#Aen Seidhe Aiden

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Ohh, you opened your prompts, what a treat! I love all of your Aiden/Lambert fics, funny or bittersweet, but especially the funny ones. So can I ask for some Aiden/Lambert "babysitting" teenage Ciri in canon verse, please? I leave the rating and everything else to you :p

A/N: Ciri spends some time with her favourite uncle and his half Aen Seidhe boyfriend, Aiden. Warnings: uh, a little bit of suggestive knife twiddling? But it all stays very tame; there are innocent eyes around, after all! Aiden’s not a monster.

“Deep breath, sor’ca,” Aiden said, nudging Ciri’s rear foot to broaden her stance. “You’re holding it again. You won’t hit anything if you pass out.” 

Ciri growled and dropped the arrow down. They had been working on archery for little over an hour but already she was craving a return to the backflips and pirouettes of morning footwork drills. It was a close summer afternoon, with a shimmer on the parched horizon. It was the kind of heat that one could smell in the sluggish water of the river and the wilting green of struggling plants. Only the light breeze that rustled through the leaves of the ash and beech trees took the edge off, whisking the beads of sweat from Ciri’s brow and cooling beneath her arms when she lifted the bow.

Lambert lounged not three metres away. Sprawled amongst the twisted roots of a downy birch tree, he picked idly at his fingernails with the blunted edge of a throwing knife as he watched Aiden instruct his niece on the fine and, if someone ever bothered to ask Lambert’s opinion, pointless art of archery.

Ciri drew the arrow back to her ear, took a breath and released the nock in the space of three seconds. The fine white fletching, crafted by Aiden’s very own hand, whistled into the distance. She’d missed the target by less than half a foot. “Gods dammit,” she scowled, gnawing on her inner cheek. “I did everything right.”

“You’re still holding on too tightly, staring at the target as if you can glare the arrow through it.” Aiden took the bow from her bone-white fingers to illustrate his point. She huffed indignantly but released her captive and watched as Aiden plucked an arrow from the soil by her feet. “Any hack can wield a sword and do damage without training, but a bow demands more respect. Observe.”

Lambert huffed a laugh as he uncurled to his feet, moving to stand next to Ciri to get a better vantage point from which to observe the lesson. 

Aiden continued, unperturbed by the insolent smirk on Lambert’s face as he imitated Aiden’s tart ‘observe’ with a splayed hand on his chest. “Your bow hand should have as little contact as possible, barely there, just a steadying presence,” Aiden spread his feet as he notched the arrow, drawing back to his eye, “then, relax your shoulders, focus on your breathing. You’ll loose on the outward breath, but don’t rush it. Count to five; one, two…”

Lambert exchanged a glance with Ciri. She pressed her lips together to quash her smirk and his eyes crinkling in the corners as his inner mischief took over. Flipping his knife over in one gloved hand, Lambert strolled behind Aiden – “three, four” – and leaned in to gasp a breathy whisper over the curve of one elegantly pointed ear. “Five.” 

The bowstring twanged and the arrow disappeared into the canopy. Lambert guffawed, delighted at the result of his most sultry purr, and Aiden glared. “You’re an asshole.”

“Yeah, I may be an asshole,” Lambert tilted his head, gaze travelling to the target, “but by the time she’s gone through your twenty-point checklist, she’ll be dead. Now a knife,” he waggled the blade in his hand, finger and thumb at the edge, “is quicker, cheaper and,” Lambert twisted, arm uncoiling like a coiled snake, and the knife hit the target with an audible ‘thunk’, “deadlier.” 

Ciri folded her arms and grinned, regarding the dagger embedded in the rotting bark of their target with an appraising eye. She had been won over by the simple inelegance of it. Aiden sighed, placing his bow down with a defeated air. “Dh’oine, always looking for the easy way out.”

“Efficient,” Lambert corrected, jutting his chin as Aiden stepped up to him. “Easy ain’t got nothin’ to do with it.” 

“Now, you say that,” Aiden moved with the swift athleticism for which his school was infamous and grabbed Lambert’s arm. His shoulder shoved into Lambert’s chest to throw him off balance and then, with one deft twist, Aiden lifted the wolf from the ground and over his back. Lambert had no time to react as his world turned upside down and then righted abruptly when his back hit the floor. Aiden flipped him over, twisting one arm up his back, and then primed a knife to his throat, “but most people who use knives are terribly inefficient.” 

Ciri placed her hands on her hips and smirked down at her uncle as he grimaced and scowled. “Dunno, Aiden,” she said. “He looks pretty done for.” 

“Just proved my point,” Lambert wheezed, arching away from the sharp edge that teased the line of his beard. “Slit my throat and I’m dead.” 

“People can survive a slit throat, sor’ca. Witcher I know has a second smile, from ear to ear. Can’t talk, but still plenty capable of cutting you to pieces,” Aiden said, releasing Lambert’s arm so that he could bury his fingers in ruffled brown hair and make him arch back just a little further. “Do you know how much strength it takes to cut deep enough? And what if your knife is a little blunt? Your target isn’t going to sit and wait for you to slice him up like stringy venison at the dinner table.” As Aiden spoke, he teased the edge of the blade against Lambert’s skin, listening to the wolf’s breath hitch as it nicked over the ball of his throat. Gloved fingers gripped at tufts of dry grass in search of purchase and Aiden heard the steel toes of Lambert’s boots scuff in the dirt behind him. 

“So, a knife’s actually worthless then, unless I can get a good run up?” She pouted, her brow furrowed. 

“Hm,” Aiden’s grip tightened in Lambert’s hair, “not quite.” Aiden drew back long enough to flip Lambert onto his back again. The wolf didn’t even try to fight to his feet and laid perfectly still as Aiden straddled his chest, knife spinning through his fingers. Ciri couldn’t smell what Aiden could. The mushroom broths made her stronger, faster, but they didn’t give her the sharper senses of a witcher. Lucky for Lambert, really; Aiden would keep his filthy little secret.

