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 i’m sorry i never adhere to any writing challenge properly
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The steel head of Lambert’s 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 today’s proceedings, and Lambert would have another night to plan his getaway.
Not that he particularly wants to get away from here— that’s the problem. All these years spent growing to trust a group of people the way he thought he never would, and now he’s to be given away like a prized sire. He would turn and run if he didn’t know for a fact that it would break his brothers’ hearts, and Vesemir’s too. So he resigns himself to chopping wood that definitely isn’t meant to be chopped, and angrily shouting all the while.
“You haven’t changed,” says a gentle, nervous voice; Lambert looks over expecting to see someone much younger. It is, sure enough, a familiar face— 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 Lambert’s life forever. However, that kid had cemented himself in Lambert’s memories and not only by being a big softy; Lambert remembers especially enjoying their time together as Coën knew all the weirdest, scariest details about monsters.
Coën. 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. He’s not as wide as Lambert but he’s got some muscle. He looks every part the knight that they used to imagine he was, from the chain mail to the weathered boots.
“Coën,” 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 he’ll ever be able to act on this knowledge, he remembers with no small amount of bitterness. “You here to rescue me?”
“Rescue you?” Coën makes a show of glancing around the empty training grounds; that’s 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. “You don’t seem particularly endangered.”
“And yet,” he laughs coldly. “My days as a free man are numbered. I’m to be married off to a Griffin at sunset.” The hand-embroidered beast on Coën’s chest suddenly stands out, and Lambert realizes aloud: “Suppose that’s why you’re here. You part of the delegation?”
“I’m part of the sacrificial offering,” Coën corrects him. “I’m to be married to the youngest Wolf at sunset, so I fear we’re in the same boat, my old friend.”
Lambert’s stomach does a sort of flip, and he inhales sharply. “Fuck. The very same, then.” Coën frowns, his brows growing close together, and Lambert quickly clarifies, “I’m the youngest Wolf.”
“Fuck,” echoes Coën. On his lips, it sounds softer than it ever has coming from Lambert. Lambert can’t stop staring now that he knows the truth— he had imagined some young asshole Griffin that would take great pride in making Lambert his groom without any care for him. But Coën is one of the most caring people Lambert has ever known. He forces himself to rethink the situation as the confused man stammers, “How could you be the youngest? You’re— you don’t look young at all! I mean, not— you’ve certainly grown—“
“As have you,” Lambert grins rudely. “I must admit, Keldar’s description was beyond vague. Had I known that you were my betrothed—“
“What, you wouldn’t be fighting with a pillar at the top of a cold mountain?” Coën laughs, happy and surprised. Lambert just watches him, struggling to keep from smiling too widely and scaring him off. “Yeah, well, if I’d known, I wouldn’t have bitched so much on the way up here.”
“Right.” A very terrible idea rises to the top of Lambert’s mind, and as he is so often prone to do, he immediately seizes onto the notion and sets his heart on making it happen. “You 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?”
-
“Leave it to Lambert to ruin his own arranged marriage by fucking eloping,” Eskel marvels. The keep has never been busier what with the extra wedding guests and everyone running around looking for the two grooms, but Lambert’s brothers know better than to try to seek him out. The only way to find Lambert once he’s gone into hiding is to wait it out— that, or offer a really high cash reward so he can turn himself in. And they just lost a very prosperous deal, so they don’t exactly have the funds for that.
Geralt just takes a long drink from Lambert’s 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 amused— and triumphant— look. The plan went better than they could have imagined.
Would you be interested into writing "Who hurt you?" "You want a list?" "Yes actually." for Lambert & Voltehre? Either as a couple or friends and in whatever AU you want. Thank you, Ledgea!
So, once again. I apologize for the hurt.
Ao3
Rated T
Summary:
Life was so damn weird.
Why shouldn't his dead best friend come back to life to haunt him?
That was just a normal Tuesday in Lambert's shitty book.
Life was so damn weird.
