#lambalt

[the-boy-king-rp-multi]

It had been a few winters since he had managed to make it home to kaer morhen. Rumors flooded the continent of the mage Vilgefortz killing the white wolf- A warning to the entire continent. Of course, they weren't true; witchers could heal from severe injuries, and it wasn't the first account of a near death experience. The stryga, the ghouls- Now a mage. Like he'll he was going to let his death be by the hand of one of them.

Between being on the run with Ciri and Yennefer, nearly dying at the hands of the mage and hunting down ciri, the war waging on.. It had been a tough few winters. As they treaded their way to Kaer Morhen once more, he only hoped he'd see the faces of Vesemir and his two brothers again- He didn't know if he could take another loss. As the doors of Kaer Morhen dramatically burst open, the four of them walked in, Geralt tugging his hood off; he smelled undeniably of pain and exhaustion. Suddenly, the entire keep grew dead silent.

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Geralt/Lambert modern AU, just anything. I love prickly Lambert begrudgingly accepting soft because he actually loves the attention but refuses to admit it.

Lambert’s been nursing a crush on the garage’s very own pretty boy, with his piercings, tattoos and body to die for. But, you know, pining’s for losers, and it’s not until Geralt offers to help him with a bad back that Lambert realises the interest is very much returned...

“Why does he have to open it between jobs?” Lambert grumbled quietly to Eskel in the breakroom, glaring down into the tepid depths of the filter coffee in his hands. It was difficult to not stare when Geralt waltzed into the breakroom with his overalls open to the belly button. His chest was a work of fucking art. Literally, in all ways. Lambert had to stop himself staring at the tattoos, because that inevitably led to staring at the rest; the amazing fucking chest, the ripped abdominals.

Fucking pretty boy asshole thought he was above everyone, and—

The sexual attraction had started slowly. It wasn’t instant. Never was with Lambert, fuck if he knew why. But everything about Geralt was Lambert’s type, right down to his snarky attitude when customers were idiots and the easy manner in which he floated through life, apparently giving zero fucks about anything. Granted, Geralt was a bit more subtle than Lambert, who wasn’t above calling them fucking idiots to their face and swore loudly and often that he didn’t care about shit. There was one snag though. Geralt was very much taken. He even had the guy’s name tattooed around his neck: ‘Jaskier’.

And no, Lambert didn’t fucking pine. Pining was for losers.

“The workshop gets hot,” Eskel replied, brow furrowed as he squinted at the crossword in front of him. The newspaper pages crackled as he pressed the pen down. “Nineteen across; figure who may inflame aching back. Eros.”

“Well, Eros can fuck off, because mine’s still killing,” Lambert stretched, coffee mug abandoned, and winced when the muscles in his back twinged. Four days ago, an old Volvo had slipped off the jack and Lambert got yanked to the floor with it. At the time, it felt like every muscle in his back had torn, but after a hot bath and a day off he was back to mobility. Still hurt like all fuck though.

“I told you, you need to go to a physio,” Eskel checked his watch and then folded his newspaper. Break was over. “We’ve got all the paperwork in order. The company’ll cover it.”

“And have a strange pervy asshole run his hands all over me? Yeah, great, sounds fucking amazing.”

“Suit yourself,” Eskel sighed and flicked his hand in farewell as he returned to the garage floor. Five minutes of silence passed as Lambert continued to roll his shoulders and pick over his pasta salad. The breakroom door opened, and a familiar, white-haired Adonis ambled in with a thermos and a wrapped ham sandwich.

“Afternoon,” Geralt jutted his chin in greeting and fell into the sofa. Predictably, the buttons on his overalls came open and he wasn’t wearing a shirt underneath. The curve of his pec accentuated by a fold of blue fabric, Lambert tried not to stare at the peak of his nipple as a button rolled across it and – “Eskel said your back’s still hurting.”

“Uh,” Lambert cleared his throat and rubbed a hand over his face. “Yeah. S’nothing.”

“I could give you a massage,” Geralt said it so flippantly, and Lambert didn’t just accidentally snort coffee like it was crack off a hooker’s tit. “I used to be a PT. Part of the service.”

PT. Made sense with a physique like that. Lambert was pretty proud of his own build, but Geralt took it to a whole new level and Eskel… well, Eskel would make an MMA wrestler look petite. That was just a fact of life at this point. “Yeah, no, it’s… that’d be weird, right? No.”

There was also the horrifying certainty that the moment Geralt touched him he’d get a boner, and it wouldn’t be a half chubby either. It’d be a full-blown erection with tears.

“Hmm,” Geralt shrugged. “Offer’s there. It’ll make you feel a hundred times better.”

“Yeah, right. Uh, I’ve got a Karen booked in next, so I’m—.” Lambert walked out quickly, because even the thought of—oh fuck, you know what? Fuck it all. Geralt was probably taking the piss, because he did that kind of shit. For the rest of the day, Lambert was in a foul mood. The ‘Karen’ in question was just as obnoxious and obtuse as he expected and Eskel had to come over and defuse the situation before they throttled each other.

His back got worse somehow, until he had to spend at least ten minutes in each hour hunched over the bonnet of a car breathing deeply—but not too deeply because it fucking hurt. One evening he even went as far as to google some physios, but the pretentious flare of their websites and the niggling dislike of strangers touching him put him off straight away.

But it hurt so fucking much.

Desperate times called for desperate measures, and one breaktime Lambert approached Geralt. It was just the two of them—Eskel took his day off on Mondays when the bookings were quietest—so the embarrassment probability was in Lambert’s favour. “Hey, Geralt,” he started smoothly. “You know you offered a, uh, a back massage a week ago, you know, for the injury. The offer still on the table, or—?”

“Sure,” Geralt put his sandwich aside and rolled up to his feet. Lambert definitely didn’t catch a glance of the huge swell at the front of his boxers revealed when his open overall gaped. “Give me a sec’.”

“Wait, what?” Lambert’s eyes widened as Geralt disappeared briefly into the locker room and then came out with a bottle of fucking massage oil. “What the fuck—?”

“I knew you were in a lot of pain and would probably ask at some point.”

“But… here?”

“It’s just us,” Geralt shrugged. “No bookings for an hour and a half and we never get walk-ins on a Monday.”

The blush rose up Lambert’s chest and neck, cresting at the very tips of his ears. “And the oil, that’s—uh, why?”

“Needed. Trust me,” Geralt flopped back down onto the sofa, shuffled right back, thighs spread, and tapped the space between them. “Shirt off, come sit. It’ll soak in after about twenty minutes and you’re good to go.”

Every circuit in Lambert’s brain misfired, sparks flying around behind his eyes, but his fucking feet moved of their own accord. He undid his overall and tugged his t-shirt over his head—because those with an ounce of decorum wore fucking t-shirts, Geralt—and tried to ignore the definite appraisal being levied at his chest before he turned. “You know, if this is—uh, if this is like too weird, we can—ahh!” Lambert sat bolt upright as slick thumbs pushed into his thoracolumbar fascia; the long muscle in his lower back. “Oh, ahh…” He bit down on his lip as Geralt pushed through the tension and—oh, fuck it was good and it had only just started.

“You’ve got good posture, but you hold yourself rigid all the time,” Geralt murmured, his breath hot on the back of Lambert’s neck. “Carry a lot of tension. You should’ve probably been visiting a physio even before the car fell on you.”

“It didn’t fall on m—mmm,” Lambert was melting. Geralt’s thumbs worked in wide, deep circles. He followed the line of Lambert’s spine at first, paying close attention to areas that made Lambert hiss and gasp. He only paused occasionally to top up the oil on his hands and in those moments Lambert’s mind rediscovered some brief clarity; this was good, too good. And it was far more intimate than it really should be. Lambert could smell Geralt’s cologne, clean sweat and something that just—

Oh no.

