Oct 31, 2025
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Would anyone actually want to read Lambert (Witcher) x Reader? 🥺
yes
nope
(results)
Something in the Orange (part 3)
Pairing: Lambert x female!sorceress!reader
Word count: 3 427
Summary: When Geralt of Rivia disappears, Jaskier has no choice but to ask his best friend for help. Although struggling with her own issues, Y/N agrees and they join Vesemir and the others in Kaer Morhen. The search might be difficult but not as difficult as the certain redheaded witcher who keeps challenging her.
A/n: I’m sorry for the long wait AGAIN but the last two months were wild. Enjoy!
Part 1 Part 2
After a couple of failed attempts, impatient mumbles from Ciri and words of encouragement from Jaskier, Y/N did it. The portal was right there in front of them. She felt dizzy and could feel her energy draining incredibly fast but she was awfully proud of herself. Making portals was always risky but this one seemed completely stable. The only problem is going to be keeping it open until everyone crosses.
“Go!” Y/N yells but no one looks like they are ready to go first.
Lambert, who was standing closest to the portal, moves a step back.
“I’m not going to be able to do this whole day. Go.” Y/N looks at him, keeping her arms steady in front of her.
“Why me? So you can close it as soon as I cross over?” he crosses arms. Y/N rolls her eyes and turns around to her best friend.
“Jaskier. Please.” she looks at him with hope in her eyes. Jaskier hesitates for a bit, but slowly nods.
As soon as he moves a step forward, Lambert scoffs and slightly shakes his head.
Jaskier doesn’t say anything but steps forward again.
“Fine, I’ll go first. Save your precious troubadour ass from potential downfall.” he says and steps forward, standing in Jaskier’s way. Jaskier slightly frowns at him, but doesn’t say anything, as if he’s trying to read his mind.
“Go!” Y/N repeats before both men could say anything else.
Lambert glances at her then steps in front of the portal. The portal makes a loud sound but nothing happens as Lambert’s hand slowly touches the dimmed veil. He hesitates for a second before finally stepping inside.
Y/N is holding her breath.
There’s no response from the portal when Lambert fully disappears. Portal is still stable. Y/N feels her heart beating like she just ran a marathon.
He crossed safely. He’s fine.
“Next!” she says, her voice shaky.
Jaskier, who was already on his way when Lambert stopped him, moves forward again.
His fits are nervously clenched but he looks determined.
Once he’s gone, the rest of the group looks a bit more certain now. Portal is still stable, but Y/N feels the energy shifting slightly. Ciri moves closer as soon as Jaskier is through.
“We will have to speed things up a bit.” Y/N tells Vesemir when Ciri crosses over without a word.
She could feel the portal taking more and more energy from her. Y/N wasn’t sure was Ciri’s magic somehow to be blamed for that but she didn’t want to question it any longer.
Vesemir nods and moves forwards immediately. He knew what this meant. Portal was going to be unstable soon.
As Vesemir passes through, Y/N feels something warm on her lips. Her nose was already bleeding.
Shit.
She still had Coen and herself to go through. Portal could go unstable any minute now.
“Coen, wait!” she calls for him. The witcher halts and turns to her. “We need to go together!” she tells him, with hint of panic in her voice.
Coen is visibly confused but nods in silence. He joins her and slowly they start to approach the portal. Y/N’s arms are slightly shaking at this point and her vision is getting blurry.
Come on, you can do this.
As they are about to enter, portal suddenly shatters.
“Jump!” Y/N screams, flinging herself towards. The white light surrounds her and forces her to close her eyes.
The pressure inside her own mind is insane. It lasts only for couple of seconds and then suddenly Y/N feels the ground beneath her and the heaviness is gone. She dares to open her eyes, fully prepared for the worst.
But there she is, standing in front of small rescue group.
Relief hits her and she falls down on her knees. All of her energy was gone. It’s going to take days before she’s fully healed. The energy drained from her by the portal was equivalent to an entire month's worth of effort for an oneiromancer’s work.
Jaskier runs towards her, grabbing her around the shoulders.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” brushing the blood off her lips. Jaskier immediately offers her a handkerchief and Y/N takes it.
“Where is Coen?” Lambert asks. Y/N looks at him and then around herself. He wasn’t there. Her heart sinks.
“Where is he?!” Lambert asks, this time, much louder. Y/N manages to stand up with Jaskier’s help.
“He didn’t-”
Lambert is standing in front of her, lifting his arms and aiming for Y/N’s shoulders. Or neck. Y/N couldn’t be too sure.
Whatever his goal was, Lambert was stopped by Vesemir, who suddenly appeared by his right side.
“That’s enough, let her explain.” Vesemir gives him a warning look. “Y/N.” he looks at her now.
“Coen should be just fine. He didn’t jump on time so the portal closed in front of him.” Y/N says, finally leaning on her own feet without Jaskier’s help. Her friend still stood near, monitoring her every movement. “He is unharmed. Probably just upset he didn’t cross over.” she adds.
“If he’s not-”
“Oh, won’t you give me a break! I just held the portal open for 5 people. He is alive and well!” Y/N snaps at redheaded witcher. Lambert’s brows furrowed but he didn’t say anything this time. He turns his back on her in utter silence.
“Now…where are we?” Jaskier quietly asks, looking around. Everyone else does the same. Unfortunately, there isn't much to go on. The eerie woodland lay shrouded in an ethereal mist, its gnarled trees stretching their skeletal branches toward an ominous sky. The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and moss. Jaskier, who was still standing next to Y/N, slightly trembles when a distant howl fills their ears.
“Maybe it’s just me, but this doesn’t look like Hengfors.” Ciri mumbles. Y/N feels the wave of shame overwhelm her. She really believed she was powerful enough to do this right.
It was still an early morning but the dense, dark clouds hindered the sunlight from piercing through. With each passing moment, the mist enveloping them grew denser and heavier.
“No, but we have to find our way there.” Vesemir adds calmly. Y/N slowly makes a step forward and approaches him.
“I’m sorry-” Y/N says. Vesemir’s yellow eyes stared at her with a piercing gaze. “Do not apologize, Y/N. You helped us.”
“We don’t even know where we are.” Y/N says feeling the slight dizziness overcome her again.
“We will get to the closest town. We should head west.” he says, this time to the whole group, which meant their discussion was over.
Vesemir took the lead and Ciri followed, tightly gripping the hilt of her silver sword.
Y/N nervously swallowed. Despite taking a deep breath, the dizziness persisted. She wouldn’t dare to stop the group for her own troubles. She had to walk.
Jaskier, who remained by her side, regarded her with a gaze filled with concern. Y/N felt even worse. She didn’t want anyone’s pity for her own failure.
“I’m fine. We should go.” she tells him.
“Can you walk?” he asks, obviously not convinced. Y/N nods and takes a few steps forward. The bard lets out a sigh, refraining from uttering a word, and began trailing behind Ciri.
Y/N's attention was drawn to Lambert's figure, catching a glimpse of him behind her with the corner of her eye. She didn’t like him walking behind her but had no energy or desire to fight him again.
The group walked in a tranquil silence, enveloped by the ambient sounds of nature that surrounded them. Even Jaskier remained quiet, occupied with his own thoughts and worries about their current location.
But no one blamed Y/N. Not even the red headed witcher at the end of the line.
Y/N fixated on her own steps, each one proving more difficult than the last. All she wanted now was to lay down and sleep for days.
***
After a few hours of (mostly) silent walking, the landscape around them began to change - woodland was replaced by eerie swamp. Y/N took a deep breath. The air became infused with a pungent aroma, carrying the unmistakable scent of decaying vegetation and stagnant water that defined the wetland.
Muscles in Y/N’s legs were screaming. Her whole body did. She had reached the point where she truly didn't know how much longer she could continue walking. When she finally raised her gaze from the ground, which had captivated her attention for the past half hour, she came to the realization that she had fallen behind. Jaskier now walked at least 10 meters ahead of her, leaving her with the undeniable awareness that her pace had slowed down.
“We have to pick up the pace. We don't want to be trapped in a swamp when it gets dark.” Vesemir shouted from upfront. Lambert, who was still walking behind Y/N quietly, didn’t say anything, but Y/N heard his steps getting closer to her now. When he finally bypassed her, Y/N felt helpless. Her own feet were betraying her. She struggled to focus on each step, but her vision was blurring with every moment.
She abruptly stopped. At last, her body yielded to the unforgiving grasp of exhaustion, and her knees crumpled to the ground with a muffled thud. Y/N’s eyes already closed when she felt someone’s hands catch her around her waist.
As her consciousness slipped away, she was embraced by the sudden darkness.
***
She slowly regained consciousness, her eyelids fluttering open to reveal the unfamiliar surroundings. Groggy and disoriented, Y/N took a deep breath, feeling her body gradually come back to life.
“Y/N!” she heard a familiar voice next to her. She moves her head to the side. Jaskier lowered himself into a crouch beside her, immediately helping her to sit up. Y/N looks around.
By the sound surrounding them, she was sure they were still in the wetlands. A disappointed sigh escaped her lips.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Jaskier asks her, monitoring her face as if she was about to faint again.
“I didn’t want us to stop walking.” she mutters, trying to get up on her unsteady feet. It was pitch darkness around them, the only light sources were small lanterns placed around their improvised campsite.
“Sit down! We won't be going anywhere until morning.” he scolds her.
“Jaskier, I’m fine. We can go.”
“That’s what you said the last time and then fainted into that revolting mud.” he retorted with a tinge of frustration in his voice.
Suddenly Y/N remembers the last moment before the world blackened in front of her eyes. She instinctively touches her waist, as if expecting to still feel the lingering touch of hands upon it.