When the edge rasped through his red and grey speckled beard again, Lambert swallowed audibly, tilting his head back into the dirt so that Aiden could see the full curve of his throat. “You can cut below the ear, beneath the curve of the jaw,” Aiden murmured, watching as Lambert’s pupils swallowed his entire iris, leaving just a thin ring of sunstone yellow. “But a witcher worth his salt would have a vial of Swallow to hand. A human can fight you off, stay conscious just long enough to get help. There’s only one way to ensure a quick, clean kill.”

“How?” Ciri insisted, watching Lambert with wide eyes. 

“Place the knife here.” Aiden placed the tip of the blade at the hollow between Lambert’s clavicles, where his windpipe was exposed and vulnerable. The edge grazed Lambert’s skin, drawing a thin, white line of prickled skin, but no blood. Aiden’s control was absolute. Lambert swallowed again, the ripple of his throat pressing lightly against the point. “Tilt it up, just so, and then,” Aiden lifted his palm and drove it down with intent and blinding speed, but the heel of his hand stopped at the hilt before it connected. Ciri gasped, but Lambert stared at Aiden in mystified silence, his breath held. Aiden leaned in close, almost nose to nose, and whispered. “You force it through to the spine. Victim chokes on their own blood in seconds.” 

“Caen me a'baethe?” Lambert whispered hoarsely, offering a cocky, lopsided smirk that invited teeth and fire. Aiden’s lips parted, tongue pressing to the roof of his mouth as he fought to resist. There were young eyes present, after all. 

“Wait,” Ciri squinted at them and then stuck her tongue out in the exaggerated disgust only a young teenaged girl could manage. “Oh, ew, is this––are you flirting?”

Aiden sat up quickly, his cheeks flushing a vibrant claret. “No, teaching. This is––I was giving instruction––oof.” The Cat flailed as he was shoved in the chest and thrown to the side. Lambert rolled to his feet next, keeping his back angled towards Ciri as he hobbled awkwardly towards the treeline. Aiden huffed. “Where’re you going?”

“To make an offering to Freya,” Lambert called airily and disappeared completely into the trees. Aiden smirked at his retreating back before falling onto his own, hands tucked behind his head. The leafy canopies above swayed, casting dappled shadows over Aiden’s serene expression.

“They don’t worship Freya here,” Ciri mumbled. “It’s Melitele.” 

“Melitele won’t want anything to do with the offering Lambert has in mind,” Aiden teased, pinching her bicep playfully. She kicked him lightly in the thigh and then flopped inelegantly to bask in the sun with him, her head on his stomach. 

“Men are gross.”

“That they are, sor’ca, that they are.”

sor’ca = little sister

Caen me a'baethe? = give me a kiss

Freya is the Goddess of fertility, love and beauty; I’ll leave you to work out what kind of offering Lambert was going to make. 

Aiden is Aen Seidhe (or at least half). Inspired by the fact that the School of the Cat worked closely with the Aen Seidhe after they abandoned Stygga, swelling their ranks with strays, orphans and unwanted “halfbreeds”. 

Cool graphic sourced here.

[inkprintedfox]

■ and the peace emoji (which I don't have somehow) for the headcanon meme!

I don't know if you didn't have a character in mind or forgot to put one, so I'll take creative liberty. Feel free to resend if you did have someone in mind and would like the answers for them.

As always, thank you for the ask!! 💚

■ - Bedroom/house/living quarters headcanon

Iorveth cuz I've been thinking about him lately.

In the event he ever had a chance to own any space for himself I think he would bring back bits of nature from hunts or walks in the forest. Pretty stones, maybe a neat looking animal bone, flowers and then press them later for decoration. I've always thought Aen Seidhe to be very creative and decorative so I think he would definitely paint or carve patters into things and just make the space pleasing to look at. Also collect things from abandoned homes and farms to repurpose them to use or to add to the decoration.

☮ - friendship headcanon

Inquisitor Maxwell Trevelyan and Aiden Hawke because I've been thinking about this for a bit and they would be such good friends!!

Max is a very empathic person and is ridiculously easy to talk to. I think he would be one of the few people not just to see through Aiden's humorous facade but also be able to get him to actually open up. Aiden also tends to always get into some trouble and Max loves excitement so they would definitely be ride or die BFFs!

Two witty, bastard rouges for the win! Oh, and they both have Tevinter lovers so there's quite a bit in common there! 😝

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Thank you so much, Betho!

Witcher Aiden; half Aen Seidhe, formerly of the School of the Cat. He works as a blacksmith in Vattweir, which is where he meets Lambert.

Commission for @rawrkinjd of their depiction of Aiden! Thank you for trusting me with him! c:

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Aiden, the Cat of Nowhere

"I walked away and never looked back."

Aiden, a retired Cat Witcher turned blacksmith. He's half Aen Seidhe and works in a small forge outside Vattweir, occasionally travelling north to the Pontar to deliver orders to travelling merchants. He thinks he's left the life of a witcher far behind him, until a loathsome, argumentative son of a bitch stalks into his village in search of a good silversmith.

The image was made using Artbreeder and Procreate. Please don't use without permission!

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Could you be tempted into writing some somft Eskel/Lambert or Aiden/Lambert (or the three of them together if your feeling fancy)? I have a friend who speaks so highly of you and your talents and their having a bit of a time this week. If you have ko-fi or the like please point me in its direction should this request appeal!