Brown eyes dropped quickly to his own lap, his cock swelling down the leg of his coveralls. Geralt’s hands chose that moment to sweep around his obliques, his chin propped on Lambert’s shoulder. “Hmm, well, thank fuck.”

“What?” Lambert’s voice was the right pitch. He didn’t fucking squeak.

“You’re interested, I was a bit worried I’d been misreading,” Geralt rested a hand on Lambert’s stomach, his other still sweeping a gentle thumb over his trapezius.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“I like you. Wanted to hook up,” Geralt said, matter-of-factly. “But you’re not the traditional flirting type. Thought you were probably demi’ too.”

Lambert’s mind was doing cartwheels while simultaneously failing to focus on anything but the steadying hand on his stomach. “Wait, wait one fucking minute, you’re—you have a—I’ve seen him.”

“Jaskier?” Geralt grinned as Lambert twisted to look at him and was happy to note his captive hedgehog hadn’t scarpered for cover. “We’re in an open relationship. He also likes to share now and then if the partner’s up for it.”

“An open relationship,” Lambert’s brow set and he scowled. “You think I was born yesterday? What, we fuck, then we keep it as our dirty little secret, ‘cause why does he need to know about us? Yeah, fuck off, Geralt. You’re a sleazy asshole, you’re—why are you on your fucking phone?”

“Calling Jaskier.”

“What?” Lambert squawked and now tried to stand up, but Geralt’s arm wrapped around his waist and pulled him to his chest—his bare, warm, muscular, amazing fucking chest—and Lambert was momentarily stunned. The ‘phone call’ was, in fact, FaceTime. Jaskier, blue-eyed, foppish-haired, picked up and beamed through the handset.

“Well, hello there, handsome,” those enchanting cornflower blues flickered to Lambert next. “Ahh, I see you’ve caught your prize.”

Lambert’s mouth opened and closed dumbly. All his wit and sarcasm just fucked right off, apparently leaking out the end of his cock with the precome soaking through the leg of his coveralls.

“He thinks I’m trying to cheat on you,” Geralt said smoothly. “Thinks I’m sleazy.”

Was that a fucking pout? The piercings just made it look criminally salacious. Jaskier chuckled. “How very noble,” he paused. “Don’t worry, Lambert. I can confirm I’m not being cheated on and, in fact, am very suppportive of Geralt’s choice in this case.”

“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, we’ve been sleeping with Eskel for years,” Jaskier leaned back in his chair; the general chatter of the office continued behind him. He worked in the music industry or something; all Lambert knew was that he drove expensive cars and he really enjoyed working on them when they rolled in. “But I was hoping to complete the set.”

They’d been sleeping with Eskel for years. And the asshole didn’t think to mention that in passing? Actually, it kind of made sense; Eskel was a private man. He didn’t really like discussing his personal life, was generally quiet. But still what the actual fuckity-fuck?

“Well, boys. Have fun. Some of us can’t spend all day oggling handsome men,” Jaskier sighed ruefully. “I’ll see you tonight, wolf.” With a mischievous wink, Jaskier ended the call and Geralt chucked his iPhone onto the sofa before leaning back. His hands pulled away and Lambert felt their loss acutely.

“Well?”

“What the fuck am I meant to say, Geralt? I—,” Lambert rubbed his eyes and glanced at his lap; it wasn’t going down. “You knew, you knew I was eyeing you up and you said nothing.”

“Eskel said you were sensitive, didn’t want to scare you off. Was waiting for the right moment, right technique.”

Eskel was going to get a punch in the fucking face. “Right. So, you know, offering to massage my back... perfectly normal technique, is it?”

“Not really. You’re not normal though. Needed special treatment.”

“Is that—are you flirting with me now?”

“Mm, maybe a little, you’ve got a nice back,” Geralt lifted a hand slowly and ran his finger down Lambert’s spine; the reaction was immediate and Lambert sat up straight. “And a pretty nice everything else. Want to see it all in a bit more detail.”

Lambert stared into those blue eyes in disbelief. His skin still glistened with the massage oil and... fuck, yeah, his back felt a lot better. Probably because all the tension was now in his groin. And Geralt was his type - the tattoos, the piercings, the attitude - and it was just a hook up, right? The emotional risk wasn’t there. Not really. You know, it could be— “Yeah, alright.”

“Hmm,” Geralt grinned; a wry quirk of the lips that made him look far too roguish. He didn’t speak again, but one of those skilled hands pressed over his thigh and gripped Lambert’s cock through the material of his overall. “Can I take care of this for you?”

In that single moment, Lambert, whose breath had just all left his chest, wanted nothing more than whatever Geralt was offering. His mind didn’t register where he was, or really what ‘take care of this for you’ entailed. Not until he was being crowded into the locker room and his overalls were being tugged all the way off. Geralt shed his too, allowing it to slide down his muscular thighs along with—oh fuck, it was huge. Pierced lips teased over Lambert’s chest, inquisitive tongue circling his nipples, mischievous teeth returning to nip at his neck. Geralt was tasting him; he was being consumed and fuck if that didn’t set him on fire.

“Are we—? Is this—?” Lambert’s cock twitched needily as Geralt freed it from the confines of his boxers, big hand sliding down its length with an expert grip that made Lambert weak at the knees. Yes, yes they were. Geralt’s prick was magnificent. Flushed and red, it had a piercing through the very tip and two along the top of the shaft. It throbbed, and leaked, and Lambert wanted it in his mouth more than he wanted oxygen, but Geralt clearly had other ideas.

“Desperate for you, can’t wait, want you now,” Geralt whispered, and then their lips were joined and Lambert felt the trepidation melt away. The kiss was deep, accented with the cold metal of his piercings; oh fuck, he had one in his tongue, of course he did. Lambert whined as Geralt palmed his balls and caressed his taint, adding the very slightest graze of blunt nails that made Lambert’s insides dissolve. The oil hadn’t joined them in the locker room and Geralt pulled away only long enough to drench both his hands in something water-based from his locker.

Lambert leaned over the bench in the middle of the lockers as guided, legs spread, hands braced. A firm grip pumped his cock while two fingers circled his hole; Geralt sat on the bench behind him, treated to a full view of everything. Apparently he liked what he saw, because Lambert could hear his breath hitch with a soft moan of appreciation, his thumb caressing over Lambert’s balls.

“Oh, oh, fuck,” Lambert’s back arched as one finger pushed inside; tight furl clenching around the intrusion before his body relaxed. Geralt moved it in and out, slowly at first, clearly mystified by the eager squeeze of Lambert’s body. “Eskel... could sack us for this.” Lambert gasped, his head dropping between his shoulders, hanging down to watch Geralt’s hand work over his cock while his other fucked a second finger into him.

“I’ve had Eskel over this bench at least five times,” Geralt rumbled, crooking his fingers gently. “You look just as pretty as he does.”

“Don’t call me—oh, oh.” Lambert shook as Geralt found his sweet spot, massaging with unapologetic precision until his newest lover shook. The third finger pushed in slowly, met with a little resistance. “Ahh, take it—easy, it’s been—hmm, a while.”

“Yeah, I can tell. You’re going to feel so great,” Geralt purred, clearly excited by the prospect of a tight hole, keen to be fucked after so long. “Your ass is something else.”

“Huh, thanks,” Lambert’s eyes slid closed as Geralt continued to finger him oh-so-slowly; it was so fucking sensual, the way he slipped them in and then dragged them out in fluid motions, pressing and circling sometimes. Lambert would come from this if it continued. “Going to put that beast in me?”

