An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski, Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Relationships: Prince Adrien/Kiyan (The Witcher)
Characters: Kiyan (The Witcher), Prince Adrien (The Witcher), Scoia'tael Members (The Witcher)
Additional Tags: Date in the woods, Lovers' Tryst, Murder Husbands, Fighting Together, Blood and Injury, assholes in love, Canon-Typical Violence
Series: Part 7 of Unbury The Gays
Summary: The erratic prince insisted on rendezvous in the woods, and Kiyan reluctantly followed him to a secret place. And while Kiyan expected this date to be a dud, he hadn't anticipated the extent to which things could get out of hand.
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This fic is part of the @save-a-witcher-bingo challenge and fills "Fighting Together" square.
It is also part of the Unbury The Gays series. You can read it as a stand alone, but you will understand it better as part of a series.
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"How long are we going to wander in these woods?" Kiyan finally asked some time after they’d left the path to shove through the bushes.
"Patience, kitty, I told you, I know a spot," Adrien replied, making his way through the scrubs with unflagging enthusiasm. "I saw it on a hunt last week, I’m sure you'll like it."
"I doubt it," Kiyan muttered under his breath. "And I don't understand what's wrong with a decent bed and clean sheets. Trust me, I've slept in the woods many times before, and it's not as exciting as you think."
"You've slept in the woods many times without me." Adrien looked back at him with that cocky smirk of his. "Don't worry, I'll make sure you will be excited."
"I would be just as excited, if not more so, at the prospect of a comfortable mattress and silk sheets."
"Oh?" Adrien feigned surprise in his very theatrical style. "Did you just admit that there are certain aspects of noble life that you enjoy? Could it be that I’ve spoiled you?"
"I'm not spoiled, just pragmatic." Kiyan sighed, already knowing that he had made a mistake by revealing this weakness. His little secret was that he actually loved Adrien's ridiculously expensive, fancy sheets and his big comfy bed. "If you spend most of your life sleeping outdoors, you appreciate those moments when you have a mattress under your ass instead of pine cones and wet leaves."
"Okay, I'll let you taste my magnanimity," Adrien said, continuing with his theatrical tone and heaping on extra mockery. "So you don't have to worry about a pine cone biting your delicate ass. You can be on top, I'll be on the bottom."
"Which is exactly where you belong," Kiyan teased back, and Adrien deliberately let go of the branch he was holding, sending it swinging at Kiyan’s face. His hand snapped up, witcher-fast, and caught the branch before it reached him. However, he didn’t comment on this treacherous attack, because the bushes finally ended and they saw a meadow dotted with small wildflowers and herbs, lit by the rays of the afternoon sun. A rainbow stretched over the meadow, a memory of the morning rain. The whole thing looked almost unreal as if it had fallen straight out of a fairy tale.
A Coen/Lambert relationship study, 275 words, rated G. Read it on Ao3.
Everyone always assumed they were fucking. It was the only reason they could think of why Coën put up with Lambert when he was in a rage. They’d look at his temper, his crude language, his complete lack of anything resembling tact, and nudge Coën conspiratorially. “But the sex is worth it, right?” Coën just shrugged. He had no interest in sex, but what he got up to with Lambert, or didn’t, was none of their fucking business.
People thought Lambert was a fire, and they couldn’t understand why Coën kept coming back to get burned. And sure, sometimes Lambert cast his rage at Coën like igni, and sometimes it hurt. But more often, Lambert’s rage was like a quen, including Coën in its protective circle. Lambert got angry at the things Coën had forgotten how to feel properly years ago. When he was with Lambert, he could be angry. He could rage at their fate, cry at what he’d lost. And feel more deeply because of it. Not just the anger, but hope, and love, and an appreciation of beauty that had been lost in a gray fog before Lambert blew up his world.
Coën had stared at the abyss of his pain and turned away into nothingness. Lambert had seen that same chasm and hurled fire into it. He felt everything, and showed Coën how to feel it too. And in turn, Coën took Lambert’s rage and showed him what it left behind. How to rebuild in the wake of the cleansing fire, to laugh and cry and love. They’d never be whole, but maybe together they could make a life with meaning.
This fills my “writing format: colorful description” square for @save-a-witcher-bingo!
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
A Purred Healing
Prompt Fill: witchers can purr
Rating: T
Pairing: Aiden/Lambert
CW: none
tags: sexual innuendo in conversation, bantering, minor injury description
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Lambert is struck by an endrega, and though the wound won't kill him, he's more than happy to act like it will. Aiden patches him back together, but finds a different type of medicine is in order once the Swallow is down.
