the world”
“Um” says Letho “I make ‘em”
The trucker cocks his head to the side, embarrassed almost, like he’s trying to hide his scar away. Letho knows what he looks like, knows that he looks more like a killer than a baker, that he doesn’t look like someone who would like to make things. He’s musclebound, hulking, scarred, scary; his face makes children cry.
The trucker seems to make a decision, suddenly, holding out one broad, calloused hand for Letho to shake.
“The name’s Eskel. You ever think about selling these things? You’re wasted on night security”
Turns out Eskel has a niece. Turns out Eskel’s niece is turning thirteen in a couple weeks. Turns out Eskel thinks Letho should make the birthday cake.
“She likes unicorns” Eskel says, rubbing at the back of his neck like he’s unsure “Last I heard anyway, and swords and hunting n’ shit -- my brother takes her out hunting all the time -- No fucking clue how you’ll turn that into a cohesive cake but we’ll pay you and you can come to the party”
It’s heady, the idea that someone likes what he does enough to pay him for it, so Letho agrees.
He makes a multi-tiered cake, chocolate and vanilla checkerboard sponge with a vanilla buttercream decorated with scenes of running unicorns and fantastical heraldry with Happy Birthday Ciri picked out in chocolate ganache on top. There might be creme anglaise involved too, there might be raspberries.
The birthday party is being held at the family farm, nestled way up in the mountains. Eskel, on the drive up, explains that the land’s been in the family for generations and that none of Eskel’s brothers are actually related by blood but that they’re all tied to the land in the same way; some kind of bond deeper than the genetic. It’s a beautiful plot of land: wild sloping meadows, animal pens, the low-slung bulk of the main house. He can see, driving up to it, why it would be loved, why it might have been an idyllic childhood.
He meets Lambert, Eskel’s littlest brother, who takes one shrewd-eyed look at Letho and promptly asks “what were you in for?” which Letho thankfully doesn’t have to answer because Eskel essentially tackles him to the ground shouting you can’t just ask people that! (he learns, later, that Lambert spent most of his youth in and out of Juvie and his partner has several larceny convictions under his belt. It was a question of recognition rather than spite but at the time the fact that he’d been recognized for what he was so easily chills him). There’s Geralt, the white-haired middle child who is monosyllabic in a way that speaks of shyness but whose calloused hands denote deft experience. Geralt’s wife Yennefer ( or is it ex wife? He can’t quite get a read on them), a gaggle of loud pre-teens, and several other adults who Letho is introduced to and promptly forgets. And then there’s the birthday girl herself, little Ciri who is talkative and wild to the same degree as her father is collected and resigned.
They all gather round the long table for Letho to reveal the cake, singing the obligatory birthday song with Ciri at the head of the table pink-cheeked and slightly embarrassed by the attention.
“Oh my god” she says at the sight of the cake, breathless, blue eyes wide as dinner plates “oh my god, oh my god oh my god holy shit”
“Language” her father reprimands in a tone of voice that means he’s not expecting to be paid any attention whatsoever.
“It’s like” she says, turning to beam up at Letho so brightly he thinks he might get a sunburn “too pretty to eat”
They do eat the cake, ultimately, which leads to another round of exclamations from everyone present and Lambert swatting Eskel on the back of the head and calling him a dumbass for not ordering a larger size.
It’s a good party, all around. Letho spends most of it on the outskirts of the festivities, feeling out of place and antsy because of it, but the night is warm and smells of dry grass and growing things, echoes with the sound of children’s laughter. He wonders what it would be like to grow up in a family like this, one where people actually cared about each other.
Later, once most of the kids have been taken home and it’s just the adults and Ciri sitting around the dying fire in the backyard, the patriarch of the family approaches Letho, taking the seat next to him and stretching out his legs with a sigh.
“Y’know” says the old man, not looking at Letho like he’s embarrassed “I’ve got a table at the farmers market in town on Saturdays but I don’t use the whole space anymore -- don’t have the same kind of help I used to and I sold the back half of the property a few months back so less growing room -- Wonder if you’d like to bring some of your stuff to sell. Think they’d go over well”
They do.
In only a matter of months Letho has to start seriously thinking about starting an actual honest to god business. Demand is high, he has commissions aplenty, and he’s starting to realize he needs a bigger space if he’s gonna make any kind of serious go at this.
With help from the internet and Lambert (who, oddly and yet completely unsurprisingly, is a lawyer by trade) he gets a business plan drawn up and starts applying for loans. It starts small; just a rented kitchen space in a large industrial building which he gets inspected and certified. It has a big chest fridge to store the finished products in and miles of counter space; he’s happy with it.
He quits his job at the warehouse to bake full time.
He bakes the cake for Lambert and Keira’s wedding and then another, private, cake just for them, to celebrate the three of them and their unofficial union with Aiden as well.
Everyone asks him when he’s opening a shop.
He waves it off at first, laughs when asked. He’s not that kind of business owner, prefers to do everything himself. The pressure would be too much, he thinks.
And then he thinks about it harder.
There’s an old storefront up for lease in an up and coming part of downtown; bay windows, wood floors, it already has a pastry case up front and a full kitchen in the back, already has an industrial sized oven. It would be an easy transition and Letho finds himself wandering the neighborhood more regularly, spending hours just standing and staring at the empty shop, imagining what he would do with it. He’s never had something of his own before. The possibility terrifies him but it’s a good kind of terror.
He takes the leap.
He ends up doing most of the work himself, with occasional help from Eskel, redesigning and redecorating and getting everything in order. The end result is something that is very clearly not a traditional cake shop but which is Letho’s in a certain indefinable way; masculine dark leather, hardwood and steel tempered by the way the light streams in through those bay windows and colors everything in gold.
The newspaper sends a reporter to review their opening day and Letho sits with her and answers her questions to the best of his ability, stilted and awkward and uncomfortable in the spotlight. She seems surprised by him, goes a little misty-eyed when he explains the cakes he’d made for Serrit and Auckes (pear, cream cheese and brown butter caramel for Serrit, blackcurrant, chocolate, and pistachio for Auckes; sun and moon, two halves of one being). The review is beyond glowing and the story of the muscle bound hulk of a felon turned baker captures the imagination of the public. Soon Letho finds himself swept off his feet by orders, by customers. He hires staff to take care of the front and rarely shows his face, content to stay in the back with his ovens and his piping bags, dreaming up new concoctions and decorating children’s birthday cakes with flowers and marzipan bears.
It feels good to make something that makes people so happy.
By the time he’s forty Letho thinks he has everything he’d ever wanted.
He has a thriving business, a little two-bedroom house with a garden in a quiet part of the city, he’s even considering getting a dog. He thinks of what Serrit and Auckes would say if they could see him now; they’d probably call him a sellout, would turn up their noses at his quiet existence, all teenage self-importance and identical expressions of distaste (the twins are always fifteen in his mind, never grow any older, stuck in stasis at the age they’d been when they died). The thought of their derision makes him smile, warms him through. He wonders when the thought of them stopped hurting, when he made peace with the loss. He’d been too busy living to notice.
He’s happy, he is, but, in his quiet moments he wishes he had someone to share it all with. It’s a strange desire, out of character and he blames it on getting old and sentimental. Maybe getting that dog will help.
Then one day Lambert calls out of the blue and asks for a favor.
“Look” Lambert says, sounding frazzled “I’m really sorry to ask, man, but Aiden’s brother just got out of rehab and he needs to be in the city for his outpatient treatment and it’s too fucking far to drive every day…” long story short they can’t drive him, he can’t stay with them (something about a fraught, though caring, relationship between the estranged half siblings) and could Letho, maybe, please, put him up for a couple weeks and keep an eye on him, just until Aiden can find him somewhere else to stay -- a sober home or a halfway house or something. Of course Letho says of course he can stay. He’s got that whole other bedroom just gathering dust anyway.
“He’s an artist” Lambert says “Maybe you could put him to work decorating for you”
It’s only half a joke.
Letho wasn’t sure what he was expecting when he agreed to this, someone like Aiden maybe; gregarious and hyperactive and loud. What he gets, however, is a sullen twenty-two year old with a shaved scalp and a perpetual snarl carved into the corners of his mouth. He’s clutching a worn black duffel bag like it’s going to save him.
