#letho fic | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

flatoutin-eaurouge · 6 months

Text

My beloved tyhmä poika

Pairing: Mika Häkkinen x JJ Letho

This fic is for the beloved @kimizilla 🫶🫶. A redemption arc for JJ after my recent fic. I remember how we situated this prompt in 1989, so Michael wasn't really that much in the picture yet. Therefore no heartbroken Makkinen 😇.

It all happened way too fast to comprehend. Driving in fifth position and nearing the Bombhole corner, he saw a backmarker spin in front of him. A flash of blue, white and yellow coming to a halt only meters in front of his Dragon Motorsport car. He neared the solid object with staggering speed, and had to give a harsh tug at his steering wheel to prevent himself from crashing into it.

Turning his steering wheel like that - with this speed - was an unforgivable mistake in usual circumstances, but Mika knew he might have saved his own life and the life of the backmarker with the manoeuvre. Mika saw how quickly the tyre wall grew more prominent into his vision. He closed his eyes and braced for impact.

His ears were ringing, the faint sound of steam coming from the engine only slightly audible. He could feel the bruises forming along his chest and suspected that it was due to the safety belts that had kept him inside of the car during the crash. It took a couple of blinks to get rid of the blurs and make sense of where he was: Snetterton, August 6, 1989. He smelled the scent of petrol, and quickly unclasped the safety belts that still had him trapped in its bruising hold. Mika could feel his body drop a few centimeters down onto the tarmac, which meant the car had landed upside down. As soon as he had crawled from underneath the wreckage, he started to walk away from his car until the unsteadiness in his legs forced him to drop to his knees.

His limbs were trembling and his heart was racing. It didn't take long for marshals to appear around him, telling him he needed to see professor Sid Watkins. Mika shook his head. What did he need a doctor for?

"No, I am fine. I can walk so I am fine." The tremblings and his heavy breathing had everything to do with his state of shock, didn't it? There was nothing wrong with him. He wasn't hurt.

A marshall grabbed his shoulder. "Mika, see a doctor. You don't know if you're fine until the adrenaline has worn off."

Mika ignored him. He stood up and wandered off in a numbed, apathic state. Feelings and emotions shut off for the moment. He just wanted to reach his motorhome and lie down on his bed. He didn't need a doctor.

On his way to the paddock Mika tried to fend off worried members of his team. He himself had no idea how terrible the accident had looked from their point of view or how much debris had flown over the track. He didn't notice the tyres of the tyre wall strewn across the tarmac. He didn't even register the very obvious fact that the race was red-flagged, meaning that he kept the points for his fith position.

Somehow his efforts to dodge his worried team members were unsuccessful, because before he knew it, he was pushed into Sid Watkins office by his team principal. "Don't be stubborn, Mika."

Mika sat down on the examination table with his race suit unzipped to his waist as Watkins shone into his eyes with a flashlight, making his dilated pupils shrink the seize of thumbtacks.

"Everything seems to be okay. You haven't been unconscious, have you?"

Mika shook his head. "No." He was well aware that he'd crawled away from the wreckage in a matter of seconds. Pure driver instinct. Smelling fossil fuel and running away from it as far as you can.

"Alright." Watkins inspected the bruises on his chest. "Do you have trouble breathing? Did you hurt your ribs?"

Mika shook his head once more. "No, Sir. I am fine. Really."

"Okay, then. I am going to dismiss you, but if you find out about any ailments later, don't hesitate to contact me."

Mika rolled his eyes when the doctor turned around. Was all the fuzz really necessary? He zipped his racesuit back up and jumped off the examination table, ready to hole himself up inside his motorhome, far away from the British press and the nosy people.

On his way back, Mika noticed that there was indeed a lot of press gathered around parc fermé. Really? For a F3 race? He looked at the standings on the electronic board located at the pit exit and noticed Paul Stewart on P1. Of course the English press would love it when the son of Jackie Stewart gets his maiden F3-victory. Mika smiled despite everthing. Good for him.

Jyrki Järvilehto had been absolutely terrified when he saw the crash happen on the tv-screens in the paddock. Contrary to believe, the impeccable, unfazed Finn was shocked to the core. He had watched the car of his beloved catapult through the air by the sheer speed of his car and the heavy impact against the tyre wall. He needed to make sure Mika was ok, so he waited for him at his motorhome.

