“He isn’t even wearing derby skates,” 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 Coën’s placating “I know, Lamb”, continuing to complain, “He’s some fucking nobody is who he is— I don’t give a shit how many followers he’s got on TikTok for his pretty skating tricks, you can’t just roll into derby and act like you fucking own the place when you’ve no inclination to learn the actual rules or any respect for the sport itself. I fucking hate TikTok anyway!”
Removing his own helmet so that he can carefully wipe his face, Coën repeats with all the calm patience of someone who’s sat through a thousand of Lambert’s rants, “I know, Lambchop.”
“And did you hear, when I asked him about derby he said he used to practice with some Cats,” hisses Lambert. “That’s bad news, Co, I don’t give a fuck if he’s 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!”
He angrily gestures with his wrist pads at the Wolf emblazoned on his shirt. Coën, who transferred teams years ago after the fall of his own school, only nods politely. “I know, Lambert.”
“And…” Losing steam, Lambert runs a hand through his already messy hair, ruining it further. He finally turns to look at Coën, aggrieved. “And the fucker is, like, really hot. I mean… he’s our type, right?”
“I know, darling,” Coën repeats yet again, this time with a slightly different tone. The heat boiling in Lambert’s 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.
Decided to write some rare pair fic with Eskel and Gaetan featuring some injury and didn’t want to fall back on magic witcher potions doing everything.
Three hours later I’ve consumed about a hundred pages worth of knowledge about Eastern European folk medicine and another hundred about general uses of common flora throughout history.
Fae, you're a hero.
This happens to me all the time (and most authors I know). One minute you're searching up how to splint a bone and the next you're researching specific herbal remedies and whether they could exist in a temperate climate. Or how best to break a nose/slit a throat (that last one was for a flirty fluff piece...)
I joke with friends that I'm definitely on several watch lists based on what I research on a daily basis. The life of a writer!
I would he really interested to see your findings, if you have time to throw them together in a post or something?
Stetopher but with Stiles as the oldest (possibly an immortal ish being), dating slightly younger Peter with Chris being the youngest either still with his father or just getting out on his own as a hunter. Just. Imagine the possibilities
Well, if Chris is dating an immortal and a werewolf, he’s not going to be living with his dad for very long lmao.
Actually, I could see Chris and Gerard having a huge, thrown down knock out fight that Chris just barely escapes. When he gets to Peter and Stiles, they get him patched up and taken care of, and when he falls asleep Stiles sends Peter to snuggle with him.
“Where are you going?” Peter asks, already knowing but wanting to hear it anyway.
“Chris is going to need his things from the house,” is all Stiles says. After all, that is his goal. To get Chris’ things. If Gerard decides to get in the way of Chris’ things... well, Stiles has never had a goal he didn’t accomplish one way or another.
Imagine that when anything inconvenient happens Anatoly just solemnly says “this would never happen in Moscow”
he says it when he spills his coffee or loses his phone. Vladimir loves reminding him that in fact, it did happen to him in Moscow and it will continue to wherever he is bc he’s a clumsy idiot
“Everyone else in the building is coming up with theories about why three people are sharing a one bedroom apartment and honestly it’s so entertaining let’s not tell anyone for a while, yeah?” - with Lambert/Coën/Aiden ?
Congrats on the milestone!
(modern era, no warnings! I love this prompt thank u so much)
The worst habit Lambert has developed lately is, without a doubt, ‘forgetting’ his keys. But he just can’t be arsed to bring them around anymore, not when Coën’s archival job has him working mornings and Aiden works from home. There’s always someone in the apartment to buzz him up, and the antiquated, creaky elevator doesn’t require any sort of keycard. It’s nearly never a problem.
Until, of course, it is. Lambert enters the buzzer code over and over and over but no one answers, and to make matters worse he’s got a duffel bag full of expensive groceries that will likely expire in this afternoon heat. Given his luck, Coën’s vegan yoghurt and Aiden’s overpriced salmon have probably already gone off. Lambert shoulders the strap of the bag, slamming the buzzer code in for the eighth time and wishing that the building was modern enough to connect it straight to his phone.
Of course, he also left his phone at home today, so fat lot of fucking good that’d do him.
An angel in a housecoat and slippers exits the mailroom and sees Lambert through the glass windows of the entrance, clearly taking pity on him and his heavy bag. Lambert is pretty sure he knows this guy but wouldn’t be able to place his name on the apartment list; his spirits brighten nonetheless as he waves at his saviour. The resident tucks his letters under his arm and heads over to open the door, even offering him a kind smile.
“Thank you so much, I thought I was fucking screwed!” Lambert grins back toothily and the older man’s demeanour changes immediately to one of abject regret. “Now I just have to pray those shitheads haven’t locked the door.”
The resident’s eyes bulge out of his head a little but he doesn’t comment on the profanity, only sniffing quietly before following Lambert to the elevator. Lambert pushes the button and the doors open straightaway; he waits for the old man to get in first. “Where to?”
“Uh, 4B.”
“Ah, nice. Headed to 4D myself,” Lambert says. He slams the button for their floor and whistles quietly. In the mirrored walls of the elevator, he can see the other man still watching him strangely.