Gaetan is angry, hurting, reminds Letho of himself at that age, the same kind of hardened fury worn as armor, the same hunted look in his green eyes like he’s never sure where the next blow is coming from only that it will hurt. He’s been cast aside, left to slip through the cracks by a world that couldn’t give less of a shit about him and only taught him how to be afraid. Oddly, though, he’s not afraid of Letho.
Letho is used to it, the minute flinches as he passes by, the open horrified staring (which is better for the truth of it) the way that even other men sometimes refuse to meet his eye when they shake hands. Gaetan doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shy away, just looks at him with his piercing emerald gaze and doesn’t say anything. Letho feels like someone is rummaging around in his guts, his heart thunders loud loud loud in the cavern of his ribs. He wonders if Gaetan can hear it.
“Gaetan” Gaetan says at last, extending one skinny, track-marked arm, one paint-stained, fine-boned hand “The fuck up”
Something in Letho recognizes its twin, a pull at the core of him.
“Letho” Letho responds in kind “also a fuck up”
Gaetan doesn’t smile but some of the tension in his shoulders eases.
It’s nice having someone else in the house, another presence, someone else to cook dinner for at night. Gaetan comes and helps around the shop most mornings, drawing the daily menu on the blackboard with his own artistic flair. He’s always fiddling with something and is prone to sudden mood swings from one extreme of human emotion to the other going from depressed to overjoyed like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. He’s whip smart, a brilliant artist, and Letho finds himself often in awe of him, distracted by watching him flit from place to place, from notebook page to notebook page, the way the frown gathers between his eyebrows when he’s concentrating hard. He’s good at decorating cakes it turns out and Letho lets him loose on the cupcakes most days, inspired by his endless well of creativity.
He drives Gaetan to the clinic in the afternoons, does crosswords in the waiting room while Gaetan does whatever he does there, and then they go back to the shop. Sometimes Gaetan is sullen and withdrawn after his appointments, nauseous and exhausted, but sometimes he’s wild and brilliant and alive, talking about whatever pops into his head. Letho loves those days. Gaetan tells dirty jokes to make the baristas at the shop laugh, critiques Letho’s newest recipes with his particularly acerbic wit, puts thrash metal music on the shop playlist just to scandalize the old ladies there for afternoon tea. Perhaps it's bad for his brand image but it makes Gaetan happy so Letho doesn’t mind.
He adds a new cake to the menu about a month into Gaetan’s stay -- ginger and chili sponge with vanilla bean buttercream -- sweet and unconventional with a little smoky kick to it, the flecks of vanilla bean in the buttercream like the spray of freckles across Gaetan’s cheekbones.
They keep similar schedules, sleeping for a mere two hours at a stretch before waking again to the clawed hands of a nightmare in the dark. Letho doesn’t ask about Gaetan’s nightmares and Gaetan never asks about his but they can hear each other, separated as they are only by the wall between their two bedrooms, hear the wild cries, the choked-on sobbing of the children that they were never allowed to be.
At night he lies awake and listens for Gaetan’s thrashing next door, the telltale thud of him getting out of bed and retreating to the kitchen. Letho follows.
They don’t say anything, don’t need to. Letho trials new recipes and Gaetan sketches and smokes, silent, in the gold dimness of the kitchen; keeping each other company in their restlessness.
Somewhere along the way Letho realizes he’s fallen in love.
It’s ludicrous really. He’s not built for love, fundamentally unlovable as he is, and the thought that Gaetan would ever want him back is laughable. It’s doomed to failure, he reasons; Gaetan deserves someone his own age, someone better than a washed up felon who sculpts animals out of marzipan and calls it work, someone who can match him, who shines just as brightly as he does. But Gaetan is… Gaetan and loving him is as easy as breathing, it's the easiest thing he’s ever done. He can’t help the machinations of his own heart.
Four months after Gaetan came to stay, Aiden calls to tell them there’s a sober home in Brugge with a bed open.
“I know it’s far luchik” he’d said, voice tinny with distance and a poor connection “but please just consider it. It would be good for you.”
Gaetan had responded by throwing the phone across the room
.
It hangs over them like a blade about to drop, the threat of separation and that night, post-nightmare, Letho realizes he can’t stand it anymore.
“You can stay” Letho says; the feelings are too big to contain, everything flickery and unreal in the predawn through the window and the gold of the kitchen light. It feels like the place for a near-confession, the time for it “here, with me”
The slow scratching of Gaetan’s pencil against the paper stops.
“You want me to stay?” He says it like he’s not entirely sure he can believe it, like maybe there’s another shoe that's gonna drop.
Letho doesn’t turn around from where he’s painstakingly rolling fondant into rose petals knowing that if he does he’s going to say something else, something damning.
“Only if you want to stay”
Gaetan has had so many choices taken away from him throughout his life, Letho isn’t about to do the same.
“Letho…” Gaetan says, deadly serious, quiet in the dimness, near suddenly. Letho hadn’t heard him approach.
“Letho”
He’s afraid to turn but he has to, has to look.
Gaetan surges up to kiss him, hands curled possessive in the front of Letho’s shirt pulling him down so he can reach.
Letho kisses him back, greedy with it, a wild collision of lips and tongue and the gentle nip of teeth. He cups the back of Gaetan’s shorn skull with a hand gritty with flour just to haul him closer, just because he wants to and he can.
“No ones ever wanted to keep me before” Gaetan whispers into the space between them, like a confession, like a prayer.
I’ll keep you forever Letho thinks, bending to kiss him again and again and then again, drunk on it. Gaetan tastes like ginger and chili and vanilla buttercream. I’ll keep you forever.
Four years later Letho bakes their wedding cake and Gaetan decorates it.
#This does not go on ao3 cause it's not that good actually#I literally wrote this in 10 hours on the comedown from a massive night out#I take no responsibility for the mistakes and poorly used language and shallow characterisation#my fic#my writing#letho/gaetan#vipurr#the witcher
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deleted scene: varieties of exile - geraskier in drabbles
this ultimately was deleted from Varieties of Exile because it derailed the playing cards scene way too much
Witcher 3 + Netflix / This part is rated G - the chapter is complete as posted to Ao3 though parts of this may be added to another scene later
"I'm sure," Cedric said, "he would rather talk to you than me."
Jaskier wasn't sure that was true at all. It had been less than a month after the dragon hunt and he still barely felt like he could breathe when he remembered Geralt's words. Harder still when he remembered Geralt's sharp bellowing and how he seemed to restrain him from throttling Jaskier. Geralt should have throttled him-
He swallowed and distantly heard rummaging sounds and felt his teeth start to pierce his bottom lip when Aiden gently knocked their foreheads together. Jaskier should have run so far that he wouldn't have to even think about this-
"Hey, hey," he soothed, "none of that, none of that- open your mouth." He gently teased Jaskier's lip with his fingers until he opened his mouth again. Aiden crowded around Jaskier until his back rested against Aiden's chest, his thighs bracketing the others' and holding his hands. Jaskier was always causing trouble- always always always-
It seemed like time passed in a blur until he could feel Aiden's fingers laced within his own and gently pressing an even rhythm- and then the tears came. Quiet and suffocating, Jaskier felt the panicking recede and the shame and the grief come to the forefront. Aiden crushed Jaskier in, his thick arms tight enough to hold him as he struggled to talk- "I'm sorry I'm sorry," he gasped out.
"None of that," Aiden murmured in his ear, "just sit with me here."
(some time passes)
"Was your argument that serious?" Cedric asked around a mouthful of cherries.
"You don't know me," Jaskier said shortly, he moved his cards around his hand.
"Ugh, people talk about what the cat drags in," Gaetan said, "but it's those wolves that won't let something go.
#actual fic varieties of exile#geraskier#jaskier#aiden the witcher#gaetan#the witcher aiden#the witch writes
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Whispered Words to Listen To
Written with myself and @hyrulehearts1123
@cake-shop-rarepair-bingo
Prompts: Reading Aloud
Fandom: The Witcher
Chapters: 1
Rating: G
Warnings: No Additional Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Letho/Gaetan
Additional Tags: Domestic fluff, fluff, pregnancy
Summary: After a long day, Letho was glad to spend a little bit of time reading to his small family, even if he was the only one who was able to hear his whispered words.