“But you got me. I didn’t fell.” she says, unsure in her own words. Was it Jaskier? Or was she imagining the whole thing?
“I-I didn’t.” Jaskier says reluctantly, his eyes suddenly looking away from her. Y/N frowns.
“Jaskier…”
“Fine! It was him!” he finally confessed, lowering his voice. Then his gaze shifted to Y/N’s left side. She slowly turns her head.
Lambert.
He rested against a fallen ash tree; arms crossed over his chest with his head slightly bowed down. He was asleep. Or at least looked like he was. Y/N wasn’t even sure if witchers ever properly slept.
“Him?” Y/N whispers but there was panic in her voice.
“Yes, him.” Jaskier says impatiently, still looking at the redheaded witcher. “He carried you for an hour without a word. When I insisted that I should be the one to carry you, he told me to get lost. Can you imagine!” he says, not even bothering to hide his reluctance.
Just as Y/N was about to voice her complaint, the witcher's sudden movement startle them both, causing them to jerk back in surprise.
“In fact, I believe my exact words were ‘sod off’.” Lambert mutters to Jaskier, but his gaze is pierced on Y/N. Y/N’s mouth open but she’s speechless.
Why on earth would he carry me?
Jaskier stood up. With an indignant huff, he straightened his posture. "Well then, aren't you a delightful specimen of manners." he retorted, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Lambert glances at him with a sardonic smirk, clearly amused. “Happy to be of service.”
“Alright, now that’s settled...” Y/N interveners, still feeling uncomfortable. “Where are we?”
“Somewhere near Creyden or Luton. Braa river is this way.” Lambert turns the point of his dagger to the north.” We won’t be sure until the morning.”
Y/N took a moment to realize where they are. “So…I didn’t mess up.”
“What do you mean ‘mess up?” Jaskier asks with confusion. Y/N finally manages to get up on her own feet. She located her leather bag just a few steps away from her. Thankfully, she carried a map with her!
“Hengfors,” she exclaims optimistically as she crouched down, “is just right behind us.” Y/N lowers the map on the somewhat of a flat stone. With a quick motion, she straightens the crumpled piece of paper. Jaskier and Lambert appear beside her, each holding a lantern to illuminate the map.
“If your assumptions are right, we should be right here.” she points to a blank part of the paper, surrounded by four cities – Blaviken, Luton, Jamurlak and Hengfors.
“Fuck.” Lambert quietly says, turning around. Y/N’s optimism suddenly vanishes.
“Isn’t that good? We know where we are.” she asks, standing up again. Lambert doesn’t look at her, but somewhere in the black void that was surrounding them.
“These roads are feeding grounds for kikimoras.” he mutters, as the flickering glow of the lantern bounced off the contours of his stern face.
“Of course they are.” Jaskier anxiously uttered his words, his throat tight with tension.
Y/N felt the chills down her spine. She never encountered any monsters. She had no idea how to fight. She didn’t need to do that in Novigrad anyway.
“I’m sure you have plenty of experience in fighting monsters with Geralt, bard.” Lambert mocks him, lowering the lantern on the ground.
“Actually I’m- “
“Don’t answer that.” Y/N interrupts him. “Where are Ciri and Vesemir?” she decides to change the subject.
“They are taking turns guarding the camp.” Lambert answers and settles down on the very same tree where Y/N first spotted him when she woke up. “My shift just ended so excuse me for a next hour or two.”
Y/N and Jaskier return to the spot where Y/N woke up and they sit down on her bedroll.
“You should sleep too, you know.” Y/N tells her friend. Jaskier shakes his head immediately.
“Not a chance. I’ll watch over you.”
“I just woke up. You should be the one sleeping.” she insists.
“I’m not-”
“You don’t own me anything, Jaskier.” she gently nudges his arm, smiling at her friend.
“I do. And least I can do is let you sleep.”
“You won’t be of any use to me tomorrow if you’re going to be tired.” Y/N continues. Jaskier lets out a sigh. Heavy-lidded and burdened with the weight of exhaustion, his eyes were veiled by a haze of fatigue.
“Fine. But only for a few minutes.” he says, leaning against the log behind him. “Promise you’ll wake me up.”
***
Y/N, of course, did not wake up the bard. She sat there, surrounded by the darkness of the eerie swamp and just watched. Her surroundings were mostly quiet – occasional hoots or croaking from shallow waters. The night seemed peaceful which calmed her nerves.
As the early light of dawn emerged on the horizon, Vesemir and Ciri made their way back to their camp. Despite their appearance of alertness, Y/N knew that the lack of rest was taking its toll on them.
“Someone’s finally awake.” Ciri says with a mocking tone, but the smile on her face was friendly.
“I’m sorry-”
"Pay no attention to her, Y/N," Vesemir softly adds, tossing a flask full of water towards the girl. Ciri catches it swiftly, gulping down half of it in an instant. Older witcher walks over to Y/N and gazes at the slumbering bard. Jaskier's mouth is slightly ajar, emitting gentle snores as he rests peacefully.
“Not quite a guardian, that one.”
“I told him to sleep.” Y/N explains and finally gets up on her feet. She felt safer now when they were all together again. Ciri joined Lambert, gently tapping him on the shoulders. Witcher instantly opened his eyes and looked at the group surrounding him.
It was time to move.
Few hours and lots of kilometres later, they finally saw signs of civilization. The sun had risen high in the sky, yet it offered little warmth. Vesemir and Ciri were leading the group, but even their firm steps started to slow down after a while. Jaskier was awfully quiet again, but Y/N knew better than to ask questions.
And behind her, there was Lambert again.
From time to time, Y/N swore she could feel his gaze but when she subtly turned around to check, he wasn’t looking. It was annoying and distracting, she realized, but there was nothing to say or do without starting another fight with stubborn man.
It was late afternoon when they finally reached the city of Luton. If such a place could even be called city, Y/N thought. At the core of the city lay a bustling and malodorous port, where the constant cries of seagulls filled the air, circling overhead as they mingled with the scent of the sea.
Vesemir suddenly stops and turns around to face the group.
“Alright. This is where we split up. Ciri-” he turns to the girl “Find us a supply shop. Herbs, oils, whatever you can think of.”
Ciri nods and leaves, not waiting for other instructions. Y/N is nervously looking around, not really sure if splitting up is good idea.
“Jaskier.” Vesemir turns to face the bard. Jaskier clears his throat and steps forward as he was waiting for his instructions. “Find us a quiet inn for tonight. Not too crowded nor too empty. Somewhere we won’t draw attention. Find me here in an hour.”
“Got it.” Jaskier nods quickly, looks around a few times and then leaves in the same direction where Ciri left just few seconds ago. Y/N knew it was her turn now.
Vesemir turns to her, with a soft look in his eyes. “Y/N. You’re going to snoop around. Look for the notice boards. Eavesdrop for the stories about our whereabouts. If someone is looking for us, we have less time than we thought.” he says, occasionally glancing around. Y/N suddenly straightens her back, as she feels chills going down her spine.
“Where should I meet you?” she asks quietly.
“We will find you after everything is prepared.” Vesemir says. Y/N quietly nods and decides to follow Ciri’s and Jaskier’s direction.
“Oh, and Y/N.” Vesemir adds before she has the chance to make another step forward. “Take Lambert with you.”
Both Y/N and Lambert groan.
“I can do this on my own, Vesemir.” Y/N says. Vesemir’s eyes suddenly darken.
“Can you? Could you defeat a drunkard who wants to fight you? Would you find a thief who steals your bag or money? “He asks her, his voice suddenly colder. Y/N suddenly feels ashamed and doesn’t know what to answer. She was a sorceress. If things got out of hand she could always rely on her magic. But she knew that would be the end of her. This wasn’t Novigrad – and magic wasn’t welcomed here.
“And you” suddenly he turns to Lambert. “Stay out of trouble. Keep an eye on Y/N. And don’t draw attention to yourselves.”
Lambert looks at Y/N and then back to Vesemir. “Got it.” he mutters and joins Y/N.
“What about-” Lambert was about to ask, but when he turned around again to face Vesemir, he was already out of sight. “Fast for an old man.” he mutters and faces Y/N. He looks at her for couple of seconds and sighs.
“What?” she asks, even more nervous now when he was completely focused on her.
“You’re not good at this, you know.” Lambert says and approaches her. Y/N freezes when his hands move towards her shoulders. He grabs the edges of her coat and pulls the hood over her head. Y/N frowns a little.
“Of course I’m not! I generally don’t waste my days hiding around foul-smelling cities or looking for kidnapped witchers.” she finally says, crossing arms on her chests.
“Well today is your lucky day, your highness.” he grins and pulls hood over his own head as well.
“Let’s go.”
The Last of the Wolves - Eskel x Lambert - part 1/2
Tags: growing up together, mutual pining, slow burn, eventual smut
Wordcount: 6.2k
Summary: Eskel and Lambert's relationship over several decades.
Eskel couldn't pinpoint the exact moment his affections had shifted. One day, Lambert was an impulsive kid with authority issues and the next he was a mouthy, aggressive bastard that made Eskel's blood boil and every hair on his body stand up.
Thank you to @arcielee for beta reading ♥
The Last of the Wolves - part 1/2
Stepping through the gates of the Keep, Eskel felt like he could finally breathe.
Coming home to Kaer Morhen always had that effect on him. Out there on the Path, he always had to be on alert, never truly relaxing or resting, but here in the safety of these walls, he could let his guard down.
