Bubblegum and Botticelli (aiden/lambert, explicit, complete, 2k)
The security guard lounging against the wall pops his gum obnoxiously, smirking at Aiden’s scowl. “I thought they paid you off?” Aiden asks. “Oh sure,” the guard agrees, “new Ecosse drives like a dream. Thanks for that.” In which Aiden is a professional with a job to do and is under no circumstances going to fuck the security guard.
Dungeons and Dandelions (geralt/jaskier, mature, complete, 3k)
Geralt and Jaskier need to get their shit together. They've been best friends since elementary school and they're clearly in love with each other. They just won't do anything about it.
Every Now And Then I Fall Apart
(Ivo of Belhaven/Junod of Belhaven, mature, complete, 2k)
When Ivo has a bad day and falls into his old damaging habits again, he finds unexpected help in a stranger.
If I Could Save Time In A Bottle (eskel-centric, teen, complete, 1k)
Eskel spends some time taking contracts in Skellige in 1269. One brings up some memories he'd rather be spending time forgetting.
I love a good... (eskel/lambert, explicit, complete, 2k)
An evening of stitch and bitch. A risque encounter in the back of a car. Some softness and conversation afterwards.
Kneel (eskel/lambert, explicit, complete, 2k)
Eskel had seen him around. The lean, bitchy witcher that spat in the face of all their institutions and traditions like he was better than all of them. He’d chewed out every instructor and loudly disparaged the brotherhood while eating from their shared table, drinking their ale, sleeping under their roof. The only time the little bastard ever fell silent was when Vesemir stepped into the grand hall, and even then silent was a generous description. Every witcher three tables over could hear Lambert’s whispered remarks. He might as well have stood on the bench and bellowed it so everyone could hear. Or: Eskel confuses jealousy with contempt and Lambert introduces him to his mile-wide humiliation kink.
Rain, Wind, and Other Things Best Avoided
(aiden/lambert, teen, complete, 3k)
“So Geralt went and did something stupid again.” Because every romance needs a lot of wine and a little hope.
When the Sunset Fell Into the Ocean
(aiden/lambert, mature, complete, 3k)
Lambert returns to his last day with Aiden again and again, never sure how to fix things.
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An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 6/7
Fandom: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Gaetan/Letho z Gulety | Letho of Gulet, Eskel (The Witcher)/Original Character(s)
Characters: Eskel (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Lambert (The Witcher), Vesemir (The Witcher), Aiden (The Witcher), Original Witcher Character(s), Rennes (The Witcher), Letho z Gulety | Letho of Gulet, Gaetan (The Witcher), Egan | Auckes (The Witcher), Serrit (The Witcher), Kolgrim (The Witcher), Junod of Belhaven (The Witcher), Iwo z Belhaven | Ivo of Belhaven
Additional Tags: Explicit Sexual Content, Hide and Seek, Hunters & Hunting, The Witcher Lore, Bottom Eskel (The Witcher), Wreckskel, Dubious Consent, First Time Bottoming, First Time, Negotiations, Gentle Sex, Restraints, Polyamory, Multiple Orgasms, Kaer Morhen's Fanon Hot Springs (The Witcher), Double Penetration, Eskel Has a Big Dick (The Witcher), Background Relationships, Gwent Canon Lore (The Witcher)
Summary:
Every year the Order of the Witchers meet to discuss pressing matters relevant to the brotherhood. They observe a number of rituals, including the Fruits of the Hunt. Two Witchers are selected - one from the host school, and one other - to be the Fruits for that year.
They have three days to get as far from the keep as possible, before the others will be set loose to hunt them. To be a Fruit is an honour; the time spent in the company of your captors cements trust between schools and establishes close bonds between its members. This year a young Eskel, with no more than a handful of years on the Path under his belt, is selected as a Fruit and he couldn't be more terrified.
Young Eskel is inspired by this beautiful piece of art by Heyriel (Goldandlights).
Race: Witcher
Aliases: “of Belhaven” is an assumed sobriquet. He is not from Belhaven.
