Hey, what do you say about Coën/Lambert, arranged marriage AU? Thanks, Ledgea!
well this is certainly not three sentences and is in fact 900 words. the idea GRIPPED me i love u iâm sorry i never adhere to any writing challenge properly
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The steel head of Lambertâs axe buries itself in the old wood of the training structure. Lambert wishes his blow would have brought the whole damn thing tumbling down the mountain. Maybe then Vesemir would be angry enough with him to call off todayâs proceedings, and Lambert would have another night to plan his getaway.
Not that he particularly wants to get away from hereâ thatâs the problem. All these years spent growing to trust a group of people the way he thought he never would, and now heâs to be given away like a prized sire. He would turn and run if he didnât know for a fact that it would break his brothersâ hearts, and Vesemirâs too. So he resigns himself to chopping wood that definitely isnât meant to be chopped, and angrily shouting all the while.
âYou havenât changed,â says a gentle, nervous voice; Lambert looks over expecting to see someone much younger. It is, sure enough, a familiar faceâ but the face and body have changed so much. He remembers playing knights with a young kid who bore that same soft timbre, a kid from a faraway land who only visited a few times before blinking out of Lambertâs life forever. However, that kid had cemented himself in Lambertâs memories and not only by being a big softy; Lambert remembers especially enjoying their time together as CoĂ«n knew all the weirdest, scariest details about monsters.
CoĂ«n. That had been his name, right? Lambert takes in his changed appearance. His chin and cheek are marred by scars, the remnants of some past skin condition, and his frame is slender but strong. Heâs not as wide as Lambert but heâs got some muscle. He looks every part the knight that they used to imagine he was, from the chain mail to the weathered boots.
âCoĂ«n,â Lambert says, stumbling towards him before he can think any better of the impulse, pulling him into a hug. The other man stalls for a second before reciprocating the embrace, and Lambert is delighted to find out he was right about those muscles. Not that heâll ever be able to act on this knowledge, he remembers with no small amount of bitterness. âYou here to rescue me?â
âRescue you?â CoĂ«n makes a show of glancing around the empty training grounds; thatâs right, he had been a smarmy little know-it-all, Lambert forgot! Lambert always had a thing for smugness; must be why he liked the kid. âYou donât seem particularly endangered.â
âAnd yet,â he laughs coldly. âMy days as a free man are numbered. Iâm to be married off to a Griffin at sunset.â The hand-embroidered beast on CoĂ«nâs chest suddenly stands out, and Lambert realizes aloud: âSuppose thatâs why youâre here. You part of the delegation?â
âIâm part of the sacrificial offering,â CoĂ«n corrects him. âIâm to be married to the youngest Wolf at sunset, so I fear weâre in the same boat, my old friend.â
Lambertâs stomach does a sort of flip, and he inhales sharply. âFuck. The very same, then.â CoĂ«n frowns, his brows growing close together, and Lambert quickly clarifies, âIâm the youngest Wolf.â
âFuck,â echoes CoĂ«n. On his lips, it sounds softer than it ever has coming from Lambert. Lambert canât stop staring now that he knows the truthâ he had imagined some young asshole Griffin that would take great pride in making Lambert his groom without any care for him. But CoĂ«n is one of the most caring people Lambert has ever known. He forces himself to rethink the situation as the confused man stammers, âHow could you be the youngest? Youâreâ you donât look young at all! I mean, notâ youâve certainly grownââ
âAs have you,â Lambert grins rudely. âI must admit, Keldarâs description was beyond vague. Had I known that you were my betrothedââ
âWhat, you wouldnât be fighting with a pillar at the top of a cold mountain?â CoĂ«n laughs, happy and surprised. Lambert just watches him, struggling to keep from smiling too widely and scaring him off. âYeah, well, if Iâd known, I wouldnât have bitched so much on the way up here.â
âRight.â A very terrible idea rises to the top of Lambertâs mind, and as he is so often prone to do, he immediately seizes onto the notion and sets his heart on making it happen. âYou know what? I think I know how we can really piss off both Vesemir and Keldar, and get out of this stupid arrangement. Did you ride on horseback up here?â
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âLeave it to Lambert to ruin his own arranged marriage by fucking eloping,â Eskel marvels. The keep has never been busier what with the extra wedding guests and everyone running around looking for the two grooms, but Lambertâs brothers know better than to try to seek him out. The only way to find Lambert once heâs gone into hiding is to wait it outâ that, or offer a really high cash reward so he can turn himself in. And they just lost a very prosperous deal, so they donât exactly have the funds for that.
Geralt just takes a long drink from Lambertâs ceremonial wedding wine in response.
Up at the head table, where the young Wolf and Griffin would have exchanged their vows, Vesemir and Keldar instead exchange an amusedâ and triumphantâ look. The plan went better than they could have imagined.
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âHe isnât even wearing derby skates,â barks Lambert as he reaches up to unbuckle his helmet, launching it across the changing room. It bounces harmlessly off a pile of dirty towels and clatters to the floor, which somehow pisses him off more than if it had cracked. He ignores CoĂ«nâs placating âI know, Lambâ, continuing to complain, âHeâs some fucking nobody is who he isâ I donât give a shit how many followers heâs got on TikTok for his pretty skating tricks, you canât just roll into derby and act like you fucking own the place when youâve no inclination to learn the actual rules or any respect for the sport itself. I fucking hate TikTok anyway!â
Removing his own helmet so that he can carefully wipe his face, CoĂ«n repeats with all the calm patience of someone whoâs sat through a thousand of Lambertâs rants, âI know, Lambchop.â
âAnd did you hear, when I asked him about derby he said he used to practice with some Cats,â hisses Lambert. âThatâs bad news, Co, I donât give a fuck if heâs coming here with good intentions or how hot he is, Vesemir would have my head if he found out we were training potential skaters from our biggest competitors. And he said it so flagrantly too! I mean, no fucking respect!â
He angrily gestures with his wrist pads at the Wolf emblazoned on his shirt. CoĂ«n, who transferred teams years ago after the fall of his own school, only nods politely. âI know, Lambert.â
âAndâŠâ Losing steam, Lambert runs a hand through his already messy hair, ruining it further. He finally turns to look at CoĂ«n, aggrieved. âAnd the fucker is, like, really hot. I mean⊠heâs our type, right?â
âI know, darling,â CoĂ«n repeats yet again, this time with a slightly different tone. The heat boiling in Lambertâs blood moves away from his brain, and for the first time since that smug little shit in thigh-highs and expensive skates came into their rink, he begins to consider a different tactic than immediately banning him from the venue.
Lambert makes a series of bad decisions, or fine Netflix I guess Iâll fucking write it myself.
4.7K words, T, Lambert/Aiden and pre-Lambert/Coën, CWs: canonical past child abuse and season 2 spoilers
He sees the expressions the other Wolves wear upon their homecomings. Eskel enters the Keep lit up with radiance that will be gone come spring. He sets down his parcels by the door and his swords on top of them, and everyone ignores the snarls of disapproval from the stodgy old ghosts that haunt this drafty place.Â
The old ethos of clinging to tradition has peeled away like paint from an ancient wall. None of them keep their twin swords at their backs or glance over their shoulders as much as they should here. The camaraderie hangs in the air with the dust motes, welcoming in the weary ones who survived.Â
Lambert watches the relief that overcomes their faces as they enter Kaer Morhen. His amber eyes flash emerald with hot, mean envy. He wants to feel at home here the way that Geralt and Eskel do, wants to lay down his swords and money and embrace his brothers and laugh without a care. He canât release it the way they do. All that he can do is cling to his own bitterness until his shoulders ache from the weariness that he canât express. And he can drink, tooâ that, at least, everyone here has in common.
For Lambert, home was never a place. He doesnât revel in the dilapidated halls and rats and mold as Geralt and Vesemir do, only doing his share of the chores to appease the others. The libraries and laboratories might be peaceful, sure, but when he spends too long alone there he begins to feel the urge to flee this barren place. He remembers being strapped to beds and watching boys his age die. Praying that death might take him too, if only to ease the scratching pain in his wounds and the whining of his stomach. Kaer Morhen is a refuge solely because of who populates its dusty walls. Not a home.
On cruel nights his mind leads him to lovely dreams of his real home, with wavy black hair and a smile as sharp as hisâ but far less ugly. The warmth draws Lambert in until he snaps to it magnetically, body falling into step with Aidenâs the way it always has done. They whisper sweet nothings to each other, except the nothings mean everything and Lambert wouldnât trade them for anything.Â
In the morning, he canât remember a single word and it makes him angry enough to revisit the familiar dent in his wall, searching inside each bruise on his knuckles for the meaning of the dream. Itâs been nearly two years since he heard the news of Aidenâs passing, but the wounds are fresh not only in his mind. Lambert only wraps his hands so that CoĂ«n wonât bitch about blood in the food and safety measures. As if they arenât immune to illness anyway.
Then, one year, Geralt enters and Lambert watches that same warmth of home permeate his permanent frown. He stands, preparing to greet his brother and thinking delightedly of all the stories that he has to exchange, wondering excitedly of what news Geralt will have brought home for the winter. The white-haired witcher has a penchant for getting involved in politics and personal drama, even though he always claims he wants no part of it. And this past year did not want for political unrest, so Lambert canât begin to imagine what hand Geralt had in it all.