It was still early in the day, the sky was clear and the sun was slowly warming the ground. He took a second to look at the courtyard and commit it to memory once again. By the time Eskel had dismounted and untied his packs from his saddle, Remus was already tying in own stallion in the space at the back of the stables. The space between Storm and Roach was empty, waiting for Scorpion to take his rightful place. The temperature had dropped in the last few days, a thin coat of snow covered the courtyard, but the wind was down even though he could hear noises coming from the great hall. He secured the latch on the stables and made his way toward the front entrance of the keep.
In one of the yards, a few witchers were playing around, sparring with each other. Among them, a familiar mop of red curls caught his attention.
Fuck. Lambert was a sight for sore eyes. Eskel watched, enraptured, as Lambert dodged Aubry’s blade. He arched his back gracefully, twisting on himself then slid in the dirt, knees bent and feet ready to spring, ending up at Aubry’s weak side and sliding his sword from underneath his arm, along his pit and his throat. Aubry laughed, sounding delighted at being bested and carefully took a step back and away from Lambert’s blade.
“That was brilliant,” he said in his usual musical tone and Lambert gave him an exaggerated bow, arms spread and curls dangling in front of his face. His hair was getting longer, long enough to tie back. When he raised his head, he was cackling, his eyes sparkling mischievously.
“Not bad, Lambert,” Remus called, and Eskel almost flinched. He’d forgotten Remus was even there, as captivated as he was by Lambert.
The first time Eskel had laid eyes on Lambert, the kid was being dragged kicking and screaming across the courtyard by Varin. The old bastard had him by the hair, a notable mop of wild auburn curls. Intrigued, a few of the trainees had stopped their exercises and routines to watch the scene, Varin hauling the screaming boy up the stone steps and into the great hall like he weighed nothing. Eskel had been used to it by that time. The bastard was prolific - every year or two he would bring in a new pup, as he called them, acquired by various means, some less ethical than others. He thought their strength lied in their numbers, as those days Death seemed to take more boys during the Trials than ever before. A few months after Gerd had brought Eskel, Vesemir had brought Geralt, both with the intuition that they would achieve great things, grow up to be great witchers. Varin seemed to be in frenetic search of his own golden child.
The old witcher was everything Eskel thought a leader should not be —bitter, unjust, self-opinionated and at times cruel, but he would have rather fallen on his own sword then say it to the man's face.
Back in the days when they were still training witchers-to-be, the younglings typically liked Eskel. His gentle demeanor and kind words were usually a balm after months of traveling with the Witcher who had found them, got them by the Law of Surprise or even won them at Gwent. The older witchers were often harsh, with hard edges and no interest in entertaining conversation with a frightened child. Their reputation often preceded them and the kids spent months dreading their fate as the wolves brought them back to their den.
Within the first few weeks of Lambert arriving at the keep, it became apparent that he was going to be the exception. Although it sometimes took a few days for them to warm up to Eskel, even the feistiest or most frightened younglings eventually latched onto him, starved for human contact and some kind of brotherly affection. Some of them were only babies, barely weaned off their mother's breast, and in Eskel's opinion, too young to train. He loved taking care of the younger pups, easing them into the harsh routine of training and preparing for the Trials. Some had never known a gentle hand or a gentle word, even before being brought to the keep. But as Gerd had taken care of him before his passing, Eskel would take care of those who came after him. Gerd's legacy was one of integrity, fairness and brotherhood and he would honor it until his last breath.
Even decades later, with no younglings to train anymore, he was still living by it.
Lambert turned to them and a frown formed at his brown when he saw Eskel. Without looking, he threw his practice sword at Aubry who caught it swiftly, and in turn threw it to Rennes who was leaning against a crate a few feet from them. They both waved at Eskel before resuming their training. Lambert walked towards him and Remus, feet heavy and shoulders hunched, a few curls hanging in ringlets in front of his face. He crossed his arms as he came to stand in front of them, feet wide apart and chest pushed forward.
Remus clapped the redhead's shoulder and they both grinned at each other. The frown returned when Lambert turned towards Eskel and they both stayed silent as Remus turned his back to them and headed toward the main hall. When Eskel returned his gaze to Lambert, the other man was watching him intensely, that perpetual unhappy frown on his face, lips turned downward.
“You look like day old shit,” he said, and Eskel couldn’t help the familiar pang of fondness in his chest. But he was weary and in pain, and he found he had no patience for Lambert’s barbed tongue. He was suddenly angry at himself for expecting a warm welcome from him. He was a fool, who had been entertaining hopeless thoughts.
“It’s good to see you too, Lambert,” he simply said with a small smile, then made to turn away and follow Remus to the hall, hoping to catch an embrace from Geralt or even Coën, if he was there. He stopped when Lambert took a step closer and dropped his shoulders, leaning toward him.
“Thought you said you’d come back in one piece,” he growled, jerking his head to indicate Eskel’s injured shoulder.
“I guess I’m shit at keeping promises,” he said with a shrug, wincing when it pulled at his stitches.
“There’s a lot of things you’re shit at, then,” Lambert retorted, and before Eskel could answer him, he uncrossed his arms and brought a hand up to the thick bandages enveloping his shoulder.
He pushed his doublet out of the way before pulling the bloody cloth from Eskel’s skin, sliding it all further down his arm. From where he was standing, Eskel could smell his hair and his breath, and both carried the familiar scent of spiced cider. He swallowed loudly as desire tugged at his belly and he cursed himself for reacting so quickly to Lambert’s proximity, his body responding to the smallest scrap of his attention. He was grateful the pain and the cold were keeping his arousal at bay. There was no doubt about it, if he could smell Lambert, then Lambert could smell him too.
“You’re shit at stitches too.”
“I get it, Lambert, I’m useless,” he sighed, “now if you don’t mind, I haven’t slept in days.”
He pulled himself out of Lambert’s personal space and started toward the back stairs that lead to the bedrooms. Lambert didn’t follow him, but then he hadn't expected him to.
—
When he made his way down to the great hall a little later, his stuff unpacked and his mood settled, Lambert was telling a story that had everyone captivated. He was sitting on one of the tables, his feet propped on a bench, knees splayed wide. Everyone was listening to him intently, eyes fixed on him, tankards of ale and cider forgotten. Even little Ciri was sitting still, quiet as a mouse, her head resting in her hands. Behind her, Geralt was smiling slightly.
Nobody had noticed him yet. He waited to hear the end of the story, captivated by Lambert's voice despite not having heard the beginning of the tale he was telling.
Eskel couldn't pinpoint the exact moment his affections had shifted. One day, Lambert was an impulsive kid with authority issues and the next he was a mouthy, aggressive bastard that made Eskel's blood boil and every hair on his body stand up.
Adding to his apparent immunization at Eskel's attempts at comfort and friendliness, Lambert had also been older than the kids the elders usually brought. He'd already started puberty, his voice breaking and muscle building, melting away the lingering fat of childhood. Eskel knew it meant the Trials were going to be exceptionally brutal, exponentially worse for him than for the other kids. Yet the redhead had made it very clear from the start that Eskel's worrying wasn't welcome, and the more he tried to approach him and coach him, the more he pushed him away.
Violence, verbal and physical, were the only things he seemed to understand and respond to.
The whole evening was one of celebration, Vesemir rejoicing in the fact that almost all his protegees were under the same roof, safe and, more or less, in one piece. So far they had been extremely lucky, and no grave injury was to be deplored. A couple more witchers were still expected to arrive in the following week, so his worries were not completely abated, but for now it was enough.
Cirilla was growing fast, now in the cusps of womanhood and it all brought nostalgia to their heart as well as pride and joy. They all remembered the day Geralt had brought the little girl to the Keep, bright and bold and unafraid. It had been refreshing to look in the eyes of a child and not see anything else than curiosity and excitement. Eskel had admitted it to her quite a few times, it was a balm on his heart every time she looked at him in kindness. There was nothing more precious to him than the tenderness of a child, and he relished in being called her honorary uncle.
It had taken time for Lambert and Ciri to bond, but once she had understood that the only way to interact with him was by responding to his rude and mocking comments with the same attitude, they got along like a house on fire. She had knocked him speechless a few times over the years and it was always a sight to behold. Even Lambert looked impressed and prided himself in being the one to teach her his peculiar brand of snark and humor. She was a fast learner and learning how to deal with each personality around the Keep had been no exception.
Eskel was sometimes envious of that, as he had never quite been able to bond fully with Lambert. They were close, closer than brothers, but there still remained a barrier between them. Something intangible that Eskel couldn't pinpoint. A reserve, a tension, something unsaid that sometimes weighed over him. He was almost sure Lambert felt no such thing, as the man wasn't prone to overthinking as Eskel was. The more time went on, the more that tension took root and now it was too late to pull it out. He was all but convinced that it would remain this way forever.
Eskel was brought out of his musings by heavy footsteps coming down the stone steps. He'd taken refuge in the kitchen to tend to his injury, feeling slightly out of step with the merry atmosphere in the hall. When he looked up, Lambert was coming down the stairs casually, a mug of ale in hand. “I thought that was you,” he said in some sort of greeting, but Eskel didn't answer.
The other witcher was sitting on one of the tables, legs dangling. His shirt was gone and he was cutting at the stitches on his shoulder with a small pair of sewing scissors. Coën had taken up sewing and knitting as a hobby, and everyone except Vesemir and Eskel was making fun of him for it. Lambert propped himself on the table across him, elbows resting atop the uneven wood, ankles crossed. Eskel forced himself to ignore the way his posture drew attention to his narrow hips.
“I need to redo them,” Eskel said in lieu of explanation. Lambert watched silently as he put the scissors down, grabbed a mug and took a few gulps of what Lambert suspected was a mix of vodka and some herbal remedy. He picked up the scissors again and finished cutting at the stitches carefully. Then the scissors were put down again and he was pulling at the threads one by one.
