#soft!lambert

They switched and Ciri buried her head in Jaskier’s neck, securing themselves together much like Geralt knocking his and Lambert’s heads together. They were safe, home for another year.

As it turns out, Eskel arrived a few hours after them, making his appearance known as he always does. There was a rough embrace of arms and hearty shoulder pats with Geralt and Vesemir, a watered down version of the rough welcome for Jaskier (who still couldn’t feel his hands by the way he could barely grip Eskel’s tunic) and a one-armed hug and kiss on the head for Ciri; and if anyone noticed how he lingered a little longer to breath in her scent, they didn’t say anything.

It was the greeting with Lambert that made a lightbulb go off for Geralt. For whatever reason they were always the roughest with each other, and this was no different.

Eskel had taunted Lambert with a crouch and beckoned “come here” to which the fiery witcher slammed into him and they went sprawling across the floor. Whilst the others watched almost contently at the usual display of oddly presented relief at them all being alive, Geralt couldn’t help but pick up on the acrid stench of fear that permeated the air again.

When he turned to look for the source, he found Jaskier with a twisted expression as he watched the two wrestle on the floor; and the wince that came at Lambert landing a blow in Eskel’s stomach.

That was it. The punch. Fuck, Geralt was so stupid sometimes. It was the same phrase followed by the same violence that he used on Jaskier when they had first started on the path together, when Jaskier had complete trust that Geralt wouldn’t hurt him, then sucker punched him so hard he thought he was going to vomit out his intestines.

And then the mountain. More hurt caused by Geralt. Nilfgaard and whatever they managed to do to him there before Geralt reached him.

Fuck! If Jaskier couldn’t feel safe in the one place that was literally designed to be a safe haven for them, then Geralt had fucked up more than he thought.

So no violence for a while. At least no punching while Jaskier was around. Fine, easy as pie. Though looking at how Eskel currently had Lambert in a headlock, maybe it wasn’t going to be quite so easy as Geralt hoped.

2. No singing fills the room. Nothing at all, actually.

They’re a couple of weeks in and thankfully, Eskel and Lambert have toned it down with the bouts of aggression. If Geralt had to watch Jaskier sink into himself anymore whenever Lambert tackled Eskel over the table or Eskel tried putting horse shit in Lambert’s hair again, he was going to lock his brothers out in the snow.

At the minute, Jaskier is sat quietly by the fire in the main sitting room. His lute sits idly beside him as he works and Vesemir keeps a steadying hand in his hair as he reads in his favourite chair.

Geralt is in the library with Ciri. They had been going over what she’d learnt while Geralt was gone but the child grew tired as she got warmer from the fireplace and was now just dozing with her head in Geralt’s lap and his hand in her hair. The Witcher himself was almost to the state of meditation when he heard Vesemir speak, tuning his ears to hear the soft words shared between his leader and bard.

“You’re quiet this year bard, don’t think I’ve heard you play once.” He said as a starting point, trying to encourage him to get talking on his own. It was a weird occurance in itself, usually all they were trying to do was shut him up for five minutes.

Jaskier shocked the older wolf even more when it took him a minute to answer, trying to fight the feeling that his tongue felt too big for his mouth. Vesemir closed his book and gave the pup his full attention, he felt there was more going on here than just a commotion ontop of a mountain.

“Jaskier?” The hand in his fluffy brown hair tightened only the littlest bit to drag the bard out of his own head.

Once he was ready, Jaskier let out a sigh that said more than words could, and Vesemir sat straighter, tension growing in his shoulders at how lost the young boy’s voice sounded compared to how he was used to it. “I simply have nothing to play.” He shrugged, picking at the calluses on his fingers.

Jaskier could feel Vesemir staring at him, trying to piece together a puzzle that he didn’t even know was missing the corner.

“It isn’t just that pup. You’ve barely said a word to anyone since you got here other than pleasantries.”

Jaskier sighed again and looked straight into the fire so he could use the light as an excuse for the sheen across his eyes. “Geralt likes the quiet.”

The mentioned man frowned. He doesn’t understand. When did he ever- oh. The Djinn.

I just want some damn peace!