It had been a long day for both of them. Gaetan hadn't been sleeping well for a while, and Letho was tired in sympathy. But he wasn't about to let his partner suffer alone if he could help it. Letho opened the book he'd liberated from its previous owner in the last town to the first page.
Gaetan had only just drifted off, but he’d mentioned before that he found Letho's voice soothing. If he was quiet enough, maybe it would be enough to help him rest better.
"'And in a hole there lived a creature...'" Letho read quietly, even as he listened to the slow steady heart beat of his lover, and the faster, quieter echo underneath it.
It was a miracle, being able to hear that soft noise following his lover's every step, proving that he'd gotten what he'd always dreamed of having. And while Letho had never seen himself as being a father before, he couldn’t imagine any other life for himself, now.
He shifted, twisting so his head was resting against Gaetan's stomach as he continued reading quietly.
He didn't know if the child hidden behind the barely-there swell could hear him or not, but he’d overheard a midwife discussing the importance of speaking to infants, so they would know the voices of their parents, and he was more than willing to read to them.
He wanted them to know, from the beginning, that he was going to be there for them. This would not be like all the young witcher trainees abandoned by their parents to the fates humans believed to be worse than death.
They would be loved, and cared for, no matter what path their life followed.
"Letho?" a sleepy voice above him asked. "What're you doing?"
"Reading," he answered, smiling softly as he gently rubbed slow circles over Gaetan's belly. "I thought they might like a story."
"I think they might," Gaetan decided after a moment. "I think I'd like one too."
Smiling, he turned the pages of the book back to the beginning. "'And in a hole there lived a creature...'"
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If you want to speculate on a title, "You will not grow weary"
Lambert/Gaetan rivals to lovers, has to be
It's a year after the events of TW3. Eskel and Geralt are retired, but Lambert's a few decades younger than them and...not sure he's ready just yet to hang up his swords. As much as he hates the Path, he's not sure what he is without it. Not yet.
He's out on a griffin contract when he sees the Cat armor.
No, just no - he's not having it. He stands up from his blind to chew the interloper out, chase him off from Lambert's contract. He's not fucking doing this shit again.
Meanwhile to Gaetan this guy just rose up out of the ground. Leaves in his hair, branches and all the other stuff Lambert had covered himself in to hide all falling to reveal a very anger witcher who just started yelling bloody murder at him.
Gaetan's feeling pissy, so he yells right back - nearly sliding down the little embankment as he strides forward to defends himself from this jerk.
He'd just been passing through. Minding his own business, unlike some. Didn't even know there was a griffin contract out in the area.
Got a big fucking clue though when it comes screeching out of the sky trying to grab him up, alerted by all the noise they've both been making.
Gaetan rolls to dodge, but the griffin is faster - gets its talons in his jerkin and starts making for the sky.
There's a pulling on his legs though, and he looks down to see the other witcher's trying to hold on like they're actors in some farce of a play.
It's enough Gaetan can get his hunting knife free, slashing hard against the claws grasping him until they open. He and the other witcher go tumbling like a bunch of clowns, landing in an undignified heap of limbs and indignation.
They both scramble to their feet quickly enough though, and then it's short work at that point for two witchers to take down a half-starved griffin that's barely even fledged, so thin you could count the creature's ribs as it heaved it's last breath.
Geatan knew the feeling - work's been thin on the ground these past few weeks. It's a shame he'd come to late for the contract on this thing, he could use the gold.
Still breathing hard, he glanced over at the other witcher, about to ask if his help might at at least rate him a meal. Only to see the guy is bent over double, kneeling in the leaf litter of the forest floor with his arm wrapped around his middle like -
"You okay?" Gaetan asks, not quite knowing why he's bothering to ask.
Alright, well he does; some misplaced sense of owing a particular white haired bastard of a Wolf -
"Do I look okay?" the other witcher snarls. But it's weak, his face pale.
Which of course is when he sees this witcher's medallion is that same snarling wolf's face. Just before he keels over with a groan.
"Fuck."
Gaetan's only got two swallows left on him. But after he gets the guy laid out so he can take a look at the problem, he sees the massive gut wound where the griffin must've raked the other witcher with it's claws in the fight.
There's no other choice than to - very grudgingly - give one of his precious potions up, and Gaetan knows it. Not unless he wants to have to explain to the great White Wolf why he let one of his few remaining brothers-in-arms die when he could maybe have saved him.
Fetching the small bottle from the little holster on his belt, he tips it into the strange witcher's mouth. And though while the first reaction was to reject the noxious stuff, sense memory seems to kick in quickly enough; the body remembering that foul taste as the harbinger of healing, greedy for the rest.
Gaeten watches, fascinated as the flesh knits itself back together.
He fucking hates the potions - hate the way they sink slight like a lead weight ino the depths of his belly, only to climb back up it's side like living fire. Hates the way they make his skin crawl, his eyes feel like embers, his teeth ache like they'd been yanked out and replaced with chips of broken glass.
Usually if it's bad enough for him to resort to a Swallow, he's in far too much pain to appreciate the efficiency of it.
Efficient, but painful all the same - weeks of healing all happening at once still taking it's toll, just in one lump sum.
...(oops, I didn't mean to start writing this for real! 😅)
So the idea was that Gaetan keeps watch while Lambert recovers, due to "owing" Geralt for sparing his life. Lambert's not happy about it, but when you've just seen your own guts its hard to tell the guy who saved you to go fuck off because you loved his school-mate. (Not that Lambert lets that stop him.)
They get to talking about Aiden and...there's an uneasy sort of comradery that brews from it.
And when Lambert does finally turn in the griffin contract, he buys Gaetan that meal, and asks if he wants to travel together a bit. Lambert's feeling lonely and...he's not Aiden, obviously, but he knows some of the same jokes and...and he's someone who understand this shit.
It'd always tended to work out, when Lambert and Aiden traveled together. Sure it's an extra mouth to feed, but it's not that much. The cost of a room at the inn is the same for one body or two, and the monsters go down twice as quick and three times as easy.
To Gaetan's own surprise he agrees. But whatever - these Wolves seem to have been blessed with more than their fair share of luck. Might as well see if some of that could rub off on him, right?
So they travel for a few weeks, taking on enough contracts together that Gaetan's stopped being able to count his own ribs in the inn's clouded old mirror.
It's...nice.
He almost see what Aiden saw in this Wolf.
But then they take on a contract for a trio of vampires - alps who've been terrorizing a mining town.
They have to take Black Blood to fight them, there's no way for Gaetan to get around it.
The fight goes well enough, they take out the alps without any more than the usual trouble.
It's the potion that's the problem now - Gaetan can feel it spreading inside him, like frost spreading across a spider's web, causing it the shatter.
And he cold, so fucking cold - his teeth chattering with it, his whole body shivering as he sits there, rocking back and forth on the forest floor.
But then there's - there's light and there's heat; faint at first but soon soaking into his bones.
"You back?" Lambert asks in his ear from where the Wolf is wrapped around Gaetan like a massive coat.
He's got a fire going in front of them, and what feels like both their blankets wrapped around what parts of the Cat aren’t already covered by Wolf.
"Yeah," Gaeten says, swallowing his suddenly dry throat. Because...this is nice, really.
He doesn't get nice. Not him.
"This okay?" Lambert asked, uncertainty in his voice.
When Gaetan takes too long to answer, he can feel Lambert start to pull away, his hands lifting free of where they'd been crossed over Gaetan's chest.
Gaetan's own hands come up to halt their retreat, clutching at the Wolf's forearms, holding them in place.
"Yeah," is all Gaetan can bring himself to admit. That there might be food regularly in his belly these days, but that there's still plenty of other ways to starve. Doesn't come out like that though.
"S'alright," he tells Lambert instead, his hands and their iron grip holding Lambert in place telling a different story.
One Lambert seems to understand, settling back down and - and -
And nuzzling Gaetan's neck with that sorry scruff he called a beard.
"I'm not him," Gaetan said into the still air.
"Neither am I," Lambert's voice drifted from back behind him.