“You’re shit at stitches,” Lambert found himself saying again. Also, Eskel wasn't left handed.
“So you’ve said,” came the grunted answer. Eskel had always been bad at taking care of himself, preferring to invest his energy in others. As long as he could stand, however precariously, others were always his priority.
The elders had disliked it, Varin and Jarrow in particular. They would often remind him of their opinion that he was too soft for a witcher, too tender-hearted, despite his strength and his predisposition for magic. Jarrow never missed an occasion to remind him of how much of a disappointment he was. Of what a waste of good skills he was. And so they had kept him busy with as many chores as they could. There was always something to do around the keep, whether it be mending the breaking down walls, keeping the pantry in order and the kitchen running or tending to the animals.
But no matter how tired he was, how late it was, he'd always found it in himself to tend to the younger ones. He knew many of them would never make it out of the keep alive, and he'd rather have them know at least some kindness before they died.
"You're quiet," Lambert remarked, echoing Geralt who had said the exact same thing to him an hour earlier. "Moody," their white-haired brother had added.
"I have a lot of things on my mind," he answered honestly. He trusted Lambert to know better than to ask.
Sighing in frustration, Lambert pushed himself up from the table and approached Eskel. He took the small pliers from his hand, ignoring his sound of protest and began pulling at the cut stitches himself. The wound didn't smell infected yet, but it could have been cleaner. The puncture holes were uneven and some had been pulled at, tearing the skin. It was a poorly done job and would without a doubt leave a distorted scar. The skin was inflamed, but the swelling and redness would probably go away with new, cleaner stitches. Wiping the cut clean carefully but firmly, Lambert then picked up the needle and thread and set himself to the task.
Even though he was doing his best to remain quiet, Eskel's breath still hitched every time Lambert pierced his skin and pulled at the thread. He couldn't take the risk of getting the previous holes infected or to tear them further, so he had to pierce new ones, which he hoped would heal nicer.
Eskel smelled of sweat, dirt and grass, like the earth in the morning after a night of rain. His slightly greasy hair was pulled away from his face and tied at the back of his neck, except for a stray curl that kept swaying in front of his face. There was something comforting about being up in his personal space. He had that calm, inviting presence that Lambert hated to enjoy. It had taken him years, if not decades, to get used to Eskel's character and it only had been in adulthood that he had started to enjoy his company as more than a simple fellow witcher. As an instructor, Eskel had been ruthless but always fair and just. Never an ounce of cruelty or a word harsher than necessary. He'd prepared all the kids he'd trained for the reality of the world without coddling them but without breaking them either, like an older brother would.
Lambert respected him for that.
Only in the privacy of the dormitories late at night did he let his hard exterior fall like a mask and welcome anyone who needed it with open arms. Never wavering, never sugarcoating it either, Eskel always found the words to encourage them and build up their confidence. Lambert had never indulged in Eskel's bear hugs growing up, for some reason he'd always had an odd reaction to the idea of them, a twisted feeling of wrongness. But after the Trials and quite a few years after he had reached adulthood —he had been a late bloomer, that visceral thing had turned from rejection to anticipation and want. He started wondering what it would feel like to be on the receiving end of Eskel's physical affection, but he was afraid it was too late. Their relationship had been built on other forms of interaction, and asking for it now was preposterous. And despite knowing with utter surety that Eskel would never reject him, it felt wrong to ask for affection that was meant for the boy he had been, when what he really craved was far less innocent.
As Lambert put the needle and thread down, he picked up a fresh cloth and some vodka and wiped his handy work. The line of stitching was straight and clean, tight enough so that the wound would heal well, but loose enough that the teared skin from the previous stitches wouldn't bother him too much. Lambert tried to keep his mind empty as he cleaned the pale, freckled skin, wiping the dried blood from the curve of his shoulder, looking away as soon as he was done.
When his gaze caught Eskel's, the man was looking at him intensely, contemplatively, as he was prone to. Lambert swallowed, his throat clicking, a feeling he couldn't put a word on mounting in his chest. Eskel's earnest gaze was often overwhelming, yet in a deeply buried part of his mind he still craved it. He could always feel when Eskel was looking at him, a warm prickle at the back of his neck and he wanted to preen like a dog under that gaze, and this primal want nauseated him.
He stepped away so that Eskel could hop from the table before he could think of doing something stupid, or worse, before Eskel could smell his mood. They cleaned and put away the instruments, tossing the soiled bandages into the pile of rags that needed to be boiled and washed. Finally, when they were done, did the silence grow uncomfortable again. It felt like a cloud was hanging over them, full of unsaid words and unfinished conversations, but neither of them knew where to start.
“I’m glad you’re still in one piece,” Lambert said, his voice sounding rough to his own ears, looking over to the fire.
"Me too, Lamb, me too," Eskel smiled and clapped Lambert on the shoulder like Coën usually did to them. Before he could stop himself he was taking a step forward and pressing the side of his body into Lambert's, his broad chest colliding with the redhead's shoulder. Lambert didn't return his casual display of affection but didn't push him away, and the faceful of red curls he got was worth the throbbing pain in his own shoulder. They smelled of sweat and spice, of cardamom and cloves, and he wanted nothing more than to run his hand through them. When he let go of him and turned to the steps that lead back to the main corridor, Lambert's face was inscrutable.
The next evening a few of them gathered around the fireplace in the grand hall, sharing pastries and trading stories of their year on the path -the entertaining and amusing ones, for the sake of little Ciri who was curious but still needed to be spared the gory details. She would know them soon enough, but for now they could salvage what remained of her innocence and marvel her with heroic stories. Lambert and Coën had a different way of telling stories, but she enjoyed them both equally. Lambert's blunt and sometimes crude humor always made the little girl laugh, while Coën's stories enchanted her and made her coo adorably when he included sweeter details that Eskel was sure were entirely for her benefit. They were like a fool and a bard, the two of them, regaling her with the brightness of their minds and the kindness of their hearts.
Lambert was never as careful with anything or anyone as he was with Cirilla, and it was a beautiful sight to see. They all knew she seemed to be able to reach a part deep inside him, a part where the vestiges of the little boy he had been dwelled. Eskel hoped it would heal those parts of him with time, or at least smooth over the ragged edges that still cut him sometimes.
Cirilla was sprawled on the floor, laying on a thick rug as close to the hearth as she could get without creating a fire hazard. She was absorbed in a book on the history of the school of the Wolf, one Geralt had lent to her, at her insistence. She was eager to learn everything she could about the history of the school before its sacking and, despite their earlier reluctance, now they all encouraged her in her endeavor. There were fewer of them with each passing decade, and soon they would be gone altogether. Cirilla was their legacy, even if she would be a short-lived one in the whole history of the world.
Lambert and Eskel were playing snap at a nearby table while, true to himself, Geralt was staring intensely into the fire like it was telling him things. Sitting next to Ciri, Coën was knitting something resembling a pair of socks or mittens, Eskel wasn't quite sure. The color was dull green and the whole project looked a bit crooked, but he was looking so focused and diligent that no one dared say anything. Especially since Ciri had taken it upon herself to make everyone who dared make fun of him pay, and she was taking this role very seriously. She showed no mercy while jabbing her fork into the offender's ass cheek and was stronger than she looked, judging by the shriek Lambert had made a few seconds after he'd commented on the uneven rows of Coën's last creation.
"Who's Speartip?" Cirilla suddenly asked, frowning down at the old book.
A long second of silence followed her question, Lambert freezing with his cards in hand. With a deep breath and a straight face, he threw the cards on the table and raised his eyebrows at Eskel before downing his cider in one swallow and getting up. He clapped Geralt on the shoulder as he passed and retreated to the kitchen. "Did I say something wrong?" Ciri asked, worried.
"You didn't," Eskel assured her, getting up to go after Lambert. "It's a difficult topic. Lambert can't talk about it."
He looked over at Geralt as he passed him and the man assured Ciri, "I'll tell you about it later."
—
40 years ago, The Trial of the Mountains
"Old Speartip is one deep sleeper, wake him up and you'll sleep deeper,” some of the older trainees sang to the younger ones, drunk on their victory and proud at having survived the ordeal. This Trial was particularly daunted, not for its brutality but for the most primal fear it elicited: the fear of being chased, of hearing comrades getting caught and ripped apart, their screams echoing in the caves.
Old Speartip was a cyclops that dwelled in the caves north of the Keep, which the witchers-in-training had to walk through. If luck was on their side, Speartip would be asleep and they would all pass, but if they weren't and the old cyclops was awake, very few made it out alive. The worst would be to wake him up, prompting him into a fury that made even the most seasoned witcher wary.
Eskel remembered passing through this trial, the anxiety, the sheer terror at the sight of the beast, who was the very first monster the trainees had to face. Or in this case, had to avoid facing at all costs. He knew he was one of the lucky ones as he had come out unscathed without having woken the cyclops; he'd seen enough of the kids come out white as sheets, shaking and reeking of terror. He'd mourned enough kids who never made it out of these caves, as their bodies were never retrieved. The following batches of trainees would have to step over their bones and contain their breaths of shock at the number of them as they walked through the den of the beast.
Despite the years and the passing generations of young witchers-in-training, Eskel never got used to the Trial of the Mountains. Every time, it meant endless hours of waiting and mounting anxiety, of cold sweat running down his back.