Almost two years had passed between the Battle of Kaer Morhen and Lambert had found himself in the south- not because he liked visiting Geralt at his pompous vineyard or because he had some insane hope of seeing an old friend - but because the weather was nice and the coin somewhat better than the north. He was in Temeria when the second conjunction split the sky and his world was rocked again. What were the odds of having five major world shaking events happen in less than fifty years? Too damn high in Lambert’s opinion. But what did he know? He was just a damn witcher.
He was still in Temeria when it seemed that the dead rose and walked the earth, wearing the face of a friend long lost but not the one he’d been looking for. Voltehre, sweet and kind and dead , had come stumbling down the road toward Vizima like a dream come true although he was mud splattered, bloodied, and dazed from what seemed to be a show of chaos unheard of. The Second Conjunction screwed with a lot of things; Lambert’s head was just the beginning.
“Oh, thank the gods .” The imposter breathed, quickening his limping pace toward Lambert with a lopsided but exhausted grin. “I’ve not seen another Witcher since…” It sounded like Voltehre, a little lower than Lambert’s voice and with the slight whistle on his 's' sounds, but those details only made Lambert put that much more venom into his command that the imposter ‘stop where he was’. He was too damn tired for these games.
The thing that was not Voltehre froze, mouth snapping shut.
“Who are you?”
“Voltehre, of the Wolf School.” His eyes snapped to the medallion on Lambert’s chest like it was a betrayal that he hadn't been recognized. “I’m not sure how I arrived here, just that some weeks ago I was at my trials and then the sky was tearing open and I was south of Vizima. Is it true? Has there been a second joining of the spheres?” The evidence was all around them, hundreds more monsters walked the Continent without more than a few dozen witchers to deal with them. Anyone with eyes could see that and Voltehre had never been stupid. He didn't have an ounce of self preservation around strangers either, “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name. Are you-”
Lambert drew his sword, silver and leveled it at the thing. The sunlight, tinged red by the lingering chaos in the air, glinted off the blade. The Thing put its hands up.
“I’m sorry? Really I don’t- I don’t know what to do here. You’re of the Wolves, yes? I can- I can prove that’s where I’m from though I don’t have a medallion yet. My master was Vesemir.”
“Put your arm to the blade.” Lambert said, ignoring how his heart clenched at the memory of the old wolf and the ashes he had left on top of that mountain.
“What?”
“Prove that you aren’t a fucking doppler or some shit. Put your damn arm to the blade.” It stepped forward, rolled up the sleeve of its dirty white shirt, and pressed his entire forearm against the length of silver. He didn’t burn but his eyes narrowed, sweeping over Lambert from his hair to his boots. Then he turned his arm and drew it back so that a well of blood rose to the surface. Red. Human red.
“You want me to cast Yrden? Prove that I’m a witcher too?”
“Yes.”
Voltehre’s specialty was never signs but he was better at them than Lambert and the trap that glowed some feet away was dull but passable. It was also unfathomably correct in that the blond had always had a certain flair to his magic. That trap on the side of the road had the same off color that drove the mages to tears trying to find the reason for it. It wasn't something that could be replicated.
“ Fuck .” Lambert laughed, manic and rough. “Fucking- I-” He sheathed the sword and took a step forward, then two steps back. No. No he wasn’t going to run. Not this time.
“Lambert?” The - Voltehre breathed. As though Lambert was the one back from the dead.
He gritted his teeth and nodded. “Yeah, it’s me. Lambert.”
So then two worlds were shattered.
The side of the road in nowhere-Temeria wasn’t the place to piece together their stories so, while still holding Voltehre - fucking Voltehre - at arms length they set off in search of a safe place to settle down for a few days. It came just up the road in the form of a manor, abandoned after the village was decimated by the new wave of monsters and earthquakes. The noble family of the region had lasted a little longer than their fieldhands but not by much and Lambert had no compunctions about looting the clothes and blankets and whatever jewelry he could find. If he came across any Sc’oiatel he’d have to point them in this direction for supplies- a conjunction was probably the best chance they had to peacefully reclaim territory after all.