Damn. Guess he hadn't been as subtle as he'd thought when asking Lambert all those questions about Geralt. Or when Lambert had broken the news to him about the third Wolf - Eskel.
"Still alright?" Lambert asked, as Gaetan felt the barest brush of lips against his neck, making him shiver.
"Yeah," Gaetan said, feeling like - like it just might be.
He relaxed back into the Wolf, curious to see where this might go.
@continentcakeshop @oxenfurt-archives
#witcher fic#witcher lambert#witcher gaetan#lambert/gaetan#past lambert/aiden#background Geralt/Eskel#very VERY background#omg it's one am i need to go to beeeed :D
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Title challenge: Summer Loving
Honestly, my first instinct was to make it a slightly angsty fic about Lambert and Aiden stressing about the end of summer, knowing that once it ends they'll have to separate, but then, a second idea hijacked it, because Vipurr is just like that sometimes. It's mostly just cutesy fluff but there you have it.
Letho and Gaetan get their own sort of retirement, and it might not be the idyllic Corvo Bianco, but it's theirs all the same. A nice house in the forest, far enough from everything and appropriately "haunted" enough to dissuade any visitors
Gaetan brings home a moose carcass bigger than he is as a present for Letho who is, begrudgingly, charmed. They feast, and like a proper snake, Letho finds himself a nice sunspot to take a nap in
An hour later, he wakes up freezing cold because somebody, who, despite being half his size, took up all his surface area and is blocking the sun.
Cue the most quietly-furious, gentle machination of trying to make the kitty curl up into a more space-saving configuration. As anyone with a Cat knows, this failed. Spectacularly.
Eventually, Letho gives up and falls back asleep, because the only thing worse than being cold is committing the mortal transgression of waking the cat on your lap
#the witcher#the witcher fanfiction#gaetan#letho#vipurr#cutagens#ask game#berry's fics#berry's games
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you said it.
now do ittttt
Title:
Only one top catboy!
Oh. Oh no. I hope this fulfills your wishes.
Only One Top Catboy!
The apron strings were digging into his waist. The skirt barely covered the tops of his thighs, but he’d insisted on wearing opaque leggings underneath so at least he wasn’t flashing anyone everytime he bent over.
He smirked. Not that anyone in the cafe would mind.
The owner had presented him with a pair of ridiculous, huge, fuzzy cat ears at the beginning of his shift. He’d baulked at first, but the softness of the fur brushing against the top of his bald head actually felt nice. Not that he’d tell anyone.
“Letho! Are you paying attention?” Aiden asked, setting the rest of the cups of tea and sandwiches on his tray and frowning up at him.
Letho considered for a moment before shaking his head. “Not really. You were complaining about your boyfriend’s girlfriend again and I tuned it out.”
He picked up the tray and headed back out into the cafe proper before the other man had a chance to formulate a reply. Carefully he maneuvered his way around the tables, smiling politely back at the regulars when they smiled at him. He placed the tray down on one of the round tables decked out in dark red fabric embroidered with tiny gold cats and let his face relax into a proper smile.
"Good afternoon Miss Priscilla, Miss Essi," he rumbled, setting the delicate teacups out in front of the two women. "I trust your day has been good so far?"
On his left, Priscilla laughed lightly. "It's warm and sunny, and we're finally done with uni for another year."
Essi grinned up at him. "Now that we're here it's even better."
It had been weird and not a little unnerving to have so much attention focused on him, but after six months he'd slowly gotten used to it. Now instead of being apprehensive everytime he walked in the front doors, he looked forward to it.
"I'm glad to hear it," he answered, stepping back slightly after removing the rest of the tea service and sandwiches and picking up his tray. "Is there anything else I can do to make your time at Coen's Cat Cafe more pleasant?"
Both women smiled at him, full unabashed smiles with not a hint of guile or fear.
"No no!" Essi replied. "Thank-you, Letho. You're such a gentleman."
Letho smiled back before turning and threading back between the tables, maybe wiggling his hips a little to make the tail attached to his waist twitch back and forth.
So of course he was a little jealous when Coen hired a new guy. Maybe. Just a little.
Gaetan was lithe where Letho was bulky, sleek where he was rippling, cunning where he was implacable.
Letho hated him.
"Why do you keep staring at him like you want to eat him, then?" Aiden drawled, pouring them both cups of tea after they'd finished cleaning up for the evening. It was a proprietary blend of black teas that Coen had gotten made especially for the cafe. Letho liked it because it tasted like a warm Autumn evening. Aiden liked it because the caffeine content was on par with an espresso.
"What? No I don't," he protested. Wrapping one massive hand around the steaming chipped mug, he inhaled the comforting aroma as his brows furrowed downwards, pulling at the scar between them. "He's a nuisance. He flirts too much. Talks too loud. It's like he's hiding something."
"Are you sure you don't want to eat him?" Aiden pressed. He raised one eyebrow in challenge before taking a sip of his too hot tea.
"Never even crossed my mind."
They were silent for several long minutes, each staring into their own mug before Aiden sighed.
"Are you worried he's going to take away your title of top cat boy?" he asked slyly.
Letho choked on his tea.
#the witcher#letho#aiden#gaetan#crack fic#the major writes#hehehehehe#give me title i give you ficlet
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Witcher Fic Recs 19
A Friendly Game of Gwent
(coën/gaetan, explicit, complete, 4k)
What was supposed to be a friendly game of strip Gwent quickly turns heated when Gaetan wins his second round and earns Coën's shirt on the floor. It's hard not to stare and even harder not to touch.
A Light No More
(Warritt-centric, explicit, complete, 2k)
Sometimes contracts go wrong, especially if you're a young, cocky witcher. There's always a cost, but for Warritt, the price was higher than expected.
An Open Door - The Other Side
(eskel/lambert, explicit, complete, 5k)
After preparing an herbal tea designed to nearly paralyze the user, Geralt asks Eskel to test it. It works swimmingly, so Geralt takes it to Jaskier's open door. Lambert stays with Eskel and works him through the night.
as the world comes to an end
(coën-centric, teen, complete, 2k)
There’s a wet, squelching sound behind him, and Coën ducks on instinct, rolls, scrambles back to his feet and dashes off at a right angle. He can hear wood splinter, close enough that the shavings rain down on his head, and he lengthens his stride to put more distance between himself and the low, guttural moan that he can almost feel at the back of his neck. Fuck. That was too close.
Beekeeper AUs - series
(yennefer/jaskier, geralt/jaskier, aiden/lambert, eskel/letho, teen, 14k)
several fics about different ships - and with bees!
Delayed
(eskel, lambert, explicit, complete, 9k)
When a liberating change of scenery at Eskel's fingertips is ripped away, Lambert steps in with comfort and a few ideas for how to make the winter palatable.
Free Bird
(geralt/yennefer, teen, complete, 2k)
Lambert's first visit to Geralt in Toussaint was heralded by angry screeching.
How Far We've Come
(jaskier/lambert, mature, wip, 7k)
Jaskier takes a summer job working on a farm to escape the disapproval of his father. He's struggling to fit in with the other young people looking to party and has resigned himself to a long, boring few months stacking rhubarb. He expects to go crawling home with his tail between his legs come autumn, but a chance meeting with another migrant worker changes all that.
If Tomorrow Comes
(eskel & lambert, gen, complete, 3k)
The Trial of the Grasses looms, and the knowledge of what's likely to come plagues both Geralt and Eskel's minds. They try to find some small comforts in each other, trying to decide on things to do should they both survive. If they both survive.
Of rookie mistakes and broken ribs
(eskel/lambert, teen, complete, 4k)
“Come on, we’re almost there. See? That’s the entrance. Just -- hold on, all right?” Lambert nods with a small huff. Bad idea: huffing sends a jolt of searing pain through his already hurting chest, knocking his breath off and making him see stars for a while. “‘M not dying, Eskel”, he objects, though gasping for air. Eskel shoots him a disapproving glance and shakes his head, probably amazed about how reckless he is, although being long past the appropriate age for such bullshit like activating a goddamn explosive trap while trying to scratch some silver from a rock. Now Lambert would like to chuckle again, but he’s afraid his knees will buckle for the pain if he just tried. “Shut up, please, before I finish the job instead of taking care of your sorry ass.”