(Aiden/Eskel/Lambert; reflecting on the trauma of the past, current happiness, mention of Aen Seidhe marriage customs - @/jlyarts to be credited for headcanon - a bit of cheeky arousal, a little grinding, kissing, Lambert calls Eskel an "old man" cause he's a shit - I hope your friend feels better soon, Anon)

Poets were full of horseshit. Lambert had always known that. Even when Geralt had waxed lyrical about the beauty and depth of Dandelion's poetry, Lambert had maintained a healthy… let's call it, cynicism. And he'd been fucking right. Now that he had actually sat down to read some of it, he could only reason that Pretty Boy had been hit on the head one too many times and it had rendered incapable of good taste or reason, which, while Lambert was being honest, explained a whole fucking lot. 

It wasn't that he couldn't respect a good poem; the lewd ditties he had memorised over his lifetime were an art form in themselves. There were so many creative ways to rhyme the word tit, and Lambert knew them all in several languages. But there was something saccharine and chewy about Dandelion's drivel that left a bitter taste in Lambert's mouth. 

Completely disingenuous, fucking sanitised. Like someone had been told the story of their lives, picked out all the flecks of bone and scrubbed off the bloodstains, the rancid smell of vomit, alcohol and regret all washed out to make it some kinda bullshit romance. Dandelion had told the world that this was what being a witcher was like, and had made money off it. Greatest conman in history. 

"This is fucking diabolical, Eskel," Lambert said softly to the man in his lap, the heat of outrage completely missing as he lifted the book a little higher to peek beneath it. Truth be told–because if Dandelion's bad poetry had clearly achieved anything that late summer's afternoon it had turned Lambert into a temporarily honest man–he didn't want to wake Eskel.

They sat beneath one of the many maple trees lining the river that ran through Geralt's estate. Lambert had found a comfortable nook between some roots, and Eskel had claimed squatter's rights on Lambert's lap. The big oaf had run himself ragged around the farmstead, lifting things, chopping things, fixing things, and had burnt himself out. He'd thrown a pillow on Lambert's thighs, made himself comfortable between partially spread legs, and promptly fallen asleep face down. At some point he had shifted so that he wasn't inhaling linen fibres, and Lambert could feel the occasional soft flutter of breath on his elbow.

Slowly, Lambert put the book aside, his head tilting as he considered the man in his lap. It had taken Geralt and Lambert months to net Eskel and wind him in from the Path. So much of what Eskel had built of himself was tied into it; the expectations, even the fucking pain. That's what Dandelion's poems were missing. The way you started believing that pain was a way of life, how you strapped it on like you strapped on your armour, all the while waiting for the next time you could drown it out with something: fucking, alcohol, fisstech. Forging on because the only purpose you'd ever been given was to fight and suffer, while feeling more affinity with the creatures you were killing than the people paying you for it.

When Kaer Morhen had fallen for the last time, Lambert knew Eskel had been tempted to disappear with it. It had taken a lot of drinking for Eskel to see a new way forward that didn't involve all the fucking bullshit that came with being a witcher. Lambert was thankful that the pull of  Eskel's loyalty had been stronger than any other feeling he might have had at the time. They had used that loyalty to pry the swords from his hands and get him to hang up his medallion. Time to find the Eskel underneath all the blood, steel and suffering. And, you know what? The Eskel underneath, Lambert really fucking loved him.

Without the disagreements they had over witchering, Vesemir, Kaer Morhen, the final chasm between them had healed, allowing the sparks that had existed for fucking decades to kindle into a roaring inferno. And by Melitele's ballsack was Lambert happy to bask in the heat of it. Witcher Eskel had been a good lay--plenty caring, never left anyone wanting--but Farmboy Eskel did things with his dick, tongue and hands that Lambert was pretty sure defied the laws of biology or physics or some shit. Must be something in the water, or maybe the magic of a full belly and good wine year round.

With a crooked smile, Lambert stroked the loose strands of hair from where they sat over Eskel's face. He teased a thumb over the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, so deeply etched now that they were still visible in his weathered mug while he was asleep. "Still a handsome bastard though," Lambert breathed, his thumb following the groove between two scars until they met just above Eskel's lip. Eskel shifted, nose twitching against the tickle of hair, rumbled something, and then settled again.

It was easy to forget the past here, with the sun warming his bare feet, a light breeze ruffling his chest hair, and golden fields stretching out as far as the eye could see. Damn pretty. Not nearly as pretty as Eskel's shoulders, or the crest of his arse which had got a whole lot fuller with good grub, or the real reason they were sitting under a tree in the afternoon sun like fucking idiots. Nah, he was still busy in the water.

Lambert scratched thoughtfully at his beard, fingers still stroking idly through Eskel's hair, letting silken strands, some streaked with silver, fall between them one by one with each pass. "Pettin' me like a dog…" Eskel growled, still groggy. "He done yet?" 

"Not yet. You know what he's like. Half fish, probably playing with his food too."

"Strange." Eskel rolled over with a groan, awkward and slow as aching muscles stirred, and then flopped down onto his back. Lambert took the invitation, stroking the hard line of Eskel's jaw to his neck. He enjoyed the contrast of stubble and smooth scars against his fingertips, and then the change to stretches of softer bronze as he reached Eskel's uneven collarbone. Broken falling from the comb when he was a bastion boy, he'd told Lambert many winters ago. Eskel sighed, "Thought cats and elves hated water. He's both."

"Always was a contrary bastard," Lambert said, dipping his hand down between Eskel's tits. The ties on Eskel's shirt were broken, had been for a while. Lambert had convinced him to put off the repairs for two reasons, both of which were gloriously firm and furred beneath his palms. He rubbed in wide circles, brushing a nipple, and smirked when Eskel arched into the touch. "Randy old man."

"'M old, not dead, keep touching me like that and I'll have to do somethin' about it."

"Tough talk from an old dog. If I scratch you just right, your leg gonna start kicking?"