But as he embraces his brother he sees a small creature behind him, with a head too big for her shoulders and hair too proper for anyone travelling with a witcher. Her wide eyes blink curiously at Lambert, who regrets meeting her gaze immediately. He scowls back, hoping to scare her off into running back down the mountain. Geralt, what the fuck have you brought into our home.
The creature, as it turns out, is at the centre of several stories that Lambert has zero interest in hearing. Did he say he wanted to laugh at Geraltâs political drama? No, certainly not. He wanted to keep to himself this winter, maybe try to see if he could get Eskel to sled with him again even though it had been such a shitshow last time. He wanted to finish writing that journal on succubi, and drink his own weight three times over, and maybe see if he could work up the nerve to tell his brothers about Aiden. None of those plans involve a child, especially not a smarmy, snot-nosed princess who also happens to be the prophesied centre of so much horseshit itâs unreasonable.
Princess Cirilla of Cintra, she calls herself, with all the airs of a monarch whose royal court had not been razed to the ground. CoĂ«n takes an immediate liking to her, because of course he fucking does. Lambert knew he couldnât trust a Griffin with anythingâ when he tells CoĂ«n this, the brazen traitor just stares at him knowingly, fingers loosely holding his stein of ale. âYouâll like her too,â CoĂ«n has the gall to inform Lambert. âSheâs been through a lot, Lambchop.â
âI always tell you not to fucking call me that,â Lambert spits back even though he never once has. CoĂ«n doesnât call him on it, and thank the Gods, Geraltâs precocious new plaything doesnât hear the nickname. Thatâs the last damn thing he needs to make this winter any worse than it already is.
Then, as if thinking a dark thought like that could speak trouble into existence, Gwain stumbles through the front doors of the Keep. The lady under his arm wouldnât be dressed warmly enough for Novigrad, let alone the top of a mountain, and behind her come several more.Â
Geralt quickly pulls his child aside, directing a glare at Gwain that makes him look very much like Vesemir, but Lambert just tightens his grip on his ale and stumbles to his feet. âNow this is more like it,â he crows, welcoming his brother with open arms. âGwain, you certainly understand who to bring to a reunion! Who are these lovely visitors?â
In his peripheral vision Lambert sees the child draw closer to Geralt, who is practically seething. But he ignores it in favour of greeting one of the girls, who gladly sidles up to him. God, she must be freezing. What was Gwain thinking? Lambert glances at the other witcher and sees that his eyes are alight not with the joy of coming home but something else entirely. He looks terrible, face marred by something that must have tried to take a bite out of his beard. He must not have his arm around the woman just for show, thenâ Lambert looks closer and sees her hand pressed to his side as if to apply pressure.Â
His pulse races and his face falls, but before he can demand answers Gwain spits out, âI just thought it might relieve some tension. I know I need it after my last fight.âÂ
Gwain reaches around his back and the girl releases him only so that he can slap a sack down on the floor. A skeletal, wooden arm falls out, and the witchers all converge on the broken limb with concern. Vesemir is the first to ask, in near-wonder, âIs that a leshy?â
âMoved like one. Looked like one.â Gwain rips his shirt open, and even the prostitutes around him are too shocked by the ugly wound there to make any ribald comments. âStung me like one.â
If Lambert had known now what he would eventually learn, he would throw Gwain and his band of women right back out those doors, and pace over to Geralt and give him a stern talking-to about bringing his battles inside the Keep, and then perhaps hug Everard and Merek so closely that he would need to be pried off.
But he hadnât known, so he just embraced the nearest brunette and left Geralt to his own devices, not sparing his brother or the princess another thought for the rest of the night.
With the morning comes grief that none of them were ready to face. Geralt handles it the best out of all of them, because of course he does. When he learns that the White Wolf was the one to land the killing blow, Lambert canât restrain himself from throwing barbs in Geraltâs direction and hoping one will stick. He isnât sure when he picked up the habit, he only knows that he feels sick triumph when Geralt finally turns around to parry his cruelty. And even that isnât as satisfying as it once was, not when Geraltâs preoccupied with his Child Surprise.
A hand on his arm pulls him away from his meagre breakfast. CoĂ«n brings him away from the others, and Lambert would be lying if he said he wasnât excited about being admonished. He prepares himself for a good scolding, setting his jaw against the inevitable backlash from his cruelty towards Geralt. He can practically already hear the Griffinâs voice reverberating around his skull: Heâs suffering too, we all are. You donât need to act like a dick for us to know youâre hurting, Lamb. We see you. I see you. I notice you.
Instead, CoĂ«n pulls him into a side corridor off the main hall, releasing his grip on Lambertâs arm only to gently hold him by the jaw. CoĂ«nâs head might be ravaged by pox scars but his fingertips are smooth and free of calluses. Astonishingly incongruous hands for a witcher to have. Lambert couldnât look away if he wanted to, swept off his feet by the tenderness in CoĂ«nâs eyes where heâd expectedâ wantedâ rage. Without removing his hands from either side of Lambertâs face, CoĂ«n tells him gently, âIf you need to talk about your feelings, you know Iâm here.â
The whole sentence and delivery is so remarkably Aiden that Lambert feels bile rise up his throat. He bats CoĂ«nâs hands away from his head, not caring much if he slaps the other man in the process. But CoĂ«n drops his hold without protest or reaction, which is obviously more irritating. âIâm fine,â Lambert hisses. âNot the first time weâve lost a witcher. Not even the first time itâs happened here.â
âIt can still have an impact,â CoĂ«n points out quietly. He, of course, knows this better than most other witchers; while Lambert has dealt with the personal grief of losing Aiden and Vesemir saw his kin murdered when he was still young, CoĂ«nâs entire school was eradicated. The only other Griffin Lambert knows is the poor fellow depicted in the tapestry upstairsâ the one they all vandalize as a rite of passage. CoĂ«n should be angrier than any of them, but somehow his grief has cauterized him into the good man he is today.
Lambert suddenly canât stand to look at him. He brushes past CoĂ«n without another word, dismissing his generic offer of help without a second thought.
Soon after they lose Gwain, Geraltâs brat takes up Lambertâs favourite spot in the courtyard every morning and afternoon. Itâs such a basic petty grievance that Lambert is embarrassed by how much it irks him, but he canât help the ire he feels every time he sees the princess hacking away at the same straw training dummy, using the same terrible tactics over and over. For hours. Doesnât she ever get tired?Â
Unlike his training sessions as a child, no one is there to beat her if she complains, or to pull her off the post before she collapses of exhaustion. Geralt must be slacking; heâs probably off deciding which of the other witchers he wants to kill next.
As soon as heâs had that thought Lambert regrets it, but he canât take it backâ even if he didnât voice it to anyone. He drags his fingers through his curls and thinks of his lost friend. What would Aiden do, watching this poor girl struggle in the courtyard? Lambert is ashamed to admit that he has no fucking idea.
He rounds up CoĂ«n, figuring that two shitty trainers will still work better than none, and sets into action giving the child the lightest imaginable version of Vesemirâs morning routine. He hopes it will scare her away from the profession, so he muscles through the anxiety and ignores every side-eye CoĂ«n shoots his way. It will all be worth it when the child runs, crying and bleeding, back to the safety of the fortress.
When she falls a sixth time, small body hitting the snow with a thump that makes CoĂ«n cringe, Lambert steps forward to heckle her. âThis is what being a witcher is, princess! Itâs nothing like your nobility classes, how to balance books on your head. It is pain, over and over again, until the nerves that feel that pain are dulled enough that it doesnât matter.â He sees CoĂ«n stiffen, but the Griffin remains silent. And so Lambert eggs the kid on, âHad enough yet?â
On shaking, tiny arms, the girl rises. Her pretty blonde hair is matted with sweat and at some point she must have scraped her hands; they bleed, unbandaged. Lambert remembers every ugly splinter he had to pry out of himself after this training course. He twitches but doesnât relent, staring right back at her green eyes. âThatâs enough for the day, Ciri,â CoĂ«n finally speaks up. âYouâre going to overwork yourself and make a mistake.â
âI can do it,â the girl replies, trembling. âI can!â
The wooden hammers swinging out of sync catch her mid-step, knocking her down onto the ground. This time the cry she lets out is so piteous that even Lambert has to relent. âEnough,â he snarls, stepping forward. âYou canât do it, so give it a rest.â
But the girl is quicker than he expects, and she dodges his hands, scaling the ladder in record time. Lambert is left on the ground, staring stupidly at the bloodstained white snow and remembering his own childhood so intensely that he nearly misses Ciriâs first success on the training course.
The days slip into weeks as they approach and then pass the winter solstice, making it clear that the young Cintran princess is here to stay. Geralt stays too, although his attention is far from focused on one area. He spends his days training his Child Surprise and his nights labouring over the leshy arm with Vesemir, only spending his meals with the other Wolves.Â
It feels like Geralt is busy solving some mystery that Lambert canât even begin to comprehend, which is maybe why heâs so thoroughly unsurprised when Triss arrives at the Keep, prettier and wiser than he remembers. Lambert and CoĂ«n make the mistake of teasing Ciri in front of her which leads to a lecture harsh enough to make him feel like a child again. Lambert doesnât hang his head, though; he watches Merigold lead Ciri away, fighting off the odd feeling in his chest. As they leave, CoĂ«n makes some mild remark about how heâd liked the flowers in her hair, and the feeling rises to a boiling point.