“Find a room that we can defend, one that gets a lot of sun so we don’t need the fireplace.” He was practically barking the orders like he was an old master and he couldn’t make himself stop. If he stopped he would have to look at the barely-a-man that was his long lost best friend and he’d fall to damn pieces. To see the judgment in his eyes as they sorted through the possession of the dead like common bandits. “You uh- you want furs or woven blankets? Woven, right?”
“Yeah.”
Twenty-seven years. A voice whispered. Twenty-seven years and you still remember his preferences. Pathetic memory chaser than you are.
He gathered two blankets for Voltehre and set them on the table with the rest of his pilfered supplies. He moved on to the storerooms which held preserves and he took as many as he could, planning to raid it again when they left. Peaches, beans, even watermelon that must have cost a small fortune in this part of the world had been jarred. Little luxuries only afforded to their ilk in the time of greatest sorrow.
He arrived in the west wing bedroom just in time to see Voltehre stumble and catch himself with a soft curse.
“You alright?”
“I’ve been jerked through time and have had three weeks to heal from a blow to the knee and head from the trial on top of nearly losing my leg to a kikimore in a swamp -" He sighed, shoulders slumping, "- no, Lambert. I’m not okay.”
“I- yeah that’s pretty shit.” Maybe they were both in shock. Witchers didn’t really get shock but there was a first time for everything. “Sit down and let me take a look at your leg then. Actually wait, strip. I’m sure I can find you cleaner clothes to change into after I make sure you’re not about to d- uh. Not about to fall over.”
“It’s kind of nice to know that you didn’t get any taller since the trials.” Voltehre said, almost like he was making a joke to ease the tension. Lambert, unsure whether it was a joke or not, snorted anyway. Just because Voltehre hit a growth spurt at sixteen to rival Geralt didn't make Lambert tiny.
“Well not everyone can have the genes of an ice giant.” Lambert knelt, worked his gloves off and then, carefully, placed his hands on Voltehre’s clammy skin gently. He probed around the calf, up to his knee and then a little higher. It was swollen and bruised, likely torqued from a fall but it would heal if he could simply rest it for a day or so. It certainly wasn’t enough to waste a potion on.
“You’ll be okay, just need to rest.” He might even be able to wrangle a wrap for it. “You can take the bed and I’ll make a pallet tonight.”
Voltehre had a little scar on his knuckle from training, the only time he’d ever been in trouble - in trouble on Lambert’s behalf no less. It caught on Lambert’s skin as he reached out, holding him still by the shoulder where he knelt. The simple touch made his breath catch and his muscles tense. He wasn’t the same man he’d been… he wasn’t Voltehre’s best friend. He was a bitter asshole outrunning fate and somehow surviving when all his friends were dead. A wretch.
“Who hurt you?” Voltehre asked, soft and earnest with his wide eyes and too-young voice. As if they were both still boys, hiding from their instructors and finding some pleasure in the horrors of their days and that there could be a single figure to blame. He always was trying to protect Lambert like he was worth it somehow and Lambert couldn’t handle it. There was love and trust and stupid belief so he sneered.
“What? You want a list?”
“Yes, actually.”
He looked up and swallowed thickly. “It’s been a really bad time. Thirty years of shit and it’s just- I missed you.” The voice in his head that sounded like Aiden whispered praise for his honesty. It was always a little kinder than his own thoughts. "This entire situation is insane and I don't know what's going on half the time."
“I know it’s different now but I’m not and I’d very much like it if we could pretend it wasn’t for a night?” The blond witcher said. “You can tell me all the shit that has happened, the good and the bad and all about whoever you’ve charmed into staying by your side. Just don’t sleep on the floor? Please?”
Lambert sighed and closed his eyes. He nodded.
Voltehre tapped his scars gently. “Tell me about these?”