Loyalty: Bear School
First, a moment to introduce the Bear School:
From The Witcher's Journal (R.Talsorian TTRPG):
The Bear School has a reputation for being huge, hefty and hairy, much like their namesake. As their founder, Arnaghad, is said to be 9 hands wide at the shoulder- not sure if that's just part of what makes up most Bears who survive the mutations or just the rumors that surround them. While the Viper school is known for its beginnings in betrayal, the Bear school's beginnings were the same. Arnaghad was the first to break the Order of Witchers. Their keep was far south; in the Amell Mountains. They were known as kinslayers, though infighting between schools was generally considered not worth it. They were estranged brothers, not bitter enemies. Gwent disagrees, however, saying meetings rarely end without bloodshed.
From Gwent:
Their armor: Quilted gambeson, Heavy mail that extends all the way to the knees, plate armor spauldrons. It's tank armor- meant to endure blows, for melee attack. They were often found in Skellige, one even featured in the Ballad of Torgeir the Red.
Bears were said to be loners, avoiding even those of their own school once they've grown and been released onto the path. They abandoned Haern Caduch rather than fight for it against a mob of peasants- though Gwent points out that the secrecy of its location is notable, as the slaughters of the Wolf and Cat school are infamous on the continent. It's implied (Thronebreaker) that the mutations have drastically neutralized their emotions/feelings- Possibly being why it was so easy for them to abandon the keep.
- Ivo of Belhaven, Thronebreaker. Re: Witcher motivations
Junod we mostly hear about from Ivo. Junod apparently liked the sound of Ivo's sobriquet, and decided to use it as well- becoming Junod of Belhaven. The reasoning being that Junod did not expect the smaller witcher to live very long, so 'stealing' his sobriquet wouldn't be an issue.
However, it was Junod's life that was cut short. In May, 1243 Junod seached out the grandmaster smith Tyen'sail to forge him a set of the Grandmaster Ursine Armor. However, he lost all his money gambling so needed work in order to pay for it. He took a contract from Charité Gontran de Tufo, and after research headed to the caves the following day.
He carves this bear medallion on the walls, leaving the following warning:
Warning!
Buildings around here have been collapsing because a monster’s dug tunnels all over the place. Not sure yet what kind of beast it is.
Don’t come after me. And don’t wipe my symbols off the walls, because I need them to find my way out.
He was ill-prepared for this fight, and regretted accepting the contract, as Geralt finds out from his journal. He did try to complete it, but fell to the Shaelmaar. In Blood and Wine, you can collect the diagrams that the fallen witcher left behind.
Junod is remembered as being as big as a mountain, with a beard that would put a Dwarf Elder to shame. He was also not one to hide his thoughts, but spoke plainly and candidly. He also apparently "haggled like a fishwife".
Gwent Flavor Text:
Rumour has it he was born of an unusual love between a lady giant and one VERY brave dwarf.
Gwent Voice Lines:
Well, as long as you’re sinking, might as well walk on the bottom.
Dammit.. Should never have taken this contract.
Ye never know which contract’s gonna kill yeh.
Big fella... easy....
Size don’t matter? Sounds like somethin’ a midget would say.
(Author’s Note: Midget is a slur. Please do not use it.)
A/N: This changed a little bit from my original idea, but here we are! Ivo takes Lambert to winter with him at Haern Caduch. Whereas Lambert’s used to being kept... um, ‘busy’ during the winter months, the Bears prefer to hibernate. He quickly exhausts the two available sources of amusement, and the Bears decide he’d be better entertained by living god and legend, Arnaghad. Warnings: smut, lore and home truths.
It was Lambert’s first winter at Haern Caduch. He was there to meet Junod, Ivo’s partner, and had been told to be on his best-fucking-behaviour. One look at the three available Bears - Gerd, Grayson and Arnaghad - and Lambert realised the second part would be far easier than the first and the third. His winters were characterised by training, chores and a shed load of physical intimacy that he’d lacked while out on the Path. The first night he crashed in the room next to Ivo and Junod, his pillow pulled over his head to try and drown out the noises of two lovers making up for lost time.
Lambert quickly discovered how different the School of the Bear was to their northern counterparts. They didn’t spend a lot of time in each other’s company; they preferred solitary activities interspersed with a little bit of training, and maybe an hour or so of dice before heading off to their own quarters. On the third night, Gerd accepted Lambert’s flagrant offer of some company and took the wolf to bed with him. It was a good night. Lambert left the huge Bear, with his tail of golden-spun hair and beautifully thick body, completely exhausted.