âIf you like the princess so much, go hang out with her instead,â he snaps, and oh, shitting fuck, what a stupid thing to say. CoĂ«n turns his gaze on Lambert but where Lambert expects derisionâ really, Lambchop? Jealous of a childâ he only sees the same soft sympathy that CoĂ«n meets him with so often these days.
âI do spend time with her, quite often,â says CoĂ«n. Somehow this is even worse than a lecture. âI play Gwent with her, and Eskel reads her stories. Youâre the only one who still doesnât like her.â
âI never said I didnât like her,â says Lambert quickly.
âYes, you have,â CoĂ«n snorts. âMultiple times. But she really isnât that bad⊠maybe if you spent time with her too, youâd seeââ
âI donât need to do that,â snaps Lambert. âWhatever youâre fucking seeing in her, I donât see it, alright? So just⊠leave me be, Co.â
And, to his incredible dismay, CoĂ«n gives him one long look before he does exactly that. Lambert is left alone in the dining hall, ale souring in his cup and thoughts turning rancid. He wants to shout and stir up a fuss and kick the place apart, but he knows it wouldnât even make an impact. Nobodyâs here to listen to his self-absorbed bullshit anyway. He should just grow up. Lambert picks up the pitcher of ale and drains it in two long gulps, and after that the night is a pleasant, sickening blur.
Things finally come to a head when Geralt is away on mysterious monstrous business that he refuses to let his brothers in on, and as a result Ciri has been left in the care of Triss and Vesemir. Lambert wakes up in his own bed to the sound of blissful silence from the courtyard; no blades swinging, training or otherwise. He revels in the peace for a long moment, stretching out under his blankets and entertaining the idea of heading back to bed.
When he and Aiden had travelled on the Path together, they would allow themselves the beautiful privilege of sleeping in way more often than they should have. But Lambert wouldnât trade the memories of those mornings for any coin in the world. He thinks of it now, hand curling around the bottom of his pillow, remembering the kiss of Aidenâs rough stubble against his jaw and throat. Dayâs a-wasting, Lamb. As if Aiden werenât solidly sandwiched in atop him, preventing him from making any movement at all. Lambert would drag his knee up to make a show of trying to escape, and Aiden would just kiss him again, arms burrowing under him to hold him in place. Come on, get up. Whatâs stopping you?
For once, the memories soothe instead of ache. Lambert lies with them in silence, enjoying the phantom warmth until it fades, leaving him bereft and alone as ever. Then the silence from the courtyard really starts to bother him, and he grows annoyed with Ciri. How dare she get them all accustomed to a certain noise level this early in the morning and then fail to provide it out of the blue? He ought to have a word with her.
He dresses, expecting the usual witchers mingling about the main rooms, but the Keep is surprisingly empty. Eskel nods to him from where heâs cleaning up everyoneâs breakfastsâ thanks to the lack of Ciriâs training this morning, Lambert must have slept in. Lambert nods back gratefully but declines the bowl that Eskel left for him. âSeen Merigold anywhere?â
Eskel shrugs with one shoulder. Heâs always so polite to Triss for reasons that Lambert will never understand. Maybe the two of them have a thingâ but no, that canât be possible with the way she drifts around after Geralt. âChecked her room yet?â
Lambert hasnât, so he does. He gets an uneasy feeling when he sees her possessions half-packed, half-strewn about the room. For all her annoying habits, Triss is neat to a fault. He canât imagine her leaving her quarters in this state unless she was packing to go somewhere and got pulled away. A nerve twangs at his heart, making him anxious for no reasonâ Lambert dismisses it, but he continues his search just a little faster. Where is Ciri?
After the mess hall and the private rooms he heads to the laboratory in the basementâ heâs been avoiding this place ever since Gwain met his unfortunate end down here. Lambertâs ears prick up when he hears voices, and he clings to the wall, unusually suspicious. Nothing bad ever happens at Kaer Morhenâ except, of course, for all the very terrible things that do, and have, and will happen here.
Vesemirâs voice rings out against the silence. âHold stillâ yes, like that.â Thereâs an uncertain quaver in the old manâs tone that makes Lambert quicken his pace, and when he turns the corner heâs glad he did. He skids to a halt, watching the terrible scene laid out before him. Itâs just like something plucked from one of his nightmares. The child, strapped to the bed, a cloth tied tightly around her arm to expose the veins. Vesemir hovering over her, vial in his shaking hand, his face dark in shadow. Attached to the vial is an apparatus to inject the potionâ the mutagen, Lambert realizes. This is no nightmare; this is real.
He can hardly control himself as he marches up to the bed, shoving the old man away. âStop,â Vesemir and Ciri both decree in the same haughty voice, both trembling with indecision. Well, lucky for them he showed up. Without hesitation or response, Lambert slaps the contraption out of Vesemirâs hand. Vesemir repeats, eyes wild, âStop, Lambert! This is more important than you know!â
âStop,â echoes Ciri, straining against the binds keeping her in place. âI asked him to! I made my choice!â
âAbsolutely fucking not,â Lambert growls, reaching to free Ciri. But instead of letting her do something as monumentally stupid as lie back down he scoops her into his arms, ignoring her cries of protest. She claws against his back and scratches through his shirt, kicking and screaming, but Lambert doesnât even really hear her. He hears himself, as well as Geralt, and Remus. And he hears all the other children who had been strapped down and force fed compounds that they didnât even know how to spell. It killed more than half of them, and mutated the ones that lived, and like fucking hell is he letting it into Ciri. âVesemir, how could you? What kind of choice is this to offer a child?â
âItâs the same one we all took,â Vesemir tells him, sagging with exhaustion. But his eyes dart over to the fallen vialâ he hasnât given up yet.
âYeah, well, I donât remember making a fucking choice!â Before either of them can say another word Lambert marches away from the bed, carrying Ciri with him. She kicks him the entire way up to her room, complaining loudlyâ he tunes out the whining along with bursts of pain, noting with private amusement that her training really must be working if heâs hardly able to carry her without stumbling.
Only when the door to her bedroom is safely shut behind him does Lambert finally relax, kneeling a little before dropping Ciri like a sack of flour. She lands on her feet, staring up at him with barely-contained fury in her wide, teary eyes. Lambert doesnât much care about her qualms with what he did, seeing as heâs sure Geralt would have done the very same thing. But he figures heâs been a tool for long enough, so he meets her gaze head-on and growls, âListen. Whatever he told you it would be, he left out a lot of important shit. Itâs not just a quick path to power, princess. You have to trade away your fucking soul in the process, and it might just kill you anyway!â
âI know that,â Ciri retorts, sounding just as angry as him. âI donât have another choice, alright? I need to protect myself, I canât always rely on Geralt to be there. I donât want to feel like this anymore!â
With those last words she lashes out against him, hitting his stomach with both of her fists. Lambert takes the blow wellâ a human would be rolling up and crying, but he just winces for a second. Ciri recoils as soon as the punches land, stepping away from him and backing up onto the bed. Lambert exhales away the brief pain, shaking his head sadly. âIt wonât fix that either. I mean, you donât really believe all that shit about witchers not feeling anything, right?â
Her silence gives away that she might have believed it, at least a little. Lambert thinks heâs finally beginning to understand Ciri. He sinks to sit on the floor, back still pressed against the door just in case Vesemir decides to make two stupid choices in one day. The girl rubs the heels of her hands against her eyes and spits out, âIâm just tired of feeling so afraid all the time. And when Iâm not afraid, Iâm fucking angry. All the time. How do I⊠how is anyone supposed to cope with that?â
âA punching bag, perhaps,â Lambert jokes. Ciri glances his way and he realizes sheâs taking him seriously, so he tries to adjust his tone. He canât imagine what CoĂ«n or Aiden or Eskel or Geralt or Triss might say. Instead, he makes a shitty attempt at speaking from the heart. âUh⊠helps to find someone whoâll listen. Who gets it. A friendâ but donât get too attached, because, you know. People die.â
âI do,â Ciri says, so earnestly it hurts. He forces himself to remember, for the first time, what this child has been through. Itâs an indisputable fact that she has it worse than he ever did, even adding his douchefuck of a father to the equation. Haltingly, as if she isnât sure whether her questions will be welcomed, she asks, âDo you talk to Geralt about it?â
âSometimes,â Lambert says. âEskel, too. CoĂ«n mostly. And there was⊠hell, princess, you donât wanna hear this.â
But Ciri repeats, this time ardent and determined, âI do,â and she moves over on the bed. She pats the spot beside her with a tiny hand, face bright and free of any agenda except to listen.
Lambert sighs. He presses his ear up against the door once more but doesnât hear any sign of Vesemir approaching to steal the child away. So he tries to slow his still racing heart, shoves a chair under the door to keep it shut, and walks over to sit beside Ciri. âThere was another witcher,â he admits, when it becomes clear that sheâs waiting for him to start. âYou wonât have heard his name from CoĂ«n or any of the others, because, uh, they didnât know him. Different schools. You know the different schools, right?â
Ciri nods. âWhat was his name?â
Inhaling sharply, Lambert begins the story heâs never shared with anyone else here.