Silver Moon Sparkling
(arnaghad/erland, gen, complete, 2k)
soft Arnaghad/Erland
Soft the Stars
(aiden/lambert, explicit, complete, 2k)
Lambert visits a certain cave outside Posada on two separate Saovine nights, each quite different from the other. He finds a bit of comfort in both.
The Comfort of a Bear
(eskel/geralt, explicit, complete, 9k)
Last week, I met a Bear... Witcher, Geralt wrote, adding the last word after a moment's pause. It wasn't an inaccurate description, but neither was the first. Eskel was a Bear in every sense of the word, but oh, he was so much more.
The Eighth Knightly Virtue
(coën/lambert, explicit, complete, 6k)
Lambert hadn’t known a lot of people like Coën. The Continent was a torid place full of people with dual purpose and multiple faces, and Lambert had grown up learning to navigate it well enough to protect his own interests; the trick was to always expect the double cross. No one could be trusted to mean what they said and there was always an ulterior motive. Even the most kindly face would screw you over at the first available opportunity, which is why Lambert had spent his first few years of knowing Coën waiting for the other boot to drop. Or: Lambert falls in love with Coën very fucking slowly, and then shakily confesses after getting railed (and then we see Coën's point of view too).
The Give Away
(iorveth/roche, explicit, wip, 35k)
Fifteen years after their conflict in Flotsam, Iorveth and Vernon Roche have crossed paths once more. It's not a happy union. Roche has a few new truths that Iorveth would've preferred he'd kept buried, and Iorveth has a ring on his finger that Roche would rather not think too hard about. Yet more worrisome still, they really need to find a way home. (And they've gotta do it before October 20th, but that's none of Roche's business.)
The Viscount de Fucking Lettenhove
(geralt & jaskier, explicit, wip, 22k, non-con: please read all the tags!)
Something (or someone) has killed the Viscount de Lettenhove and is picking off his heirs. Convinced to intervene by a cryptic message, Jaskier takes Geralt back to his childhood home. Now they have to untangle an ancient prophesy, forbidden magic, secrets and sibling rivalries to solve the murders before it's Jaskier's turn on the chopping block.
When Bear Stepped Clear of Bear
(geralt/jaskier, explicit, complete, 26k)
The nameless things Geralt wants and needs don’t have much of a place in his life until Jaskier shows up.
Wir 💛 Lebensmittel
(geralt/jaskier, gen, complete, 1k, this fic is in German and I love it very much!)
Geralt will eigentlich nur seine Pfandflaschen zurückbringen.
Wer hätte denn ahnen können, dass ausgerechnet der Edekamitarbeiter, der sich um den kaputten Pfandflaschenautomaten kümmert, so verdammt attraktiv ist?
You Make Me Shiver, I Feel So Tender
(aiden/lambert, teen, complete, 5k)
Every day Aiden spent with Lambert, he was handed a single page drawing of foliage.
#the witcher#geraskier#lamden#jaskier#geralt#coën#coën/gaetan#warritt#eskel/lambert#yennefer/jaskier#eskel/letho#arnaghad/erland#jaskier/lambert#iorveth/roche#coën/lambert#eskel/geralt#eskel#lambert#fic recs#trash speaking
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They need to make a specific tag for when someone is just having a really bad time in canon and the fic is just about spoiling them rotten and making them happy (while they kind of freak out about it bc good things don't just happen to them theres gotta be a trick, but surprise, there is no trick just warm fuzzy feelings)
#i would look for hurt/comfort but its not quite that#this is about gaetan#witcher#i mean i guess all witchers already make the cut bc canon terrible backstory and constant ostracization#i just wish it was easier to find this kind of fic
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Rating: G
Characters/Pairings: Geralt/Eskel, Aiden/Lambert
Written for the Witcher Flash Fic Challenge #053
Thanks, as always, to the @continentcakeshop
Geralt wakes to an empty bed and goes in search of Eskel.
#i wrote a thing#the witcher#the witcher games#geralt of rivia#witcher eskel#witcher lambert#witcher aiden#witcher gaetan#witcher kiyan#fluff#cake shop fic
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Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Coën/Gaetan (The Witcher)
Characters: Coën (The Witcher), Gaetan (The Witcher)
Additional Tags: Cock Warming, Established Relationship, Alternate Universe
Series: Part 16 of Witcher Kinktober 2022
Summary:
Kinktober Day 16: Cock Warming
Gaetan has never minded getting on his knees for Coën.
Day 16 Joke: My friend’s bakery burned down last night. Now his business is toast.
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Ik it's an ick for some people and I get why but the age gap is a huge thing for me with Letho/Gaetan. Doesn't matter if we're doing canon or an AU. They need to be at least 15 human years (or witcher equivalent) apart.
#its about the younger partner being the attack dog#and the older partner giving them the world in return#not even in a sugar daddy way#like any kind of modern AU Letho is pretty limited in careers if you wanna keep his character in tact#and few of them pay exorbitantly well#I've been really pushing it recently though#i think current fic has them at about 20 yrs apart#like they look at ginormus letho like 'oh thats your twink. thats your boytoy'#when actually everything Letho has ever done has been For Gaetan and Gaetan has dropped several dozen bodies to protect Letho’s honor
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Letho X Gaetan fic sneak peek
Letho had just returned to base after enduring more meetings than he cared to attempt. He took a deep breath as he closed the door behind him; it would be over soon. He had spent twenty fucking years in the army. His contract would be up, and he would be able to live a life outside of service. However, he was faced with the fact that he had no idea what he would do once it was all over. Since he was eighteen, this had been all he had known for an embarrassingly long time. When he looked around the room he was assigned to, he didn't have much; he had traveled too often to keep a lot. Lying down on the bed, after kicking off his shoes. He chose just not to think about the future for now.
Before he started drifting off to sleep, his phone buzzed. With a groan, he grabbed it from his nightstand, and the name Moggy flashed on his phone screen.
He grinned, aware that Gaetan was somewhere in the South attending something called Legalweek, a lawyer thing. Gaetan had sent him a photo showcasing his permanent resting bitch face, a feature Letho oddly appreciated.
GAETAN: No idea where Guxart went, but I'm heading back to the hotel. Cleo is probably wondering where the hell I am.
Gaetan's Sphinx cat, Cleo, traveled with him whenever he had to leave town on a business trip. She wasn't particularly a fan of being left alone all day.
LETHO: Think she'll give you the silent treatment again?
GAETAN: Probably 😑.
His relationship with Gaeton was… interesting. Considering they met on a hookup app, Letho’s friends push them into trying out. They weren't in a defined relationship, nor did they even actually have sex with each other. Nevertheless, they kept talking.
It's not that he wasn't attracted to Gaetan; quite the opposite. The issue lay with himself. He wasn't really sure what Gaetan saw in him, but he didn't bother to ask. As one 'lovely' person put it, he looks like a serial killer and was built like a fridge. He hadn't had much luck in the dating world since puberty struck him like a train. It was a bit disheartening, but he appreciated whatever he could get at this point.
He had a few takers, but they never really stayed. It felt weird that he was the cheap thrill in the situation.
GAETAN: *image attached*
Gaetan had sent a picture of Cleo perched up on his lap, looking pissed.
GAETAN: I guess she still wants attention, lol. So, how was your day?
LETHO: More new recruits, clueless about what they're getting into. How about you?
GAETAN: Some twat tried to bribe me into working for his law firm. Didn't even notice Guxart was right behind him.
Letho chuckled at that. Most nights unfolded this way – if neither of them was asleep, they would exchange texts. They had met in person a few times, but it only occurred when their paths coincided. Gaetan was smaller, not because he was short, but because Letho was tall. There was an allure about him. It didn't help that his smile was devilishly charming, like he was in on something nobody would understand.
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To Ease The Discomfort
Written with myself and @hyrulehearts1123
@cake-shop-rarepair-bingo
Prompts: “I need a foot massage pronto”
Fandom: The Witcher
Chapters: 1
Rating: G
Warnings: No Additional Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Letho/Gaetan
Additional Tags: Fluff, foot massage, pregnancy, Trans Gaetan
Summary: Gaetan loved being pregnant. He really did. He just wished that it was a little easier on his body.At least he had his wonderful lover, to help him deal with any discomforts that arose with each passing day.