“Well I didn’t have my best friend to watch my back.” Lambert rose and jerked his chin up at the pillows. “Lay down and I’ll do story time for you, better to get your knee lifted sooner rather than later.” Voltehre wiggled his way into the blankets, six feet of gangly limbs and lightly freckled skin. Once he was settled, Lambert continued. “It was a nest of harpies. I was up in Poviss, climbed the cliffs fine and cut down the first four down in minutes.” He tossed a blanket at the blond and then began to pull his own armor off for the evening. “So I’m thinking it’s done with, throw the proof in my pack with some eggs and start back down. Well I’m hanging in the air and just happen to look up when two more of the damn birds get on me - I’m fighting one handed, high enough that the fall is going to break my damn legs, and one of them gets me in the face with her claws.” He pulled on a pair of stolen pants and bundled himself in his own furs to sit against the ornate headboard.
“It made a good story that year. Won the stupid competition about who had the best scars. Got a whole bottle of gull out of it.”
“You said earlier that this conjunction… there’s not enough Witchers left to handle it. What did that mean? Is the school-”
“It’s gone, has been for years now. Nothing but dust and rock up there. Geralt’s around, so’s Eskel. Geralt set up in Toussaint a few years ago and I’m sure he’s got the place ready for war. Probably adopted every orphan that glanced his way since this started like the idiot he is. That’s where we’ll be going.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh.” Don’t ask about the others. Just let it go.
Voltehre fell asleep without more words exchanged between them and Lambert felt almost wrong for watching him when he was so vulnerable but he was really there and a fear was rooting itself in the back of his mind that screamed the moment he looked away Voltehre would be gone again. There were so many little things he had forgotten; how there was a streak of blue in the iris of his left eye that the grasses couldn’t take away, how his hair was a little shorter than he’d conjured in his mind but just as thick, the way that one canine was a little too big for his mouth and how it cemented the overgrown puppy look that he’d somehow come to associate with Eskel rather than the specimen laying on the fine feather bed beside him. He was only twenty.
Lambert had once told Aiden, quietly and as a secret, that he had loved Voltehre. Loved him in all the same ways he loved Aiden but didn’t have the words to tell either of them until it was too late.
He loved them still. But looking at the young man, with his hand curled loosely atop Lambert's thigh and his breathing even he knew that it wasn't the same, it couldn't be that same. He had loved him as a boy and he had loved truly and deeply but that wound had been torn open and healed over again and again. He wasn't the same, he had lost the softness of youth and the belief that he could do something about it, and it wasn't right or fair but it was true. Love alone did not a good thing make. Whatever happened next would be another willing scar on his heart and he would choose to disappoint the golden spectre of his youth. His first love; alive and well despite the odds and utterly unprepared for the things he was asking to know.
Who hurt you?
Lambert tucked the blankets higher around the young Witcher’s shoulders.
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.”
Would you be interested into writing "I won't bite. Unless you're into that sort of thing." for Filavandrel/Vesemir? Thank you! Ledgea!!
M, 1.4K, Merman AU with your daily recommended serving of nipple play
The rolling waves lap at Vesemir’s bare shins, their spray not quite reaching up to his shorts but making a good attempt. He doesn’t mind— the midday sun has left him feeling uncomfortably hot, and the cool water is a balm.
Perhaps that’s why his bizarre and fascinating companion keeps disappearing underneath the water like a duck bobbing for food, his tailfins flicking up above the surface and sending the occasional splash Vesemir’s way. Vesemir watches in delight, carefully observing the body distorted by the water.
He used to think that Filavandrel wasn’t able to stand breathing air for too long since he rarely obeys the rules of human physiology. The truth is much stranger, as the man has both gills and lungs connected to the complex map of capillaries in his chest. Vesemir always treasures their time together, deeply grateful for the close proximity to a creature he would otherwise never get the chance to study.
And that isn’t the only reason he treasures all their moments spent together. When Filavandrel resurfaces, his silky long blond hair soaked dark and sticking to his neck and shoulders, he doesn’t hesitate before sidling into the space between Vesemir’s knees. Vesemir chuckles but tries to reach behind him to hold onto the dock somehow— his tempestuous lover could very easily pull him into the water if he felt like it.