-
After cutting his trip with Istredd short when he heard the distant, psychic cry of a very distressed Ciri, Geralt is a touch confused when he returns to the fortress and finds it absolutely peaceful. Vesemir and Triss are nowhere to be found so Geralt heads right for Ciriâs room, suspicions confirmed when he finds it locked.Â
He wants to fire an Aard off immediately, but he doesnât think anyone would appreciate being woken up like that. So he hesitantly reaches out and knocks with a gloved fist, muttering quietly, âCiri? You alright?â
âJust a second,â comes the quick reply. She doesnât seem as upset as she had earlier, so Geralt tries to wait patiently. From inside the room he hears the quiet scuff of furniture being dragged across the floor, and then the door opens. Ciri looks up at him, heart beating a little faster than usual. âYou came back.â
âOf course,â Geralt says, nearly pushing past her to sweep the room. Then he sees the figure out cold on the bed. In a shock, he realizes itâs Lambertâ and even more shockingly, that his brotherâs hair is all done up in fine Cintran braids. Dryly, he says, âI see he was rude enough that you finally snapped and killed him. We all warned him this might happen.â
âNo,â Ciri laughs, and the sound warms Geraltâs heart. Although he wouldnât admit it aloud, he loves when he catches her smiling at his jokes. âNo, he just fell asleep. He was telling me a nice story about his life.â
âThere are no nice stories about Lambertâs life,â Geralt snorts. âAt least, none that Iâm aware of.â He paces over to the bed, watching how peaceful Lambertâs face looks while heâs sleeping. Ciriâs heart is still beating quickly enough that he knows she has something to tell him; probably something bad, if it made her scream that loudly. But for now sheâs still half-smiling, and he canât bring himself to ruin the moment. âWhatever you have to tell me, tell me after we finish this last braid. Eskel has to see this.â
Hey, it's Ledgea! For the drabble prompts, how about 43 for Aiden/Cöen/Lambert? Thank you :D
âYou did what?!â
Aiden barely has time to spit out the words before the other witchers shove him aside, muscling past him into the modest room. Kaer Morhen is hardly home for the Cat so he didnât bother trying to persuade Vesemir to give him a larger space; it would be pointless anyway, as he usually finds himself flitting between Lambertâs and CoĂ«nâs rooms for the night.
The size means that CoĂ«n swears vibrantly as he fails to find a hiding spot, while Lambert makes a beeline for the wardrobe and somehow manages to fold himself into its narrow vacant space. Aiden gapes at the pair of them, and his eyes only bulge out of his head more when CoĂ«n ends up diving under the bed. Heâs sure to get a mouthful of dust bunnies and scuff his pretty armour but he makes no complaint, silently tucking himself away and then lying perfectly still.
In the next instant footsteps thunder up the stairs, and Aiden winces as a raging Vesemir shoves hard enough for his door to slam open and then bang off the opposite wall.
The elder witcherâs shadow seems to grow tenfold as he stands in the doorway, panting heavily and staring at Aiden with fire in his eyes. Aiden doesnât move a muscle. Nobody moves a muscle, in fact, but theyâre all witchersâ so they can all surely hear four different pulses racing.
âYoung one,â Vesemir says, measured enough to send chills down Aidenâs spine. Heâs not stupid enough to mistake that for an endearment. âHave you seen any of the other witchers around the keep this morning?â
You could hear a pin drop if not for CoĂ«nâs heartbeat thudding incrementally faster, practically lighting up a glowing target under the bed. âNo,â Aiden lies through his teeth. He makes the most intense eye contact of his entire life with Vesemir. No one in the room dares to blink. âWhy?â
Vesemirâs chinâ his newly shorn half-naked chin with a funny sort of shape on the left side, although Aiden absolutely hasnât noticed that because he absolutely is not letting his gaze drop past the manâs noseâ twitches. The eldest Wolf witcher glowers, clearly wanting to chew Aiden apart but for some reason refraining. Maybe gods are real. Vesemir, slowly and carefully, says, âYouâre sure you havenât seen them around anywhere? I wanted them to help me muck out the stables; Eskelâs goat was sick last night.â
Aidenâs stomach turns, but he does not falter. He draws from the deepest well of courage that he has, mustering himself against the inevitable shitshow ahead and nodding to the old man. âI can step in.â
The Wolfâs eyes flash red but he doesnât call Aiden on his bullshit, simply returning the nod. âWeâll start now,â he says, and turns on his heel to leave. A poorly concealed sigh from the wardrobe makes him tense, shoulders drawing into a straight line, and he glances back over his shoulder to shoot another look at Aiden. âIâd find some way to plug my nose if I were you. Or someone to take my place.â
But Aiden just laughs, more uncomfortable than heâs ever been here, âRight,â and Vesemir seems satisfied for now. Or perhaps annoyed, or amused. Itâs really hard to discern his emotions now that heâs missing half his fucking beard.
The elder witcher leaves and Aidenâs door swings shut behind him, but still nobody moves. Aiden grinds his teeth together and then tells the silent room, âYou owe me at least seven consecutive orgasms for this.â
I return with another kiss drabble; this one is for Ledgea who requested Aiden/Coën/Lambert! I'm always delighted to write this OT3 <3
12. Kisses shared under a waterfall
T, 2070 words, some brief mentions of Coën's insecurities but no other warnings. Also on AO3!
-
The water rushing down into the lake is clean and clear, and it would likely taste as sweet as fresh rain. Aiden wants to taste and touch and feel the current, itching to jump in from the very moment the trio spots the clearing and lays their eyes on the wonder of nature. He discards his armour and doublet on the shore, turning around as he kicks off his pants. âItâs beautiful,â Aiden exhales, throat tight with unexpected emotion. This wasnât what he expected when Lambert suggested they meander off the well-travelled path, but heâs hardly complaining.
Pleased with the praise of his idea and thus him, Lambert smiles, crooked and gorgeous. He strips out of his shirt too, toeing out of one boot and stepping on the heel of the other to kick it off. Lambert is just as breathtakingly beautiful as the vista awaiting them, and if CoĂ«n werenât at his side, Aiden would run forward and kiss him senseless until both of them tumbled off the shore into the cool sapphire surf.
CoĂ«n meets Aidenâs eyes for only the briefest of moments before his gaze dips down, following the line of Aidenâs bare throat to his chest. The Griffin, almost unconsciously, drinks in the sight of his skivvies and the tight junction of his thighs. Aiden watches CoĂ«n pretend not to ogle him, and in turn he pretends not to feel the heat churning in his gut.
Lambert doesnât know this, but Aiden dreams often of CoĂ«n naked.
It isnât his fault, really, itâs CoĂ«nâsâ as shitty as that sounds. The truth is that although Aidenâs reputation lends him an infamous tendency for perversion heâs always been a romantic, leaning more towards lovemaking than any quick flings or cheap thrills. Thatâs why this thing heâs got with Lambert works so well: he has unlimited love to share, and Lambertâs desire to be needed and wanted is bottomless.
That must be why Lambert fell for CoĂ«n too, years before heâd even met Aiden. The Griffin sought refuge at Kaer Morhen after the siege of Kaer Seren, and according to the Wolf himself, Lambert instantly liked his earnest personality and bookishness. They had danced around one another for much longer than Lambert and Aiden, only finally admitting their feelings after a close call with a leshen that made all the witchers reconsider their time left and what they wished to do with it.
Aiden is glad, really. Lambert, insecure after a lifetime of trauma, has asked him time and time again if heâs harbouring any secret jealousy. The truth is that while Aiden has never been jealous of CoĂ«n for getting to spend the winters with his summer lover, he has questioned his own proclivity upon meeting his loverâs lover. He understands what Lambert sees in CoĂ«n, no explanation necessary. The very first time Lambert had introduced them, the young Wolf had been delightfully flushed and flustered, glancing between them expectantly. Aiden shook CoĂ«nâs hand, and CoĂ«n had told him some smart one-liner about the Cat caravan, and Aiden had thoughtâ so vividly that he remembers it nowâ oh no.
He has never given away his infatuation, worrying that Lambert might feel put upon to share CoĂ«n. Instead Aiden keeps the secret close to his chest, saving his summers for his beloved Lamb and only daring to dream of CoĂ«nâs depths in the winter. Truthfully, he wants it allâ the romance from and between both men, CoĂ«nâs sincerity and Lambertâs strength, Lambertâs firm body and CoĂ«nâsâŠ
Well. Like he said. Heâs dreamt of it often, but he has yet to see it in real life.
When Lambert fully strips down to his underclothes Aiden is already knee-deep. The water ripples around his thighs as he turns to whistle at his Wolf. Lambert flips him off which just makes Aiden laugh, and CoĂ«n interrupts, still on the shore. Heâs still wearing his full armour, as though he expects a drowner to rise from this picturesque waterfall. âIs it cold?â
âNot at all,â Aiden lies through his teeth. Then he cackles as Lambert dips his toes in and immediately swears, colourful and loud. âWell, perhaps it isnât the famed hot springs of Kaer Morhen. But two mountaineers like you should be able to stand it, no trouble at all!â
âCâmere,â Lambert growls, wading through the clear lake. âIâll drown you right now. See how many of those nine lives youâve got left.â
âYouâll have to catch me first,â teases Aiden, breaking into a slowed sprint through the water. Itâs easier when he dives, the lake bending easily to every stroke. The current is stronger as he approaches the fall but Aiden is strong too, and he hasnât kept up his lithe figure all these years for nothing. He sucks in a puff of air and then breaches the waterfall; the spray is both lighter and faster than he expects. If any innkeeper could market this kind of water pressure, theyâd be famous across the Continent faster than you could order a bath.