Gaetan hissed as he sat down heavily on the bed that he'd been sharing with Letho, scowling as he realized that he wouldn’t be able to remove his boots, thanks to his large belly.
"Are you doing okay?" Letho asked from where he was pretending not to hover.
"I need a foot massage," Gaetan said, sighing. "And help with my boots."
"I can do that," Letho smiled softly, kneeling down, and starting to work at unlacing Gaetan's boots. "I'm surprised you managed to get them on, honestly."
Gaetan sighed again. It hadn't been pleasant, shoving his boots on around his prone-to-swelling ankles, but he wasn't interested in buying a new pair of boots when his body would go back to normal in just a few weeks after the baby came. At least, he really hoped that was going to be the case.
He didn't regret getting pregnant, not even after all the discomfort it had caused him, but damn if he didn’t want to be able to hold his baby, already.
Letho finished unlacing Gaetan's boots and pulled them off, setting them onto the floor. "That looks so uncomfortable," he commented as he started peeling Gaetan's socks off. "Damn, your ankles are so swollen."
"Coulda told you that myself," Gaetan huffed. "Cmon, you asked what I wanted. Are you gonna put out?"
Letho rolled his eyes, as he gently reached up to pat Gaetan's knee. "Make yourself comfortable, Moggy. I'll help your ankles, promise."
Gaetan smirked as he stretched out on the bed, making himself as comfortable as he could despite the circumstances.
His back was sore, as if he'd spent a full day lifting crates full of the caravan's supplies, not just taking a walk around the halls of Gorthur Gvaed for an hour, but the near mountain of pillows in their bed helped, letting him decide how best to position himself.
It was all worth it, though. Everything was worth it, to be able to hold a kitten that would truly be his own, not just a foundling he was tasked with caring for.
Finally, finally , Letho's warm hands came to wrap his foot, gently squeezing as he rubbed circles into his skin.
Sighing softly, Gaetan let his eyes fall closed, one hand resting on his belly as he finally started to relax. Pregnancy was far harder than he'd ever anticipated it being, but at least he had his Viper to help him through it.
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Gingerbread Witchers, that i just made and have been bullied into posting.
Three Wolves and a very irritated Viper
With two bonus Cats
Gaetan with dumplings, referencing the EXCELLENT fic Metaphorical Dumplings (one of my favorites)
Aiden with an absolute travesty of a medallion and, for lack of any better ideas, a fish.
The cookies are a very nice lebkuchen that i baked yesterday.
#witcher eskel#witcher letho#letho of gulet#geralt of rivia#witcher lambert#witcher gaetan#witcher aiden#the witcher#witcher 3#baking#gingerbread#y'all can blame hehearse because they bullied me into posting this
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Story - Dyn Marv
SFW prompt for day 6 of the @witchersummercamp event!!! Shout out to @hellinglasses and her own kitty companions for beta’ing
Rating: G
Words: 4350
Pairing: Gen with references to Arnaghad/Erland and Guxart/Vesemir
Tags: Cat School, Dyn Marv Caravan, Cutagens, Papa Guxart, Bedtime Stories, All Of The Younger Cats Are Kittens, Non-Graphic Violence, Swearing But Not In Front Of Kittens, Must Be A Good Example, Witcher Lore References But Disguised As Fables
Summary: Every night, Guxart reads a fable to a tangled pile of kittens, and though the pages are stained and the illustrations are faded, his newest clowder is just as enraptured as his first. He hopes they learn its lessons well.
Read on AO3
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If he didn’t know what little bastards they are, Guxart could almost call his smallest kittens, piled up and on top of each other in the trainee wagon, cute. At this age, they’re all still devastatingly little in a way that makes him ache. Gaetan barely reaches his mid-thigh on tiptoe. Dragonfly head-butted him in the balls earlier today during training. Kari lost his four front teeth this year, and won’t regrow stronger, dwarven ones until he loses the rest. At eight years old, Aiden still has cheeks like bread rolls —entirely too squishy for her own good. Daniet just hit a growth spurt, making her knees spasm constantly with the pressure. Even Cedric and Axel, both nearly eleven, can each hang off one of his arms with little difficulty on his part. And every last one of them is staring up at him with their expectant little eyes in every shade that won’t last. Like a chorus, the nightly question goes up into the night air.
“Story? Stoey? Storytime? Story? Storytime? Stoeytime? Stories! Story! Story! Storytime! Papi, it’s Storytime!”
According to whatever rotation they’ve cooked up, Dragonfly guards the book tonight. It’s a heavy tome, one of the few that Dyn Marv can afford to carry around. Brown, weathered pages slip between her fingers as she finds the right page. The Bear and the Bird. He recognizes the tale immediately, though the illustrations have faded from the vibrant colors they once displayed, the ones he painstakingly inked onto the parchment so many years ago. Time hadn’t been kind to the book, but his newest kits love it just as the elder ones did. With an imperious stare, carrying all the self-assured authority of the princess she almost was, Dragonfly drops the open book into his lap with a painful thud against his still-sore groin.
“Storytime.”
She nods her little chin once and sits back down with her littermates, pushing Gaetan onto Aiden’s lap so she can take the pillow for her own head, lounging across it carelessly. Guxart sighs, settling his back further against the wall. His usual reading cushion has disappeared, likely under the mass of watchful kittens in front of him, so he makes do with the wooden floor, crossing his legs and resting the book on his knee. He doesn’t need to actually look at the words to tell them the story, but the kits always insist that he should get to read it too. With a cough to clear his throat, he begins the prologue:
“Very well, kits. Storytime. But this is the only story you’re getting, because after this, you are all going to sleep. If I hear a single sound out of any of you once I close this book, you will have to make your own breakfast for a week.”
Guileless, with seven little grins and fourteen shining eyes, they promise to all fall right asleep. They won’t bother him or Gezras for anything unless someone dies or “frows up” in the middle of the night. It’s bullshit, of course. Bullshit of the highest order. But he nods and tells them they’re good little kits anyway because they look so cute when they’re proud of themselves for successfully lying to him.
“Now, where was I? Right, yes —the begining. A long, long time ago, beyond seven mountains, beyond seven forests, a little bear cub wandered through the woods all alone. His mother had left the den a week ago in search of food, but never returned. When his hunger became too great, despite how small his size and how blunt his teeth and how thin his fur, he decided to risk the dangers of the world, for his other option was death. He ventured out. For two days and two nights, he wandered through the forest, his belly rumbling, empty and cramped. Still, no matter how he tried, food remained out of his reach.
Bees stung him when he reached for their hive. Fish slipped from his little paws, too slippery for the soft pads. Squirrels leapt into trees he couldn’t climb. Deer vanished before he could even chase them. Even the berry bushes were all picked clean by earlier hunters, who’d left nothing but rotten fruit on the ground. Desperate, he ate them. They were slimy, mushy, and foul but he’d never been hungrier, so he devoured every last one he could find. With each bite, he felt sicker. His head felt fuzzy, his tummy ached, and soon he was so disoriented that he could barely keep his feet, stumbling until he found the edge of a cliff…… and fell right off it!”
Gaetan gasps, “No!” from his perch on Aiden’s lap, chubby leg kicking out in alarm. Guxart fixes his face into a mournful expression, nodding solemnly.
“Yes! He fell for what must have been miles, spinning through the air. All he could see was the blue sky, the gray cliffs, and the green grass, one after the other until they blurred into one, and he shut his eyes against it, bracing himself for the end. When he stopped, the air left his lungs in a rush, which didn’t shock him much more —he had died. Dead little bears don’t need breath. But then he inhaled, and a strange, soft thing brushed his long snout, gently enough to make him sneeze himself upright. He opened his eyes, and there in front of him, on a bed of brown twigs and leaves, hopped a little bird. It peered up at him before speaking, eyes wider than dinner plates:
‘You don’t look like a bird.’
Confused, the bear replied, ‘That’s because I’m not one.’
‘Then how did you fly here?’
‘I fell. I think.’
‘But you landed safely!’