As soon as he saw his younger compatriot, he took a heavy breath. There he was! Seemingly alright! He ran towards his favourite blondie and pulled him into a tight hug. "Mika, kulta. Are you okay?"

Mika was startled by the swiftness in which the familiar blonde guy standing by the door of his motorhome turned up in front of him and pressed him so tightly against the other's body that he only barely refrained from whimpering against the pain it caused his bruised chest.

"Jyrki! Hi! Where did you come from?"

The older Finn caressed a hand through Mika's fluffy hair and pecked his lips. "I took a plane to England to see you drive. Can't believe you scared me like that though! Are you okay?"

Mika sighed. Why was everyone so worried all the time. Especially Jyrki, he wasn't the type of guy to worry. He is so tough! I can't show any weakness to him. "Yeah, I am fine even with the adrenaline worn off. Stop fuzzing!"

Jyrki ruffled Mika's hair and smirked at his adorable, grumpy face. "I don't know if I can, kultaseni." He stroked Mika's cheek with the back of his hand. "I saw the crash. You told me you're physically fine, how are you dealing with it mentally?"

"Not," Mika replied curtly.

"What? 'Not' what?"

"I am not dealing with it mentally, because I don't need to. I am not fazed by a crash like that. There is nothing wrong, Jyrki." His heart banged against his ribcage. He tried to calm it with slow and steady breaths. Anything to not show weakness to his tough compatriot.

"Okay. Fine." Jyrki didn't believe him. This would no doubt have an impact on the younger Finn. Mika couldn't be that stoic, could he? The aftermath of this crash would sent him spiralling soon. Jyrki himself had been there once. "And by the way, you need to call me JJ now."

Mika grinned. "Is that your street name?"

Jyrki slapped him playfully on the shoulder. "Tyhmä poika, Keke told me it's better for marketing. You know that, tease."

Mika chuckled. "Come on inside, Jykri."

Jyrki rolled his eyes as he followed the younger Finn into his motorhome. Upon arriving in the living space, he grabbed Mika by his hips and pressed him against a wall. He stared into the boy's sparkling blue eyes and kissed him on the lips with great vigor.

"My handsome kultaseni! I missed you so much."

His finger caressed the lips he just kissed and it downed on him that Mika could have died this late afternoon.

"I can't lose you! You know that?"

"What?"

Jyrki's arms wrapped around Mika's frame and he could feel the slight tremors running through his body. Was that the adrenaline finally wearing off? He grabbed a hand full of the sturdy material of Mika's racesuit and pressed him closer against his body.

When Jyrki let go off him and looked him up and down, he saw tears being held hostage in the corners of his eyes, he saw lips pressed in a thin line, and he saw hands balled into fists. Mika was trying to force his emotions away.

"Ssshhh. Don't do that, Mika."

"Do what?"

"Don't try to act unfazed. Don't hide your fears and emotions for me. You can hide them from the people in the paddock, but not from me."

Mika glared daggers at him, his usual kind eyes glimmering with anger. The squint of his grumpy frown caused the tears he had held hostage to roll down his cheeks. Jyrki couldn't know he was secretly shocked by the crash. "What are you talking about?"

Jyrki swallowed. He felt bad for his beloved who tried so hard to uphold his impassive mask, but the stony facade of it had fractured on all its sides, and tears were leaking through its cracks.

"Don't be angry with me, Mika."

Mika's lips twisted into a pout as more tears flowed down his face, betraying how upset he was.

Jyrki's thumb tracked their damp trails. "I only mean well. All young drivers go through this." His fingers wrapped around Mika's trembling hands, blanketing them in warmth. "I have been there too."

Mika untwisted a hand from Jyki's grip and rubbed it over his chest with a pained frown. Why did his body hurt so much all of a sudden?

Jyrki followed the action with worried eyes. He grabbed Mika's hand. "Hey, are you hurt?"

Mika shook his head. "Not really. Only a little bit."

Jyrki didn't believe him at all. He had been lying before... His fingers let go off Mika's hand and went to the zipper of his racesuit. He swiftly unzipped the overalls down to his boyfriend's waist and rolled his fireproof up to his chest. He swallowed upon seeing the red and purple bruises blooming on his chest. His hand ghosted over the hurt skin.