“Hmm,” Geralt drew his hands—fucking amazing hands—away and left the bench. Lambert heard the crackle of foil as Geralt pulled a condom from his locker and watched over his shoulder as it stretched over Geralt’s impressive girth. “Don’t worry. Piercings won’t split it.” He doused his shaft in astroglide and then straddled the bench. Lambert could feel the weight of his eyes admiring his ass even as that huge, round head pressed against his slick rim. The catch of the piercing sent sparks up his spine, and then Geralt split him wide open on his cock and Lambert’s mind fell to pieces.

“Oh my—fuck, nngh,” he gasped, strong hands on his hips keeping him steady as Geralt pressed in. It went on forever. Each successive inch stretching Lambert anew; his body shook, his fingers squeezed the edge of the bench. “Geralt.”

“You’re doing well, just relax,” said a gentle voice; far gentler than Geralt’s usual drawl and Lambert surrendered himself completely. Geralt’s hips moved, thick cock dragging in and out at an achingly slow pace at first. Lambert could feel it all; the ridges of metal embedded in his cock, the throb and pulse of arousal, and fuck the angle was just perfect.

“Geralt, Geralt, fuck, fuck yeah,” he moaned, thrusting himself back, eager for more pace. His wish was granted moments later when Geralt snapped forward and shoved deep; Lambert dropped his chest to present deeper access, and his eyes rolled back as Geralt thrust harder, faster. The slap of skin only paused when Geralt stopped briefly to top up the lube on his cock, pushing in slowy again, caressing Lambert’s stretched rim with his thumb. “Nngh.” From that point on, the pace was relentless; the glorious, swift drag of Geralt’s cock the centre of Lambert’s world. Geralt stroked his back, gripped his hair, pulled him back; purred praise—how good Lambert felt, how much Geralt had wanted to fuck him like this for so long, spread open and wet—and Lambert could do nothing but whimper and moan in response.

He could feel Geralt’s heavy balls against his when Geralt ground in a slow figure of eight, burying himself deep, and Lambert came hard. It washed over him in a tidal wave of heat that wiped the vision from his eyes. His cock leapt against his stomach as it spurted a mess over the smooth surface of the bench. Geralt kept pounding into him through it, and Lambert sobbed through moans of ecstasy. The moment Geralt finally came, huge cock swelling hard, balls pulling tight, Lambert whined. Oh, he wanted it dripping out of him...

Geralt flipped him over and pushed him down in his own spunk, but Lambert didn’t care, because Geralt could fucking kiss. His tongue and lips demanded, and Lambert gave all he had, hands clutching at Geralt’s muscular chest, his narrow waist, agile hips. Holding, feeling.

It wasn’t the last time Geralt fucked Lambert at work. He had him against the wall, on the bench, on the sofa in the break room and Eskel walked in, only to smirk and suggest he’d join in next time. Then they started... dating. Jaskier was there, with his intelligent blue eyes and floppy hair. They joked, flirted and teased. Geralt and Jaskier had an easy love; there were no secrets, no hang ups; Geralt presented Lambert to Jaskier proudly, and Jaskier crooned his appreciation. They never made him feel like a third wheel, and Geralt’s arm always wrapped his shoulders or his waist, occasionally kisses edged in silver pressed to his neck.

And when Lambert ended up in their bed, pressed between them, spread open beneath their hands; his body their plaything, their words of praise his lifeline, he knew he’d hit the fucking jackpot. Literally.

Based on this artwork by Sayuri527. Lots of other pieces to go with the original work too.

[softnoblecyno]

Crimes Against Gwent

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Lambert Characters: Lambert (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Vesemir (The Witcher) Additional Tags: Angry Lambert (The Witcher), Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Parental Vesemir (The Witcher), Winter at Kaer Morhen (The Witcher), Gwent (The Witcher), Roughhousing, Brother Feels, Purring Witchers (The Witcher), geralt has extra mutations, Teeth, canon-typical childhood trauma, Fluff, Light Angst, Some Humor

on ao3

While Lambert may not revere Kaer Morhen like the others do, he still enjoys the peaceful winters there to some extent. It’s better than being spit on for being a mutant on the streets— like he would have chosen to be had he been asked— even if he does have to deal with that dipshit Vesemir who still thinks he has any sort of authority over them. Sure, the season is a bit boring, but it just means that he’s all that more ready to fight monsters on the Path when he gets back. The extra money he’d get working during the winter isn’t worth the free ale and food he gets in the keep.

Plus, he does, admittedly, like to see his brothers. He doesn’t worry about them often on the Path, but sometimes… sometimes he wonders. Whatever. It’s good to see them in the old keep, regardless of how horrible the place is. It’s part of what makes it worth it to go back other than just free food. He gets to kick their asses in training and play drinking games with them. Or, in tonight's case, card games. Geralt sure does love his gwent.

Not nearly as much as he likes beating Lambert at gwent, apparently. By cheating. Bastard loaded his hand, Lambert is sure of it. And the only reaction Geralt has when he’s accused is to smirk. He’s so fucking full of it. Lambert’ll show him to regret what he did.

Lambert leaps from his chair at the dining table so forcefully that it topples backwards with a loud clatter, and quickly rounds the table to tackle Geralt, bowling him over without any regard to their surroundings. Geralt’s chair tips back with the both of them in it, creaking and then slamming to the wooden floor. The two of them tumble backwards, rolling onto the plush rug in the living room as they grapple with each other.

Geralt has the audacity to laugh, full-bellied and genuinely happy, and it makes Lambert squawk indignantly. The older witcher shoots Lambert a grin and Lambert lunges again.

“This isn’t a fucking joke, Geralt!” he spits, struggling to pin the other witcher underneath him, digging his knee viciously into one of his hips to hold him down. Only the pressure is weaker than he would like and Geralt laughs again at his attack, bucking his hips up easily and dislodging Lambert’s leg from his body. He retreats back instead of taking advantage of Lambert’s slip up and somehow that makes the younger witcher even angrier. He chases where Geralt backs off, accidentally knocking him into an end table as he does. Something clatters off of the surface and onto the wood floor, rolling around and then stopping with a clink. Lambert doesn’t think to check what fell, far too occupied on his fellow witcher.

“You sure it’s not a joke?” Geralt’s shit-eating grin grows wider. “Not sure you could call this anything else, the way you’re fighting.”

Lambert slaps haphazardly at Geralt’s face, grabbing a fistful of his hair and shoving his cheek into the rug with a loud hiss.

“Shouldn’t you two save the wrestling for tomorrow’s training?” Vesemir comments, stepping up to the dining table with a small frown on his face. Lambert was so preoccupied with Geralt that he didn’t even hear him come up.

“Fuck off, old man,” he growls, throwing his head up to glare at Vesemir. Geralt uses the distraction to flip Lambert, lifting him over his head and guiding him to land on the floor above himself with a loud bang!, so hard that the floor shakes. Lambert’s new position places his feet close to the flames crackling in the fireplace. The heat prickles through his flesh and radiates all the way up to his calves.

“Lambert’s a sore loser,” Geralt sneers playfully, his legs locked around Lambert’s shoulders.

“Fuck you!” Lambert tries to squirm his top half free but he can’t get any headway, not even an inch. “You cheated to win that game and you know it!”

“I’m just better at gwent than you.”

read the rest on ao3!

[julek]

Ooh this looks like a fun game! funny/horny/angsty: Lambskier, Lambskel, Lambalt

funny: lambskel. lambert’s a little shit and eskel is too, under all that ‘good boy’ look

horny: lambskier. have you met them? the kaer morhen halls haven’t known peace and quiet since the bard’s first winter at the keep

angsty: lambalt. i think they’d understand each other quite well, especially in the what-being-a-witcher-entails area

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Could I have Fluff Prompt 21: Is this romantic enough for you Geralt/Lambert please? <3

Lambert’s feeling angry and lonely after things end with Keira. The prospect of spending Beltane on his own makes him pricklier than usual. Geralt takes on the challenge...