His next stop was Grayson; older, of roughly similar proportions in every way, with lots of hair to grab onto and an impressive beard. The evening Lambert spent in his company was equally as enjoyable. The third and final option didn’t spend time with the others. He was easily the oldest Witcher alive; the legends around him made Lambert slightly weak in the knees. Rebel. Kinslayer. A heart as cold as Mount Gorgon, the tallest in the Amell range. The mountain that had claimed the lives of many a young Bear witcher trying to complete the final trial.
Arnaghad was an original. From the tenth century. He was older than even Vesemir and moved with the speed and inevitability of a glacier. For Lambert, Arnaghad should represent everything he hated, but he couldn’t help the morbid fascination; the feeling they shared something that he couldn’t quite name. Because Arnaghad had turned his back on the established way of things and cut his own path through the ashes of its destruction. He stole some agency back and then suffered as a consequence.
He was unreachable though. As distant as his Death Mountain. It didn’t matter. Lambert flitted between Grayson and Gerd, feeling wholly satisfied. Until one evening he entered Haern Caduch’s equivalent of Kaer Morhen’s grand hall and found a conference being conducted in his absence. As he walked across the worn flagstones, chair legs scraped, benches creaked, and they all looked at him.
Ivo spoke first in his usual blunt manner. “You’re spending the night with Arnaghad.”
“What?” Lambert blinked. The legend himself sat nearest the fire, staring down into a tankard of something alcoholic; Lambert cast him a furtive glance, but was apparently ignored.
Junod was smirking, Ivo just looked done, Gerd glanced at him, somewhat sheepish, so it was Grayson who chipped in next. “We’re exhausted,” he growled. “Winters are for sleeping; hibernating. That’s what we’re used to. You have too much energy for the two of us, and Ivo doesn’t share.”
“It’d be too fucking weird,” Ivo murmured, and side-eyed Junod, who he knew for a fact had been entertaining unsavoury fantasies whenever he glanced between Ivo and Lambert. Filthy; the lot of them. Besides, Ivo was somewhat possessive over the single good thing he’d ever had in his life, and that included not… sharing with his blood relatives.
“Oh, right, so this has just been decided?” Lambert folded his arms and raised an eyebrow. Maintaining an air of indignant outrage was difficult though when he was fighting the urge to side-eye Arnaghad. The mountain was sitting at the moment, so his sheer size wasn’t properly on display; he still took up most of a bench by himself and his hands dwarfed the stein in their grip. Lambert had to bend his head back to look at his face usually. The others glanced between themselves; Gerd’s mouth opened and closed, Grayson rubbed tiredly at his eyes and Junod seemed to be thinking over a potential negotiation, when an avalanche suddenly rumbled through the hall. Oh, no, it was just Arnaghad speaking.
“No one’s forcing you, pup,” the leader of the School of the Bear rose slowly from his seat. It was like watching a volcano emerge from the ground and Lambert found himself wanting to take a step away; only his pride and a warped arousal at the thought of sharing this behemoth’s bed stopped him in his tracks. “Follow. Or don’t.” Arnaghad left his drink and walked by with that same unhurried gait, yet Lambert still had to jog to catch up with him once he’d exchanged a glance with Ivo. His curiosity just got the better of him. Lambert’s sense of self-preservation was always somewhat muted in the face of his raging winter libido.
They ascended several steep staircases, with Arnaghad taking two or three stairs at a time and Lambert scurrying along in his wake. They eventually entered a large, circular tower room that overlooked a sheer gulley below, with Mount Gogron looming in all its intimidating grandeur beyond. Lambert could imagine the great Bear watching from afar as his initiates scrambled up its craggy, ice-covered paths in search of the runestone that would prove their worth. Assessing, and just like the mountain, finding them wanting. The Wolf stood by the window now, gloved hands braced on the ledge, and gazed at the peak through the wintry mists.
“Why did you choose such a shitty last trial?” Lambert blurted out the question without even thinking. He turned as he heard the heavy thud of Arnaghad’s belts hitting the floor, followed by the rustle of the furs he wore wrapped around his shoulders. A flare of igni shot into the stacked hearth and the fire roared to life; it was almost as big as the bonfires of Beltane.
“So they understood,” Arnaghad murmured. His voice still filled the room though, and burrowed somewhere deep in Lambert’s chest.
“Understood what?” Because Speartip was shitty, but the Wolves of Kaer Morhen were sent in together to face him. The survival part in Morhen Valley was the bit you did alone, but you were prepared, with swords, camping equipment. All you had to do was survive. Not fight, not race death to the top of a mountain. The only brother he’d had to leave behind was Voltehre. It was bullshit. All of it. But the School of the Bear had really cultivated their brand of it.