For some reason, when the time came for Lambert's batch to go through this particular trial, Eskel was especially anxious. There was something heavy pulling at his ribs, making his breath shallow and his ribs feel like they were being pulled apart. He tended to the goats in the hope of making time pass quicker and to find comfort in the animals but to no end. He couldn't help the heavy rock of dread clogging his throat, his breath coming out harsher and shorter as time passed. The bright dash of Lambert's red curls kept flashing before his eyes and he knew that if he had believed in any gods, he would have been murmuring quiet pleas and prayers.
Eskel tensed when he heard Vesemir’s quiet steps behind him. They were slow and careful, carrying no reassurance, and he felt himself shiver with dread. “Is anyone back?” he asked Vesemir, his voice betraying the tightness in his throat.
“Not yet,” came his mentor's calming tone.
A hand landed heavily on his shoulder, and neither witchers needed to talk to have a conversation. Eskel knew Vesemir could read him like an open book, and the fact wasn't as uncomfortable as it would have been with someone else. He knew Vesemir to be a safe place for his tender, broken heart. He also knew that deep under the cold and serious façade, a similar heart was beating, slowly but steadily. Vesemir loved each and every one of his trainees like they were his own sons, and felt each of their loss like a personal failure, even though he taught them loss was part of their lives as witchers, and was not to be dwelled on.
A shout broke the moment between them and they both turned toward the sound, Eskel springing to his feet and rushing to the source of it. "They're back!" an older trainee named Rennes cried out victoriously, but when Eskel and Vesemir came around the corner, the dust settled around them as did a heavy silence. Rennes' enthusiasm died down and he gasped as they all realized only one of the trainees was home.
Red curls and a heartbroken face came through the arch, spattered in blood and covered in dust. Shivering almost imperceptibly, Lambert made his way to Vesemir and looked up at him with an air of disgust. For a second he thought of spitting in the man's face but he couldn't muster the energy. Everyone was looking at him with both shock and sorrow, and Lambert couldn't stand their pity. Over Vesemir's shoulder he could see Varin looming, looking neither proud nor disappointed. Shoving the old witcher away by the shoulder, Lambert headed across the courtyard, not caring where his feet carried him.
“You did good, Lamb,” he heard Eskel say behind him and the words made him want to howl in rage.
“Go fuck yourself,” was all he could manage saying, his voice barely a hoarse whisper, but he knew the other had heard him.
Lambert was never quite the same after the cave.
Gone was that cockiness, that arrogance, the only thing left was anger and even more defiance than before. He spat at others, insulted them and their mother whenever he could, in great detail and with a vulgarity Eskel sometimes winced at. He trained relentlessly, pushing himself harder than he ever had before, through fatigue and injury. Lambert wore his victory at the trial like the badge of strength it was, but they knew he found no honor in it.
—
Lambert had thought he knew terror and heartbreak, but nothing had prepared him for the regret and the guilt of being the only one left alive after the ordeal.
Even decades later, even a simple question from a little girl could make those feelings reemerge. His mood soured; he didn't wish for the others' company and retreated to the cellar where he brewed his cider and ale, like usual when he was upset. He knew Eskel was following him, as always checking in on anyone who's mood suddenly changed, but whether it was the ale getting to his head or the exhaustion of a year on the path, he didn't give him any indication to leave. Instead he kept busy in the cellar, wiping tabletops and fussing over barrels and mug in an attempt to buy himself some time before he had to turn and face Eskel.
"You alright?" the other witcher finally asked, pulling Lambert out of his thoughts.
"Fuck off," he said and Eskel laughed. Lambert liked his laugh. It was neither pretty nor musical, but it had that rough quality that made his bones hum. He poured some cider into a mug and handed it to Eskel without a word, pouring himself a mug with his other hand. The man took it with a quiet thanks and tasted it carefully. He hummed appreciatively before taking another swallow. "It's good," he commented. "What's in it?"
"Not revealing my secret," Lambert answered, which made Eskel snort. "How's the wound?"
"Fine," Eskel answered, not unkindly but still dismissive. Lambert downed his mug and still pushed the issue. "How'd you get it anyway?" he asked.
"Being stupid," Eskel said, and Lambert snorted into his mug.
Eskel's silent presence was a balm as much as it was a catalyser. It soothed Lambert’s frayed nerves as much as it lit other parts of him aflame. Sometimes it felt like a vice squeezing his chest, sometimes like a hook pulling at his belly. Lambert studied Eskel's profile as the man was studying the bottom of his mug. They rarely stayed idle, not when they were alone. It felt like slippery territory, like the ground was moving and pulling them closer together, like gravity wanting to close the gap between the two of them.
A shiver of want ran up Lambert's spine and he swallowed uncomfortably. "I'm gonna hit the sack," he said awkwardly, and Eskel took a reflexive step back.
"Sure," Eskel hummed quietly, knowing a dismissal when he heard one. "Thanks for the drink," he said before putting the mug down one one of the barrels and exiting the cellar, leaving Lambert alone with his own thoughts and memories.
Making his way back to the grand hall, Eskel suddenly had the urge to walk outside for a while. The cold would do him some good, he figured, soothe his heated skin and overheated mind. The tension remained for a few days, and the arrival of the last few witchers helped distract Eskel from his sullen thoughts, especially when Triss also made an appearance.
"Eskel, it’s good to see you," Triss said warmly as she came to see him one morning in the kitchen. He was peeling potatoes and parsnips for their lunch, planning to make a stew to warm their hearts and bellies. Some liked to pretend they did not care either way, but he knew a carefully prepared meal was appreciated.
"It's good to see you as well,” he replied to his friend, handing her a peeling knife and a crooked parsnip. She took it with a happy smile, glad to be of help, as she was proficient in the kitchen and shared Eskel’s appreciation of a job well done. They peeled the vegetables in comfortable silence, glancing at each other from time to time, exchanging warm looks and smiles.
"You've grown sad," Triss said after a while, a quiet remark that Eskel pretended he didn’t hear. Instead he glanced at her over the bubbling cauldron of stew as he chopped some herbs. Her red hair was falling in ringlets around her face, and his chest constricted for a second. In other circumstances, perhaps they could have been more than friends, but she knew the truth of his heart.
"I know what's eating at you, you know," she said gently, and Eskel sighed.
“It is what it is,” he replied, murmuring a quiet thank you as she handed him a mug of cider.
Triss was about to retort something as Lambert and Coën entered the kitchen, the latter accepting a mug that she handed him. She smiled at the two witchers, welcoming and kind as always, even as Lambert kept looking at her with unconcealed hostility. Putting down her empty mug, it was not long before she exited the kitchen, putting her hand on Eskel’s arm in a gesture of affection on her way out.
"You and Triss, huh?" Lambert asked as soon as she had left, making Coën snort in his drink.
"That's not what this is,” Eskel answered, already tired of this conversation. It was one they had had many times before; Lambert’s distrust for mages, or anyone meddling with magic, was not new. Lambert grunted while pouring himself a mug despite having refused Triss’ offer a minute ago, and Eskel convinced himself he did not need to justify himself. But after a few minutes of tense silence, his weariness and frustration of the last few days won.
"Look, I know you don't like sorceresses, but she's a friend," Eskel retorted. “Geralt trusts her, so does Vesemir and therefore, so do I. She has been more than helpful with Ciri, and she is my friend.”
"Like any of us has any friends," Lambert snorted, but there was something dark and bitter in his voice.
"I do. And if you weren't such an asshole all the time maybe you would have some," Eskel barked, putting down the wooden spoon he had been holding. Lambert stilled and so did Coën, taken aback at Eskel's unusual outburst. He was probably one of the few who almost never talked to Lambert in such a harsh way, even though he knew he deserved it. Beside them, Coën shook his head in annoyance.
Eskel was always able to withstand his anger, to take his moods in stride and never hold it against him. He was steadfast, steady, devoted and loyal to a fault —but it seems even he had his limit.
—
A strange atmosphere remained between Eskel and Lambert for the rest of the winter, a tension that did not escape anyone’s notice. It seemed unspoken words and unresolved feelings were enough to erode a bond that had been forged through trials, metaphorical and physical. It felt as though a wedge had been drawn between them, and neither knew how to cross it.
Eskel’s sadness took over the rest and he grew more silent than usual, keeping the little warmth he had for Ciri and Geralt on occasion. Lambert grew ever less agreeable, spending the majority of his time in the cellar or outside, refusing anyone’s company but Coën.
As spring returned over the mountain, Lambert was the first to leave to return to the Path, despite his hatred for it. His pack over his shoulder and his horse trailing behind him; he was exiting the courtyard when Vesemir stepped behind him.
"I don't have to tell you, the life we live is a long and lonely one," he said cryptically, but for some reason Lambert knew exactly what he was talking about, "You should find your comfort wherever you can.”
Lambert snorted, pulling his horse along, his chest feeling strangely tight. “Eskel's always had a soft spot for you. I could tell you to take your chance now, before he grows tired and seeks comfort elsewhere," he sighed, "but that would be a lie."
Lambert said nothing, instead turned on his heels and made his way down the unsteady trail. "So I'm telling you to take your chance now, while you're both still here in one piece," Vesemir called behind him, then his voice grew wearier, sadder. "That either of you will live to see another winter isn't guaranteed."
Under Vesemir's gaze, Lambert went down to the Path, not looking back but wanting to.
—
Reblog to show love. Click here for part 2.
—
Hallway
Pairing :: Lambert(Netflix Show) x feml!Reader
Warnings :: 18+ Content, SMUT/NSFW
Word Count :: 577
Summary :: Lambert and you have some fun in the hallway
A/N :: It’s not even funny how quickly I became a slut for this man after seeing him on Netflix’s The Witcher. This started out as a Cahir fic, but literally three sentences in I changed it to Lambert.