"Smart arse." Eskel cuffed the side of Lambert's head and grabbed his wrists. Lambert coiled up, teeth bared in glee, as he prepared for the fight. If he could wind Eskel up enough, he might even get him to drop his sensibilities and fuck here in the open. All sweat, and low growls, and firm, cushioned muscle. Really would scandalise the neighbours. Lambert clamped his thighs around Eskel's head and snickered.

A shadow fell across them, blocking out the dappled sunlight. "Puppies, puppies. I can't leave you for five minutes, can I?"

Lambert stopped scuffling with Eskel and looked up, more fool him. While Lambert was distracted by the glistening body before them, Eskel curled up and nipped at his tit hard enough to make him yelp. Lambert slapped an offended hand to his chest and glowered, "You cheatin' mother–"

Aiden grinned at them as he dumped his wrapped catch in the shade nearby. Eskel was squirming, vision obscured by the cushion, the press of Lambert's thighs and his own hair, so Aiden dropped over his hips to keep him still. Aiden's trews were wet from the river, already riding low, and Lambert could make out the contours of his thighs and everything else on offer; it made his mouth water. Eskel probably felt it too and if he didn't, then Aiden made sure to drive home his point with a slow, long roll against the burgeoning hardness of Eskel's crotch.

Eskel stilled, his hands sliding up Aiden's thighs, and Lambert pulled the cushion away so they could both admire the sight before them. They stared in silence, mouths agape, and Aiden smirked. "Cat got your tongues?"

"Nah," Lambert said, his own crooked smile reflected back. "Want it?"

Aiden leaned forward, keeping his hips pressed close to Eskel's so that he could enjoy the effect he was having on the big wolf. "Don't mind if I do."

Lambert kissed Aiden slowly, savouring the taste of him, the lazy, gentle passion that matched the heavy heat of the afternoon. A warm knot built in his gut as their tongues slid together, Lambert's fingers tracing Aiden's slighter jaw to his slender ear studded with metal and fragile chains. A mark of their bond, of Aiden's dedication to two men who had found him wandering and lost, and given him somewhere to drop roots, build his nest.

Lambert had teased him at the time–fuckin' Aen Seidhe marriage customs, for Witchers, what was he thinking?–but had thoroughly bought into it when he had seen a soft look in Eskel's eyes. Last time he'd seen that look was when he caught Eskel watching him sleep one early morning. Unbridled adoration. Heady shit.

There was a hitch, a soft gasp of pleasure punching out of Aiden as Eskel lifted a little from Lambert's lap to suck and kiss Aiden's chest, too tantalisingly close to ignore. Big hands slid down Aiden's waist to grip his arse, Eskel's hips rolling up insistently, and Aiden's mouth fell from Lambert's to rest on his shoulder with a low, longing groan. "Naughty puppies," he rasped.

Lambert licked the arch of Aiden's ear, toying with those silver decorations. "Shouldn't start something you're not planning to finish."

"Oh, I'm gonna finish," Aiden pressed a firm palm into the centre of Lambert's chest and forced him back against the tree. The smile he flashed was all white teeth and charm. "Just getting started."

[kenobihater]

oh, i ABSOLUTELY think the "unstable" rumors are born out of bigotry! considering that the cat witchers have such a close tie with the aen seidhe, who are also pretty vilified, i'm 100% in the camp that even if there is any truth to the mutagens causing some sort of personality change, that most of the basis for the hatred is bigotry. and yes, i've considered the hormonal imbalance aspect, just like i have brain damage from the mutagens, but i honestly have never seen anyone go either of those routes! i'd be interested in exploring it myself, but i know VERY little about the intersection beween endocrinology and personality changes lol, and the same for brain damage.

so summing up my headcanons about the cat school's bad reputation, i think that the mutagens do not directly cause permanent psychosis, but could cause a drug-induced psychotic episode that could trigger latent mental illness. i'm undecided and feel neutral about the mutagens causing hormonal imbalances or brain damage. i do think there is a high percentage of mentally ill cat witchers, because as you said, they seem to be the most accepting school. i also headcanon gezras, the half-elf who founded the caravan, as some flavor of mentally ill (ptsd for sure after what he was put through, also probably bipolar bc i love to project lol). because he's neurodivergent, i hc him as setting the standard for accepting mentally ill witchers. in regards to gaetan and brehen (the latter of which i only know by name) i think that it could be a number of factors that led to them committing massacres. the brain damage/possible hormonal imbalance from the mutagens could contribute, as could psychosis (i wanna stress that psychosis can lead to heightened aggression, but rarely leads to violence unless the psychotic person is pushed to the brink. in reality we're more likely to face violence than commit it), but another factor i think could be the way they were raised. we know very little about the cat school's trials or how they raise their trainees, but if it was anything like the wolf school methods, i doubt it was all sunshine and rainbows. if on top of the horrors of being made into witchers, they were raised in an environment that doesn't condemn violence against humans and actively views themselves as separate from humans? if they were taught that might = right, and that violence is a valid means of conflict resolution, is it any wonder that they slaughtered so many when provoked (at least gaetan. i don't remember whether or not brehen had any reason to do what he did)? i honestly think it's nothing short of a miracle that aiden turned out to be such a good guy according to lambert, and my background for him involves him having mentors who took an interest in raising him right, because i can't see how he ended up so noble if he fell through the cracks of such a broken system.

also yeah, the heartbeat thing is fun to explore, and i've known for a while there isn't as much overwhelming evidence for the heartbeat change = lying trope as fandom would have you believe, but i'm a fan of daredevil and therefore a complete sucker for the idea lmao