Lambert was spending Beltane at Corvo Bianco. There were several key issues that made this a potentially explosive situation. Firstly, he’d been dumped recently and the constant reminder of love and romance in the lead up to the festival was making him more prickly than usual; secondly, Geralt allowed his workers to host their celebrations in one of his fields, so Lambert wouldn’t be able to escape them and finally, everyone else wasn’t going to be there. 

Eskel was delayed on a contract in Poviss last Geralt heard, Triss and Yen were spending it together at Ban Ard, Ciri was busy. Even Jaskier, always reliable, had decided to spend it in Novigrad at his tavern. We have a huge show planned, dear heart; I’ll make it up to you I promise.

Geralt watched Lambert stomp across the courtyard from the window of his bedroom and heaved a sigh. Better go defuse that before it became an issue for someone. 

“Barnabas has got some more Sangreal from the Duchess,” Geralt opened with the offer of alcohol, because it was an easy in with Lambert. “Was gonna’ watch all the goings on from the barn roof tonight. Got any plans?”

Lambert turned with a growl. “What? You think I haven’t got a better proposition than you on Beltane?” He didn’t. Geralt raised an eyebrow, informing Lambert in no uncertain terms that he was well aware of this, so the prickly bastard changed tac. “Is that your way of asking me to spend it with you? You’re literally the most unromantic fuck I’ve ever met.”

“I’ve never had any complaints,” Geralt folded his arms, not bothering to fight the smirk tugging at the edges of his lips despite the likelihood of adding more fuel to the man-shaped inferno before him. “Maybe I could teach you a few things then the next girl won’t disappear so quickly.”

“Coming from the bloke who had not one, not two, but three chances at happy ever after with a sorceress and blew it? Yeah, I’ll pass.” Lambert’s hands bunched into fists, his shoulders hunching. After all these years, Geralt knew what a hurting Lambert looked like. And Lambert was hurting. Despite his bravado, he’d genuinely cared for Keira. Loved her, even. 

“You’re just scared you won’t be able to resist all this.” Geralt swept a hand down his body vaguely and Lambert barked a laugh.

“You are un-fucking-believable,” he was about to walk away, but something stopped him. Perhaps it was the idea of watching Geralt flail, or maybe the offer of wine, or… his burning desire not to spend all night watching others with their loved ones while he was on his own. “You know what, pretty boy? Fine. Educate me. I’ll spend Beltane with you.” 

Geralt grinned. “Pick you up at sunset?”

Lambert rolled his eyes and stomped off. The fresh air and the peace were good for him. As they got older, his brothers were finding the Path harder and harder, so it was a point of pride for Geralt that he could provide them somewhere safe and tranquil to recharge.

For the rest of the day, he threw himself wholeheartedly into Operation Woo the Prickly Bastard. Barnabas sourced him some soft furs and throws for the roof, some scented candles, expensive cheeses and meats, and one of the young girls that worked for him in a domestic capacity wove two flower crowns from the wildflowers on the estate. By the time the sun set and the bonfires were roaring away in the bottom field, Geralt had everything ready. There was just one ingredient missing and so he left the roof of the barn to collect him.

Lambert was sitting in the drawing room with some sewing. Most of his shirts were a patchwork of different material, but he was too stubborn and proud to allow Geralt to replace them. He was wearing one of his nicer ones now though, Geralt noted, and he’d washed his hair without adding the grease he used to slick it back. Huh. Fluffy Lambert. That… was actually very attractive. Geralt swaggered into the drawing room. “Your date night awaits.”

He rolled his eyes as he stood, but otherwise Lambert didn’t say a single word as they headed out into the estate. Geralt watched him glance at the young lovers wound in each other’s arms and pointedly turn his gaze away, head low, shoulders bunched, and his resolve hardened. He was going to make Lambert feel loved tonight. Even if it killed him. Which, as Lambert was involved, there was certainly a risk.

“After you,” Geralt indicated the ladder up to the roof.

“Aren’t you meant to carry me?” Lambert drawled, but was soon speeding up the rungs with Geralt following in his wake. He nearly walked into the back of him when they crested the gutter. Lambert stared at the arrangement of furs and pillows, with the flickering candles giving off a faint, pleasant scent. The bottles of wine were carefully arranged with two glasses - legitimate fucking glasses - and two flower crowns sitting on the pillows. Without thinking, he immediately backtracked. Panic welled in his chest. “Are you taking the piss?”

Geralt’s hands rested gently on Lambert’s back. “You said I couldn’t romance, so I’m gonna’ prove you wrong,” he pointed at the furs. “We had a deal. You backing out now?” 

“No,” Lambert murmured, because if there was something worse than whatever the fuck his heart was doing right now, then it was allowing Pretty Boy an easy victory. The furs were soft underhand as Lambert lowered himself down, only grumbling when Geralt indicated his boots after kicking off his own. They leaned back on the pillows, shoulder to shoulder, with a glass of strong, red wine in their hands and Geralt breathed a deep, contented sigh.

Their shared silence wasn’t awkward. Geralt knew Lambert well; he needed an opportunity to evaluate his own head and decide the current situation was acceptable. That Geralt wasn’t trying to ridicule, or take anything from him. There was no shame to be found here. They got through an entire bottle of wine before Lambert finally spoke, his eyes settled on the group of young lovers currently dancing in a ring around a bonfire. “You’re the only landowner I know of where the employees actually like being here.”

“It’s something us and the peasants have in common,” Geralt propped himself up on his elbows. “Being treated as less than human. I just treat them fairly.”

“Never stopped them running us out of town though.”

“Fear makes people do stupid things. So does anger. Leads to self-sabotage and long term unhappiness.”

Lambert wasn’t stupid. He knew a quiet lecture when he heard one, but rather than rise to it, he took a shot at the whimsical tone. “You’re getting soft in your old age, Geralt.” His answer was a quiet hum and they went back to watching the festivities, with occasional conversation punctuating the peaceful quiet. As the level of wine in their bloodstream got higher, Geralt scooped the flower crown up and dumped it on Lambert’s head with a chuckle, accepting the light dig in the ribs he got in return. They watched those young lovers laugh, drink and run off into the darkness, and Lambert found his attention slipping.

It was Geralt. His easy smile, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, the way he sat so close, smelled so good. Like summer, Lambert realised. Geralt smelled like heady summer evenings spent in flowering fields with a mug full of mead, surrounded by family and friends. Spicy, sultry, happy and comforting all at the same time. The candles flickered in a light breeze and the wine dulled the sharp edges of the world until Lambert found himself sidling just a little closer, his head flopping to Geralt’s shoulder.

“You know, you look good with your hair like that.” Geralt murmured, his voice thick with the sweet wine they’d been enjoying for the last few hours. Lambert blinked dumbly, lips parting, brain scrambling for a witty comeback but coming up short. Geralt sat up then and slid an arm around his waist; he scooped the flower crown from Lambert’s head and brushed his fingers through tousled hair. “It’s soft. Makes you look… nice.”

“And I thought Jaskier was shit at flirting,” Lambert whispered, but his eyes had dropped to Geralt’s lips and the tingles of pleasure fluttering across his scalp were now skittering down his neck. 

“Flirting’s fake,” Geralt replied, almost tartly but for the warm glow of his golden eyes and the sweet heaviness to their gaze. “S’meant to get in someone’s pants, you say anythin’. I mean it. You’re a damn good-looking man when you stop scowling.”

“I don’t scowl…” Lambert growled, scowling.

