The Witcher (One shots)

When the Wolf and Cat meet

Aiden laughed, reached out, and ran his fingers through the shimmering runes. Purple light danced across his skin, his bare chest. His endless heaps of scars.

He was handsome. So goddamn handsome. He was the type of handsome that people sang about, cried about. Fuck that Dandelion and his obsession with ragged old Geralt, Lambert thought. He should be wailing to the masses about someone like this. This here’s a fucking muse.

He kept all that to himself, though, and what he said was: “Got banned from a pub in Novigrad for shit like this. I was trying to get this elf lady in bed with me – thought lighting a candle with my hands would impress her, but, I’d had a few to drink and my control wasn’t great.” He smiled at the memory. “Melted the whole thing down to a puddle and nearly torched the halfling behind the counter. Tough luck.”

Aiden turned back to him as their ring of Yrden died out with a fizzle and a pop. “So, what happened to the elf lady? You still get lucky?”

“Fuck yeah,” Lambert lied.

“Mm. Well I’m not that easy. I’m going to bed.”

-

Lambert had an ache in his back the next morning from sleeping on the uneven ground. He didn’t complain about it, but Aiden still knew.

He reached out and caught Lambert’s arm, spun him around wordlessly, then dug the heels of his palms right into the knot between Lambert’s shoulders. Right where he needed it most. When he was done, he kissed Lambert’s neck. Soft, innocent.  

Kiss me again, Lambert thought. Kiss me again, kiss my lips, kiss my face, kiss my hands, kiss me in a church, kiss me in the street, kiss me in front of my brothers, I wouldn’t care. I never care. Not about anything. Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me, please.

He kept all that to himself, though, and what he said was: “What was that about? How old do you think I am?”

Aiden looked tired. “Old.” He shuffled around and presented his back. “My turn.”

Lambert didn’t return the kiss on the neck when he was done. He was too old for dumb stuff like that.

-

“And so, the Princess, cursed and feral. Was saved and blessed by Witcher Geral…t.” Aiden sang from the saddle. He was off-key. There was sweat tracking down his throat and into his collar. “’Oh’, cried King, ‘Mine daughter! Cured at last! I thank you, Wolf, and your strength, unsurpassed.’”

“Do you really have to sing about my brother?”

Aiden shot him a dirty look; his melody interrupted. “It’s a good song.”

“Yeah, but it’s my brother.” Lambert flicked his reins. “Kinda hard to buy into a heroic ballad about a guy you’ve watched puke out of his nose. More than once.”

Aiden rolled his eyes. “Fine. I’ll sing the one about the archer. He’s hardly in that.”

I wish you wouldn’t, Lambert thought. I wish that you hated him. I wish you would sing about me. I wish you would think about me. I wish you were sick over me. I wish you would get mean and hopeless and lost when I wasn’t around. I wish I could give you even a taste of what you’re doing to me, you fucking monster.

He kept all that to himself, though, and what he said was: “Whatever. But when you finally meet Geralt and see how pathetic he is you’re never gonna want to say his name again. Believe me.”

Aiden arched an eyebrow. “When?”

Lambert shrugged. “He gets around. You’ll run into him one of these days.”