Sure enough, his neighbour doesn’t stay silent for long. “I thought 4D was a one-bedroom suite… you live there alone?”
Ah, this again. Lambert isn’t quite sure why their situation eludes the imagination of all the old curmudgeons that live here; even the landlord was perplexed. Figuring he might as well have some fun, he clears his throat.
-
When Coën gets home an hour later Lambert can practically hear him panicking all the way down the hall. He finally kicks open the door to the apartment— well, he does the Coën equivalent to that which involves flaring his nostrils and raising his voice before he even takes off his jacket. “Lambert,” he demands.
Lambert peeks over the edge of the couch, grinning. Aiden is still on a work call in the other room and, disappointingly, has yet to give in to Lambert’s persistent methods of distraction. So Coën is, as always, a sight for sore eyes. “Yes, doll?”
“Why does Mr Vigo down the hall think that I hired male strippers?!”
Lambert sulks. “I can’t believe he snitched after I offered him a private show and everything.”
For the first time all day Aiden peeks his head out of their room, holding, bizarrely, a golf club. “Strippers?”
“Yes,” Lambert nods enthusiastically as Coën cries, “No!”
23. post-argument + 35. "It was an accident, I swear."
T, 700 words, hurt/no comfort
Aiden is the first to break the heavy silence between them. “It was an accident,” he pushes out, words bitter on his tongue. “I swear.”
Lambert doesn’t even look over or bother to stop, whittling down a splintered piece of bark into… well, smaller bark. His grip is tight enough around his dagger that Aiden can practically feel the handle pressing into his own palm as he watches. That’s how injuries usually go for them, and why they have to prepare every potion in duplicate. Lambert’s poison runs through Aiden’s blood. Lambert’s calluses ache at Aiden’s fingers. They’ve been together for so long that they move as one, fight as one, eat as one, sleep as one. Or, they had, anyway.
“If it was an accident,” Lambert retorts, “then take it back.”
It really had been an accident— they’d been fighting over something else entirely when it had slipped out. Aiden hadn’t meant to fuck everything up, but Lambert stokes a unique fury in him. He wishes he had said it differently; he’d had all these childish fantasies of grand romantic gestures or a big dramatic confession. Instead he’d sworn it while stomping his feet and fighting the urge to shove Lambert down into the mud. You’re fucking lucky I love you so much, you whoreson, or I’d be long gone by now!
Even now that Lambert is turned away, shoulders raised to his ears, Aiden can still perfectly remember the instant agony that shot through his friend’s eyes like blood through water. Lambert was devastated. Suddenly the trivial details of their fight were history as the Wolf deflated, begging Aiden to take it back. And by begging, Aiden means honest-to-fuck begging, pleading Aiden to take it back, please, please don’t say that, you don’t mean it, don’t fucking say that, please!
Aiden does, in fact, mean it. He sniffs. “I can’t.”
“Oh yes you can,” Lambert snarls, finally whirling around to glare at Aiden over his shoulder. But despite how his voice quavers with rage he just looks miserable, eyes downturned and damp. Aiden shakes his head quickly. “Easy! You say you were joking, I fake a laugh and call you a prick, you and I never talk of this again and we go back to whoring and saving the world or whatever the fuck it is we spend all our time doing!”
“I wasn’t joking,” Aiden mumbles, throat dry as ash. “I love you.”
For a second he thinks Lambert means to throw the dagger at him; Aiden would be able to dodge, of course, but he still braces himself for the impact. But the other witcher just points the blade at him, grip still white-knuckled. Still trembling. “Don’t say that. You don’t love me.”
Hearing it spoken aloud shatters the last of Aiden’s confidence. He shrugs half-heartedly, retreating into himself. “Fine,” he hears himself say. “Fine. I don’t love you, and you don’t love me, and we’re just two normal friends who spend every single day together, and we definitely don’t have a future together—”
Before he can continue, Lambert rises to his feet, stalking across their camp and throwing his dagger away into the dirt. “You’re going to ruin this,” he nearly cries. He grabs Aiden by the collar of his shirt and Aiden very, very carefully doesn’t move a muscle. “The first— the first good thing I’ve ever had in my fucking life, and you’re going to throw it away because you want to have a fling! You selfish bastard!”
“If I wanted to have a fling, I would have fucked you long before now,” Aiden grumbles. Lambert’s glare flashes red, but he doesn’t care; the arguing has worn him down and he feels too raw to turn back now. “I love you, Lambert.”
“Stop fucking saying that,” whimpers Lambert, still clinging onto his shirt. Their medallions dangle between them, nearly knocking against each other. It would be so easy for Aiden to touch Lambert but he doesn’t, keeping his hands firmly at his side. “If you really… if you really do, you’ll never say that again.”
“Alright.” Aiden closes his eyes. By the time he opens them, Lambert has retreated to the other side of the camp and picked up his dagger again.
I think I’ll be taking vesemir’s characterization, Sven, and Luka and simply be dashing far away from the rest of that train wreck.
Totally valid, Fae. I would have loved to see more of Sven, Luka and Illyana, so I'm looking forward to a few more fics around them! I'm ignoring all and anything to do with the sacking, the trials, the worldbuilding.
I do wonder what Luka would have made of TW3 Lambert?