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An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Gaetan/Gweld (The Witcher)
Characters: Gaetan (The Witcher), Gweld (The Witcher), Aiden (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Additional Tags: Panic Attacks, Trapped In Elevator, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Pre-Slash, Getting Together
Series: Part 7 of Save A Witcher Bingo
Summary:
In which, Gaetan gets stuck and it's, maybe, definitely, not as bad as it seems.
For the Save a Witcher Bingo!
The prompt was free space.
@save-a-witcher-bingo Prompt: At Sea
Characters: Witcher Gerd, Togeir the Red, Jerome Moreau
Torgeir was looking up at the ruins of what had once been his home. What was his home. Is. The flames were spreading quickly, Fort Tuirseach was all but destroyed. Like the Jarl who had filled its halls with laughter and mead- ruined.
At his side, stained in blood, sat the Witcher Gerd. His jaw was tight, his hands were fisted in the fabric of his own filthy shirt, but his eyes were clear. He did not watch the ruin of his adopted home, rather he watched the blood seep from the bandages that he had wrapped around Torgeir’s leg. Already they were in need of changing but they had no fabric with which to do so, his original job had been so hasty... Unless they ripped apart the sails there was nothing to be done. But to do such a thing as that was a death warrant.
The little ship they had taken was not meant to go much further than around the cape but they had set out for sea with no choice. They had with them five men and a woman, of whom only two were well enough to take up oar, not counting the Witcher who had rowed them the first half hour from shore nearly on his own with eyes blacker than coal.
The Witcher rested now though, so much as he could with his life burning on the shore.
“We will die out here.” The Jarl said, voice was devoid of emotion. Gerd looked to his friend’s face then, to his lover’s eyes. The anger, the grief , all the emotions he had expected were nowhere to be found.
“No.” Gerd replied, “we will live. We will see them pay for this and you will see it rebuilt.” He received no answer, no acknowledgement as the jarl’s hand did not return the gentle pressure that he put upon it. Gerd looked at the island they were sailing from, the land they may never get to set foot on again.
They would live; he would accept no other outcome.
~seven days~
For seven days the ship rocked, sailing for some imagined safe haven on the mainland but without hope or half a crew. One man had succumbed to his wounds on the first dawn and another had followed two evenings after. Torgeir had said nary a word since his ominous assertion of their fate, his leg had steadily grown worse over the days and it left him with little ability to do more than lay down and sleep. When awake he stared across the sea as if expecting death to appear to him with an outstretched hand.
Gerd had taken over easily enough, tucked Torgeir into the captain's quarters and spent both days and nights looking for either a miracle or their end.
On the seventh day it came to them in the form of a ship thrice their size. No man aboard their own was fit to fight but still Gerd drew his steel and braced himself. The dark hull of the incoming vessel felt like an omen and he was flanked by Andrea and Koll, the only two who remained in good health- though weak from hunger they would die on their feet. Of that they were sure.
A figure leaned over the edge of the ship above, their back was to the sun and so Gerd could not discern any features.
“Are you in need of assistance?” The voice was, clearly, not Nilfgardian and that alone was enough for the man on Gerd’s left to sag. Andrea looked to the Witcher, her eyes wide and hopeful.
Please, let this be a mercy.
“Yes!” He called up. “We are!”
The ship called itself a merchant’s vessel though a pirate’s den is what it looked. They had been pulled aboard with canvas and rope, the men of the ship quick to provide them with fresh water and food while their medic checked each refugee for wounds. If the crew were upset to have a witcher in their midst they did not voice it. Their captain was nowhere to be seen.
“Oh dear.” The medic said, in his hands were the bandages that Gerd had re-applied to Torgeir’s leg on the third day of their voyage, made from scraps of a shirt found in the captain’s chest.. The odor once they were removed turned even the Witcher’s stomach. “I need a knife.” Gerd tensed but produced his own blade, edging closer to see what was going on.
Torgeir was sweating, his skin deathly pale and feverish as he had been for the last day. In that moment though the jarl’s eyes were wide open- “Where’s Gerd?” It was slow and slurred but clear enough.
“I’m here, Torgeir.” He sank to his knees and took one scarred hand in his own. With his other hand he brushed the tangled mess of the jarl’s hair back from his forehead. The infection was nasty, but it hadn’t spread far. He smiled though surely it was more of a grimace, “Just here.” It took all his strength not to snatch the medic by his throat when the knife began to cut away flesh. It took nothing at all to blame himself for the state of the wound. He was a witcher, he should have known better.