“That they’re alone,” Arnaghad unhooked a knife from the back of his trousers, yet another difference Lambert noticed; the School of the Bear walked around armed even in their own home. “That nothing should stand in their way, and sometimes that means stepping over the corpses of those they once called brother.”
“That’s bullshit. You’re wrong. We’re… look, it’s a clusterfuck, but we’re meant to help people, help each other,” Lambert’s sneer belied the pounding of his heart, the sweat gathering at the small of his back, beneath his arms. He was still fully clothed, his hunting knife in his boot and his knuckle dusters inside his gambeson, but every part of his fight or flight instinct was screaming. The ‘help’ part was the one thing Lambert clinged to. It gave his entire life purpose. His whole shitty existence meant something if he could keep just a handful of people safe from a monster, with teeth, claws or otherwise. “Witchers are lone hunters, but…”
“...even a lone hunter can use a helping hand sometimes,” Arnaghad finished the line for him and then chuckled. It was like a thousand pounds of tumbling rock. “Erland. He always did like his catchphrases. Tell me, pup, do you know where I got the scars on my face from?”
“Ivar Evil-Eye,” Lambert whispered; every Witcher knew the story. The splintering of the Order into its sects. It happened in the tenth century - ancient history - but here stood just a fraction of it. A walking relic. “When he betrayed you and made the Vipers. Your rebellion kinda’ bit you in the arse, didn’t it?” Lambert’s survival instincts had clearly done a runner with his heart.
“Hm,” Arnaghad smiled, but it wasn’t really a smile. Not like one Lambert had ever seen. A fissure cracking through the side of a mountain after an earthquake. “Evil-eye. Strange how stories are warped by the victor. Ivar’s evil eye let him see the Winter Riders wherever they may be. He saw every time they entered this world to collect their slaves, but he was always a step behind them. It drove him mad. Wouldn’t listen to reason. He made the School of the Viper to stop the Wild Hunt. Yet, when the time came, the people he was trying to protect turned on him. They murdered Ivar and his hatchlings for wanting to help.”
“He was a nutter, an assassin, he - ,” Lambert stuttered as Arnaghad pulled his shirt off to reveal the expanse of his chest. Marred with valleys of scars - huge claw marks that would’ve torn a normal man, even a Witcher, in half - and covered in a thick pelt of dark brown hair. Lambert knew he was wet in his braies. He could feel the damp cloth sliding against his skin as he stumbled away from the window to create a bit more space.
“Ivar worked for the greater good, now he’s dead; Erland, who wanted the Continent to see Witchers as knights. Dead.” It was the first trace of emotion Lambert had heard in Arnaghad’s voice beyond detached resignation. There was a pause as the great Bear kicked his boots off, leaving just his unbelted trousers in place. He began moving closer - slow, measured - but Lambert still scrambled back from him as if he were in hot pursuit. “Even your own School, betrayed by the Cats who, in turn, were betrayed by their employers.” Arnaghad was in no hurry, he herded Lambert into a corner that he couldn’t escape. “Tell me, pup, does your Vesemir weep at the graves of his brethren? Does he resign himself to stomp the dark halls of Kaer Morhen, listening to the ghosts of his fallen sons? Where’s his anger? Where’s his thirst for revenge? When the fanatics came for Haern Caduch, they murdered everyone, and then my rage buried them in that gulch, under generations of dead initiates and the stones of Gogron.”
Lambert’s back pressed to the wall as Arnaghad spoke, one of those huge forearms braced against the cold stone above his head, and through instinct alone he withdrew the hunting knife, pressing it against the swell of Arnaghad’s chest. A tiny prick of blood dribbled down the length of the blade. Lambert’s breath stayed locked in his chest as he stared up into ancient eyes that burned with the rage of the sun. He was a dead man.
Arnaghad huffed and took Lambert’s wrist. He pinned it to the wall with ease and inspected the knife in his fingers. “Silver for monsters,” he growled.
“You are a monster,” Lambert replied, only a thin ring of gold visible around the dark expanse of his pupils. He’d never felt so overwhelmed - so thoroughly outmatched - in his entire life. There was no point in fighting. Arnaghad would crush him effortlessly and throw his body out the window without a second thought. There was no agency to be found, no battle to be waged. His heart thundered, his arousal building until it was a thick musk between them, edging the odour of his fear. He was horny, not fucking stupid. Why was he always attracted to the dangerous ones?