Thankfully Filavandrel doesn’t pull him off the pier, just drawing him close so that he can nuzzle at his neck. Vesemir allows the contact, privately delighted every time the merman makes a show of strength like this. His iridescent, scaly arms don’t tremble as he holds himself up on the dock, nor does his tail thrash about to try to support his own weight. According to Filavandrel he’s one of the smallest mermen in this sea; a thought that drives Vesemir crazy if he thinks about it for too long. Are there really other, bigger mermaids? What would their tails look like— would they gleam the same or would their fins be rough and jagged from battle? Do merfolk get into many battles? Perhaps they’re territorial over coral reefs, or maybe different schools bond together to fight off drowners.
“What are you thinking about,” breathes Filavandrel against his throat, dragging the tip of a fang over the unbroken skin there with the last consonant of ‘about.’ A reminder of his monstrous nature, or perhaps a threat to pay attention.
The man smells like salt and the spray that mists the brow and lip of everyone who’s ever helmed a boat. Vesemir’s cock suddenly pounds with desire in his too-tiny shorts, all his blood rushing south. He regrets nothing. With a teasing edge to his voice, he muses, “Other mermen.”
Filavandrel growls, low and guttural and inhuman, before raising one hand to do something very stupid and funny and very, very human. Just as Vesemir instinctively moves to hold the merman up by his waist so he doesn’t slide back into the water, Filavandrel reaches forward and twists his nipple. Judging by the shock on his face when Vesemir winces and swears, he hadn’t actually known the effect that would have on the witcher.
“I’m sorry,” Filavandrel quickly offers, but Vesemir shakes his head, groaning as the pinched place begins to smart. After a moment the sensation fades and he breathes easier, fixing his lover with a stern glare. Filavandrel still looks apologetic, but there’s a new, curious light in his eyes too. He had looked just like this when they’d first figured out how exactly a witcher and merman could fuck, and the memory sends another jolt of desire along Vesemir’s length. He adjusts his position as best he can without letting go of the merman’s bare waist. Filavandrel continues, haltingly, “Are you alright?”
“I’m perfectly fine,” Vesemir assures him. “They can take a beating.”
And that was entirely the wrong thing to say— or the right one, depending on how you see it— as Filavandrel pouts thoughtfully, drawing his lip to one side. The expression reveals his sharp fangs again, and despite himself, Vesemir shudders. The merman reaches to touch his chest again, this time prodding more gently at the little bud and then tracing circles around his areola. When he rolls a nipple between his fingers Vesemir’s breath hitches, and it makes Filavandrel glance up into his eyes sharply. But instead of pausing his ministrations, Filavandrel just raises his other hand so that he can toy with both of Vesemir’s nipples as he speaks. “Funny. We don’t have these.”
Vesemir had noticed that, although he hadn’t been sure if there was a biological reason or if merfolk simply lacked nipples because their offspring weren’t mammals. He had nonsensically daydreamt once of rubbing Filavandrel’s chest until his nipples made an appearance the same way his genitals do, but he should have guessed that would be out of the question in reality. He hums, enjoying the dull pressure building up as Filavandrel experimentally touches him. “I guess that’s because they wouldn’t serve any function.”
But instead of agreeing or correcting him, Filavandrel frowns. “What are they used for?”
“Oh.” Vesemir hesitates. “Well, it’s how mother mammals nurse their young. The babies latch on and feed from them— but don’t get any funny ideas, I’m not lactating and you can’t make me!” He’s fairly certain that if anyone could magically get him to lactate, it would be this eight foot long magical fishperson. But he also has no desire to find out, so he quickly adds, “They’re sensitive, too. That’s why I like wearing soft shirts under my armour.”
Filavandrel stares right at his nipple as he twists the bud between his fingertips. His clawed hands paired with his sharp, intent gaze should be setting off all kinds of warning bells inside Vesemir’s head. Instead, he thinks he might come inside his shorts— especially when Filavandrel ducks down to experimentally lick Vesemir’s nipple, tongue darting out to taste the bud before swirling over the entire areola.