You had nothing on hand to help. You did what you could. He reminded himself. It could have been much worse, the beam that had splintered and slashed the jarl’s thigh had nearly taken his head instead.
Green eyes rolled back and the man’s labored breathing evened.
“Witcher?” The medic hedged, “I’ve patched what I can but he will need someone to keep an eye on the wound. We’re still some ways away from the next port but we’ll find a proper healer there.”
“I’ll look after him. Thank you…” he pushed himself to his feet. “Where is your captain?” The men pointed him across the deck to where a slight man was coiling rope, seemingly unconcerned with the new arrivals. He was dressed in a loose fitting shirt and a pair of garish calico pants.
“Cap’n.”
The supposed captain turned and Gerd’s first impression of the man was ‘pretty’. He had light brown hair and blue eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled. He was handsome in a plain sort of way, surely a charmer in any tavern he wished. The bear’s second impression was Witcher. Which couldn’t have been right.
There was no such thing as a blue eyed Witcher.
“Jerome Moreau.” The man-maybe witcher introduced himself as he passed the rope off to a deckhand. At the silence he continued, “Maybe we should speak somewhere private.” Gerd followed him across deck, listening to the slow beat of his heart. The captain’s quarters were decently large and Gerd had the ability to put space between himself and ‘Jerome’ once the door was closed and the lantern lit.
“As I said, I’m Jerome School of the Griffin.”
He wasn’t sure why he snapped. Perhaps it was the time at sea, trying to hold together men on the brink of death while the only one who he could have turned to for help laid on a cot in pain. Perhaps it was how long it had been since he’d seen another of his kind. Perhaps he simply needed to hit something to keep his meager sanity. Perhaps, it was because there were no witchers with blue eyes.
It was a laughably short fight. An embarrassingly short fight that Arnaghaf himself would have thrown Gerd from the highest mountain peak should he have witnessed it in his youth. Seven days at sea with limited water and only small bites of food to stop the hunger pains had done him no favors: against a man he would have been fine, perhaps even against two or three by sheer luck of size. But against a witcher? He hadn’t stood a chance. The Griffin-turned-pirate ducked his blow and tripped him backwards, before he could hit the floor a strong hand pushed against his chest and slammed him against the wall, pinned him there on the floor while the stranger watched him with those blue eyes. Jerome bared his teeth and Gerd found himself far too close to fangs unlike any he’d seen before, a feral snarl tore from the other’s chest like a beast. It was a sound that the bear could do without hearing ever again. But, just as quickly as the anger came, it left and the Griffin spoke softly,
“I am not your enemy. Do not bring such strife onto my ship or I will not hesitate to feed you to the first kraken that threatens us. You and your men have been through a lot; I can see that.” Jerome shifted back on his heels and eased the pressure on Gerd’s chest. “If I cared about having another Witcher on board I would have left you to die. We Griffins are not quite as fickle as your lot.” he smiled as if sharing a joke. “Well, you are here, so tell me your name.”
“Gerd.”
“And your friend is Torgeir the Red then.” The Griffin moved away so that they were both sitting on the floor, Jerome with crossed legs and Gerd with legs akimbo from his fall. “Don’t worry, your safety on this ship is assured so long as I’m alive. We’ll reach a port in a week’s time, you’re welcome to go ashore and we won’t expect any payment for our help; though we’ll discuss other options later. For now, I think it best if you have a meal and rest. You can answer my questions once things have settled.” It was a very one sided conversation but Gerd had both too many questions to begin with and not near enough energy to ask them. If most of them were about the captain himself? Well,
He was a strange thing, even for a witcher.
Gerd was given a water skin for himself and Torgeir and the captain put them in a private room that was used to store trade cargo. It was empty for the next weeks, as had been explained to him by a young lad, and therefore made for a good place to rest. An extra cot had been dragged within. Torgeir’s fever broke after some hours and in the darkness Gerd watched him crawl from his heavy slumber. He hadn’t allowed him to get a word out before pressing the water skin to his lips.
“Drink.” He urged and the skin was nearly empty by the time Torgeir pushed his hand away.
“Where are we?” The room was black as pitch once the sun went down.
“A ship came through to help us. We’re a week from port. Your leg… we’ll get you medicine for it soon.”