If you enjoy my work consider leaving a comment or kofi as support ʕ • ᴥ • ʔ ❤️
You bit your lip, trying your best to suppress the moans of pleasure that wanted to escape you. Lambert had you pinned against the wall with your legs wrapped around his waist keeping you in the air.
“L-Lambert, what if so-someone walks by?” You managed to stutter out.
“Then they get a small show,” He teased. He thrusted in you once again, filling you up with his length. “Don’t worry love, nobody comes around this part of the castle this late at night,” He mumbled against the skin of your neck.
Your hands wrapped behind his neck, gripping his red curls and earning a small grunt from him when you pulled.
His thrusts were steady, but you could tell he was holding back. You weren’t sure if it was because he wanted to make sure the entire castle didn’t know what the two of you were up to, or if he was merely taking his time to wind you up.
How you ended up in such a situation, you hadn’t the slightest clue as to what could make him so needy he couldn’t even wait until you got to your room.
He moved a hand from your waist down to your clit, quickly beginning to rub circles around it. Your breath hitched and you couldn’t suppress the small cry that left you. Despite his face being buried in the crook of your neck, hiding his expressions from you, you could feel his lips curl into a smirk. You tugged on his hair once more, and again he let out a grunt. His thrusts began to grow faster, your wet cunt tightening in response.
“Lambert, I’m-I’m not sure I can stay qu-quiet if- ngh!”
You could feel a warm tingle start to build up, ready to be released at any moment. Without finishing your sentence, Lambert understood completely what you were telling him. Your body was starting to grow tense and he’d soon find himself driven over the edge once he felt you cum around him.
He pulled his face away to look out yours, breathing out a small, “Fuck,” when he saw your face. He loved how desperate you looked when he was pleasing you. It was a face only he was allowed to see.
As much as he wanted to hear you become a moaning mess, he knew how upset you’d be if anyone commented on a strange noise from the hallway that night. He pressed his lips against you, doing the only thing he could think of that could suppress the noises you were about to make.
Almost immediately, you began to moan against his lips, chest heaving against his as you grew closer with each thrust. He rubbed your clit faster, the sensation being enough to push you to clench around him and release.
The tightness of your cunt drove him closer, his pace growing faster with each squeeze from your wet cunt. He stopped rubbing your clit to hold your waist with both hands, hitting you harder with each thrust. His balls had grown so tight, needing to unload in you, it was almost painful. When he finally did, he stopped his movement, savoring the moment of feeling his cock pulse inside of you.
Lambert pulled away from the kiss, leaving both of you panting for air.
“Do you think you can go another round?” He said with a cheeky grin.
You hit his shoulder lightly. “Not if it’s in this damn hallway.”
always darkest before the dawn
There were monsters in the Blue Mountains, everyone knew that. Foul beasts that made no distinction between animal or human, that would slay anyone who ventured too far into the woods and devour them whole. Everyone also knew that every few years someone from the village would disappear- like Elsa, who eloped with a travelling merchant, or Johann, who went hunting in the foothills and never returned, or even Markus, who went off to Ard Carraigh because the village was too small for him. It wasn’t until now that Jaskier considered that all those tales might have been lies.
New fic, find it on my ao3 https://archiveofourown.org/users/HawksEyes/pseuds/HawksEyes
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski, The Witcher (TV), The Witcher Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Eskel & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Lambert, Eskel & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Eskel & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion & Lambert, Eskel & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel & Lambert (The Witcher) Characters: Eskel (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Lambert (The Witcher), Jaskier | Dandelion, Vesemir (The Witcher), Aiden (The Witcher), Coën (The Witcher), Deidre Ademeyn (mentioned) - Character Additional Tags: Headaches & Migraines, Brotherly Love, Brotherly Bonding, Brotherly Affection, Angst, Fluff and Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, head massages, Geralt is a Good Brother™, Lambert is a Good Brother™, Jaskier is a Good Brother™, Eskel Has Self-Esteem Issues (The Witcher), slight reference to PTSD, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Worth Issues, Self-Hatred, Emotional Talks, Geralt and Lambert just really want to take care of Eskel okay?, Eskel better let them Series: Part 2 of Wit and Haven's Eskel Whump Dump Summary:
Eskel has a migraine. Geralt and Lambert help him through it. It’s as simple as that, especially when it comes to their dear older brother.
..........................................................................................................
Fic Rec: This is really sweet. Just Eskel having a bad time of it with Geralt, Lambert and Jaskier looking out for him.
Edit: Nonnie recommended this fic as well when I asked for people’s faves and I whole heartedly agree. So please enjoy.
Watching The Witcher, and now I'm tempted to write for Lambert... I've done Lambert x Jaskier before, but maybe reader inserts for him too now?? Not sure if people would be interested...
The Last of the Wolves - Eskel x Lambert - part 2/2
Tags: growing up together, mutual pining, slow burn, eventual smut
Wordcount: 5.1k
Summary: Eskel and Lambert's relationship over several decades.
Part 1
The Last of the Wolves - part 2/2
While traveling the Path that year, Vesemir’s words haunted Lambert, like a shadow constantly hovering over his shoulder. I don't have to tell you, the life we live is a long and lonely one. You should find your comfort wherever you can. So I'm telling you to take your chance now, while you're both still here in one piece.
He knew them to be the truth and that nothing in the life they led was guaranteed, but there was so much at stake that he was not sure it was worth the risk. Lambert knew his relationship with Eskel was secure, it was easy and comfortable —if he ignored the unspoken tension between them.
He had admired Eskel growing up, his talent for magic, his fighting skills and his resilience. He was the biggest of them, and no one was as mentally strong as Eskel, capable of enduring hurt for the sake of others, and yet he probably was the one whose emotions ran the deepest. He wore his heart on his sleeve when he was with their brothers, even more so with Ciri, and yet he kept part of his feelings for Lambert close to his heart, never speaking them or showing them. There were enough times over the years where he grew weary and lapsed, and after a while Lambert caught on —he had more instinct than people gave him credit for.
Their bond ran deeper than that of friends, of brothers, of comrades-in-arms, and yet they never spoke of it and never acted on it. Lambert supposed he was to blame for that, as the only time Eskel had been on the verge of revealing himself, he had sharply turned him down.
—
35 years ago, Kaer Morhen
The only word that could be used to describe what was left of Kaer Morhen after the sacking was utter desolation. Lambert and Vesemir painstackling made their way through the rubbles in silence, taking count of the damage around them and keeping an ear out for any groan, moan or faint heartbeat they could hear.
So far, the total loss was immeasurable —the keep could be rebuilt, but the laboratories were destroyed, and the lives of countless boys and witchers were gone. Their loss could be seen on Vesemir’s face, and he reeked of fright and sorrow, a smell Lambert had never smelled on him before. He himself smelled no better, and his whole frame was shaking and his ginger curls were tainted bright red from blood, not all of it his own.
He startled as footsteps were heard along with the sound of more crumbling stones. Stumbling down some destroyed stairs, Eskel suddenly appeared, mace in hand and a desperate look on his face.
“Lambert,” Eskel gasped as soon as he spotted them. Vesemir breathed a sigh of relief as the other witcher leaped over a pile of rocks, his ax clattering on the ground as he let go of it. Before Lambert could react, he was being grabbed and crushed against Eskel’s large chest, his arms coming around him to pet his back and hair. Eskel breathed him in, his face buried in his hair and then a rough kiss was being pressed in his curls. Only the older witcher didn’t pull back, he kept his mouth and nose in his wild hair, his large frame shaking.
“Thank the Gods, Lamb, you’re okay,” he heard Eskel say in a breathless voice, his usual rough baritone smoothed by something that sounded like marvel or even tenderness. Lambert stayed there, rooted to the spot. He was in too much shock to move, and in too much shock to enjoy the closeness and affection. He didn’t return Eskel’s embrace, his arms laying by his sides as Vesemir rubbed his back.
It was only as they gathered in the Great Hall to count their dead and wrap each other’s wounds that Lambert snapped out of his stupor. All was brought to a halt inside his head as he walked along the rows of fallen brothers, only to arrive at the last man, and to take stock of what he was seeing.
On the cold stones, Varin laid dead.
The witcher who had brought him kicking and screaming into this hellhole, was dead. The man who had taken him away from his mother by the Law of Surprise, the man who had won him as retribution for having saved the life of his drunken cunt of a father. For over a decade now he had fantasized about getting his own retribution, of unleashing his wrath on the old cunt who had taken his humanity away, and now that he was big enough, strong enough, and trained enough to go against him, this opportunity was taken away from him.
Still, there was a dark satisfaction spreading in Lambert’s chest as he took him in. He did not look as mean dead as he did alive, only weaker and frailer —all of Lambert’s most primal fears, for an instant, abated.
"I'm glad the old bastard’s dead," Lambert murmured, only for himself and for Eskel, who had stepped behind him and put a hand on his shoulder.
"Watch your mouth, Lambert," Geralt growled from somewhere behind them. Curse the white-haired bastard and his exceptional hearing.
“Leave it, Geralt,” Eskel pleaded, his voice quiet and placating, and Lambert was only glad that the bigger witcher stepped in between them. Geralt had never liked Varin much either, but Lambert knew he respected him, the same way he respected all the elders.
"That's enough," Geralt shouted to Lambert, his voice resonating in the hall as he stepped up to them. Lambert turned to face him, shoulders squared. "You can't hide behind Eskel every time you open your mouth and don't want to face the consequences."
Geralt turned to Eskel, fury and grief in his eyes. “And you need to stop mothering him."