(I hope u dont mind me sending this as an ask i was gon do a reply but it ended up being long ;o;) idk if this classifies as romanticization but i love stories or hcs where witcher mutations are a bit more otherifying than we see in canon - such as changes in blood color/viscosity, maybe muscles that are anatomically different than nonmutated humans/elves, and the fangs like you said - the closer they hit Uncanny Valley the better. mainly because i think that its a little cheap that witchers look exactly like a normal human/elf (besides the eyes, depending on the canon, since i think in the books they keep their normal coloring - geral's eyes are described as "dark" often enough for that at least). visualizing the trauma inherent to witcherhood and making the metaphorical stripping of humanity/personhood manifest physically just Hits Harder, yanno?

and also i absolutely adore stories/settings/hc that actually acknowledge the witchers' enhanced senses and apply them realistically. cause like, we don't really know how far their hearing stretches, for example (at least i can't recall any specific details) but I think it's mentioned that witchers can hear heartbeats well enough. so they could easily be overwhelmed by sound even in a room so still and quiet that a normal person could hear a pin drop, simply because living beings are within that room - how difficult it must be for them to sleep in human settlements or share barracks freshly after the trial of the grasses when nobody speaks yet everyone is defeaned by their hearts and lungs and blood thundering in their eats. and hell, stomachs make lots of sounds that we can't usually hear - the witcher probably have a front row seat to all the fucked up noises all bodies make.

i dunno why i sent all that besides wanting to start a discussion to hear your opinions on it so i am a) sorry for bursting into your ask box like that and also b),,,,could you,,,,Rant About Things?? like both the whole discussion that prompted this and also whatever thoughts you have about witchers bc i love that (once again i am sorry)

i love getting asks, don't apologize! this is gonna be a disjointed and rambly response, so heads up for that lol! firstly, yeah, idk if that counts as romanticization, but i love the trope of a more heightened otherness too, and that's the kind of romanticization (if you wanna call it that) that i enjoy! anything that really makes them not quite human really helps to, as you said, stress the changes both mental and physical they go through during the trials.

secondly, yeah, acknowledgement of enhanced senses is totally my jam. i struggle to remember to do this in fics sometimes, but i've been getting better about it because it's just such a cool concept, yanno? balancing the right amount of enhanced senses in writing kind of reminds me how in my star wars fics i had to learn to acknowledge the force as a baseline sense for my force-sensitive characters. it's there, but you don't want to draw undue attention to it that would distract from the story. you want to use it to enhance, not hinder your plot, but it is important to recognize when it could actually be a detriment to the story you're telling and allude to that in the text (like, for example, in one of my upcoming fics i have someone lie to lambert and he mentally acknowledges it's a lie bc he can hear her heartbeat, but doesn't call her out on it for a reason. if i didn't acknowledge his superhearing now with the lie but bring it up later, it could ring false to the reader).

also, in the same vein of enhanced senses those are all wonderful points! sensory overload is something i occasionally experience and it is a cruel bitch, so having that due to enhanced senses all the time, and you're unable to turn it off and just have to learn to live with it and tune things out? oh, it's so good!

thank you for sending the ask, and also you're offering me free rein to rant? thank you! currently, the only thing i feel i could rant about is how psychosis is treated in the fandom by non-psychotics, particularly in regards to cat witchers.

you can't just decide to go the route of writing them as psychotics and then just go "oh yeah, this character is psychotic :)" and NOT elaborate properly! that's literally like saying "oh yeah, this character has Symptoms of a Disease" and not fucking telling us what disease they have! because at the end of the day, that's exactly what psychosis is - a symptom for several different diseases! usually, the only elaboration fic writers do is going "ooooh, they have psychosis so they are Evil and Violent now" which, i cannot overstate this enough, is the single worst misconception about psychotic people i know of, one that has real life repercussions for psychotic people and has caused untold pain and suffering. putting this dangerous misinformation into your fics because you want to write a character as Edgy and Morally Bankrupt and blame it on the psychosis is fucking disgusting, and if anyone reading this does this you owe me and every other psychotic person in the fandom $50.

also, i don't like the take that mutagens can cause people to be psychotic. to my knowledge, drug-induced psychosis is possible, but isn't permanent, meaning even if the cat mutagens caused acute psychosis in the people receiving them, it wouldn't last more than maybe a few months, and while it could trigger an underlying, latent mental disorder, it could not create one. there's no such thing as injecting someone with fantasy steroids and accidentally giving them bipolar disorder (because it's always bipolar, when the writers do deign to name it). brain damage is another thing entirely and can cause personality changes, but i don't know nearly enough about it to talk about it with confidence.

bottom line, if you're non-psychotic and wanna write psychotic cat witchers, do your research, don't imply the mutagens did it, don't act like their psychosis is linked with their violent tendencies, and really think about why you want to write the characters that are almost entirely referred to as evil and morally bankrupt (except for lambert about aiden) as psychotic. psychotic people can write whatever they want, hell, i'm writing aiden as bipolar, but the difference is i'm doing it to see myself in the character and i'm also not implying he's unhinged and violent. i don't speak for all psychotic people, but those are just my two cents on something in the witcher fandom that REALLY irks me, and i think i'm gonna write up an actual proper post on it. thank you for letting me rant, i really needed this because i'm Fed Up lmao!

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Forged in Silver definitely caught my eye, if you want to share about that one <3 love you, my friend

Forged In Silver

This is technically my WBB, but what the hell. I could do with some love for it. This is from Chapter 3. And I've already shared it on Twitter.

They arrived at Beeches shortly before sunset on the second day. The horses covered the ground well, but they traipsed gratefully into the sheltered stables in search of dry hay and rest. On the outskirts of town, tall chimneys belched dark smoke into the sky and the smell of tar added a bitter tang to the air. This was one of the few towns in southern Kaedwen where the inhabitants of humans and nonhumans mixed without issue.

“Who chose Flotsam?” Lambert asked over ale and an empty bowl that evening. The pottage had gone down well; strips of salty gammon, peas and root vegetables with two generous rusks of fresh bread.