“Maybe,” Arnaghad leaned forward. His lips hovered near Lambert’s ear; the heat of his breath sending goosebumps across quivering flesh. “But I’m still standing. I’m still here when the others are ash. Monsters survive, pup. They live until they’re old and grey. Good men die young.” He tilted his head and Lambert’s eyes fluttered as he listened to Arnaghad breathe him in. That huge chest expanded until it pressed into the material of his gambeson. “I’m many things; monstrous, perhaps,” Arnaghad rumbled, and the grip on Lambert’s wrist fell away, “but I’m not a rapist. Go find your brother.”
The moment Arnaghad started to turn away, Lambert moved. The knife went from the wall to Arnaghad’s throat in the blink of an eye. Lambert was under no illusion; a Witcher that could bring down a mountain on the heads of an army would be able to flick him off like a gnat. Maybe he was fucking stupid, but his gamble paid off. Arnaghad raised an eyebrow and took a step back as Lambert pushed forward. “Don’t think so,” the wolf growled back. “Not one to be frightened off by a bully. No matter how loud they growl, or how hard they hit.”
“A bully,” Arnaghad had the faintest hint of a smile now; he continued to move slowly backwards under the pressure of the knife at his throat. Lambert pulled his glove off with his teeth and worked swiftly through the ties of his gambeson. It fell from his shoulders with a swift swap of the knife in his hands from right to left. There was something entirely too heady about having a living god at the tip of your blade. Even better if it was the tip of his cock.
“And you’re so full of crap, I swear to fucking Melitele,” Lambert smirked, tugging open the ties of his shirt and removing it with the same swift slight of hand. “Mister Lone Bear in his Castle of Ice. I need no one, but my sorrow brought down an entire fucking mountain on the heads of those that slaughtered my only family. Mister I Don’t Need Anyone, who sends boys up a mountain that freezes the blood in their veins in hopes that they might understand what it feels like to be truly fucking alone, because it hurts him so much,” the back’s of Arnaghad’s knees hit the edge of his bed; Lambert’s left hand formed aard and slammed into that giant chest, sending Arnaghad over onto his back. Still no resistance. Boots and trousers still in place, Lambert climbed up onto the mattress and sank down over Arnaghad’s hips; it was hard to miss the huge erection pressing up through the Bear’s trousers. No one spoke to him like this; no one had ever dared. “Mr Monstrous, whose voice catches when he mentions the name of the lover he struck down.”
Lambert’s eyes ran down the length of his conquest, from the braids in his brown hair, the jagged scars through the centre of his face, over that barrelled chest, to the waistband of his trousers and the thatch of dark hair that hinted just above it. “Fuck, Kaer Morhen’s nearly a thousand miles away, but I feel like I’m talking to Geralt of Rivia. You’re just another whiny little bitch.”
Arnaghad’s eyebrows shot up and in one agile roll he had Lambert on his back and the knife knocked from his hand. For one wild, heart-stopping moment, Lambert thought he’d pushed too far. He was going to get crushed to death and thrown into the gulch with the bones of the fanatics: here lieth Lambert of Kaer Morhen, the fuckwit who was sadly crushed to death when he called one of the First Witchers a ‘whiny little bitch’. But when he looked up into amber eyes expecting fire and brimstone, the only darkness to be found was the deep lustre of desire. “A whiny little bitch,” Arnaghad rumbled, mulling the words over in his own mouth. “Can’t have you taking that story back, can we?”
“S’the only one I have at the moment,” Lambert bit out, thighs spread wide to accommodate Arnaghad’s bulk between them. “Gonna’ try change it?”
“Hmm,” Arnaghad leaned forward and licked up the length of Lambert’s throat, tasting the lust in his sweat.
The rest of the evening blurred. They kicked off their trousers and Lambert whined when Arnaghad’s truly gargantuan dick fell free. Was it too late to do some stretches? It took patience and a whole lot of fucking oil, but the moment it sank into him he felt like he’d transcended. It bulged out of his stomach with every deep thrust and Arnaghad could pin him with just one hand, grinding into him slowly, but relentlessly. His stamina lasted for hours, wringing orgasms from Lambert that made him cry and shake.