Something clamps around his ankle and Aiden makes a noise he isnât proud of, shrieking and flailing. Then he recognizes the smug heartbeat and scent of his loverâ even diluted by a rushing waterfall, Lambert is intimately familiar. Aiden does his best to kick Lambert, shouting and twisting to push him away. âYou fucker! You scared the shit out of me!â
âWatch out for those kelpies!â Lambert releases Aidenâs leg only to grasp the curve of his upper arm. They float together until Aidenâs hip collides with a rock shelf, then he pulls himself and his beloved bastard man up onto the surface. Lambert huffs, breathless, âThey might look handsome, but theyâll pull you under the tide and then youâre done for.â
âI surrender,â Aiden murmurs, sharing the last of his air with Lambert. This secluded nook behind the waterfall is the only privacy theyâve had in days, and while Aiden enjoys travelling with CoĂ«n, he did miss opportunities like this. Lambert kisses him back in the fresh spray, their ankles still dangling under the surface of the lake. Aiden takes his loverâs affection and runs with it, reaching between them. He wants too much, too fast, and he knows itâ but CoĂ«n standing only a short distance away does nothing at all to quell that want, and thatâs the part that Aiden has no idea how to confess. âLambert,â he mumbles under his jaw, hand moving quicker than his mind. âWant you.â
Lambert huffs, âHere?â and Aiden nods, kissing his neck gently. His fingers dance lower until Lambert snatches them up in his grip, holding them away from any sensitive extremities. Aiden, ever the mature one, whines and bites him. âNot here,â he mumbles, ignoring Aidenâs teeth against his pulse point. âIt smells like snails.â
âItâs romantic,â growls Aiden. At any other time his head would spin at the sensation of Lambertâs hand in his, but now he craves more touch than heâs likely going to get. âSurely you canât blame me for taking advantage of a rare moment alone.â
Except he trails off abruptly after âtaking advantageâ, because destiny has other plans for them. CoĂ«n pokes through the falls, his disembodied head briefly parting the curtain of water. Aiden and Lambert look over, still entwined with one another, hands still tightly gripped as Aiden mouths at Lambertâs neck, their gazes searing into the Griffinâs nervous frown.
âI didnât mean to interrupt,â CoĂ«n apologizes, eloquent even when flustered. Of fucking course. He blinks several times before ducking his head, water rushing down over the back of his neck and his bare shoulders. âI didnâtâ Iâ Iâll goââ
Four hands reach for him, pulling him under the spray and through the falls until he lands on the other side. CoĂ«n splutters, shaking his head and wiping his eyes dry as he struggles to find his footing. Lambert turns to Aiden, sharp as a swordâs edge, and demands, âSo much for a private moment, huh? You pulled him in here too!â
âWell,â Aiden says hotly, âCan you blame me? I mean, look at him!â Both he and Lambert pause to admire CoĂ«n, nearly naked and soaked to the bone. The map of scars trails from his scalp down to his waist, hinting at a severe pox that he had been lucky to survive. CoĂ«n, embarrassed and confused, ducks away from their ogling but doesnât shove their hands away. âHeâs gorgeous,â continues Aiden. âIâve got eyes, you know!â
âIt smells like snails back here,â CoĂ«n comments as mildly as possible.
Lambert retorts, âYouâre just putting on a big front because youâre jealous! I know you are, you do a fucking terrible job of hiding itââ
âFine! Yes, Iâm jealous,â Aiden cuts in before Lambert can start an actual argument. But both Lambert and CoĂ«n freeze, turning to him with equally nervous expressions. CoĂ«n slowly floats over to the rocky shelf, blinking errant droplets from the waterfall out of his blue and brown eyes, and Aiden shifts over to make room for him. âBut⊠Iâm jealous of you,â he confesses to Lambert, suddenly embarrassed for the first time in a long while. âCoĂ«n is beautiful, and Iâve never so much as seen him tear his shirt during training. I mean, the mind wanders, and imagining the two of you together⊠how could I resist? Fucking look at you, CoĂ«n!â
Instead of bashfully hiding his face in his shoulder as Aiden expects, CoĂ«n meets his gaze head-on. He narrows his eyes, curious, and replies, âI tend to keep my clothes on most of the time. I donât want to frighten Ciri or anyone else I might encounter, and⊠itâs obviously a sight that takes some getting used toââ
âInsane,â Aiden scoffs. He turns to Lambert for confirmation, who just shakes his head in wonder. âAnyone would count it as a blessing to see you naked. I know Iâm not taking this for granted.â
And he isnâtâ even as they trade nervous, genuine banter back and forth, Aidenâs gaze hasn't stopped wandering the length of CoĂ«nâs body. He pays little attention to the scars, too enchanted by the broad veins running along CoĂ«nâs dark arms, the thin patch of hair along his chest, and his soft bare stomach that makes him look so vulnerable.
From behind Aiden comes a gentle touch to his shoulder; he leans into it without hesitating, accustomed to Lambertâs touch by now. âYou shouldâve said something, Cat.â Aiden shudders as that low, pleased voice rumbles through his chest, heading straight to his lower regions and flooding them with blood. âI couldâve introduced you years ago.â
âI donât know whatâs happening,â CoĂ«n breaks in, because of course he does. âBut⊠the scenery is romantic, at least?â
âHa,â crows Aiden triumphantly, twisting in his loverâs slippery grip to shoot a look at his wolfâ something akin to âsee?!?!!â. But Lambert isnât wearing the miserable expression of a loser at all, instead thrilled and excited. Aidenâs heart thrums at the half-smile on Lambertâs face; a smile he leans in to kiss slowly, ignoring their company.
Then he breaks away, turning to their company and taking CoĂ«nâs hands in his. âCome on,â Aiden insists, tugging the Griffin away from the safety of the rock shelf and back under the spray. CoĂ«n barely has time to begin treading in the shallow water before Aiden is pulling him in and kissing him, wet hands looping over his bare shoulders. CoĂ«n kisses exactly the way Aiden dreamed that he would, with an unmistakably intense focus and a slight bite that leaves Aiden wanting more.
âIâve been wanting to see that happen for years,â Lambert drawls, and it doesnât ruin the moment but it does send Aiden and CoĂ«n into simultaneous fits of giggles. CoĂ«n kisses him again as they laugh, and then when they turn to face Lambert, water rushing down over their bare bodies, they see the raw desire written all over his face. Then nobody is laughing at all.
By the time they leave the safety of the waterfall, the sun is dipping down past the horizon and all their toes and heels have pruned up. But none of them care at allâ not one whit. CoĂ«n pulls Aiden from the water who then offers Lambert a hand, and the three shivering men donât let go of one another for a very, very long time.
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one thing I have loved about 2021 is discovering @octinaryââs flash fic challenge for The Witcher, it has really motivated me to get into writing more regularly and introduced me to a new group of wonderful people (and skilled writers!) who are all so cool and friendly. hereâs my latest entry, and I would also recommend checking out the collection on AO3; all the fics this round are so good! I particularly enjoyed @inexplicificsââ and @peaktotheoceanâââs works this round. <3
G, 2.3K words, Lambert/Coën
Tags/warnings: Modern AU, mental illness, sex trauma/hang-ups about sex, past child abuse, art therapy
Prompt:
[Also on AO3!]
After a few awkward three-way emails between Lambert, his therapist, and the local community centre, heâs starting to feel like the butt of a bad, complicated joke. But the date and time are set and he put down the meagre twenty-dollar deposit, so thereâs no backing out now. Adhering to the BYOC policy, Lambert shows up at the second floor of the community centre with a cheap canvas under his arm and a scowl that keeps crawling back every time he isnât thinking about it.Â
He can practically hear Geraltâs kid admonishing him for his resting bitch face, especially when the door swings open to reveal [email protected] in the cheerful, bubbly, young flesh. Lambert doesnât know why he expected someone with an actual poem in his email signature to be at least Vesemirâs age, but this guy looks like heâs in his twenties. He could play a high schooler on the CW. Lambert winces at the bright, beautifully clean room that smells of acrylic paint and lemon cleaner, and tries his very hardest not to scowl. âDoctor Pankratz, I presume?â
âOh, please, call me Jaskier,â sings the young man, flapping a hand to dismiss Lambertâs attempt at a joke. âCome on in, sit anywhere you like!â
The room is already nearly full, destroying Lambertâs plan to show up early and pick the most remote seat. But thereâs still an unoccupied corner so he makes a beeline for that easel, throwing his jacket over the back of the chair and shoving his bag under it. Jaskier flits away, talking to a few other students about how to set up their canvasesâ Lambert, with quiet pride, begins setting up his easel on his own. The handful of YouTube tutorials that heâd watched at breakfast this morning are paying off. Lambert preens; he is going to get a good grade in therapy, something that is both normal to want and possible to achieve.
Once more, Ciriâs voice chides him mentally and he tries to school his features out of their natural sullen state. He doesnât have to look like heâs brooding in the corner just because heâs brooding in the corner. He glances across the room at the assembled artists, curiously observing all the various types of people that find themselves in a community art class at nine in the morning. An old man with a thick gold chain dangling around his neck is sitting between two of the most beautiful women Lambert has ever seenâ possibly supermodels. A few seats apart from them, a woman with long blonde hair begins tying it up in a loose bun. Lambert quickly moves to copy her, not wanting his precious red locks to come anywhere near the paints.