The little bear, whose back hurt quite a bit, disagreed. On the last word, at least. Furiously so. But the little bird refused to believe anything else —he had fallen from the sky, so a bird he must be. They sat in the nest, arguing and quarreling until they exhausted themselves and fell asleep, with the little bird curled against the little bear’s warm, soft belly and the little bear balanced so as not to squash him. They woke the next morning, and though the little bear remained hungry, he could not help but be dragged into the argument once more.
‘I am not a bird!’
Immediately, the little bird protested, ‘You are! You fell from the sky and landed here, just like a bird! Your wings are strange, and you landed heavily, but a bird you must be.’
‘I am not!’ said the little bear, waving his arms around as if to prove their lack of feathers. ‘I have no beak, no wings, and no tail!’
‘But you flew!’
They went on, back and forth, until finally the little bird, frustrated and indignant, cried out to his father: ‘You say you’re not a bird? Fine, then, I’ll prove it to you!’
Saying this, he used all his might to push the bear off the side of the nest. Had the bear been less hungry, less tired, and less weak, the little bird would have failed, but the bear, startled, toppled over the edge for the second time, crashing upon the rocky earth with a horrible crunch.”
“NO!!” cry all his kits in unison, and Daniet lunges for the book in his lap, quick but not quick enough as Guxart hides it behind his back with one arm, and holds the misbehaving kitten by the forehead with the other fully extended. A gentle flick of the wrist, sends her back to the pile so she can grumble.
“A horrible crunch from his right arm, and as the little bear lay on the ground, howling in pain, the bird descended from its nest, shouting in alarm, hovering over the bear’s prone body:
‘Have I killed you?! Did your parents never teach you to fly?’
Through gritted teeth, the bear replied, ‘I’m alive, no thanks to you. And like I already told you, I’m not a bird.”
Apologetic, the little bird fussed over the bear’s broken arm and cared for him over the course of a month until it healed. And while the bear was angry at the bird for pushing him off the nest, he was so well-cared for —with clean water, herbs for pain, and all the food he could stand— that the little bear felt his grudge subside quickly. In fact, by the time he could walk again, he could no longer be called a little bear at all. Everyday, the bird brought him a feast. Honey stolen from the bees, fish small enough to fit in his beak, nuts and fresh berries instead of rotten ones, all of it went into his belly until he was healthy and fatter than a caravan!”
“Fatter than a caravan!” Aiden shouts, curving her arms around her body in an approximate comparison, “Papi, that’s impossible.”
“Ah, but it isn’t! Not for this bear, at least.”
“Impossible,” accompanied by exasperated bug eyes.
“Everything’s possible, kit, except maybe you shutting your trap. Oh, wait. Shut your mouth, kitten, or I’ll close this book.”
Before he even finishes his sentence, three pillows —one from Dragonfly, one from Axel, and one from Cedric— club her across the face, knocking her right onto her back. Gaetan keeps his seat, miraculously, and turns around, beating her stomach with his little fists. The things a good union can do truly amaze him. If his kits all make it past the Grasses and manage to stop arguing at every occasion that isn’t their hallowed Storytime, they’ll topple anything in their path. Before he becomes that very thing, he continues reading.
“Thank you. After the month had passed, the bear could walk easily again, and learned to hunt for himself. Still, his arm ached. As the seasons turned ever closer to winter, the cold seeped into his fragile bones, and he became sleepier and sleepier, preparing for a long winter’s nap. Such was his nature, but still the bird —who had grown large and strong in his own right— fretted. When the bear grew fatter, the bird worried over the waddle in his step. When he began digging his den, the bird fussed over his dirty claws. Worst of all, when the time came that the bear retreated into his yearly sleep, the bird insisted on waking him every day.
‘Wake up!’ the bird cried, flapping his wings as loudly as he could at the den entrance, ‘You will freeze in here if you sleep any longer —move, please, to keep yourself alive!’
The bear, half-dazed, grumbled back, ‘Leave me be, birdie. I’m a bear, we’re meant to sleep the winters away.’
‘You’re wrong! If you stop moving, your blood will go cold and you’ll die! I would miss you so, now please wake up!’
‘You will see me in the spring. No need to miss me at all.’
Again, despite all the bear’s insistence that yes, he was fine and could certainly survive being buried under the snow, the bird returned to rouse him each morning at dawn. Each time the bird came to wake him, the bear sent him away, pleading with him to not return until spring. They would meet again soon. Even asleep, even in the ground, he was safe and sound. Still, the bird persisted, and each day, the bear grew more tired. Without prolonged sleep, he lost weight faster and faster until by just midwinter, he was as skinny and hungry as he had been on that fateful day he wandered into the forest. Just as before, he gathered all his strength and wandered out alone.
This time, though he was more than large, strong, and clever enough to hunt, the winter had turned the lush wild into a barren wasteland. Bees hid away in their haves. Fish swam trapped under frozen ponds. Squirrels burrowed, sleeping in their own dens, just as he should have been. Deer had long since left for warmer climates. Not a berry remained on the dead branches of the shrubs he’d once feasted on. By chance, or by luck, or by some strange wrinkle of fate, he chanced upon a lone, injured wolf, and despite not wanting to fight another predator, he was hungry enough to hunt it.
Across the woods and fields, he chased it, though his arm throbbed with pain from the movement and the cold. Eventually, just as the sun appeared on the horizon, he was able to clamp his jaws around its tail, biting down hard and dragging it towards him to tear at its soft underbelly with powerful claws. But his hunger made him clumsy. Instead of reaching the heart, the bear only tore open his abdomen —a fatal blow, but not at once. And although the wolf had his guts hanging out of his body, tell me kits, when is a creature most dangerous?”
From the pile, in various tones of enraptured squeaks comes the answer, “When it knows it’s about to die!” Kari’s missing teeth make the words come out round, Gaetan still has trouble with pronouncing consonants at the ends of words, and Axel's voice decides to slide down an octave halfway through, but they all have it correct. Just so.
“Well done! So the wolf, one paw in his grave, gave a final lunge, whipping his body around to bite at the bear’s sore arm, right over where the old break had settled. It gave a horribly familiar creak, but the bear growled, tearing his arm out of the wolf’s jaw before the crunch and releasing his hold on the wolf’s tail. Allowing the creature to escape into the underbrush, leaving nothing behind but a trail of thick, dark red blood. Not too far away, he could hear the wolf whimpering and howling, but the pain in his arm immobilized him. Before, it had ached. Now, it burned with the ghosts of sharp teeth and hard earth. Just as he steeled himself once more, to chase it again despite his exhaustion, the bird appeared through the trees.
‘What happened?’ he shouted, flying closer to land by the bloody snow, ‘I returned to wake you this morning, and I found you gone! Are you hurt?’
‘Yes,’ the bear hissed, tucking his wounded arm closer to his body, ‘Because of your waking me, I grew hungry, and all I found to eat was a wolf almost as skinny and desperate as I am. But even a wolf like that still has teeth.’
The bird ducked his head, chastised.
‘How can I help you? This is the second time I’ve hurt you, my dear, and I want to make up for it.”
‘Hmm,” the bear grumbled, ‘Fine. That wolf got away, and I’m still hungry.”
Eager to help, the bird took flight, tracking the blood trail from above and leading the bear, slow on his injured paw, to the wolf, who had curled up at the base of a tree to die. The bear killed it quickly. He ate even faster as a heavy fatigue set in over his body and mind. After, they walked back to his den together, the bird perched delicately on the bear’s back as the bear settled in below the earth, full and tired. He made the bird promise not to wake him. The bird, feeling how warm the den was and seeing firsthand how much his friend needed this rest, agreed, on the condition that he would stay in the den too, to watch over the bear. If the bear had any objections, he voiced them with a snore. They passed the winter like that —the bird watching over his sleeping bear— but in spring, his arm still ached.
At first, the bear tried to ignore it. He avoided hunting anything that could run, kept his lame arm as still as he could whenever possible. It wasn’t enough. Eventually, he had slowed so much that by midsummer, when he should have been fat again, he remained lean without a steady supply of fresh meat or fish. Again, the bird fretted. With minimal grumbling, the bear accepted his dear friend’s care, but every step brought pain that not even the strongest herbs could relieve, and he grew thinner by the hour. After a near fall off the very cliff he’d stumbled from as a cub, the bird confronted him.