Geralt thumped his head back and tried to release his frustration without waking the child asleep on his lap. Of course when he actually said something it had to be that.

Fuck.

“That doesn’t mean we want you to be radio silent, bard. The reason we all enjoy you coming here in the winter is because of your talking, the easiness of it. The wolves are often treated and spoken to with fear, and then you came up here and there wasn’t a trace of it. It’s the only time of year where they relax and we do so love to hear your voice, lark. Don’t make us beg for it.”

Jaskier blinked the wetness away and nodded his head, sniffing aggressively when Vesemir patted his head in farewell and retired to bed.

3. The Witcher lost the lark.

It was that damn sitting room again. Geralt was put on dinner duty with Vesemir and Ciri was out ‘training’ with Lambert, which mostly consisted of him teaching her how to hide Eskel’s things without being noticed.

This left said Witcher in the sitting room with Jaskier, relaxing on the sofa behind where the bard was scribbling notes down only to cross them out again, humming indistinct tunes to himself to try and get the sound he yearned for.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think I’ve missed your singing this year bard.”

Jaskier huffed through his nose but didn’t turn to face the scarred Witcher to rise to the bait. “Don’t hear that very often.” He mumbled. Well, as much as you can mumble in a castle full of witchers with enhanced hearing.

“Well you’re hearing it now.”

“I suppose I am, dear Eskel, yes.”

He managed to wait a few more minutes before starting up again. “So why the wait? Usually by now we’d be-”

“Yelling at me to shut up? Yes, I remember it well.” Jaskier finished for him. When Eskel didn’t continue the bard knew he was waiting for him to expand.

Jask turned his head just enough to see the Witcher’s face in the side of his vision, yellow eyes glowing as he stared at him in the dark. “I’ve been informed that my singing has had the odd tendency to run people off. S’pose I didn’t want anyone to run anymore.”

The Witcher frowned and tilted his head as he tried to figure out what the bard was saying. Yes they might berate him for being a bit too loud, but he thought Jaskier knew they were only playing around. Eskel took his feet off the sofa from where he was lounged and sat up, reaching in front of him to grip Jaskier’s shoulder tight enough to get his attention.

“We only kid with you Jaskier, about playing too much. We love to hear you through the castle, it gives us something to focus on other than what happened here.”

Jaskier met his eyes from where they had fallen to the floor and nodded. “I know. That’s not what I’m talking about.”

Eskel hadn’t the foggiest. For Geralt, it couldn’t be clearer. The fucking Djinn.

“Did you sing to her before she left?”

“I did actually. Why, what are you implying?”

“I won’t run away, if you want to sing.” Was all Eskel could offer.

Jaskier turned back to his spider’s web of lyrics and picked up his lute, turning back to Eskel. “Want to hear something I’ve been toying with?”

~~

Jaskier’s lute is right there. Right fucking there and he hasn’t so much as looked at it while he and Geralt were in the library after dinner.

The wolves had split off after the stew had been demolished and Geralt sought out Jaskier in the library, hoping to talk to him about this cloud of dullness that had overtaken him since he got here. Although that required words, not a forte of Geralt’s.

They had been sat peacefully for an hour and Geralt was loosing his mind. Why wasn’t Jaskier humming or singing or talking or moving or anything.

“You can play if you want.” Subtle.

Jaskier turned to face Geralt with a smirk on his face. “Why is it that the one year I tone it down is the one year everyone wants to hear me?”

“It’s not that.” Geralt rushed to deny. “Just makes for good whitenoise to meditate.”

“I don’t think you enjoy it that much.” Jaskier said, turning back around to face the fire. But there was no playfulness in the sentence, only a sort of crushing honesty that came from criticism.

Geralt resisted the urge to drop his head into his hands and scream.

“How’s my singing?”

“Like ordering a pie and finding it has no filling.”

Geralt stood from his chair and walked over to drop himself next to Jaskier on the sofa. The latter raised his eyebrows in question but Geralt just ignored it.

“Sing to me. Please?”

And then Geralt saw a piece of Jaskier that had been missing for the last few weeks, that untamed side of him that knew not of self-preservation or doubt, but only knew the power of his work.