“Mmm,” Geralt stroked the side of Lambert’s face, scratching happily through his beard. He scooped the smaller body closer - smaller, but no less strong, no less thickly muscled; warm and appetising. “Your lips are really nice. Really full. Jaskier would have some poetry for them, but I… they’re just very nice, aren’t they?”

It was the wine. The fucking wine. Lambert swallowed. Because Geralt was being genuine, and he was so close, and he smelled really, really good. If he’d tried poetry, or any similar bullshit, Lambert would’ve kicked back. In fact, he’d been prepared for that. Not this. Not lowkey, gentle, real affection that made his chest tight and his head light. Not the beautiful shine in Geralt’s eyes or the tender, undemanding brush of his fingers.

Lambert dissolved into the kiss that followed effortlessly. His back lowered onto the furs beneath as Geralt’s thick chest pressed gently into his, his head nestling in the crook of Geralt’s elbow. Lambert suddenly realised just how Geralt had convinced so many people into his bed over the years; his tongue was… it did things. The softest moan worked free from Lambert’s chest and he clung to Geralt’s shirt, arching into the hands that swept up beneath his own and caressed his ribs, leaving shivering, excited flesh in their wake. 

When those kisses worked down his jaw and his neck - unhurried, sensual - Lambert’s eyes rolled back and he gave in completely. His clothes melted away without him even realising until he was naked beneath Geralt, the hot press of his skin everything and too much all at the same time. Oh, the fucker had brought oil with him. He’d been so fucking assured of his prowess. That should piss Lambert off. Should make him snap, and bite, but Geralt was kissing his neck as he worked two fingers inside his body, finding the exact spot that made him gasp, and Lambert decided that his future self could deal with the indignation, because his present self was weak and wanting.

So, under the full Beltane moon, Geralt of Rivia made love to him. The bastard romanced the braies right off, and then didn’t even have the good grace to gloat the next day so that Lambert could hate him for it. Oh no, he was an absolute gentleman. There was aftercare and everything. And breakfast in bed. 

Urgh. Geralt. What a prick. 

In more ways than one, by Melitele’s fucking tits, it… fuck.

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Every time you post new Lambskel, Lambden, or Lambalt writing, my heart grows three sizes

Thank you, Anon! Bringing smiles and the warm fuzzies to people is most of the reason I write. ^^ Feel free to drop a request/prompt. I’m working my way through my inbox at 2-3 a day currently.

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Can I just say, Piece Me Back Together is on of my favourite things ever. I'm obsessed. I can't wait for more. I adore the way you write Lambert, and Eskel, and Lambert and Eskel together. If I had one request, it would be to see a little more of them, maybe in the past? I would also very much appreciate a little more Geralt/Lambert, if you're so inclined.

Thank you, Anon! This made me flail with happiness for ages. ^^ I loved writing it, and it’s amazing people are still finding it/giving it a read. Lambskel is one of my favourite dynamics. It’s the age-old trope of “the grumpy one loves the sunshine one”, except the “sunshine one” is this big, soft, scarred dude that could squash the grumpy one, but he’s gentle, with this heart of gold... oh, hang on, about to wax lyrical about Eskel again. Back on track!

Definitely more Lambalt planned too (like cobalt, just as hard but with more sass *wink*) as there’s been a slow progression of their relationship since “Winter Bonding”.  Much love, and great to hear from you. <3

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Lambert gets dumped. It goes about as well as you’d expect…

Geralt arrived at Flotsam in a bad mood. The last time he’d visited this cesspit of a town he’d saved Jaskier from hanging, almost been killed by Letho, watched an elven lieutenant die after being beaten to a pulp, oh the list just went on and on. So he wasn’t expecting his day to get much worse.

Oh how wrong he was.

The first sign of trouble was the crowd of bloodied militia standing around the outskirts of the town, nursing bloodied noses and bruised egos. Then, as he led Roach towards the centre of the town, he heard it.

Singing. Bad singing. Off key. Really, really loud.

“It's easy to say, but it's never the same! I guess I kinda liked the way you numbed all the pain!”

Geralt tied Roach off to a hitching post near the tavern and elbowed his way through the small crowd still gathered around the fountain. On its highest level—dressed in red, silk panties and chemise, with matching feather boa and lipstick—stood Lambert. He held a glass bottle aloft, and paused in his braying to take long swigs from it.

“Now the day bleeds, into nightfall, and you're not here, to get me through it all!”

Geralt pinched the bridge of his nose and turned to the woman standing next to him. At least she looked amused rather than frightened. “How long’s he been up there?”

“An hour or so. The watchmen tried to get him down, but he used his Witcher sorcery to throw ‘em off.”

“I let my guard down, and then you pulled the rug, I was getting kinda used to being someone you loved!”

“He got this drunk in a couple of hours?”

She giggled. “Oh, no. He’s been drinkin’ and shaggin’ his way through the entire brothel,” she folded her arms, “they’re callin’ him Mr All Nighter. Not a single unsatisfied woman in that place.”

“I'm going under and this time I fear there's no one to turn to, this all or nothing way of loving got me sleeping without you!”

“All ni—? How much money does he owe?” Geralt rubbed a hand across his forehead, doing a quick mental inventory of how many orens he had left over.

She whistled through her teeth. “Oh, more an’ he’s worth, I tell ya’ that much.”

“Now, I need somebody to know, somebody to heal, somebody to have, just to know how it feels, it's easy to say but it's never the same, I guess I kinda liked the way you helped me escape!”

“Fuck.” Geralt seethed, and then marched past her. “Lambert!”

The other Witcher swayed briefly, clearly shocked by Geralt’s appearance. He threw out a hand and grabbed the effigy on top of the fountain by the nethers. “Oh, shit, Geralt,” Lambert brandished his half empty bottle. “Welcome to Flotsam. It's a shithole. Ladies and gentlemen, my brother.”

“Get down, you’re an embarrassment,” Geralt gritted out.

“Oh, now you sound like Vesemir,” Lambert growled, and then hiccuped, followed by a loud belch. “I always thought the hair was probably hereditary. Sure he didn’t shag your mum?”

“You have three seconds before I drag you down,” Geralt dropped his eyes as the silk panties revealed a bit too much of Lambert’s endowment. “Your cock’s falling out,” he shrugged out of his cloak and offered it up, “put this on.”

“I really wouldn’t worry, half the town’s enjoyed it by this point,” Lambert slid a palm down his chest with a wink and then glanced over his shoulder when several young women giggled from their vantage point in an upstairs window. “But, you’re right. Red’s not really my colour anyway. This arrangement’s more…” he fluttered his fingers, “Eskel.”

Geralt tried really hard not to imagine Eskel in silk lingerie and a feather boa. He really did. Unfortunately there were no prizes for effort and the thought gallivanted merrily across his mind and settled down to stay at the back. Brilliant.

With an agonising lack of grace, Lambert fell down from the fountain and walked right by Geralt’s offered cloak. At this distance, Geralt could see the black kohl around Lambert’s eyes too and the floral scent of perfume wafted by in his wake. “Where’re you going?”

“To get another drink.”

Geralt moved quickly and grabbed Lambert’s shoulder. “You’ve had enough.”

In hindsight, probably a poor move; Lambert swung around and his elbow missed Geralt’s face by mere inches. “I will fucking decide when I’ve had enough. Now piss off, White Wolf. Go save a princess or fuck a—,” he trailed off, drowning the next word in alcohol, with a desolate look on his face.

Oh shit.

The song. The rampant sex. The alcohol. The lack of… self-respect. Geralt sucked in a sharp breath. “She… uh, she ended it, didn’t she?”

“Yes she fucking did!” Lambert roared, flinging his empty bottle at a nearby building. “She said she couldn’t deal with me anymore. That I’m too high maintenance. Can you fucking believe it? Me! High maintenance! FUCK!”