Then his gaze lands on someone looking at him, and the din around them fades to dull, background static. Lambert freezes, hands caught in his hair, tie half-extended around the mass of curls. The stranger across the room smiles and the tender warmth sends a frisson of desire sparking along Lambertâs nerves. His blood rushes faster. He finishes tying his hair up and nods, awkward as anything, to the stranger.
âAlright, everyone, if I could have your attention for a few minutes Iâll explain what it is we do here!â Jaskierâs announcement interrupts the quiet conversations happening around the room, and it pulls the strangerâs focus away. Lambertâs gaze only lingers for a moment before he, too, turns to Jaskier to try to listen to the rules. He follows very little of it, too surprised by his own thoughts and reaction to the stranger.
The thing is⊠Lambert doesnât do this. He can recognize when people are attractive, of course, heâs only humanâ and he can very easily entertain the idea of getting to know them better. But he never does, because every time he has a cute moment like making eyes at a hot stranger across the room, his brain sets into overdrive, reminding him of all the reasons it wouldnât work. He knows that it should be happening right now, bracing himself against the inevitable anxious spiral. On a regular day, he wouldnât even last until the end of Jaskierâs introduction, bleating out something about being in the wrong room.
But today he is feeling exceptionally brave, fueled by the gentle smile from the stranger and by all the reassurance he received from his therapist that this new approach to his mental health would be great. If he can learn to get out of his own head for an hour to make some shitty painting for Eskelâs birthday, then maybe heâll stop feeling so⊠pent-up all the time. Maybe if he can smile at a stranger without panicking about the inevitable fallout, then he can embrace the impossible idea that someone could like him like that.
After a particularly hard week last summer, his therapist had gently reminded him that sex didnât have to be an ordeal. It didnât have to be something you put yourself through because you felt like you had to, or a physical method of stress relief, or a big mistake every time that leaves you feeling lonelier than before. Sexâ and desireâ can just be something nice. Lambert glances over at the stranger again and sees him avidly listening to Jaskier. His sleeves, half rolled up, reveal his broad, thick, dark arms. His eyes are dark too as he watches the instructor, and his mouth hangs slightly open, jaw loose and relaxed but gaze and posture tense and focused. Lambert inhales, and finds that for the first time in a long time he wants, and he feels completely okay with it.
-
The class is shorter than Lambert expected, or at least it feels that wayâ Jaskier gives them plenty of warnings that their time has almost drawn to an end, but when he strikes a triangle the resonance still shocks Lambert. Has it really been an hour already? He could have sat here all day.
He blinks at his painting, trying to see it in a new light. Maybe if he flips it upside down he can call it âGoat-On-The-Moonâ instead of âvaguely hircine animal hovering over a shoddy orange-and-green hillâ. Lambert snorts; he canât possibly give this to Eskel. He flips it upside down anyway, and doing so reveals a part of the sky where he forgot to blend a cloud. The white paint strikes him immediately as wrong and he winces, picking up his paintbrush and defying the instructorâs orders. He still has a little of the bluish-pink heâd mixed earlier and he dabs it onto the cloud, swearing under his breath as he does.
Jaskier approaches behind himâ Lambert can hear his heels clicking against the tiles, and he quickly growls, âIâm almost done, I know weâre out of time, just give me a sec, alright? I forgot this stupid fucking cloud.â
âIâm not here to rush you,â says a voice that is Definitely Not Jaskier. Lambert whirls around, forgetting about the paintbrush in his hand, and ends up splattering periwinkle paint across the manâs apron and arms.
Lambert is aghast to recognize the stranger from across the room, who is much taller than heâd expected. He stares down in bemusement at his ruined outfit, and Lambert mentally cusses out himself, God, his therapist, Jaskier, his piece of shit birth father, and everyone else in his life that led him to end up here, making this colossally stupid mistake. âShit, I am so sorry,â he blurts out. Tall, Dark, and Handsome just blinks, moving to try and wipe away a dot with the pad of his thumb. The paint smudges in a line instead, and Lambert watches in horror. âI can pay for yourâ for your drycleaning, I didnâtâ aw, fuck!â He knew he would fuck this up somehow.
But the stranger says, âItâs fine,â and reaches up behind his head to remove the apron. This does mitigate most of the damage, but it also draws the few specks of paint on his shirt and arms into much higher contrast. Thankfully, he doesnât sound mad at all, only slightly amused. âReally, I snuck up on you, so itâs my fault! Iâve learned not to wear nice clothes to these classes anyway.â
Lambert squints at the manâs outfit. He looks like a model. âYou sure?â
âVery sure.â The stranger takes the empty seat beside him, still holding onto his painting instead of setting it down on the easel. This disappoints Lambert as he wasted at least three minutes of the class zoning out and imagining what the strangerâs art might look like. His canvas is much smaller than Lambertâs; it could fit on a nightstand. âI come here a lot, and Iâve never seen you before. Are you new?â
Oh, so thatâs why heâs here chatting with Lambert. The disappointment is almost reassuring; at least he can be comfortable with the knowledge that this friendly man is eager to welcome new artists. This way, he doesnât need to work himself into a state worrying about all the uncertainties and possibilities of a stranger approaching him. Lambert nods, only slouching slightly as he says, âYeah, itâs my first time. As you can see from the painting.â
But the man just turns to look at Lambertâs canvas curiously, expression betraying none of the amusement he must be feeling. A ten year old child could have done this painting, but youâd never be able to tell from watching this guyâs face, which Lambert does. Very closely. His skin is speckled with small scars and discoloured in some places, and Lambert gets the feeling that the beard isnât just a fashion choice. His eyelashes are long enough that he could be wearing makeup, and as he carefully observes Lambertâs shitty goat art, his mouth falls open again. Lambertâs gaze dips to those lips and he feels a stirring deep in his heart. This can be something nice, he reminds himself.
âI like what youâve done with the colour here.â Lambert tears his eyes away from the other manâs mouth, flushing with embarrassment and want.Â
His hand is indicating the hill on the painting, and the warmth in Lambertâs chest heats even more with pride. He had been proud of the blending on that partâ heâs got no idea what the fuck heâs doing, obviously, but he did think it looked cool. âThank you,â he mutters quietly. The room has started to empty out by now, and once more it just feels like the two of them are the only ones in the world. Feeling unusually bold, Lambert asks, âWhatâs your name?â
âCoĂ«nâ,â replies the man. He lowers his hand, returning to toy with the edge of his small canvas. âAnd you?â
âIâm Lambert.â The fleeting and ridiculous thought occurs that his therapist is going to be so proud of him for all this fucking progress, which spurs him to continue, âNow that I showed you mine, can I see yours?â
He doesnât even pick up on the flirty undertone until CoĂ«nââs eyebrow shoots up, and then Lambert recoils, feeling like a fool. He shouldnât be starting things he doesnât know if he can finish. At least CoĂ«nâ doesnât seem to mind, nodding and slowly handing the painting over. âYeah, um⊠I feel a bit like I should apologize, but. Iâll just let you see it first. I canât help who my muse is, right?â
Lambertâs response dies on his tongue when CoĂ«nâ flips the painting over, and he seesâ well. Firstly, itâs remarkably beautiful. Itâs clear that CoĂ«nâ is a very skilled artist, and Lambert fights the immediate desire to throw his own goat art right out the open window so that it can sail directly into the parking lot dumpster. CoĂ«nâ has painted a portrait of a knight with an open helm, staring right out with wide, angry eyes. With Lambertâs eyes, and his messy red hair, and his stern, ugly jaw.Â
Lambert squints, trying to figure out why in the world CoĂ«nâ would have done this. He knows he should just say thank you for the obvious compliment and try to be normal, but he canât. He fidgets with the end of his sleeve, likely staining it irreparably with paint, but⊠he canât stop, and he canât take his eyes off the painting. Finally, CoĂ«nâ nervously clears his throat, and Lambert demands, âCouldnât have picked a prettier model to draw, huh?â
âNo,â CoĂ«n says after a beat. Lambert looks at him and sees that same tender smile from before, and instantly feels bad for his reaction. âNo, I couldnât have. Iâm sorry, I should have asked firstââ
âNah, no, this isâ I wouldâve said no,â Lambert tells him truthfully. âAnd itâs really cool. Itâs, um, itâs beautiful. You made me lookâŠâ He falls silent, staring at the painting again. âThanks.â
âItâs yours if you want it.â
âWhat?â Lambert freezes. âOh, fuck, no, I couldnât possibly accept thatââ
âWell, Iâm not quite done, this is just a first go at it,â CoĂ«nâ says sheepishly. Lambert thinks that he could attend ten thousand of these classes and not be able to come anywhere close to CoĂ«nââs first draft of a painting made on a whim. âBut if you wanted it I could finish it for you! Uh, if you donât, thatâs fine tooââ
âAt least let me give you something in return,â blurts Lambert, too overwhelmed by the kindness. âI mean, I can pay for your drycleaning, or, um, take you out to dinner, if you would want! That! With me!â His heart is in danger of pounding right out of its little cavity, so maybe it would be for the best if CoĂ«nâ said no anyway.