Aiden fixed him with that same stare, thoughtful, cautious. Even though Lambert had proven to be a worthy travel companion, he was still hesitant to trust. Despite lingering reservations, Aiden conceded that Lambert needed a touch more information than he had been given thus far. “I did,” Aiden said, stirring the remains of his stew with little intent to eat anymore. His appetite had vanished the moment that letter arrived.

“Always thought they said elves, like cats, are scared of water. With scoia’tael prowling the forests around it, the merchants stick to trading on the water. Town’s made an absolute killing.”

Aiden rolled his eyes. “Only half elf.”

“Elf when it suits you, human when it doesn’t.” Lambert smirked behind the lip of his mug and watched Aiden scowl in disapproval. “Miserable bastard too. Got it all going for you. Quite the catch; I’m surprised you’re still a bachelor.”

“If this is how you flirt, I’m not surprised you’re pushing so hard for a roll with me,” Aiden shot back.

“I fuck better than I flirt. Tend to rely on repeat customers rather than new business.” There was that flicker again. The barest hint of delight in the twitch of Aiden’s lips and the shine of his eyes. It wasn’t the sanctimonious sort that Lambert often saw in the faces of Aen Seidhe when they dealt with him, but genuine amusement. His sense of humour was as shit as Lambert’s. Despite his aggressive rejection at the workshop, there had been a glimmer of interest then too. Even if it was just the desire to feel a warm and willing body against his; the chilling bite of loneliness only sank deeper as time wore on.

“You don’t trust these people we’re meeting,” Lambert stated. “And you trust them even less than me, which, considering you thought I was the Man of Mirrors come to reap your ass this morning, that’s a pretty low fucking bar. So, who are they? Spies? Nilfgaardians? Scoia’tael?”

“Keep your voice down,” Aiden hissed. Lambert watched as he tugged at the sleeve of his shirt to cover the tail end of the twisting vine tattoo down his forearm.

“If you don’t start talking, I’ll weave a merry fucking ballad about where we’re heading and just make up the reasons why. Know a word that rhymes with treason?”

“You’re a first class cunt, you know that?”

“I’m first class at everything,” Lambert replied. “Now spill or be prepared to be immortalised in song. I’ll call it Aiden, the Cat of Vattweir, just so fans know where to find you for an autograph.”

Aiden glanced over his shoulder, eyeing the small cluster of dwarven factory workers clustered around a table by the far wall. It was a quiet night and they were already well and truly in their cups. “The man we’re meeting,” Aiden began, his voice low, “his name’s Jad Karadin. Former witcher.”

“Shit,” Lambert huffed a laugh, "another like you?”

The corner of Aiden’s lips twitched. “Formerly of the same school, but that’s where the similarity ends.”

“You’re not a fan, so why deal with him in the first place? You seem to have it pretty comfortable in Vattweir.”

“That’s my business.”

“And it’s about to become my business,” Lambert murmured. “If I’m about to step into the middle of some Cat school territorial pissing contest, then I need to know.”

“There aren’t many opportunities for a former witcher on the Continent and even fewer places where one can belong.” Aiden finally threw his spoon into the bowl before him and stood. “You were wrong before.”

“Before?” Lambert raised an eyebrow.

“You called me the Cat of Vattweir,” Aiden said as he turned, “the reality is, I’m the Cat of Nowhere.”

Lambert stared at the doorway long after Aiden had walked away.

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Ooh can we get Lambden cuddling for warmth in a cave during a storm/blizzard that turns into some heavy smut/it’s their first time and they’re both nervous bc there’s been -t e n s i o n- for a few years now (canon verse) pls ☺️

A/N: Aiden and Lambert have been friends for years. Until they get stuck in a cave in the middle of a blizzard that is. Warnings: sweet negotiations; past pining; virgin Aiden; experienced Lambert.

“This is your fault,” Lambert seethed through a clenched jaw as they stared out of the cave mouth at the blizzard. He wasn’t that pissed off. It was just that if he didn’t grit his teeth then they were likely to rattle out of his head. “I told you we didn’t have time for that nekker nest.” 

The fire wasn’t enough. The flames danced weakly in the space between them, and frozen fingers clutched at the edges of their cloaks to pull them tight around their bodies. “It was just a minor pest control job,” Aiden huffed dismissively. “You’re the one who had to haggle for more money and then get us driven out of the town in the wrong direction.”

“I can’t abide a cheapskate,” Lambert grumbled. “There were twice the number of mini-munchers than they said, and – what?” He trailed off. Because Aiden was smiling. It was a thing he did. A beautiful curve of glossy pink lips that showed just a touch of tooth; it created dimples in his lightly freckled cheeks and made the corners of his eyes crinkle. It was the most gorgeous sight on the fucking Continent – sunsets, the Blue Mountains, Aen Seidhe princesses, could all do one – it was all Aiden. Aiden, smiling and amused, was the only kind of beauty that ever stole Lambert’s attention.

And his heart.

Oh, and Aiden was hot. The tear-my-braies-off-and-bend-me-over-right-fucking-now kind of hot. The kind of hot you saw across the tavern and then had to readjust your damned trousers because they weren’t built for enduring that kind of view. The few times Lambert had seen him naked – showering beneath a waterfall Murivel, changing in the backroom of an inn – it’d required a deft bit of self-maintenance when Aiden wasn’t paying attention to keep things… not awkward between them.

There was one problem. Small – minor – issue. Lambert had never actually told him.

Words were hard, alright? Fuck off. Besides, why should it all be on Lambert? Aiden was the other half of this sexual tension sweet bun. Oh, his ass was like a sweet bun.

And yet somehow, after all this time, Aiden hadn’t noticed. Or pretended not to. Somehow didn’t scent it on the air when Lambert’s hormones all decided he was hardcore Aiden-sexual every time the guy bent over, or flexed, or fucking… smiled.

