Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Winter had grown longer, and harsher for months witchers were locked behind Kaer Morhen’s thick stone walls. The Keep growing quiet with their numbers failing and no new blood being introduced, no children born or brought into the fold the Mages made a decision. Mating was no longer an option. Pairings were drafted by the mages looking for desirable traits for the next generation of witchers; mating was encouraged or demanded for some.

Larkin was one such witcher drafted, he was a small man, unusual for a witcher but more natural for an omega, wiry and swift, more fitted to be a cat than a wolf. Dismissed, seen as unfit by others and completely overlooked as a mate by many more times than he cared to count. Larkin preferred his quiet duties at Kaer Morhen. Patching wounds, teaching the pups and trainee’s keeping them in order. Let others chase coin, glory, and their death. He found his purpose at home.

Vesemir, on the other hand, lived for life on the path. He returned only when necessary, contributing to the stronghold’s coffers in coin and occasionally in unwanted children. His solitary nature suited him well. He was more than content to let others raise the few child surprises that he had acquired over his time on the path. Commitment was something he never sought, until now.

Larking and Vesemir found themselves thrust into a chamber designed for mating, locked from the outside. A low table greeted them, but the potions touted him, one to trigger a heat, the other a rut. The implication was clear: only mating or death would see them released. They were left alone in the room. No instructions were given, but then again, none were needed; they both understood their duty.

Vesmir was the first to break. he downed his rut potion in one gulp and flung the phial aside, a reckless gesture from a man accustomed to being caged. Larkin didn’t even flinch, he wasn’t one to submit easily, with a small hum, he padded across the room, ignoring the alpha in the room. Instead focused on the circular indent in the floor and began to assemble his nest from the personal items the mages managed to grab from his room; some bore Vesemir’s scent. Larkin wrinkled his nose and tossed them into the fire.

Vesemir let out a bark of surprise, lunging towards the heart to rescue his smoldering shirt.

“What the hell, omega?” He growled, patting down the flames,

Larking didn’t even bother to look at him, undistracted from his meticulous and important work, “I’m not interested in smelling your former bed partners, in my nest.”

Vesemir watched as the omega spent a full five minutes shifting a single circular pillow and inch to the left then right only to put it back where it started.

The air grew heavy with Vesemir’s scent, tension coiled tightly in his gut. As his rut began to build his next mistake nearly cost him, he stepped into the nest, and Larkin reacted instantly.

A knife flashed, and they tumbled out of the nest as Larking tackled him. Vesemir cursed as Larkin pinned him with unmated grace, the blade pressed to his throat.

“Who the fuck to you think you are? Larkin snarled, golden eyes ablaze.

Vesemir growled back his muscles tensing, he shouldn't have been able to overpower such a smaller man. But Larkin fought dirty, efficiently. A well placed kick had sent the alpha staggering.

“You will submit!” Larkin roared, “Just because we’ve been matched doesn't mean you own me. I won't be claimed like an object.”

Not one to take this lying down, Vesemir surged up, trying to twist to shift his weight, perhaps even disarm Larkin.

“Ah you little bitch!”

Pain flared in his thigh, blood welled from the fresh stab wound, Vesemir hissed that the damage has been done, and Larkin was straddling his waist now, shifting the blade dangerously close to his eye.

“Submit,” the omega demanded.

A long beat passes then two, Veseemir chest heaved.

Then he relented.

Tilting his head back baring his neck.

Larkin purred low and triumphant oh what a sound,

“Good boy,” He whispered, before being down deep into the exposed skin. Copper flooded his tongue. LIcking the blood away trailing kisses downward shredding vesemir’s shirt in one fluid motion.

Vesemire stayed still, letting Larkin lead this strange brutal mating, only when Larkin’s lips closed around his cock did the alpha’s restraint waver. A moan broke free and his hands found larkin's auburn hair twisting pulling as pleasure surged up his spine.

“Fuck,” He growled, his climax building “Omega,”

Just as he was about to burst over the pleasure vanished.

Larkin pulled him off with a wicked grin.

“Patience alpha, we’ve got all night.”

Larkin stood and drank the heat potion in one smooth motion. He stripped himself bare and stalked back like a predator claiming its prey's golden eyes gleaming. The omega was breathing, taking tone scarred strong and certain. Whatever pups came from this union would be exceptional.

And god help anyone who tries to get between them.

—------------------------------

Centuries later.

Vesmir was not impressed, after finishing another challenging contract he came back to Lettenhove to claim the 1,000 crown he was promised. Instead of being handed a chest of gold a young omega was thrown at his feet. This wasn’t the first time a father tried to sell his unwanted children to a witcher and it wouldn’t be the last, but Vesemir already had four pups and wasn’t looking for another.

“And what am I to do with him?” Vesemir asked, after a long moment of silence, “He’s no child surprise, far too old for the mutations to take.”

The beta male lets out a low warning growl at Vesemir’s disrespect, unimpressive given the man's designation but Vesemir doesn’t let the challenge go unpunished and responds with a harsher growl of his own that reverberates around the room.