“What?” Torgeir asked.
“Fucking thing got infected. They’ve got a decent healer on board though. Stitched it up fairly nice.”
“Fucking great-” the red head pushed himself up and Gerd was quick to move closer and support him. “The others?”
“We lost Ragnar and Beorn. The others are having dinner and resting. No sign of Nilfgaard chasing us so far.” With his lover awake and clear eyed Gerd felt the weight of the last week and a half hit him in full force. His eyes drooped and he began to list to the side like a sinking ship.
Torgeir shifted and pressed their shoulders together more firmly. “Come on, y’ bastard. Lay down.”
“Can’t.”
“You said we’re as safe as we can get. When’s the last time you slept?” Torgeir’s hand squeezed his thigh, kitten weak compared to what it should have been. When Gerd didn’t have an answer for him the jarl sighed. “Tha’s what I thought.” Gerd let himself be poked and prodded until he was reclined against the hull of the ship with rags and old feed bags piled behind him as a comfort. One leg stretched out in front of his while the other hung over the side of the cot, Torgeir laid between them. It was a familiar enough position even if the environment around them was not. He had planned to meditate again, afraid that if he slept then he would not wake for quite some time, but the moment that he had Torgeir’s weight against his chest his eyes closed and sleep dragged him under.
He woke when light spilled across his face, feeling only half as rested as he should have and mortified that he hadn’t been able to fight off the slumber.
Jerome was standing in the doorway, a white shirt half open across his chest and a look on his face that was far too soft. “Your crew demanded that I bring you something to break fast with. Andrea, I believe? She said that if you didn’t take it, I should send her in here in my place.” Again, that smile graced his lips. “I can leave it here and let you sleep.” It sounded good, to be able to close his eyes once more and sink into slumber. Perhaps to wake only when they were docked. He extended a hand instead.
“I’ll take it.” They were hunted men for all he knew. They would need their strength.
“Good,” as witchers they did not need to light an oil lantern and Jerome closed the door behind himself, some sunlight crept in from above. “While none here should voice any judgement, I would advise you to keep any overtly forward displays within this room or in my study should you need it. My men are good but they have loose lips in port, drunkards are not half as lovely.”
Gerd was handed bread and a bowl of thin porridge. It was meager for a man his size and even more so for two. But, they were a week from port and The Hawksea, as the Griffin’s ship was called, had not been prepared for five more bodies on board. Particularly not those of warriors and witchers.
“Thank you.” The words were rough.
“Don’t mention it. I’ll be putting you to work before long. Lots of things to do here that could use a witcher’s strength.” Jerome sat on a crate, one leg pulled up to his chest with his arm draped over it. “Can’t have any freeloading going on, might start talk of mutiny.” His eyes crinkled at the edges as if he’d spent a lifetime laughing rather than fighting monsters. Maybe he had, with a face like that.
“I thought you Griffins were supposed to be chivalrous bastards.” Gerd grunted.
“Chivalrous? Yes. Bastard? Most certainly.” Those fangs were flashed at him again. “I was under the impression you bears were the loner sorts.”
“We are.” Gerd didn’t miss the way Jerome’s eyes lingered on the redhead asleep on his chest. Caught even longer on the scarred arm wrapped around the human like a shield.
The Griffin hummed, “I see.”
The witcher left them alone with their breakfast and somewhere above them a man began to sing.
Rey and Kylo Ren share a Force bond and it distracts them both as they fight on opposite ends of a galaxy-wide war. Life is strange and attraction adds a layer of complication that neither Rey nor Kylo is comfortable acknowledging. Still… Sometimes, in the sweet moments between dreams and reality, they meet as the Force tries to bridge the gap between understanding and love.
Chapter 25, The Final Chapter.
After their battle with Palpatine, Rey and Ben prepare themselves for a final battle with the First Order and necessary separation.
And that’s all she wrote--that’s me, I’m she. Thanks so much to everyone who stuck with me or popped in for a read over the years!
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Relationships: Kiyan & OC
Characters: Kiyan (The Witcher), Original Characters
Additional Tags: Angst, I Shook A Witcher And Intergenerational Trauma Fell Out (The Witcher), Trial Of The Grasses (The Witcher), Childhood Memories, Someone asked about strongest childhood memories and witcher training happened, Unhappy Ending, Character Death, Original Character Death(s), Childhood Trauma
Series: Part 1 of Unbury The Gays
Summary: The first time his friends disappeared, Kiyan was too young to understand.