But the manâs lips twitch upwards, and Lambert knows heâs fucked. âHow about you let me paint you again, and weâll call it even?â
i have absolutely nothing to say for myself. hereâs more bingo smut for @novigradmarket ... happy holidays!
Prompt: tinsel bondage
E, 3.2K words, Aiden/Lambert/Coën (with established Lambden)
Tags/warnings: modern AU, ... tinsel bondage
âI have to say,â CoĂ«n says, more apprehensive than Aiden has ever heard him before. âThis isnât what I expected when you said you needed a favour.â He still has yet to step through the open door into Aiden and Lambertâs apartment; his eyes may be wandering, but his feet are firmly planted in the hallway outside.Â
He thrusts his hands deep into the pockets of his sweaterâ a hand-knitted gift from Eskel, which Aiden only knows because Lambert has a matching sweater of his own. Even though CoĂ«n might not technically be part of Lambertâs family, heâs practically one of the pack by now. Heâs Lambertâs best friend, which has been more than a little daunting as Aiden tries to navigate the emotional minefield that is Lambertâs family. CoĂ«n has been there long before him. And although heâs far too kind to ever say it, should something happen between Aiden and Lambert, CoĂ«n would definitely be around to pick up the pieces.
But thatâs exactly why Aiden needs to cement this friendshipâ or, at least, thatâs the rationale heâd prepared before CoĂ«n actually came over. Now he just feels foolish, and he hasnât felt foolish while standing shirtless in front of a gorgeous man in a long time. To make up for his nerves, Aiden holds out the massive roll of tinsel to CoĂ«n. âI know, but I didnât expect it to be so much work,â he practically whines. âIâve been looking up bondage tutorials for hours and they all say a partner is key.â
Though he frowns in bemusement, CoĂ«n accepts the proffered tinsel. Aiden counts that as a minor victory and steps back into the apartment, clearing a path for the man to enter. He continues, âIf youâre uncomfortable then of course you donât have to, itâd justâ itâd just be a massive help! I mean, the shops were all sold out of sexy one-eyed blow-up dolls, so I had to make do with what I already had at home.â
That terrible joke finally draws a smile out of CoĂ«n, and Aiden instantly relaxes at the warmth in his eyes. Itâs easy to see why Lambert used to have such a crush on this man when they were teenagers, even if Aiden is glad that Lambert chose him instead. âIâm not uncomfortable,â CoĂ«n tells him, sounding very uncomfortable. âItâs just⊠not what I expected. Where do you even find bondage tutorials?â
âReddit has everything, my friend,â laughs Aiden. As if he hasnât been scrolling through the same weirdly devoted Tumblr blog for most of the day, half-trying to find inspiration and half-grinding against his palm. He balances that palm against his bare waist now, and watches without comment as CoĂ«nâs gaze sweeps over his naked chest once more. âSo⊠youâre alright with this? Really?â
âItâs a great present,â says CoĂ«n, ever the fair and balanced dork. Aiden canât imagine how he puts up with an asshole like Lambertâ heâs only able to manage their relationship on account of being a massive asshole himself. Finally CoĂ«n steps over the frame and shuts the door quietly behind himself, and Aiden exhales for the first time since he showed up. Then, for reasons unknown, CoĂ«n adds, âLambchopâs a lucky guy. We should probably get started if he comes home from work soon, yeah?â
âYes,â Aiden nods eagerly, then remembers exactly how weird this favour really is. âUm. Would you like water or anything, first?â
âIâm alright.â CoĂ«n begins twisting the tinsel in his hands, looking for an end as if itâs tape or yarn. It takes tremendous effort but Aiden manages to tear his gaze away from the shifting muscles in those broad arms, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. How can anyone look that good in an ugly, homemade Christmas sweater? It defies the imagination. âSo am I tying you to the couch here, orâŠ?â
He could ogle CoĂ«n all day but the manâs rightâ theyâve got work to do. Aiden shakes his head and gestures for CoĂ«n to follow him into the bedroom, where heâs already set up a jazz vinyl. Lambert canât stand the sound of jazz but Aiden adores it, and if heâs going to relax enough for another man to tie him up in tinsel, heâs certainly going to need calming music.Â
The record is quiet enough that the neighbours wonât hear, but loud enough to drown out the creaking bed frame as Aiden reclines onto it. He starts on his back, drawing his knees up and spreading them until his feet are by his wrists, and he can easily hold his ankles. Raising his head to peer at CoĂ«n, Aiden mumbles, âI thought something like this, maybe. You know, you could just tie my wrists and ankles like this, umâŠâ Still holding his bundle of tinsel with one loose end, CoĂ«n stares at him from the entrance to the bedroom. âFuck, sorry, I didnât expect this to be awkward.â
âYou didnât?â Once more CoĂ«n laughs, although thereâs no meanness to it at all. âSo this is your first time having a friend tie you up, then?â
Aiden releases his ankles, huffing sheepishly. âFirst time having anyone do it, actually,â he admits, and sees CoĂ«nâs eyes bulge in surprise. âI mean, I donât want anything too intense! I just want him to be surprised.â
âI donât think you need to worry about that,â says CoĂ«n. Aiden watches him pace over to the nightstand to retrieve a giant red bow, the type that would belong on a new bike. Not a trussed up boyfriend. Aiden flushes, embarrassed, but CoĂ«n just holds the bow up, frowning thoughtfully. âIs this meant to go around your neck?â
âI hadnât thought about it,â Aiden bleats out, instead of I thought maybe you could hang it above my gaping asshole, actually! He reaches for the bow, meaning to arrange it around his neck to test how it might feel, but before he can grab it CoĂ«n snatches it away. He huffs, shifting his shoulders around to get a little more comfortable. âSo are you up for this or not?â
âSure, Iâd love to help.â His tone is almost too perfectly kindâ Aiden flushes again as he wonders if heâs being teased. Lambert has always raved about CoĂ«nâs sharp wits but honestly, Aiden never gets that impression from him. CoĂ«n seems too honest and loyal to have a cutting sense of humour; heâs booksmart, not necessarily clever. But now, seeing him walk around the bed and admire Aidenâs body like itâs a new project to be worked on⊠Aiden starts to think that maybe CoĂ«nâs hiding a laugh. Heâs surprisingly flustered by the idea, which must be why the next question catches him so off-guard. âAre you going to keep your pants on?â
âI donât have to,â Aiden volunteers almost instinctively. CoĂ«n doesnât move, and eventually he realizes that that means the onus is on him to undress himself. Feeling more demure than heâs ever felt in his entire life, he reaches down to unbuckle his belt. The mood music isnât doing a good enough job calming him down, and the tiny clink of his buckle is almost more than he can bear. To keep the conversation going, he blurts, âI told Lamb you might help me with his present, you know.â
âYeah?â CoĂ«n holds a hand out for the belt. âWhatâd he say?â
Aiden, stymied, hands it overâ then he watches CoĂ«n open their closet and carefully hang it next to the rest of their belts. Thatâs almost too much to handle, so he focuses on stripping out of his jeans in one smooth motion. âUh, he said that was good, that he liked the sound of that. Because, uh, apparently you always give really good gifts.â
âHe flatters me,â CoĂ«n scoffs fondly. When he turns back to the bed to take Aidenâs discarded jeans, Aiden watches him falter. Which is entirely fairâ itâs not like Aiden had warned him about his underwear, and he knows that this piece is a scene-stealer. Aiden is privately pleased when CoĂ«n doesnât immediately look away from the red lace garment sitting low around his hips. It wouldnât be fair if he was the only flustered one here.
Then, as the music swells for a heated moment, Aiden realizes that CoĂ«n is staring not at his festive underwear, but at the plug that must be visible through the semi-opaque fabric. Even if he canât see its ridiculous candy-cane colour he would be able to see the flared ridges of its base where theyâre pressing against the lace.Â
Aiden inhales and curls his toes, flexing his thighs so that the plug moves inside him, and CoĂ«n honest-to-God squeaks. Aiden opens his mouth to reflexively deflect, perhaps to give the man an out. After all, heâd signed up for âhey, weâre friends, weâve been to three concerts together now, could you perhaps tie me up in tinsel because I forgot my boyfriendâs Christmas present?â He had not signed up for this, and Aiden knows heâs taking it too far. But he canât help put on a show, not when CoĂ«n is watching him with such narrowed, focused intensity.
But before Aiden can defuse the situation CoĂ«n steps closer to the bed. He doesnât touch Aiden but he sets the bow down on the mattress and Aiden swears he feels the impact anyway. CoĂ«n says, low and serious, âI guess I have a reputation to live up to,â and before he remembers their previous conversation Aiden canât, for the life of him, parse what the fuck CoĂ«n means. Then the implication sets inâ I guess I have to make you look good for himâ and a shudder runs down Aidenâs spine, making him tremble. CoĂ«n doesnât relent, continuing in that sinfully low voice, âIf I came in here⊠alright, letâs try something else. Youâve got a lovely face, but if I came in here expecting a present, perhaps Iâd want you on your hands and knees.â
âRight,â Aiden pants, scrambling to do exactly that. He flips over on the bed so quickly he nearly topples off the edge, but before he can fall he feels a hand on his upper back. He nearly jerks at the motion, unsure why he expected CoĂ«n not to touch him. In order for this whole plan to work, CoĂ«n is going to have to touch him a fuck of a lot. âSorry,â he grits out, shaking his head. âIâm good, I just⊠you startled me a bit.â
âIâm sorry,â CoĂ«n says sincerely, coming around the bed to stand at his side without touching him. âIf you need me to stop or untie you, really, just say the word. Iâm only doing this because you want toâ if it starts to feel weird, you need to tell me, alright?â Aiden nods, digging his teeth into his lower lip. Again, CoĂ«n prods; âIs that alright?â
âItâs alright,â says Aiden, embarrassment fading slightly. God, CoĂ«n is such a dweeb. Heâs going to choose to focus on that and not the undeniable fact that this encounter is already much, much sexier than heâd imagined it would be. He had thought the tinsel would be unimaginably itchy and the bow hilariously goofy, not⊠well. He hadnât thought that any of it would go like this, with him on his hands and knees, ass in the air for another man. For his boyfriendâs best friend, no less. Even though Aiden knows Lambert wouldnât mind, the thought still makes him tremble.