Eskel was going to be so fucking jealous. Eskel and the Succubus; Lambert and the Living Legend with a cock the size of a tree trunk. The others had been good for a couple of rounds and then flopped beneath their furs; Arnaghad apparently had a lot to catch up on, because it was Lambert who whimpered a plea for mercy when the great Bear took his hips yet again in the early hours of the morning.
“They said you were insatiable,” Arnaghad whispered into his neck, his newly acquired lover resting his head on one thick bicep. The Bear touched him tenderly, stroking along his chest and side. Wolves were lean in comparison; sinewy and athletic for all their pretty pirouettes and jumps, and yet, this feral little beast had hissed and spat at him anyway. Someone that looked at him and judged him for exactly what he was, but decided to stay anyway.
“Insatiable, not immortal, if you fuck me again today, I’m going to die,” Lambert sighed, his throat husky and sore from its valiant efforts early that evening. “Don’t you hibernate?”
“I haven’t slept properly in many years,” Arnaghad rested his head down on the pillow. “Sleep, Wolf. We’ll eat in a few hours.”
Lambert didn’t need to ask. Arnaghad, just like Vesemir, laid awake listening to the voices of ghosts in the wind. For Vesemir they were a constant whisper but for Arnaghad, with centuries of blood on his hands, they were probably louder than shrieking banshees. Lambert was too tired - too fucking sore - to ruminate on it much, and fell asleep easily.
He didn’t really leave Arnaghad’s side much that winter.
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I'm super curious about FUCK OFF and Ring Bear!! 👀👀
Hi!!! Thank you for the ask my dear! FUCK OFF has already been answered here. Moving on......
Ring Bear: Ivo and Junod get married. They have a ring bear. (That's it that's the joke that's what's in the google docs summary. and i still haven't even written that part)
—————————————————
Arnaghad’s hands fall heavy on Ivo’s shoulders like they always do, attempting to rest there and achieving something similar to the effect of a ship’s anchor on a raft. Dragging him into the cool stone floor. Of course the oversized asshole never learned to control his strength. Five centuries walking the Continent, and not one day of them was spent learning that he was fucking heavy. Eight feet tall, broad as an Aediern shithouse, and too fucking heavy to be pressing down on people like this. Not even Erland had beat it into him, somehow.
“Don’t have to be such a little bitch just ‘cause you’ve got nerves about this.”
“Fuck off.”
Even though he can barely see them, Ivo can feel Arnaghad rolling his eyes from all the way down here. The massive bear’s head, perched from its place in Arnaghad’s shoulder cloak, rolls its stone eyes too. He turns his face away from it. His borrowed clothes fit too tightly, stretching over his body in unfamiliar overlapping stripes. A seam nearly rips in his armpit. He takes quiet solace in the fact that he still has his armor, uncomfortable and familiar. Even though someone overpolished the silver studs on his pauldrons, and the shine distracts him to madness. It tracks his eyes to Gerd, smiling and standing against the wall. Jovial bastard. Which reminds him.
“This is your fucking fault.”
“Technically speaking, it was Torgeir’s idea.”
“You encouraged him! And told him about it in the first place!”
Sometimes it’s hard to tell when the other Bears smile, given most (except Bruno, the green bastard) of their facial grooming ranges from “minimal” to “what grooming?” Not so with Gerd. Not so this second, when Ivo wants to take the grin on his face and mimic it just a bit lower, with an ax —make the wound just as wide and just as deep and just as infuriating. The bastard has the nerve to shrug and smile wider.
“Maybe. He does get so excited about feasts. I’ve never met a man who liked throwing parties more than he liked attending them. And he likes that very much indeed. Wine is so very steal-able when you have a cloak like his.”
“This is no damned party!” Ivo growls, ignoring the squeeze of Arnaghad’s paws. “It’s a wedding! One I didn’t fucking well ask for from your little jarl.”
“Oh, he’s not little.”
“Shut the fuck up. Both of you.”
Such a dispute-solver, their Grandmaster. One of the First Witchers, the Great Bear, and the best he can come up with is shut the fuck up.
“Gerd, no one wants to hear about your little jarl. And Ivo, you can stop bitching. Not like it’ll change anything, and you’re not going to lose our most lucrative contractor over a pompous handfasting, no matter how stupid the idea is.”
