#lambalt

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.

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.”