“Fuck off, you son of a whore. I’ll dance on this bastard’s grave if I want,” Lambert sneered, his grin growing wider as Geralt obviously bristled. Before Eskel or anyone else could react, Geralt had grabbed Lambert by the shoulder and socked him in the face.
Lambert staggered and caught himself on a nearby table, shaking his head to clear the curls from his face and chuckled, a dark, cynical sound that made Eskel's skin crawl. When he looked up at Geralt and grinned, his mouth was full of blood, his teeth tainted bright red.
He launched himself at Geralt but Eskel intercepted him, and he was glad Lambert did not try to fight it —he knew it to be a lost cause, Lambert might have been more agile but Eskel was bigger and stronger, and he let himself be pulled away and out of the main hall.
"Don't ever tell Geralt I said that but he's not exactly wrong," he said before taking a swig of vodka later that evening. The two witchers had taken refuge where they could, up on a part of a rempart that was still standing and structurally sound.
"About what," Eskel grunted as the alcohol burned his throat before passing the bottle back to Lambert.
"You mothering me," he replied, and Eskel knew it was futile to try and deny it.
"I'm not gonna apologize," he said miserably as Lambert handed him the bottle again. The red-haired witcher scoffed, then turned his head when Eskel asked, "Do you want me to stop?"
He shrugged, seemingly thinking about it for a moment. Whether it was the grief or the booze taking effect, Eskel couldn’t tell, but the next thing he knew, he was taking a foolish leap of faith, offering his friend an insight into the truth of his feelings. "I'm not mothering you," he murmured, and Lambert snorted so he repeated, slower, "I'm not mothering you."
Lambert almost startled at the confession, as Eskel suddenly looked strangely sober, or maybe it was because he himself was too drunk himself to tell the difference. A feeling of unease spread in his chest and he almost stumbled on his next words, like he was afraid to even ask. "What are you doing, then?"
“Are you really going to make me say it?" Eskel asked, and when Lambert looked up at him again, he was staring at the floor, the toe of his boot drawing patterns in a pile of dirt.
“Don't,” Lambert grunted, and Eskel nodded, hiding the sting of it in the bottom of the bottle they were sharing. Despite the tense conversation between them and the unspoken feelings, this event had been one of the pivotal points of their closeness. Much of their relationship was just that, moments that forged their bond through loss and getting through to the other side together.
—
Present time
Judging by the smell, it had happened the morning before, at dawn. It was like Vesemir had known Eskel was on his way and had waited until the last moment, like he had wanted Eskel to find him. Something had been nagging at him for the past few weeks, to come home early this year. There was a calling from the mountain, a yearning for home that he had tried to resist, but in the end his instincts won over, and it seemed they had been right in calling him home.
In his bed, tucked under the furs, Vesemir had passed. The first witcher to ever die in his bed, of old age rather than injury.
The others trickled one by one in the following week. Remus, then Aubry, then Coën. Eskel kept Vesemir as cold as he could, waiting until the last one of them would arrive, postponing the funeral as long as possible. Geralt and Ciri arrived at nightfall on the eighth day. Eskel came out onto the steps and watched them dismount from their horses. All it took for Geralt was to take one look at his face, and he knew. He walked down the steps, frenetic, and threw himself onto Geralt. Coën came behind him and took Ciri by the arm, leading her away.
They stayed there for long minutes, breathing together, talking in hushed voices.
—
It wasn't the usual joy or boisterous atmosphere that greeted Lambert when he arrived at the Keep, but the heaviness of loss. His anxiety eased slightly when he saw Scorpion and Roach in the stable, the smell of their masters very present on them.
When he stepped inside, he instantly noticed the smell of death in the corridor, and let the stench guide him to one of the colder rooms of the cellars. There, he heard hushed voices and teary whispers, and all the pieces came together. Sorrow washed over him and for a moment he felt as he did forty years ago, just a broken and lost boy learning Vesemir’s gentle and just nature.
Eskel came out of the room, his face one of anguish and devastating sadness. Tears came in his eyes at the sight of Lambert and he stepped aside to let him go through. "Coën and Geralt are with him. We're holding a vigil until— We're still waiting for Rennes and Hadrian."
One look was all Lambert could muster, and when he came out of the room Eskel was slumped against the wall of the corridor, most of his face hidden in one of his broad palms. He was visibly shaking, radiating the same distress Lambert had smelled on him on the day of the sacking. He hesitated, his own pain making him want to recoil, but instead something pulled him to Eskel.
Lambert took a few quick steps to him, crowding him and pushing their foreheads together. The other witcher’s reaction was immediate; Eskel clung to him painfully, his large frame wrecked with broken breaths that caught in his throat. Lambert held him as he sobbed, the acrid scent of his distress only made bearable by the way his touch warmed him. His broad hands were clutching him desperately but Lambert found it grounded him. His own pain faded slightly as Eskel’s own suffering overwhelmed his senses.
"I found him, Lamb,” Eskel cried out. “It's like he was waiting for me."
“I know, big guy,” he murmured, pushing his forehead harder against his, as if the pain of their skulls pressed against one another could make all others fade.
—
And so, in the spring following Vesemir’s death, Eskel stayed behind to look after the Keep.
Like Vesemir and many other witchers before him, he devoted himself to the preservation of their sanctuary instead of walking the Path all year long. There hadn’t even been a discussion, it was a well-known if unspoken fact that Eskel was the one to take over. As he had taken care of them when they were trainees, he would spend the rest of his days taking care of those who made their way back to Kaer Morhen every winter. He would keep the kitchen stocked and running, the fires working and their stocks of elixirs full.
It was a lonely life, but Eskel appreciated the routine and the quiet. It gave him time to think and reflect, and time to grieve his loss in peace. The days were still relatively warm when his solitude was interrupted —he wasn’t expecting anyone for at least a month, and yet one evening, he heard the sounds of hooves coming in the main courtyard, and felt a familiar presence.
As he stepped outside he saw him; pack swung over his shoulder, Lambert was making his way from the stable to the door that led to the Great Hall.
"You're early,” Eskel said in lieu of greeting, his chest swelling in happiness as he saw it was Lambert. Eyes roaming over him in search of injury, he did not notice immediately that the man was stepping closer into his personal space than he usually would.
"I wanted to check up on you, personally,” Lambert answered, and there was a depth to his tone that wasn’t usually there. “I came early in case Coën or Geralt had the same idea."
Eskel felt as though the ground wasn’t as steady as before under his feet, and he almost shivered at Lambert’s next words. "Wanted to be with you, alone,” he said and that last word was murmured low, like a secret, something precious. Eskel nodded, emotion clutching at his throat. “Are you hungry?” he asked, and Lambert snorted, but eventually nodded and followed him inside.
“Why are you here?” Eskel asked again after they had had some stew and ale. The atmosphere around them was comfortable, with an edge of expectation that came from Lambert. His amber-colored eyes glowed in the light of the fire as he stared at it, seated on a bench in front of it.
“I told you. I wanted to check up on you,” he replied as Eskel joined him, handing him a mug of spiced cider Lambert had made a couple years prior. The red-haired witcher raised a brow as he smelled it, as it was his own private reserve, supposedly hidden in a corner of the cellar where no one ever went.
“This is unlike you,” Eskel said, ignoring the opportunity to change topics. He took a sip of the cider as Lambert did the same, pondering his next words. The drink was sharp and flavorful, sweet and tart at the same time. Beside him, his friend sighed before speaking again.
"Last time Vesemir and I talked, we talked about you," Lambert recounted, his voice rough. “He told me to take my chance now, because we don't know how long we still have. I guess him dying kinda drove the point home. So, that's just me, taking my chance."
Eskel hid the hitch in his breath in his mug, his head spinning from the confession. It was beyond unusual for Lambert to speak openly about his moods and emotions, and the intimacy of this admission made his own heart race. He was unsure what exactly it meant, but he could tell they were potentially on the verge of finally putting words on the unspoken things between them.
“I’m not blind, you know,” Lambert suddenly said after another minute of silence. “I can see the way you look at me.”
Eskel suddenly felt shame and dread claw at him, like Lambert had just pulled the carpet from under his feet, and he did not have the time to gather his composure again when Lambert asked. “How long?”
“How long what?”
“How long have you thought of me like that?”
Lambert didn’t look away as he asked, instead he looked dead on at Eskel, his gaze steely and honest. He liked having him at a disadvantage, it was easier. As long as he kept the upper level, he didn't have to show his hand. Eskel shifted in his seat under Lambert's intense scrutiny; the right side of his face felt raw and tight, while the other suddenly felt cold and clammy. His eyes stung with humiliation and something akin to sadness. He didn’t answer.
"I know it's not just about sex," Lambert said bluntly just to watch Eskel twitch. "You would've asked by now. And you don't always smell of lust," he continued in a wondering tone. "It's something else."
"What do you want me to say?" Eskel suddenly asked. "I care about you. I'm not ashamed of it."
"You care about Geralt. About Coën, and Aubry. You don't look at them like that," Lambert accused, his heart starting to beat faster as they approached the truth he was finally ready to hear. "What's so different?"
"I don't know what you want me to say," Eskel answered miserably before sniffing, inhaling roughly through his mouth.
"Fuck, are you actually crying?"
Lambert had smelled the salt in the air and knew Eskel's eyes were probably burning. The thought of causing him more than momentary discomfort twisted something in his belly. He was an asshole, but he wasn't that much of an asshole. The last thing he wanted was to hurt the man who had never been anything but kind to him. Eskel had taken care of him, taught him everything he thought would be useful to Lambert in life —witcher things and human things, and had never taken advantage even when he could have. He'd been honorable and decent, despite his own desires. He had sacrificed his own comfort for Lambert, never giving him anymore than he was comfortable with. Eskel's love was selfless, and in a way more noble than Lambert would have ever thought possible.