There is movement off to the side of the room, and Vesemir catches it in his peripheral vision, turning his head just enough to see that there off to the side is a young girl. She’s a timid thing trying to hide behind the skirt of her maid, clutching a well cared for doll in one hand. She has a red mark on her cheek that would soon become a proper bruise.

“She’ll do,” Vesemir says, yellow eyes narrowing in on the girl now, “She’ll make a fine playmate for my youngest.”

Vesemir steps forward wanting a closer look but is stopped by a tight grip on his arm, he looks down to see that it is the omega that has stopped him, for the first time the omega looks up cornflower blue eyes meet hardened amber.

“No,” The omega snarls, eyes darken as a harsh scent comes from him “You will not take her!”

There is a moment of bated breath as no one moves. The room is silent waiting to see how the monstrous alpha witcher will respond. Vesemir should knock the omega down a peg as that is what these people are expecting, but he has a better idea.

“Very well,” Vesemir says almost thoughtfully, shaking his arm free. “I’ll take the omega and his dowry.”

“Dowry?” The beta shouts, standing up from his seat.

“If he is to mate my son, a dowry must be paid.” Vesemir explained, then with an off-handed reply, “Then again you are trying to sneak your way out of a thousand crown contract you may not even have a dowry to begin with.”

A few snickers throughout the crowd is enough to sway the beta, and after being handed the dowry, the omega’s belongings attached to a horse the pair left without delay.

“Go witcher.” The lord sneered, “Do not expect a warm welcome again.”

Chapter Text

Lambert’s first year on the path has not been the year he expected. Saying it has been shit show would be an understatment. Getting ran out of the first town he’d seen in weeks because he broke the arm of some shitty alpha that couldn’t keep his hands to himself. Forced to eat bland spit-roasted rabbits and small game over a fire because he couldn’t make enough coin to sustain himself. Going from shit contract to shit contract from even shittier aldermen that were under paying him was the worst.

Sure, he didn’t expect it to be easy; nothing about being a witcher is easy. The old bastards at Kaer Morhen taught him that.

Larkin didn’t want him to go on the path; his adoptive parents did everything they could to keep Lambert at Kaer Morhen for another year. But Lambert was stubborn, and once he got an idea in his head, it was hard to deter him.

The next town he went to had a problem with their livestock being eaten, and the local herdsmen were the first human casualties. The alderman who gave him the contract was an older alpha, who smelled dishonest, like smoke from someone burning damp wood. The tells were the scent, half-truths, and bold-faced lies. There are many reasons for Lambert not to take the contract, but the coin was too good to pass up. So he accepted the contract.

The bait was laid, the trap was set, and all Lambert had to do was wait. Only, instead of a young common griffin that Lambert believed the target was going to be, it was a royal griffin, and given its size and color, he knew it was a fully grown royal griffin, a challenge for any experienced witcher. Lambert should have backed down and reconsidered his strategy, but the hunger pangs in his stomach were becoming too strong to ignore.

The snare trap did its job, getting and keeping the beast grounded. With his silver sword, Lambert dispatched the griffin, not with ease, no, the griffin wasn’t going to go down easily, but Lambert did it. Only he didn’t see the second Griffin until it was too late.

The dead griffin’s mate swooped down, grabbed the omega by the shoulders, its claws piercing the armor, and took off, rising above the ground. Lambert struggled in its grip before he was dropped. A normal human would have broken bones from a drop like that, but Lambert was an expert at falling. Rolling as he landed, staved off broken bones, but Lambert was sure he had messed up his shoulder. As the griffin made another pass to try and grapple him, Lambert dove right, rolling over his sword and taking it in his grasp so he could swipe at the beast as it made another pass.

The sword made contact with the griffin’s side but not its wings. With a frustrated growl, Lambert threw a strong Aard, knocking the griffin off course, forcing it to land before it crashed. Running towards the landed beast, Lambert jumped onto its back, a dumb move on his part, for he was unable to get a proper grip, letting the beast buck him right off.

Now here was was on his back with the griffin bearing down on him a whole in his belly, his sword out of reach, his hands pinned, if not broken at the wrist by the beast. His life starts flashing before his eyes.

Just as Lambert thinks he’s going to meet his end, hot blood splatters onto his face, and a sword tip is a breath away from his eye before it’s withdrawn. The griffon shudders before collapsing onto him dead as soon as the sword pierces its brain, unable to bear its weight. Lambert lets out an involuntary whine as the weight keeps him pinned and in pain.

“Easy there,” A man says softly, dropping from the griffon’s back, his voice rich and soft to Lambert’s ears. “I got you.”

Now that his life was no longer in danger and his adrenaline was wearing off, Lambert could feel the pain in his hands and abdomen where the griffon tore through his armor and nearly gutted him. He starts to notice the dots in his vision before he can see who killed the other griffon, and he blacks out.

The Cat Witcher, no longer welcome at his own caravan, looked down at the bleeding Wolf pup. An idea sparked—dangerous, sharp, and far too tempting.