Had he been a lesser man, Geralt might’ve pointed out Lambert’s current ensemble, the fact that he’d apparently beaten up a small army and fucked his way through an even bigger one, but he decided to take the high road. On this one occasion. “That’s, uh, pretty shit, I’m sorry,” he murmured.

“Yeah, well, fuck her, fuck sorceresses, fuck—women, in fact, yeah, I’m gunna’ go and do more of that—,” he turned again, but this time he walked into a wall of angry looking watchmen. “Gents, I’m flattered, really. But I go for muscular, washed types… stop pointing that thing, you’ll take someone’s fuckin’ eye out.” Lambert batted at the halberd waving in his face, hiccuped again, and then eyed the man with a crossbow.

Geralt stepped in, hands up. “Look, I’ll take care of it. Everything paid up. Fines included. Just leave him with me. If you put him in a cell, you’ll—you don’t want to do that.”

Clearly men of intelligence, the watchmen agreed to leave Lambert in Geralt’s custody, with a parting ‘we know where you’re staying’. The tavern Lambert had holed himself up in was a complete dump, but they were able to provide a bowl of warm water and a clean cloth when Geralt requested it.

In the privacy of the tiny room near the rafters of the building, Lambert’s bravado evaporated. He sunk onto the pallet with his face in his hands, the only sounds an occasional hiccup or shivering sigh.

“Head up.” Geralt knelt down at Lambert’s feet and took a handful of his hair to tug him upright.

“Well, fuck, if you’re offering Geralt, I won’t say no,” Lambert smirked with a flagrant gesture to his crotch, but the mirth didn’t reach his eyes. He sat perfectly still as Geralt wiped off the make up and revealed bruises underneath. The black and green on his hands wasn’t all dirt either, and Lambert pulled his palms out of Geralt’s grasp when he began to inspect them. “What’re you doing this far south anyway?”

“Just passing through. I hate this shithole. Bad memories.”

“Hmm.”

“There are—,” more fish in the sea, “you can—,” always find someone else, “she—,” wasn’t even that nice anyway. Each time Geralt tried to offer comfort, the words died in his throat.

“Fuck, don’t hurt yourself.” Lambert shook his head. “Look… just do a runner. I’ll deal with this bullshit in the morning. They’ll probably just put me in the stocks for a few days and I’ll pretend I can’t just break out of ‘em.”

“What kinda’ brother would I be if I left you alone feeling like this?”

“An intelligent one,” Lambert replied blithely. “Fuck, let me get this shit off, I think the knickers are constricting my bollocks.”

Geralt moved aside so that Lambert could stumble from the bed and pull the underwear off. He swirled the feather boa theatrically before casting it across the back of the chair.

“Was she your first?”

“Second.” Lambert didn’t look up from his bags.

“Who was the—?” Geralt bit it off, but not quickly enough. He should’ve known. Should’ve thought. Now he’d just poured White Gull in a gaping wound.

“Aiden,” Lambert turned with his shirt in his hand, and tried for humour. “I really have the shittest lu—luck.” People thought that Witchers didn’t cry. No tear ducts, apparently. Geralt always asked them how they thought Witchers got by without being able to naturally clean or protect their eyes and left them to mull it over. Either way, they never did it in public. Reputation and all that. And Lambert was crushing it beneath anger and self-loathing.

Enough of that.

Geralt stepped forward and encircled him in a crushing hug. Partly through self-protection, and partly through a desire to show Lambert that there was someone—more than one, in fact—to hold him up when he couldn’t do it himself. “It’s alright, it’s—it will be.”

“I’m just—so fucking tired, Geralt,” Lambert husked, not bothering to fight him off. “So fucking tired.”

They stood in each other’s arms until the noise in the tavern died down, and then Geralt tugged Lambert over to the bed. The mattress was hard and the blankets scratchy, but it didn’t matter; Lambert curled to Geralt’s chest, “You know, I was perfectly fucking loveable before Vesemir brought me to Kaer Morhen.”

“You’ve said.”

“Now I’m just… I’m just not. Never will be.”

Geralt held Lambert close. It was like looking into a mirror—a slightly cracked one, with a serious amount of weathering and an attitude problem to rival that of a striga’s—but a mirror nonetheless. It had taken years—years—of his loved ones telling him he was worth something—we love you, Geralt—until the diatribe of self-hate in his head faded. Lambert didn’t have a Jaskier, or a Yen, or a Triss, or a Ciri, or a Zoltan, or a Regis… he had Eskel, Vesemir and Geralt.

“I love you.” Geralt murmured. “Prickles and everything.”

“Oh fuck off. All that wine is making you soft,” Lambert said, with his words. But the arms that tightened, and the face that turned, and the heart that calmed; they all said something completely different. “Go to sleep before I puke.”

Geralt smiled. “Night, little wolf.”

Song is Someone You Loved by Lewis Capaldi.

[on-a-lucky-tide]

(this is not a prompt, just wanted to share this hc) I was thinking about Lambert having a childhood crush on geralt that never quite wore off. Lambert hates the Witchers for taking him from his mom but even he is not immune to *cough* aesthetics. He saw geralt practicing swords skills while shirtless with some other Witchers when he was in his teens and never could get that view out of his head from then on. It was fine at first bc Witchers weren't in the keep most of the time and trainees were not allowed to speak to them. But even after the sacking of kaer morhen, Lambert was still nervous around geralt. He can't help but think about geralt shirtless when talking to him. He tries to stay away from geralt and act as if he dislikes him but he also couldn't help but be drawn to him too, wanting to talk to geralt and stay close to him >:3

Oh, Purrito. Sending me these delicious headcanons, you devil, you.

I love the idea that this feral little menace saw Geralt shirtless and had a bit of an... awakening. As a young teenager, you didn't interfere with adult witchers of the Path, so he watched from afar. Then, suddenly, they’re equals. The only ones left. And Geralt is dangerously within reach.

Lambert’s not sure how to deal with it because it conflicts with everything that society has told him is accessible and acceptable. Does this also fit really well with my headcanon that Lambert wrestles/struggles with his sexuality? Yes, perfectly. Geralt was the moment he started... thinking. (I know you, you’re a fluff demon, so I shall not bring angst in!) 

But yes, love it. The Bitch & Sass Factor is off the scale for Lambalt (no, Gerbert sounds like a bad cheese).

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Could we get some Lambert/Geralt and “Doesn’t my love mean anything?” because I’m an angst-monger (and I trust you)

A/N: After the Purges, Eskel, Vesemir and Geralt are all Lambert has. Over the years, his attachment to them grows until he can’t imagine a life without them. Then Geralt begins to bring others home--a witch, a bard, a child--and Lambert can’t see his place in Geralt’s life anymore. Warnings: none, bit angsty, happy ending. Can be read as Geralt/Lambert (Lambalt), or close platonic. Lambert has abandonment issues.

After the fall, the halls had echoed. Lambert noticed it on the first night. Every breath, every footfall, every pin drop, rebounded off the cold flagstones as if to emphasise the emptiness. The loss. The four remaining wolves of Kaer Morhen had barely survived that winter. They wandered listlessly around those cavernous, vacant halls in search of something. Each of them came to the harrowing realisation at different times; they were looking for purpose amongst the rubble. 

The return to the Path was hard. Lambert figured he just wouldn’t go back. What was the point? Geralt and Eskel didn’t really know him that well, and he’d rather cut his own bollocks off than spend any free time with Vesemir. But something drew him back up that treacherous path to those lonely halls, and he found himself sitting across a broken dining table exchanging awkward conversation with older Witchers he’d never really got to know that well.