“He’s not our most lucrative-”
“He is, and by a wider margin than I’d like when he has all of Ain Skellig in his palm. And in bedding the bastard, Gerd’s managed to be useful for us all. Sometimes.”
From his wall, Gerd preens a bit. He hadn’t done it for them, certainly not when they were just barely a school again. From what he’d told them on one of those freezing nights in their restored hall, when there was nothing to do but drink and talk shit, the jarl had simply been handsome and willing and there. A fierce warrior. A strong drinker. A good fuck. Not that his intentions mattered much to the rest of them, when the contracts started coming in greater volume than any of them had seen since Hearn Caduch’s fall. Ivo could appreciate the coin, at least. Not that it would stop him from making his opinion known about the current situation.
“And? Why the fuck do I have to be involved? Neither Junod nor I wanted this.”
They really hadn’t, and more fool them for thinking things wouldn’t spiral out of hand the second Torgeir had gotten that terrible shine in his eye.
“Besides, if it’s a wedding he wants, why doesn’t he just marry Gerd? They’re attached at the dick anyways.”
Gerd smirks, running his tongue over his top lip.
“He’s already married. Myrna’s happy with our arrangement as it is, and she’s a better jarlia than I could ever be. I’m sure I’d look stunning in one of her slit dresses though —it’s almost a shame I’m not the bride today, you’re not half as handsome.”
“You fucker-”
They’re the last words that leave his mouth before Arnaghad hauls him back from strangling Gerd with his own intestines and draping his corpse over the wall. Usually, this is Junod’s job. To pull him back, preferably onto his lap, and away from testing the strength of the Bear School’s new peace treaty with his rage, mistrust, and sheer frustration with the other members. But just this second, he’s getting ready elsewhere, far out of Ivo’s sight in the Skelligers keep, probably in some equally high-ceilinged, decorated room, with too-soft cushions and too-large windows. For tradition, apparently. Like they ever gave two fucks about that.
Ivo has looked at Junod’s broad, scarred face every day they’ve spent together, and neither of them have any virtue left to protect from anyone, let alone each other. Keeping them apart for a day doesn’t change the fact that they fucked their brains out three nights before. Blood sears him inside out, pumping hotter through his veins until it makes his skull ache. From behind him, Oso pipes up, crossing his arm under the space where his other used to be. Hunfrith is absent beside him, but somehow Oso still molds himself around the shape where his partner would be if he were there.
“Calm down, Ivo. What’s one party to celebrate the pair of you bastards —it’s more than Hunfrith and I’ll ever have. Just get the ceremony done with and enjoy the mead once it's over.”
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My forever thanks to @tumbleweedtech and @on-a-lucky-tide for the use of their names for Oso and Hunfrith, as well as them as a ship, bc it’s gr8
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Gwent: The Witcher Card Game
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Iwo z Belhaven | Ivo of Belhaven/Junod of Belhaven, Iwo z Belhaven | Ivo of Belhaven & Lambert
Characters: Iwo z Belhaven | Ivo of Belhaven, Junod of Belhaven (The Witcher), Lambert (The Witcher)
Additional Tags: Angst, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Existential Crisis, Existential Angst, First Meetings, Vomiting, Pre-Relationship, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Ivo & Lambert are Brothers, Crack Pairing, Crack Family Bonds, Crack Treated Seriously
Series: Part 9 of Lohre's Witcher Flash Fic Entries
Summary:
When Ivo has a bad day and falls into his old damaging habits again, he finds unexpected help in a stranger.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher), Gaetan/Letho z Gulety | Letho of Gulet
Characters: Aiden (The Witcher), Lambert (The Witcher), Letho z Gulety | Letho of Gulet, Junod of Belhaven (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel (The Witcher), Witcher Cedric (The Witcher), Axel (The Witcher), Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, kind of, Aiden gets weepy over food seasonings, Aiden ends up in charge, he doesn't know why, Aiden and his rag-tag group of survivors, Lambert gets an eyepatch, Angst with a Happy Ending
Summary:
Aiden tread quietly, wary of the stillness. It wasn’t the first abandoned town the group had come across on their journey, but all the others had shown signs of violence. They’d been abandoned in a hurry, with death and destruction all that was left.
This town was simply empty. The houses were untouched, and belongings had been packed up and carried away with care. People hadn’t been chased from their homes here, but they had left all the same.
The path to Kaer Morhen was a long one, but Aiden was determined.