"I know, I'm pathetic. Why don't you just get it over with, huh?"
Lambert swung a leg so that he was straddling the bench, splaying his knees wider so he could get closer to Eskel. He raised a hand to the shoulder he'd stitched up a couple of years ago, tracing over the scar he knew was there through the rough cloth of his shirt. Eskel smelled like sweat and pine from wood he had chopped earlier. The older witcher raised a hand to him when he started stroking him gently, his broad palm settling over his wrist. For an instant Lambert thought Eskel was going to tear his grip away, but he didn’t.
"Is that what's on your mind when you go all quiet and brooding?" he asked, and Eskel winced, as he usually did when he was reminded of the fact that Lambert was more perceptive than he let on. "I hated the way you were, at first. Thought you pitied me. But then I saw you were like that with everyone else, and I couldn't figure out how you could be so good, so fucking kind even after all they did to you. I still don't get it."
"You could've asked. Even after the sacking," he rasped, remembering that night when the truth had almost come out, and the way he had rejected Eskel with only one word. His shoulders came forward until his forehead met Eskel's temple; the smell was stronger there and he resisted the urge to lick him behind his ear, to taste the tender skin he hoped he would find there. He knew Eskel would let him; he was trembling slightly, his scent spiking.
"I wouldn't have,” Eskel whispered. “I don't need that from you."
"Don't you?" Lambert laughed, his breath vibrating between them, making the skin of Eskel’s neck rise in goosebumps. "You smell like it right now."
"Stop, please," he pleaded.
"I care about you too,” Lambert said clumsily, aware that he was losing his grip, that his advantage was slipping quickly. He grinded his forehead into the side of Eskel’s temple, his nose brushing his scars, and the other man leaned into his touch, eyes closing.
"You care about Coën too. And Aubry," Eskel said defensively, and Lambert couldn't figure out why he was resisting it so. His whole body was tense, coiled, ready to spring away, and he was now afraid of making him bolt. Something desperate clawed at his chest but he pushed it away. He wanted Eskel too much to do something rash that would spook the man.
"They're my friends," the red-haired witcher said.
"And I'm not?"
"You're something else," Lambert whispered, his tone tainted with marvel, and that alone was enough to light a fire in the pit of Eskel’s stomach. Even after decades, Lambert still had that effect on him; despite time and trials, the bastard still made his spine quiver and his blood burn. "I need to know you're not going to bolt once I give you what you want," Lambert said honestly.
"I don't need that from you," Eskel tried again, reassuring, but there was a desperate edge to his voice.
"Stop trying to lie to me," he swallowed loudly, then took a steadying breath. "Don't you? Need it? Need me?"
"You know I need you."
He nudged at Eskel's temple, then pressed his whole face against the side of Eskel's head. His mouth finally found the back of his ear and Eskel shivered visibly, sweat breaking over his nape. "You know I need you too. C'mon Esk, ask me."
Eskel nearly whimpered at the diminutive. He shifted, his trousers growing tighter, and the movement only served to press Lambert’s knee harder into his thigh.
"I won't make promises I can't keep," his friend whispered. His breath smelled like cinnamon and nutmeg from the hot cider. "But as long as you want me, you have me. Here at home, and on the Path if you ever want to go back."
"Lambert," Eskel whispered like a question, hesitant and desperate-sounding. He put his mug away without moving more than his arm, and he heard Lambert do the same.
"Yeah," he breathed back, his open mouth trailing his breath over pale skin.
Eskel shifted and urgency burst in Lambert's chest, making him grab Eskel's arm roughly. But the man didn't pull away, instead he turned and suddenly they were breathing the same air. Eskel quivered when their mouths met and he kissed Lambert desperately. Neither of them were graceful, which meant neither of them cared that it instantly turned hot and messy. Lambert's lips were chapped but his tongue was clever, ruthless.
Eskel slid a hand into Lambert's curls, keeping him close as he pulled away for a breath.
"Don't hold back," Lambert panted, noticing how tense Eskel still was, his broad frame trembling with both elation and restraint. Catching his mouth into another passionate kiss, Eskel pulled him up to his feet by his clothes. Lambert clambered but followed, and soon their footsteps echoed in the old stairway.
—
Eskel’s bedroom felt more lived-in than any other rooms in the Keep, and Lambert liked the familiar feeling he got as he stepped in it. Clothes were thrown haphazardly on a trunk in a corner, and every flat surface was covered in books. “It doesn’t feel right, spending too much time in the great hall when no one’s there…” Eskel muttered as an excuse for the cluttered state of his room, scratching the side of his face in embarrassment.
Lambert would have snorted if it wasn’t such a sad admission, and instead started to pull at the few rows of laces at the collar of his shirt, tugging the wool over his head, messing up his curls even more. As he threw the garment aside, he saw Eskel follow the movement and felt his flesh erupt in pleased shivers.
As Eskel pulled on his own laces, Lambert noticed how he was angling his face, hiding —Lambert wasn’t one for giving compliments, but he knew his friend wouldn’t expect otherwise from him. “Think I care how you look?” he asked instead, and Eskel snorted a quiet laugh. “Honestly.”
“Guess not,” Eskel shrugged, and Lambert answered him with a hum as he pulled on the rest of his clothes. “I’m spoiled goods,” Eskel then murmured as he discarded his own shirt, his muscles and scars on full display.
“Aren’t we all?” he asked, and he still couldn’t understand what Eskel saw in him that made him look so reverent. They were all covered in various scars, some badly healed or badly sewn, and Lambert surely thought none of them were pretty, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t find comfort or beauty in one another, if only they knew where to look.
They disrobe slowly, silently, almost turned away from one another —romance, divesting the other in some kind of sensual dance wasn’t for them, but perhaps they would learn, one day.
As he stood naked, Eskel kept his back to Lambert, counting his own breaths until he felt more settled, but before he could face him he heard Lambert coming up behind him, the floorboards creaking slightly under his feet. Soon he felt his curls brush his shoulder blades like a lover's caress, then a dry kiss was pressed in the divot between them. He shivered when Lambert started to talk. "You smell good," Lambert whispered, and his tone alone was worth a thousand compliments. "Look good. Makes me want to do things to you."
He kissed Eskel's skin again, wetter this time, on the back of his neck were strands of his hair stuck. Eskel wanted to ask what kind of things he had in mind but the words were stuck in his chest, the rumbling of Lambert's voice and the tenderness of his kiss making his head fuzzy.
"I was wondering if you'd let me," he said against Eskel's skin while his knuckles were brushing their way down his spine. Lambert's meaning was made clearer when he dipped his thumb between the cheeks of Eskel's ass with uncharacteristic softness, caressing him gently but firmly. Lambert's mouth chased the violent shiver that ran down his spine and Eskel exhaled a feeble yes and felt Lambert grin against his skin. "Go lay down on your front."
He obeyed, feeling Lambert's eyes on him like a brand. His breathing had gotten heavier while Lambert's stayed slow and measured. He hid the scarred side of his face in the pillow, arms coming underneath it to support his head and hide the trembling in his hands. Anticipation and arousal were building between his legs, heavy and blazing.
"Fuck," Lambert groaned, "aren't you a work of art?"
Eskel shuddered at the praise, and something uncoiled in his stomach, spreading across his body and relaxing his whole frame. He felt the mattress dip as Lambert climbed after him, and he gasped when Lambert's hot mouth came to his tailbone and moaned again, louder, when he dipped his tongue between his cheeks —he should have known Lambert wouldn’t beat around the bush.
He shook and rocked back against Lambert’s face as the man’s clever tongue worked him loose and open, an intense but diffuse pleasure took hold of him. His nerves were alight, from the base of his spine to the back of his neck, coursing through his stomach and chest until his abdomen muscles were tense and his chest felt tight.
Eskel was lost to the spinning of his head as Lambert pulled him by the hips, and soon there was a hard cock pressing against him. He panted as Lambert pressed inside, oil easing the way, and for a long second he felt as though he was speared to the spot as lightning erupted along his back, Lambert’s wet mouth sucking bruising kisses in the ridges of his spine.
Lambert moaned as he was sheathed to the root, his head dropping forward on Eskel’s shoulder, pleasure sparking at the base of his cock with every thrust. “That’s it, big guy,” Lambert praised, and the whimper he got from Eskel in response made his cock throb.
They groaned and panted in unison as Lambert set a moderate pace, picking up a more aggressive rhythm when Eskel reached back and tangled his hand in his curls, pulling at them. They twisted until their mouths could meet again, and the kisses they shared were messy and tasted of the musk of Eskel’s skin. The air around them smelled like sweat and spices, and the creaking of the bed somehow made their heads spin in a constant loop of sensory responses —the smell of the other, the sounds he made, the noises of their flesh coming together, the bedframe knocking against the wall. It was all more erotic and enthralling than either of them had expected, and so they took advantage of their Witcher stamina, exploring and pushing the limits until they were both utterly spent and satisfied.
As they laid in bed side by side, panting but radiating with almost giddy joy, Lambert’s mind was still spinning with thoughts. There were so many words he still wanted to say, and many he expected Eskel would want to say as well, but there would be time for that later. Instead, he kept his most important thought and pondered his words for a while before speaking. Eskel was dozing off as he broke the silence, but his golden eyes instantly opened and turned their attention to the red-haired witcher.
"You've always taken care of us. Of me,” Lambert murmured, then turned to nuzzle into the side of Eskel’s face —his nose and mouth against his scars. “Now let us take care of you, for once”, he pleaded, quiet and reverent. “Let me take care of you.”
—
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