#lambcoden fic

[lambden]

Lambert/Aiden/(Coën?) - Roller Skating Au

“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.

[lambden]

Hey, it's Ledgea! For the drabble prompts, how about 43 for Aiden/Cöen/Lambert? Thank you :D

“You did what?!”

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 didn’t bother trying to persuade Vesemir to give him a larger space; it would be pointless anyway, as he usually finds himself flitting between Lambert’s and Coën’s rooms for the night.

The size means that Coën 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 Coën ends up diving under the bed. He’s 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 witcher’s shadow seems to grow tenfold as he stands in the doorway, panting heavily and staring at Aiden with fire in his eyes. Aiden doesn’t move a muscle. Nobody moves a muscle, in fact, but they’re all witchers— so they can all surely hear four different pulses racing.

“Young one,” Vesemir says, measured enough to send chills down Aiden’s spine. He’s not stupid enough to mistake that for an endearment. “Have you seen any of the other witchers around the keep this morning?”

You could hear a pin drop if not for Coën’s heartbeat thudding incrementally faster, practically lighting up a glowing target under the bed. “No,” 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. “Why?”

Vesemir’s chin— his newly shorn half-naked chin with a funny sort of shape on the left side, although Aiden absolutely hasn’t noticed that because he absolutely is not letting his gaze drop past the man’s nose— 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, “You’re sure you haven’t seen them around anywhere? I wanted them to help me muck out the stables; Eskel’s goat was sick last night.”

Aiden’s 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. “I can step in.”

The Wolf’s eyes flash red but he doesn’t call Aiden on his bullshit, simply returning the nod. “We’ll start now,” 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. “I’d find some way to plug my nose if I were you. Or someone to take my place.”

But Aiden just laughs, more uncomfortable than he’s ever been here, “Right,” and Vesemir seems satisfied for now. Or perhaps annoyed, or amused. It’s really hard to discern his emotions now that he’s missing half his fucking beard.

The elder witcher leaves and Aiden’s door swings shut behind him, but still nobody moves. Aiden grinds his teeth together and then tells the silent room, “You owe me at least seven consecutive orgasms for this.”

[lambden]

for the wip game, three guys one bed? :D

The picture shows an older house in very poor condition. The garden is overrun with plants that have grown high enough to invade a broken window on the second floor. The strangely narrow windows paired with the uneven, dilapidated roof make it look more like a child’s drawing of a haunted house than an actual place to live. Lambert’s lip curls. “Is this still on the market?” “Oh, let’s see!” Yennefer leans forward, smiling. Smiling until she sees the property Lambert picked. “That… I don’t know why that’s on the list, sorry. We got that one as a joke; the previous owners surrendered it years ago.” Lambert glances back at the house. “The bank seized it?” “No, there was an accident or something, and no one’s been able to sell it since.” Yennefer sighs. “I’m only in charge of the place because Fringilla gave it to me as a prank gift at our last staff party.” “Well… how much are you asking?”

this WIP is my beloved au where lambert moves into an old house only to find that it's haunted (by the ghost of coen) and also a werewolf occasionally squats there (a werecat, really, by which i mean aiden) and he fixes up the place and in the process gains not one monster boyfriend but TWO! i'm deeply attached to this silly little fic i will finish it someday

ask me about one of my works in progress!

[lambden]

A Blessing of fertility

In their decades of friendship Jaskier has had plenty of fantasies where he’s been mostly naked in front of Geralt, but he never imagined the man’s family standing around too. Geralt, disappointingly immune to Jaskier’s body as always, says, “What’s the curse?” “It’s— well, I’ve been blessed, technically, according to the old priestess,” Jaskier winces. “It wasn’t my fault this time, really! I didn’t know I was fulfilling some ancient ritual just by playing a song about fertility, and before I could even thank my audience Nenneke had summoned me, chanting all this nonsense about Melitele and sacred rites. She’s very scary when she chants, do you know that? Not sexy at all, for a priestess of Melitele. I always pictured—” “Jaskier,” Geralt sighs. “Right, the blessing, yes. It revolves around repressed urges,” Jaskier says, feeling shamefaced for the first time in many years. “When people are in my presence, those urges will come to life, and they won’t be able to contain themselves.” He falls silent, expecting the assembled witchers and their sorceress to laugh in his face. Astonishingly, none do; Geralt and Eskel don matching scowls as Lambert and Yennefer step away, eyes wide with what Jaskier could almost mistake for fear. The Griffin backs away too, gaze twitching nervously around the room. The only person who offers him any response is Vesemir, slowly shaking off the cloak from around his shoulders. For a horrific, hilarious moment Jaskier thinks Vesemir intends to strip, but thank the gods, the old man only holds it out to Jaskier. “You must be freezing,” he explains, and Jaskier nods, gratefully accepting the fur. For some reason Geralt bristles, backing into a table and accidentally overturning a pitcher of water. Without hesitation, Eskel strips out of his armour, tearing his undershirt from his shoulders and hastening to mop up the spill with it. “Jaskier,” Coën interrupts, sounding like he means business. With great reluctance, Jaskier tears his gaze away from the muscles flexing in Eskel’s back. The Griffin moves past Vesemir, taking the bard’s hands in his and squeezing them gently. “How do we free you of this, my friend?”

this is another fic i'm VERY excited to share, i've been busy with life & events & etc but i still desperately want to finish this one. the premise is stated above and originally it was just going to be PWP but quickly it spiralled into something longer; story of my life. i hope this snippet pleases you and that i can publish the full fic soon!

ask me about one of my works in progress!