It was like one of those shitty romance novels full of pining, except the princess was a scarred Cat Witcher with a love of cake and a laugh more beautiful than the winds singing through the caverns of the Blue Mountains, and the prince was… Lambert.

“You know, we should share our cloaks,” Aiden blurted out, like he thought if he said it quick enough he could throw the words down and run away. Two greeny yellow eyes gazed at Lambert from the cave of his hood, wide and… afraid?

Lambert blinked. If he curled up against Aiden, then his body was going to betray him instantly. And what if that drove Aiden off - ? No. This was just… huddling for warmth. Practical. If they didn’t, then the others would come down from Kaer Morhen to find two frozen idiots ogling each other for an eternity over a dead fire.

“Yeah, we should, totally,” Lambert cleared his throat and shuffled awkwardly around the fire until he was shoulder to shoulder with his… friend. They sat there for a moment, inspecting the fire as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. Slowly, deliberately, Lambert opened his arms, cloak like the wings of a bat and scooped Aiden up in one deft move. Like ripping a bandage off so that the pain was brief.

They pressed close, and Lambert’s face buried in Aiden’s hair, his arms wrapped tightly around his chest. That hadn’t been the idea. But now that he was there, now that Aiden’s auburn hair spread out over his nose and cheeks, he inhaled deeply. Oh yeah. Yeeeah. That was the good shit. That was – oh, bollocks. Blood rushing. Trousers tightening. Stomach knotting. 

Aiden shifted; a tiny, almost imperceptible twitch, but his ass definitely felt everything that was currently pushed out against the ties of Lambert’s trousers. A very heavy silence sat on top of them. Like a huge troll had just come and plonked its fat ass right on their heads. Aiden suddenly sat up a little straighter, like he’d come to a decision. “Lambert.”

“Y’hello,” Lambert croaked, because he was trying his damnedest not to rut up against that pert ass with its tight trousers. Fucking Cats and their tight armour. Why? At the moment, it could pass as a poorly placed knife or something.

“Do you…?” Aiden seemed to lose his confidence for a moment, and so Lambert just… tightened his arms a touch. You know, a little, reassuring squeeze. He wasn’t sure what he was reassuring him about, but the reassuring had been done. Aiden tilted his head back and Lambert could hear him snuffling at the air. Fuck. Busted. 

“Aiden, I can explain - ,” Lambert immediately loosened his grip and tried to move away, but Aiden grabbed onto his forearms and suddenly pushed back.

“You like me,” the Cat stated.

“Yeah, you’re alright,” Lambert forced his lips down, pressing them close together, toes curling in his boots. Yes, yes, fucking yes. 

“Hm,” Aiden huffed. Another long pause. A pregnant pause, if you will. “Lambert, I’ve never... “ he stopped, again, and Lambert was about ready to throttle him, but just when he was sizing up that elegant neck, Aiden started again, “if you laugh, I’ll punch you.”

“I won’t laugh,” Lambert grumbled, vaguely offended.

“I’ve never…” Aiden sighed, “...had sex.”

“Oh,” Lambert’s brow furrowed, and then realisation bloomed through his head like spilled mead on a tavern floor. There was a reason Aiden was telling him this specific fact right at this specific moment. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Aiden sagged in Lambert’s arms. “Medallion kinda… puts people off. And there’s a rule about never putting your dick in crazy, and the School of the Cat is just an asylum on wheels most of the time, and - .”

Lambert could feel Aiden bunching up with each passing word. “Hey, oi,” he turned his face into Aiden’s hair again, nosing through the small braid that fell down behind his ear. “If you’re askin’ what I think you’re askin’, then the answer’s yeah, yeah I want to.”

Aiden squeaked. Fucking squeaked. And Lambert’s heart did this little fluttering thing it had never done before. Like someone had replaced it with a sparrow that was trying to fight its way out to settle in Aiden’s pretty hair, where it would nest forever, and - 

“Now?”

Lambert’s eyes widened. “What?”

“Can we do it now?”

“Aiden, it’s kinda cold, I’m not really at my full - grandeur,” Lambert did a little shuffle to make sure. Actually, you know, with Aiden all warm against him, maybe he could muster a little bit of a show.

“No,” Aiden turned in Lambert’s arms until they sat nose to nose. “I want - uh, I want your ass.”

“Oh,” Lambert’s eyebrows shot up. That was… unexpected. “Well, I mean…”

“I’ve looked at it a lot,” Aiden said seriously. “You… your trousers are very tight.”

“That’s fucking rich coming from you. Sometimes I think you’ve painted them on,” Lambert growled, and then decided that mouth was too close and, oh fuck, it was smiling again. Their lips pressed together - dry, chapped, not exactly the most dazzling of kisses - but Lambert moaned softly into it nonetheless. He’d been wrong before about the hair. This was the good shit. 

Then suddenly Lambert could smell it. A swell of raw need soaking the air, emanating from every single one of Aiden’s pores; it was sweet, and soft, and beautiful. Aiden wanted, and he wanted bad. Agile fingers scrambled at the front of Lambert’s gambeson, shaking with excitement, and he grinned into Aiden’s lips. “Alright, alright. No need to tear me out of my kit,” Lambert guided him away, putting some space between their chests. His gaze travelled down Aiden’s chest to his - well, holy fucking Melitele on a horse cock, it was huge. Even inside the restraints of Aiden’s clothes, Lambert could see that beast of a dick growing down Aiden’s right trouser leg. 

“Now I feel somewhat inferior,” Lambert’s eyes flicked up, and then raised an eyebrow when he saw the Cheshire cat level grin sprawling across Aiden’s face. He stared at him long enough for it to falter a little because he was a cruel fucker like that, and then rubbed their noses together. “Gimme a sec’. There’s a bit of, uh… prep, I need to do.”