Trying hard to keep his breathing steady, Vesemir tilts his head back and stares up at the sky, where seagulls swoop far above them in the clouds. It helps for about two seconds, then Filavandrel’s lips close around his nipple and he remembers teeth, teeth, very sharp teeth, and he lets go of his lover’s hips, dropping him unceremoniously back into the water.
Filavandrel laughs the whole way down, and when he bobs back up he’s still got a big fiendish grin on his face. “You were close, weren’t you,” he accuses, thrilled. “Have you ever had an orgasm just from someone touching your chest?”
“Can’t say that I have,” Vesemir admits, folding his legs shut instead of succumbing the way he wants to. “I… I’d feel greedy! I don’t want to take advantage of your curiosity.”
Filavandrel honest-to-Gods scoffs at that, shooting Vesemir a look that makes it clear he’s not buying the bullshit. “Don’t start having proper manners now, human,” he hisses, flashing those fangs again. Vesemir shivers, but it isn’t a bad sort of fear… although he does think that his old master Deglan must be turning in his grave somewhere as Vesemir prepares to surrender his second most vulnerable part to a monster.
Except Filavandrel isn’t a monster, not really— if he wanted to drown or eat Vesemir he would have done so by now. The merman notices how the witcher has been nervously watching his fangs and he smiles, baring them fully. Vesemir gulps as Filavandrel says, “Don’t worry, I won’t bite. Unless you’re into that sort of thing.”
“And you told me you weren’t a siren,” Vesemir huffs. He only lasts a few seconds more before relenting, spreading his legs again and preparing to ruin his shorts. That’s alright, there are dozens of good craftsmen across the Continent. How many chances like this is he going to get? “Okay. You may continue your exploration.”
Dry as ever but with a wide, pleased smirk on his face, Filavandrel mutters, “I’ll have to start a bestiary on you soon.” Before Vesemir can think of any quick remark to combat that, the merman climbs up onto the pier beside him, his tail glistening as it slides through the water, sending a shower of spray at the witcher’s feet. Vesemir hardly has time to laugh before Filavandrel is pressing him back against the hard, cold wood of the pier and descending upon his chest, taking his nipple back into his mouth.
All in all, it’s not the worst way to beat the heat.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 19/?
Fandom: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Coën/Lambert (The Witcher), Eskel & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Lambert, Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher), Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Lambert, Eskel & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Lambert & Vesemir, Guxart/Vesemir (The Witcher), Gaetan/Letho z Gulety | Letho of Gulet, Rennes/Vesemir (The Witcher), Coën/Dragonfly, Aiden/Coën/Lambert (The Witcher), Aiden/Lambert/Voltehre
Characters: Coën (The Witcher), Lambert (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel (The Witcher), Aiden (The Witcher), Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Vesemir (The Witcher), Guxart (The Witcher), Dragonfly (The Witcher), Voltehre (The Witcher)
Additional Tags: Humor, Shorts, One Shot Collection, Fluff
Summary:
15) Aiden is slightly over-enthusiastic in filling Kaer Morhen's wood baskets. It probably could be worse.
16) Aiden takes Lambert to a waterfall.
17) Voltehre brings a mummy home. Unfortunately he still doesn't win the yearly "annoy-Vesemir" contest.
18) Guxart and Vesemir have a front row seat to their kittens and pups' chaotic shenanigans.
19) Coën finds Lambert sleeping in their bed. He joins him for a nap.
Collection of short one-shots, more or less 1000 words, soft and funny.
# # #
My darling Ledgea filled a prompt for me and it is lovely and soft. You should go read it immediately. <3
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher), Aiden & Eskel & Lambert
Characters: Aiden (The Witcher), Lambert (The Witcher), Eskel (The Witcher)
Additional Tags: Humor, Banter, Fluff and Humor, Inspired by A settled debt by EtCorSolus
Summary:
Aiden gets Eskel out of prison and Lambert gives him their orens back in front of his intrigued brother. They probably should have waited and exchanged their coins in private.
Eskel is curious and a little shit. And Aiden and Lambert are bantering together but very protective of each other.
You guys, Ledgea is an absolute darling and wrote me a lovely gift for my Lambden fic A Settled Debt and it is amazing.