That changed as the years went by. With just the four of them, it was impossible to be alone. They sought each other out just like their namesakes would; wolves too scared to be alone. Before long, Lambert was relying on them for his sanity. Without Eskel’s sturdy shoulders or Geralt’s frankness, he would’ve probably ended it with a quick leap off the top of the keep only a few years in. Until one winter, perhaps a decade after the purges, he realised he loved them. 

They didn’t need to know that. No—fucking—way. It was a mess. Lambert showed his love in more subtle ways. He brewed extra moonshine every year, sharpened their swords, repaired their armour, trained and joked with them. Eskel’s shy smile and booming laugh, Geralt’s sardonic grin and sassy quips; they became Lambert’s lifeblood. They knew that, didn’t they? Because subtle love was just as valued as… uh, boisterous love, right? 

Then Geralt started bringing people home. The sorceress. The bard. The child. Lambert loved Ciri. She was not a problem, but the other two... he couldn’t shake the feeling they provided something for Geralt that Lambert simply could not. Yen loved fiercely and possessively, Jaskier loved loudly and passionately. Together, they were a tempest that unmoored anything in their Path. 

Lambert tried to pretend it didn’t bother him. Tried to ignore the knot of jealousy mixed with abandonment as Geralt retired to bed with his arms around them—not jealous of him, jealous of them—and when Eskel began to take a shine to Jaskier it just got worse. Four winters in, Lambert hit his limit. Four winters of feeling alone surrounded by the people he… cared about. Four winters of being dismissed by Yen and sparring with Jaskier just so he could feel like a part of it. It was a particularly bad evening that tipped him over; Yen retired early to bed, citing the company as less than enthralling, and Jaskier started flirting shamelessly with both Eskel and Geralt at the same time.

Lambert grabbed his bottle of alcohol and left. 

The moonlight flooded the training ground behind the keep, and Lambert drank from the Florence flask in his hand until his eyes watered and his chest burned. He stumbled over a fallen training dummy, losing his flask to the mossy cobblestones with a barked oath.

“Training on your own only embeds mistakes,” came a gravelly voice that could only belong to one white-haired asshole.

Lambert spun around and sneered. “I’m just one walkin’ mistake, so I’ll just add it to the pile. Fuck off back to your fuckfest.”

“Eesh, what’s eating you? I came out to make sure you didn’t impale yourself on your own sword,” Geralt murmured. “You were stumbling all over the place.” 

“What do you care?” Lambert kicked through the shattered glass at his feet and staggered further into the training square. “I don’t mean anythin’ to you.” 

“That’s bollocks,” Geralt grumbled. “C’mon, you’re drunk. Come back inside, and I’ll help you upstairs.” 

That was it. The final straw. Lambert spun round and cleared the distance in several strides. He shoved Geralt so hard in the chest that he stumbled back with a grunt of surprise. “I said fuck off. I don’t need you. And you don’t need me. You have your fuckin’ witch, and your fuckin’ lyrebird, and Eskel’s there with his tongue and dick hangin’ out too.”

“What the—?”

“All these fuckin’ years, we lost everything, and you just… you just don’t care, you don’t give a shit, do you? My lo—,” Lambert grit his teeth against the word and crushed it beneath a gavel of rage; he shoved Geralt again, and the lack of reaction only made him angrier. Pretty Boy didn’t even care enough about him to be angry. “I mean nothing to you.” 

Geralt stared for a while, head tilted to the side, lips clamped shut in a neat line. Lambert realised he was right. The silence just confirmed it. He turned to leave with a snarl. The hand on his elbow took him by surprise, and he stumbled as he was yanked backwards. Stumbled right into the arms waiting for him. They bound so tightly he could barely breathe; Geralt was clearly expecting a fight, perhaps not realising that Lambert’s anger and tears were so intimately linked. 

Or perhaps he did.

“You stupid fucking idiot,” Geralt growled. “Of course I love you. We all do. Problem with you, Lambert, is that we have to wait for you to work through the bullshit in your head and come to us first. Just like after the Purges.”

Lambert stood, dumbstruck. His arms were pinned to his side and his face squished into Geralt’s shoulder, but he didn’t have the will to resist it. “But—.”

“But what?” Geralt finally pulled away, palms still firmly clasped on Lambert’s biceps. “But we only have a certain quota of affection? Only a certain number of spaces in our chests for people we love? And there’s only one way to love, obviously… because that’s a thing.”

 With a frown, Lambert gave Geralt a light shove in the chest. Light, because pushing him away was the exact opposite of what he wanted to do. “Your bard’s a bad influence.” 

“Yeah,” Geralt shrugged. “But he’s right.” Another pause, and Geralt glanced over his shoulder. “Look, if you need more time, fine, whatever. Take all the time you need, but don’t for a fuckin’ second believe that we won’t still be waiting.” He jabbed Lambert hard in the centre of the chest, and then turned to head back into the keep.

“Geralt,” Lambert called.

“Hm?”

“You’re a sap.”

“And you’re a dickhead,” Geralt smirked, shoving his hands in his pocket as he ambled away. “Still love you though.”

[on-a-lucky-tide]

How are you going to fit allllllll of that plot into one last chapter 😖😖😖 Im so excited to read the last chapter of my escape but im so torn also 💔❤️💔❤️

It’s going to a beefy one, Non. Not gonna’ lie. We’ve got Aiden recovery, Team Lambalt laying some smackdown on some mobsters - or will they? - Eskel’s viva voce (can someone say Dr. Cirillo? Geralt’s in charge of the present); the wedding. I’m taking a while longer to make it just right. (Or at least, fully how I envisioned the ending in the first place).

[shamelessacepanda]

I love it when a reader knows from whose point of view the story is written just from the vocabulary used..

Amongst other things

I love you writer

Could I have Fluff Prompt 21: Is this romantic enough for you Geralt/Lambert please? <3

Lambert’s feeling angry and lonely after things end with Keira. The prospect of spending Beltane on his own makes him pricklier than usual. Geralt takes on the challenge...

Lambert was spending Beltane at Corvo Bianco. There were several key issues that made this a potentially explosive situation. Firstly, he’d been dumped recently and the constant reminder of love and romance in the lead up to the festival was making him more prickly than usual; secondly, Geralt allowed his workers to host their celebrations in one of his fields, so Lambert wouldn’t be able to escape them and finally, everyone else wasn’t going to be there. 

Eskel was delayed on a contract in Poviss last Geralt heard, Triss and Yen were spending it together at Ban Ard, Ciri was busy. Even Jaskier, always reliable, had decided to spend it in Novigrad at his tavern. We have a huge show planned, dear heart; I’ll make it up to you I promise.

Geralt watched Lambert stomp across the courtyard from the window of his bedroom and heaved a sigh. Better go defuse that before it became an issue for someone. 

“Barnabas has got some more Sangreal from the Duchess,” Geralt opened with the offer of alcohol, because it was an easy in with Lambert. “Was gonna’ watch all the goings on from the barn roof tonight. Got any plans?”

Lambert turned with a growl. “What? You think I haven’t got a better proposition than you on Beltane?” He didn’t. Geralt raised an eyebrow, informing Lambert in no uncertain terms that he was well aware of this, so the prickly bastard changed tac. “Is that your way of asking me to spend it with you? You’re literally the most unromantic fuck I’ve ever met.”

“I’ve never had any complaints,” Geralt folded his arms, not bothering to fight the smirk tugging at the edges of his lips despite the likelihood of adding more fuel to the man-shaped inferno before him. “Maybe I could teach you a few things then the next girl won’t disappear so quickly.”

“Coming from the bloke who had not one, not two, but three chances at happy ever after with a sorceress and blew it? Yeah, I’ll pass.” Lambert’s hands bunched into fists, his shoulders hunching. After all these years, Geralt knew what a hurting Lambert looked like. And Lambert was hurting. Despite his bravado, he’d genuinely cared for Keira. Loved her, even. 