Apparently satisfied by his answer, CoĂ«n returns his broad, warm palm to Aidenâs back. âLower, I think,â he suggests gently. Aiden obliges, folding himself down so heâs resting on his elbows. Then CoĂ«n taps those too, pulling his wrists up behind his back. Like this Aiden is face down against the mattress, preventing him from enjoying any part of the display, but he can imagine how itâd look for anyone entering the room. For Lambert entering the room.Â
His legs spread a little at the thought, at what Lambert will surely do when he comes home to find Aiden like this. CoĂ«n takes the cue and moves down there, taking Aidenâs ankles and gently spreading them even further apart. âIs that comfortable? Do you feel like you could hold this for another half hour?â
âHoly shit, weâre cutting it close,â Aiden laughs against the pillows. CoĂ«n laughs too, and it sets them both at ease, dissolving some of the tension built up between them. âYeah, that feels alright. Feels good.â
âIt looks good too,â CoĂ«n assures him. âIâm going to tie your legs like this, then, but Iâll leave him a little room to move them around.â All of a sudden Aiden is extremely glad to be face-down as heat sparks through him and his cock twitches with desire. Not room for Aiden to shift his legs, but for Lambert to move them as he pleases. Aiden exhales heavily and the pillows only partially muffle the sound.
If CoĂ«n notices Aidenâs growing problem, he graciously ignores it, wrapping tinsel around his knees and ankles. Aiden expects it to itch abominablyâ this is the part heâs been dreading all day, honestlyâ but it only feels like a light tickle. A rasp, maybe, if he leans into it. He nearly likes the idea that itâll leave his skin flushed red even after the gentle restraints are removed, like how rope would cut into him and leave an impression. He closes his eyes and lets CoĂ«n tie his legs up however he likes.
âStunning,â CoĂ«n says. Aiden gnaws on his lip again, worried about the kind of noise he might let out if he doesnât. âReally, just⊠this was a great idea. I had my doubts, but it looks⊠Yeah. Wow. Lambchopâs gonna black out.â
âWell, letâs hope his reaction is slightly more involved than that,â grins Aiden. CoĂ«n chuckles, this time lower than before. Suddenly Aiden desperately wants to know what the view is like for him. Not what itâll be like when his boyfriend gets home, but how CoĂ«n is feeling right now. âHey, if youâre gonna black out, at least finish wrapping me before you do!â
âWhat a mouthy gift youâve brought home,â CoĂ«n teases, and Aiden is the one who nearly blacks out at that. So he does know how to tease! Aiden redacts his earlier musings about CoĂ«n not having the capacity for cleverness, and wiggles his hips slightly in lieu of a response.Â
But CoĂ«n just reaches down to take Aidenâs wrists in one hand, grabbing the tinsel with the other and tying them together above his ass. The angle is just shy of uncomfortable but at least Aiden wonât be like this for long. He tests the bonds, curious to see how CoĂ«nâs handiwork will hold up against the most minor strugglingâ but to his surprise, the knot holds fast. âOh,â he breathes. âYouâre very good at this. Hey, I canât believe I forgot to ask this earlier, but have you done this before?â
A beat hangs in the air as both of them breathe, silence interrupted only by the record player. âNo,â CoĂ«n finally admits. âI was a Boy Scout, though.â
âCourse you fucking were,â Aiden says, delighted. âI would pay to see pictures of that. Do you still fit into your uniform?â
âI didnât keep the shorts, but Iâm sure I wouldnât,â CoĂ«n laughs. He moves up the bed and at first Aiden canât fathom why, but then when CoĂ«nâs gentle hands draw a ribbon around his throat, itâs all he can think about. Right. The bow. CoĂ«n ties it more loosely than he expects, and leaves the large bow dangling around Aidenâs neck, ends trailing over his shoulders.Â
Perhaps Lambert will grab the ends while he fucks himâ the thought makes him shudder, and he really shouldnât be having reactions like this while CoĂ«n is still so close. Valiantly trying to return the conversation to safe territory, Aiden begins, âSo was Lambert a Scout with you? Or was that before the two of you knew each other?â
Before CoĂ«n can answer, both of them freeze as they hear a sound from outside the bedroom, distant but unmistakableâ the doorknob turning as someone opens it. They hadnât even fucking locked it. Aiden can hardly lift his head to look but he tries anyway, and when he turns he sees CoĂ«n staring back at him with wide, dark eyes. âYou said half an hour.â
âGuess heâs home early,â Aiden breathes. His traitorous cock twitches with want again. Why is that the most dangerous situations always make him feel the most turned on? âYou werenât supposed to be part of the present, Eagle Scout. Any ideas?â Because Aiden can provide a couple, but heâs pretty sure none of them are appropriate enough for CoĂ«n to say yes.
âIâm gonna go talk to him,â whispers CoĂ«n. Despite his serious tone he looks uncertain as he stands and slowly crosses the room, shutting the door quietly behind himself. Aiden doesnât blame himâ for all Lambertâs many winning attributes, he does have a lightning-quick temper. CoĂ«nâs involvement in this whole ordeal was only supposed to be a funny story, shared after Lambert fucked Aiden silly. Aiden feels guilty that CoĂ«n now has to go explain this whole thing to his best friend.Â
And also, he feels especially guilty that none of this awkwardness has, at all, made his dick less interested. He strains against the tinsel but CoĂ«n did a fantastic job tying him down. If Aiden really wanted to free himself, heâd have one hell of a time doing so. He rolls his hips forward in a tiny, locked motion, grinding against thin air. It provides no friction or relief and the plug in his ass doesnât move against anything, only moving when Aiden flexes. He moans into the pillow, low and quiet, and as a result he nearly doesnât hear the awkward conversation happening just outside the room.
âCoĂ«n? Didnât know you were over. Is everything alright?â
âYes, everythingâs fine, sorry! Aiden asked me to come over.â
âOh, cool. ⊠Where is he?â
âUh. Well. Itâs kind of a funny story.â
Aidenâs knee slips out towards the edge of the bed a little more and somehow the motion pushes his panties up his hips, jerking the plug slightly more inside him. He misses the rest of the muffled dialogue from outside, too busy trying to catch his breath. Heâs overwhelmedâ has been ever since CoĂ«n pushed him down onto the bed, to be honest, and heâs starting to lose what little control heâs got left. He bites down on the soft fabric of the pillow, thinking absentmindedly about the laundry theyâll have to do later, and the apologies heâll have to deliver to both Lambert and CoĂ«n.
Then the bedroom door opens, and he hears a quick inhale fromâ well, from either of them. Like this, with his face shoved into the pillows, Aiden has no hope of being able to tell whoâs who. That thoughtâ that it could be either one of them standing behind him, ogling him right nowâ is too much to bear, and he groans again, trying to bear down against the plug.
âMerry Christmas, baby,â Aiden mumbles, trying to spin his head to look over his shoulder. He canât without straining, but he catches a brief glance of not one, but two men in the doorway. Well, they both might be mad at him for this, but if heâs going to be naughty, this feels like the right time to do it. Aiden breathes, turning to shove his head down again, âCoĂ«n, you sticking around?â
Of course, his luck wouldnât possibly be that good. The female griffin gets up only to pace closer, still releasing a susurrus of soft noises from the back of her throat. CoĂ«n trembles as she approaches, but thereâs nothing to be doneâ he couldnât defend himself against one adult griffin, even an aging one, so two is out of the fucking question. He resigns himself to death.
The griffin comes close enough that he can feel her breath on him, but then she lowers herself back down. Her giant body curls around him and CoĂ«n blinks, glancing over his shoulder at the father who looks just as content. The male griffin paces closer and then rests his head on the femaleâs flank, and then he purrs too, golden eyes slipping shut.
CoĂ«n is left in the middle of two snuggling griffins. The smell is as terrible as could be expected, and off to the side of the nest he sees some bones that definitely did not belong to mice. But the monsters are warm, and heâs still working off the blood-pumping adrenaline from being carried up here, so⊠despite his better instincts, he does what a witcher is never supposed to do. He relaxes, slumping down to sit between the beasts.
âWhat the fuck,â CoĂ«n finally whispers.
this is one of my more recent WIPs and one that i really hope to finish soon; it's about coen accidentally getting himself adopted by griffins who lost their child! it is very much Crack Taken Seriously but also i have injected an unhealthy amount of feelings into it because i care so so so deeply about coen. and, of course, lambert is in it (eventually)