For the next few hours Jaskier played his lute and sang his songs, and the inhabitants of Kaer Morhen released one big sigh of relief and settled in to relish in the sound.

4. Nightmares.

“What are you up to bard?”

Jask spinned almost straight into the redhaired witcher that had been following him for the last five minutes.

“I-I’m thirsty. Was just going to get some water.”

“Horseshit.” The Witcher proclaimed.

The bard was a shit liar. He’d nearly snapped his neck retracting so fast from Lambert. He couldn’t look the Witcher in the eye as his fingers rubbed nervously along his wrists.

Lambert knew the feeling of being a deer in headlights. He also knew what caused the feeling. Nightmares. A consciousness that refuses to let itself be forgotten.

Lambert sighed away the remains of his annoyance and softened himself for the bard’s sake. He stepped forward and placed an arm around the skittish human to lead him to the kitchen.

“Come on, little lark. Let’s get a drink.”

~~

“What do you usually do, when you have a nightmare?”

Jaskier had been drawing shapes into the bench while he sipped his drink, keeping his eyes down and not speaking a word.

“I sleep with Geralt.” He admitted quietly, lifting a hand to cover the back of his neck. “But I know Ciri sleeps in there with him sometimes, when she has nightmares.”

“Let’s go have a look, if she’s there you can sleep in my room.” The witcher told him. Jaskier finally looked up and nodded, straightening from his position and taking his cup with him.

Upstairs Geralt heard the shuffling about and looked over to check that Ciri was still next to him; the girl tended to get jittery if she woke and found him sleeping, not wanting to disturb his rest. He breathed in relief at seeing her back rising and falling steadily, reaching a hand around to brush the hair that had fallen from her braid away from her face and curving it briefly around her nape.

So who else was awake?

The answer soon came when a mop of brown hair peeked through his door and smiled tightly at seeing them cuddled up together, retreating before Geralt could even think of whispering “what’s wrong?”

His bard didn’t get far, pulled back by the collar of his shirt making him release an indignant squawk by Lambert, who copied Jaskier by sticking his head around Geralt’s door and muttered in a voice only Geralt could hear, “I’ll take him.”

Geralt nodded his thanks as Lambert closed the door quietly. When he rose the next day at the sign of light and found Jaskier coddled in his brother’s arms, sleeping like a babe, an odd feeling of fondness filled him. That feeling grew when a familiar yellow eye cracked open and winked at him before closing again.

5. He’ll be going down the mountain, when he comes.

For a few weeks, Jaskier seemed okay. Like he was on track for getting back to normal. He was whining and complaining about the cold, burying against Geralt for his warmth (he secretly enjoyed the cuddle sessions with Jask and Ciri very much, but would rather use himself as bruxa bait than admit that out loud) and somehow managed to wrestle Eskel into washing his hair for him in the hot springs.

And then the pass closed up. And so did Jaskier.

He became jumpy, startled easily and didn’t fall into touches as he normally did. Sometimes it was almost painful for the other Witchers to watch him figure out what to do with himself, walking past the window four times before he chose to pick up his notebook and write something down.

This went on for about a week when Geralt woke up to a churning in his stomach. Something was wrong.

He got out of bed and looked around the keep. Everything seemed the same, everyone was there, but something was missing. Jaskier.

Geralt pelted up to the bard’s room and slammed the door open, almost falling over with how fast he was to try and dispel the growing feeling of dread in his gut.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Eskel appeared behind him, straightening up when he saw the cloak, lute and bard attached to those things missing. “Where’s the bard?”

Geralt steeled himself before answering. “He’s gone down the mountain.”

“Sorry?”

The wolf jumped into action and spun around, nearly knocking Eskel over as he ran out the room and down the stairs, layering up with his cloak and swords, just in case. The Bard was known to get into all types of trouble. The thought made Geralt’s heart clench.

“What’s going on?” Vesemir demanded, watching as his pups wrapped up as if leaving in the midst of a blizzard.

“Jaskier’s gone down the mountain.” Eskel explained, promptly following Geralt out the door and into the snow.