The mad dash outside for a bowl of snow was totally worth it, his teeth chattering as he melted it down with a little puff of igni. As was the awkward shuffling with a washcloth underneath the cover of his cloak so as not to completely destroy the moment. Aiden watched it all, with big, interested eyes, plucking idly at the ties on the front of his trousers. When Lambert returned with a stoppered bottle though, he squinted in confusion. “Is that oil for - ?”

“Don’t think about it,” Lambert warned, and then nipped that pouty frown as he wiggled out of his trousers and boots. It was too cold to shed his gambeson and shirt, and he was already shivering from his brief time away from the fire. “C’mon, get these down, and sit on my pack… yeah, like that.” Lambert guided Aiden back and tugged his trousers down to his knees. When he finally straddled those well-muscled thighs, he stroked his fingers slowly down the front of Aiden’s vest. Lingering over each button and clasp, allowing their breath to mingle as they both watched his hand progress, Lambert bit his lower lip as he finally slid his fingers down velvet soft skin. 

Aiden let out a strangled noise somewhere on the spectrum between a grunt and a whine. The drool of precome leaking from Aiden’s slit wetted Lambert’s palm as he teased his foreskin around his head. “Wolf, fucking… ahh. Oh my - oh my - gods, ahh.”

“Huh,” Lambert smirked, stifling those desperate gasps with another kiss as he thumbed open the bottle. The cork skittered across the cave floor, and he tipped a generous puddle of oil over Aiden’s groin. His hand worked it back up his shaft until every glorious inch glistened, leaping eagerly against his palm with each gentle tug. “You’re not gonna’ be a two minute wonder, are ya’?” Another little shuffle. “Now, are you ready? Because you’re definitely about to put your dick in a whole loada’ crazy.”

Aiden looked almost pained, clearly unable to muster his wit amidst the mire of need, and Lambert chuckled as he leaned their foreheads together. With a little bit of shimmying, he moved his hips forward and reached between his own thighs for a little bit of preparation. Not too much. He loved the stretch of a good prick and Aiden… yeah, he counted and then some. It’d been a while though, and he had forgotten the pleasure to be found in a simple touch at the right angle. Aiden watched, mystified, and couldn’t help but lean up to kiss Lambert's slack jaw and damp lips. “Bert,” he whispered, and smiled hopefully up into those misty eyes as they dropped. “Want you.”

“Mmm,” Lambert cupped Aiden’s jaw and tilted his head back as he angled his hips. The thick head of Aiden’s prick notched into his rim, and with slow, gentle rocks he worked himself down into Aiden’s lap. He didn’t want to miss the moment - that moment - when a person discovered the pleasure of joining with someone they lov--uh, liked very much. So Lambert lifted his lips away, watched as Aiden’s mouth formed an awed ‘oh’, eyes glazing over in bliss, as Lambert’s body gripped around him. “Oh, fu -  Aiden, yeah.” Lambert stuttered, stopping only when he was fully seated, his ass flush with Aiden’s groin. 

“Feels good,” Aiden gasped out the understatement of the millennia. He looked like he was floating in the heavens; the admiration poured out of his eyes, his body quaking with need. Finally rediscovering the use of his hands, he reached around to grab a handful of an asscheek while the other scrubbed over the bristles of Lambert’s beard with an appreciative growl. Feral fuck. 

Those blunt nails scratched through Lambert’s hair next and pulled him down for another kiss; wet, slow, with tongues that brushed lazily together. Lambert began to slowly move his hips in the rhythm he loved; he knew the angle, knew the pace, knew everything that would make this more than just good for them both. As he worked, their combined sweat dampened the warm interior of their cloak cocoon, skin slick and flushed, the cold a distant memory.

Lambert lost the capability to coordinate a kiss as his body built to its peak, and slumped onto Aiden’s shoulder. He tilted his head so that his lips pressed to the hammering pulse in the side of his lover’s neck that matched the throb deep in his ass. Aiden was gaining confidence, heels pushed into the floor so that he could meet Lambert’s lazy rolls with firmer thrusts that found the sweetest spot. He nudged Lambert away from him so he could watch their bodies join; his cock pumping into Lambert, and Lambert’s erection shivering, leaking. Aiden wrapped a hand around it, tugging roughly in time with his thrusts until Lambert’s noise filled the cave.

Lambert groaned, and panted, and gasped, moving faster, demanding more, until finally Aiden went rigid below him. His lean body tensed like a coiled spring, and Lambert managed to lift his head to allow Aiden’s to fall back. 

Well, that was fucking unfair. Even his orgasm face was pretty. 

Pink lips parted, green eyes wide, lean throat perfect for nibbling. In fact, yeah; Lambert leaned down and bit his ownership as he rode himself to completion. The brush of Aiden’s palm down his shaft and over his head was enough, and he painted that ocean blue gambeson with strips of white. They slumped on Lambert’s packs, the cloaks draped over them, their own body heat enough to keep the cold of the blizzard at bay.

Lambert moved with a quiet grunt, ignoring the mess between them in favour of studying his blissed out kitty-cat. “Consider your cherry popped.”

“Huh,” Aiden smiled; it was bleary, almost drunken. “Can’t believe I was missing out on that all this time.”

“How much time?”

“How long have we known each other?”

“Uh,” Lambert ran the calculations. “Ten… fifteen years, maybe?”

“Yeah,” Aiden slumped. “That long.”

“Well, fuck,” Lambert stretched, rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck. “Got some catchin’ up to do then. Wait until you see what I can do with my tongue…” Aiden’s eyes went wide, and Lambert wiggled his eyebrows as he shuffled down. 

“Oh,” Aiden gasped. Perhaps getting caught in a cave in the middle of a hellish blizzard wasn’t so bad after all…