‘Dear one, you can’t go on like this. I can’t hunt enough for both of us, and I don’t think you’ll be able to stand in the river for the salmon run. You won’t live through the winter.’
‘I’ll survive, birdie. I have so far.’
‘But you might not this time,’ the bird said, flapping his wings nervously, ‘You need help, and I… yesterday, I flew over a human town not far from here. They have a hedgewitch who can fix your arm.’
‘Humans?’ cried the bear, ‘A human, hedgewitch or not, would poison me before she healed me. And that’s if the rest of the town doesn’t chase me out with pitchforks on sight!’
‘What other option do you have? You’re injured, why would they be frightened by you?’
‘I’m a bear! That’s enough, for most creatures. You’re the exception, little bird.’
For a day, the bird left him be. But as soon as yet another fish slipped through the bear’s paws, he returned, pestering him to go to the healer. Worn down, tired, and in constant pain, the bear finally agreed to go if his friend would watch over him, and so, the next day, he trudged after him until he could smell the town —smoke and sweat and waste. He walked to the edge of the forest as each pebble sent shockwaves of pain through his arm. He hesitated at the fields before loud squawking overhead pushed him forwards. He took a step on the supposed hedgewitch’s road. And so the screaming started.
It started and didn’t stop, tearing from the mouths of humans and the dogs they’d tamed. Women shrieked and babes cried, the hedgewitch herself stepped out to bellow curses at him. The bear turned back around, and already he could see the men of the town running from their homes and fields, the sun reflecting off their weapons with the hard glitter of iron and bronze. They screamed for more men, more dogs, and most of all for his head as they drew closer. As quick as he could on his injured leg, the bear turned and ran. A stray torch burned a brand into his side, a fencepost cracked across his spine, and a sharp axe swung just an inch too wide to hit its mark, but he kept going deeper into the woods, all the while his bird followed overhead, yelling furiously.
He ran and ran and ran until he couldn’t feel anything anymore, and then one step further before collapsing to the forest floor, motionless.”
Still on Aiden’s lap, Gaetan sniffles loudly, bringing one fist up to his pale, round cheek to brush out the tears. Quickly, Aiden tries for damage control, gently shushing her little brother and squeezing him tighter, but Guxart sees the panic in her eyes and reaches forward to take him onto his own hip. Gaetan hugs his side like a limpet, burying his face in Guxart’s soft sleep-tunic. His littlest kit. The rest of his clowder is mercifully patient as he runs a hand through his kitten’s fine brown hair, smoothing down the spikes before lifting his little chin up.
“What’s wrong, kit?”
Gaetan only sniffles again, shaking his head.
“Come on, now. Sit up. We’ll finish it together.”
That tiny frown only deepens, and the wobble in his chin stops before he grumbles, “I ‘on’t get it. Why the people hurt the bear? Why don’t the bird listen?”
“Ah, that is the question, kit.” Guxart sighs, hefting his child further up on his hip and adjusting the book on his knee. “Bears can be dangerous, and people often lash out. As for the bird, well. There’s a few more pages left to read.”
“It’s stupid! If I had a big friend, I won’t hurt him!”
“Good kitten. Now, we’ve got plenty more kits who want to hear the ending too, so sit tight.”
He acquiesces, nodding into Guxart’s armpit and reaching out one little finger to trace the edge of a yellowed page, where a slightly crooked drawing of tree branch falls off into the margin.
“For many long minutes, the bear laid there, growling with pain as the bird sobbed, screaming out into the empty woods.
‘Dear, I’m sorry! I’m sorry, my bear, please get up! They could still be chasing you, we can’t stay here!’
The bear sighed, but said nothing.
‘Please!’ the bird cried, ‘I’ve hurt you a third time, and I won’t forgive myself if you die because of my mistakes.’
‘Be quiet, birdie. They’ve given up —I can’t hear or smell them. Just go.’
‘No! I… I won’t leave you here.’
‘And why not?’ he said, anger slipping into his voice, no matter how it tired him, ‘Your attempts to help left me with a broken arm, an infected wound, and now this. All because you don’t believe me when I tell you I am not like you —you call me your bear yet don’t listen until I roar. So go. You can’t help anyone here.’
This made the bird cry harder, tucking his head into the bear’s warm, soft fur.
‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry, bear. I…… it’s not an excuse, but I want to do better by you. You aren’t like me, you aren’t a bird, you’re a bear, and the dearest one I know. I want to care for you the way you need.’
It was then, as his tears fell onto the bear’s skin, through the dense fur, that the bear felt the pain leave his body, and with it, much of his anger. Somewhere in his heart, he believed his little bird. And somewhere in the world, something else believed it too, as the wounds all along his body began to glow. Brighter and brighter —he looked something like the sun before it faded. Slowly, the bear stood, taking stock of himself as the bird gasped with shock.
His wounds were gone. Only the scars remained.
A strange magic, one he might have been frightened by, but the bear didn’t protest as he sat back on the ground, scooped his bird up into his paws, and nuzzled his feathered stomach with his nose. The bird wrapped his large wings around the bear’s head, hugging him tightly. He whispered promises to listen to his bear, and the bear simply held him tighter, and did his best to believe in him the same way the magic did, that he could be wholly himself with his little bird. And so they lived all that long, long time ago, beyond the seven mountains, beyond the seven forests: happily ever after.”
A cheer goes up from the kittens as Guxart closes the book, and he thinks about Arnaghad and Erland.
It’s the ending he’d wanted to give them, all those years ago when he wrote their story. The bear and the bird. Two legends, even to him. Gezras had told him the story as a witcher already on the Path, rather than a kit, but even then, he’d wished for something different. An ending where Erland listened to Arnaghad and got his head out of the clouds so his feet could stand on solid ground. An ending where Arnaghad had patience, where he tried harder to reason with Erland instead of lashing out in rage and violence. An ending where they lived happily ever after. Together. He tells it this way, for himself and for his kits as they grin at him, so that they might learn from the mistakes of their elders. They chant, as they do many nights:
“Another one?”
“More story?”
“ I’m not tired yet!”
“Another stoey?”
“Story?”
As the eldest, Cedric leads the charge, turning his eyes to liquid, bigger than dinner plates and deeper than the sea. He’s old enough to have heard each one of these stories, several times over, but still he begs to hear them again like the littlest kits. Axel hovers just over his shoulder, the very tips of his pointed ears drooping with the force of his pout, and the rest quickly follow suit, facing him with a clump of shining eyes and downturned lips and dimpled chins. The little ringleader pleads with him again.
“But what about the one where the jaguar fell in love with the wolf? What about that story?”
“No, kit.”
He turns his stern gaze down when Aiden takes up the mantle. She shuffles forward from the pile, furrowing her dark brows, widening her eyes just that little bit more.
“Please?”
A gasp rises from the crowd, echoed by Guxart’s own. Aiden wouldn’t ask for water in a desert, and certainly not politely, with an earnest please no less. And Guxart knows by the steel in her eyes that it’s not manners she’s learned, but the art of tactical, unconquerable manipulation. Immediately, the other kittens copy her, and just as cries for a story rang in the evening, so too do the cries of please ring out in the night. Pride wells in his chest. He’ll make good on his threats tomorrow. Tonight, he opens the book, finds the page by the torn bottom corner, and shows them the faded illustration he’d painted so long ago —a black jaguar presenting a deer corpse to a hesitant gray wolf. To Court a Wolf had been one of the first stories he’d thought of, and the last he’d written down. By then, Vesemir hadn’t been around to tease him with it.
All the same, his kittens have all loved it best. Kiyan and Jöel still ask him to read it every now and again. These kits are no different, it seems, so he pushes the old memories away and begins to read.
——————————————————————————————
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#witchersummercamp#witcher summer camp#the witcher#the witcher fanfiction#dyn marv#school of the cat#guxart#gaetan#dragonfly#aiden#axel#cedric#oc's#cutagens#gen fic#good little kitties get bedtime stories#so do the bad ones but only guxart can have some peace#arnaghad#erland of larvik#berry's fics
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