"The safety belts?"

"Yes, but it's nothing." Mika pushed Jyrki's hands away. "Stop fuzzing!"

Jyrki halted Mika and grabbed his hands between his own. "No!" Jyrki said strictly as his voice bellowed through the trailer. "You are hurt and I need to take care of you!"

Mika took a step backwards. He knew the older Finn was very serious. His act of playing unfazed had failed. He had shown way too many emotions for a stoic Finn. Pathetic.

"Lie down on the bed." Jyrki's voice brooked no arguments or excuses.

Mika hesitated only for a second, before he walked to the bed and lay down on top of the blankets quietly.

Jyrki walked towards his beloved and stared at him in admiration. The moisture on his damp cheeks gleamed in the dim lights above his head, his teary-eyes shimmering in the same glow. His sweat-matted blonde hair was sticking in all kinds of directions. He was breathtakingly beautiful.

Jyrkie walked to the fridge and grabbed an icepack. He returned to the bed and pressed the pack against Mika's bare chest.

Mika hissed and shuddered as the cold icepack came in contact with his skin. "This makes it hurt more!" He fumbled with the icepack trying to get rid off it.

"No!" Jyrki lay down on top of him and forcefully pressed the icepack solid in position with his sternum. "Keep it there!"

Mika's cheeks turned a brilliant red, as he stared into Jyrki's beautiful ice-blue eyes. The icepack forgotten due to the heat that spread inside his body.

Jyrki caressed a rosy cheek of his boyfriend's precious face. "You're stubborn, tyhmä poika."

He leaned down and trailed a path of sloppy kisses down the younger Finn's neck, breathing in his scent. "You're my beloved tyhmä poika. Don't ever scare me like that again." His lips trailed further down, sucking a hickey on his collarbone.

When he felt the hickey forming on his skin, Mika's hands tugged at Jyrki's hair. "That will be another bruise, Jyrki!"

Jyrki stood up from the bed and smirked at his boyfriend. "Be glad I didn't suck it somewhere people can see." He stared at Mika and grinned some more. "You must be cold now."

He grabbed the blankets of the bed and started folding them around Mika like a burrito, trapping his arms in the blanket coccoon.

"Jyrki, what are you doing?" Mika giggled as the older Finn lay down on top of him and enveloped him in a solid, octopus-like hold.

Jyrki leaned down and pecked his nose. "Can I offer you some tea or hot chocolate?"

#mika häkkinen #mika hakkinen #jyrki järvilehto #jj letho #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #formula 1 #f1 #formula one #flatoutin-eaurouge #f1fanfic

7 notes · View notes

keirametzbrassknuckles · 11 months

Text

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

11 notes · View notes

dravenxivuk · 9 months

Text

While I'm thinking about this (instead of sleeping like I should be because it's 1.30am), there are currently 9 Iorveth/Letho fics on AO3.

My two favourites are both by minutiae, @tumbleweedtech here on tumblr and feature old man Iorveth and Letho.

I read You Were Spring a while ago and it had me weeping, and I read Shchedryk this afternoon when I should have been doing useful things, and it also had me full of feels.

#iorveth #letho #letho of gulet #iorveth/letho #letho/iorveth #witcher 3 #modded game #fic rec #iortho #I'm going Iortho for this #thank you ratkinnq

13 notes · View notes

haveyoureadthisfanfic · 17 days

Text

Summary: Jaskier hums. “Is it true what they say about snake venom?” “What?” Letho snaps impatiently. “You know,” he says, twirling his hand meaninglessly, and Letho definitely doesn’t know. “That if you drink it enough, you’ll be immune to snake bites?” Letho actually looks up at him and is forced to contend with the idea that he’s being followed by a lunatic. (Letho doesn’t mean to keep Jaskier, but quickly realizes he’s… attached.)

Author: @ohwhoopsok

#official fic poll #haveyoureadthisfic #pollblr #fanfiction #fandom culture #fanfic #internet culture #tumblr polls #fandom poll #snake oil #the witcher #witcher #Jaskier/Letho

6 notes · View notes

sageclover61 · 10 months

Text

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...'"

#cake shop rarepair bingo #witcher fic #letho/gaetan

6 notes · View notes

lambden · 1 year

Text

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

5 notes · View notes