“You’re just scared you won’t be able to resist all this.” Geralt swept a hand down his body vaguely and Lambert barked a laugh.

“You are un-fucking-believable,” he was about to walk away, but something stopped him. Perhaps it was the idea of watching Geralt flail, or maybe the offer of wine, or… his burning desire not to spend all night watching others with their loved ones while he was on his own. “You know what, pretty boy? Fine. Educate me. I’ll spend Beltane with you.” 

Geralt grinned. “Pick you up at sunset?”

Lambert rolled his eyes and stomped off. The fresh air and the peace were good for him. As they got older, his brothers were finding the Path harder and harder, so it was a point of pride for Geralt that he could provide them somewhere safe and tranquil to recharge.

For the rest of the day, he threw himself wholeheartedly into Operation Woo the Prickly Bastard. Barnabas sourced him some soft furs and throws for the roof, some scented candles, expensive cheeses and meats, and one of the young girls that worked for him in a domestic capacity wove two flower crowns from the wildflowers on the estate. By the time the sun set and the bonfires were roaring away in the bottom field, Geralt had everything ready. There was just one ingredient missing and so he left the roof of the barn to collect him.

Lambert was sitting in the drawing room with some sewing. Most of his shirts were a patchwork of different material, but he was too stubborn and proud to allow Geralt to replace them. He was wearing one of his nicer ones now though, Geralt noted, and he’d washed his hair without adding the grease he used to slick it back. Huh. Fluffy Lambert. That… was actually very attractive. Geralt swaggered into the drawing room. “Your date night awaits.”

He rolled his eyes as he stood, but otherwise Lambert didn’t say a single word as they headed out into the estate. Geralt watched him glance at the young lovers wound in each other’s arms and pointedly turn his gaze away, head low, shoulders bunched, and his resolve hardened. He was going to make Lambert feel loved tonight. Even if it killed him. Which, as Lambert was involved, there was certainly a risk.

“After you,” Geralt indicated the ladder up to the roof.

“Aren’t you meant to carry me?” Lambert drawled, but was soon speeding up the rungs with Geralt following in his wake. He nearly walked into the back of him when they crested the gutter. Lambert stared at the arrangement of furs and pillows, with the flickering candles giving off a faint, pleasant scent. The bottles of wine were carefully arranged with two glasses - legitimate fucking glasses - and two flower crowns sitting on the pillows. Without thinking, he immediately backtracked. Panic welled in his chest. “Are you taking the piss?”

Geralt’s hands rested gently on Lambert’s back. “You said I couldn’t romance, so I’m gonna’ prove you wrong,” he pointed at the furs. “We had a deal. You backing out now?” 

“No,” Lambert murmured, because if there was something worse than whatever the fuck his heart was doing right now, then it was allowing Pretty Boy an easy victory. The furs were soft underhand as Lambert lowered himself down, only grumbling when Geralt indicated his boots after kicking off his own. They leaned back on the pillows, shoulder to shoulder, with a glass of strong, red wine in their hands and Geralt breathed a deep, contented sigh.

Their shared silence wasn’t awkward. Geralt knew Lambert well; he needed an opportunity to evaluate his own head and decide the current situation was acceptable. That Geralt wasn’t trying to ridicule, or take anything from him. There was no shame to be found here. They got through an entire bottle of wine before Lambert finally spoke, his eyes settled on the group of young lovers currently dancing in a ring around a bonfire. “You’re the only landowner I know of where the employees actually like being here.”

“It’s something us and the peasants have in common,” Geralt propped himself up on his elbows. “Being treated as less than human. I just treat them fairly.”

“Never stopped them running us out of town though.”

“Fear makes people do stupid things. So does anger. Leads to self-sabotage and long term unhappiness.”

Lambert wasn’t stupid. He knew a quiet lecture when he heard one, but rather than rise to it, he took a shot at the whimsical tone. “You’re getting soft in your old age, Geralt.” His answer was a quiet hum and they went back to watching the festivities, with occasional conversation punctuating the peaceful quiet. As the level of wine in their bloodstream got higher, Geralt scooped the flower crown up and dumped it on Lambert’s head with a chuckle, accepting the light dig in the ribs he got in return. They watched those young lovers laugh, drink and run off into the darkness, and Lambert found his attention slipping.

It was Geralt. His easy smile, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, the way he sat so close, smelled so good. Like summer, Lambert realised. Geralt smelled like heady summer evenings spent in flowering fields with a mug full of mead, surrounded by family and friends. Spicy, sultry, happy and comforting all at the same time. The candles flickered in a light breeze and the wine dulled the sharp edges of the world until Lambert found himself sidling just a little closer, his head flopping to Geralt’s shoulder.

“You know, you look good with your hair like that.” Geralt murmured, his voice thick with the sweet wine they’d been enjoying for the last few hours. Lambert blinked dumbly, lips parting, brain scrambling for a witty comeback but coming up short. Geralt sat up then and slid an arm around his waist; he scooped the flower crown from Lambert’s head and brushed his fingers through tousled hair. “It’s soft. Makes you look… nice.”

“And I thought Jaskier was shit at flirting,” Lambert whispered, but his eyes had dropped to Geralt’s lips and the tingles of pleasure fluttering across his scalp were now skittering down his neck. 

“Flirting’s fake,” Geralt replied, almost tartly but for the warm glow of his golden eyes and the sweet heaviness to their gaze. “S’meant to get in someone’s pants, you say anythin’. I mean it. You’re a damn good-looking man when you stop scowling.”

“I don’t scowl…” Lambert growled, scowling.

“Mmm,” Geralt stroked the side of Lambert’s face, scratching happily through his beard. He scooped the smaller body closer - smaller, but no less strong, no less thickly muscled; warm and appetising. “Your lips are really nice. Really full. Jaskier would have some poetry for them, but I… they’re just very nice, aren’t they?”

It was the wine. The fucking wine. Lambert swallowed. Because Geralt was being genuine, and he was so close, and he smelled really, really good. If he’d tried poetry, or any similar bullshit, Lambert would’ve kicked back. In fact, he’d been prepared for that. Not this. Not lowkey, gentle, real affection that made his chest tight and his head light. Not the beautiful shine in Geralt’s eyes or the tender, undemanding brush of his fingers.

Lambert dissolved into the kiss that followed effortlessly. His back lowered onto the furs beneath as Geralt’s thick chest pressed gently into his, his head nestling in the crook of Geralt’s elbow. Lambert suddenly realised just how Geralt had convinced so many people into his bed over the years; his tongue was… it did things. The softest moan worked free from Lambert’s chest and he clung to Geralt’s shirt, arching into the hands that swept up beneath his own and caressed his ribs, leaving shivering, excited flesh in their wake. 

When those kisses worked down his jaw and his neck - unhurried, sensual - Lambert’s eyes rolled back and he gave in completely. His clothes melted away without him even realising until he was naked beneath Geralt, the hot press of his skin everything and too much all at the same time. Oh, the fucker had brought oil with him. He’d been so fucking assured of his prowess. That should piss Lambert off. Should make him snap, and bite, but Geralt was kissing his neck as he worked two fingers inside his body, finding the exact spot that made him gasp, and Lambert decided that his future self could deal with the indignation, because his present self was weak and wanting.

So, under the full Beltane moon, Geralt of Rivia made love to him. The bastard romanced the braies right off, and then didn’t even have the good grace to gloat the next day so that Lambert could hate him for it. Oh no, he was an absolute gentleman. There was aftercare and everything. And breakfast in bed. 

Urgh. Geralt. What a prick. 

In more ways than one, by Melitele’s fucking tits, it… fuck.