The seconds felt like hours while the keep waited for them to return. Lambert had to go and chop wood to drain his nervous energy, Vesemir was darning every item of clothing with a suggestion of a hole and Ciri viciously chopped meat, potatoes, vegetables and anything she could get her hands on to stop them from shaking.

An unforgiving wind blew through the halls as the front door burst open, Eskel skidding inside and straight to the sitting room, casting an igni to stoke the already burning fire even more. Geralt followed at a more controlled pace with a covered lump over his shoulder, holding it close and whispering words of comfort. He made it to the room and carefully lowered the fur covered body, who Vesemir could now see was Jaskier; blue lipped with a disturbingly grey pallor onto a pile of furs Eskel had gathered in front of the fire.

The two wolves quickly stripped off and did the same to Jaskier, rolling the bard on his side so he was sandwiched between their body heat. Lambert had heard the commotion and came in carrying more blankets, covering his brothers with them and sitting down by the bard’s head, covering it with his hands in hopes to rid his lips of the pale blue tinge they had acquired.

The were silent as Jaskier moaned and groaned and shivered in pain. They reminded themselves that this was necessary, he had to warm up to stay alive and so pressed in closer to try and comfort him as real wolves would. Vesemir kept Ciri out of the room, not wanting her to see the usually buoyant lark in such a state, but also to avoid any accidental exposing when the furs jerked from Jaskier’s spasms.

The night continued much in the same way. Jaskier eventually woke all the way and went straight back to sleep again, Lambert left for a few minutes to grab a bowl of stew and shovel it down, soon joined by Eskel who was getting too hot and needed a few minutes.

Which left the wolf and the bard alone. Jaskier snuffled himself awake, looking around blearily before recognising Geralt led in front of him. The Witcher gave him the softest smile he’d ever seen and loosened his arms to let Jaskier stretch, feeling the muscles burn from exertion and warmth.

“Jask?”

“Hmm?” He lifted an eyebrow to encourage the stoic wolf to speak.

“Why did you go down that mountain?”

Jaskier sighed. “To take myself off your hands.”

If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.

“Jaskier.” Geralt sounded wounded. “I don’t want you off my hands.”

The lark looked away to hide the tears in his eyes, but couldn’t hide the tremble in his voice. “I just felt like you didn’t want me here.”

Geralt reached out and hauled the bard closer to him again, pressing their foreheads together and curling a hand around the other man’s nape for good measure. “I’ll always want you here. I always want you on my hands.” He promised, eyes locked with Jaskier’s.

The man chuckled wetly and wiped his nose. “What a poet.” He jested playfully, a good sign he was feeling better. Geralt used the hand around Jaskier’s neck to scratch at the short hairs there, revelling in the eye fluttering it caused.

“Jaskier.” He called once more.

“Geralt.”

“If you ever get the urge to do something as dangerous or stupid as go down the mountain mid-blizzard again, wake me up first.”

“I was 8% sure it would be fine! Wait-”

“Exactly, and we’ve done things on less than that. So you’re not allowed to do anything without me, got it?”

A cheeky smile rose to the bard’s face. “Yes dear.”

Geralt didn’t comment on the obvious sarcasm but pressed his lips to Jaskier’s forehead. “Good.”

At this point the fire had dwindled making the room a more tolerable temperature so Geralt stood to collect their smallclothes and slid back under the furs, both him and Jaskier pulling on their respective underwear.

A soft knock came from the door and Ciri poked her head in with Eskel.

“How’s the bard?” He asked, thinking Jaskier was still napping.

“Fighting fit as always dear Eskel, I thank you for your concern.” Jaskier pressed his head back into the floor so he could smile at the scarred witcher. He shook his head and opened the door further, guiding the young girl in with a hand on her back as she balanced two bowls of soup in her hands.

“I thought you might be hungry?” She suggested.

“Hi little cub.” The bard welcomed her in, sitting up stifly with the help of Geralt who sat up himself.

Ciri passed a bowl to Jaskier which Eskel helped him hold and then gave the other to Geralt, who pulled her in with an unoccupied hand and held her face to his, rubbing their noses together.

He had to release her when Eskel lifted the cub away to rest for the night, leaving the two alone to eat and sleep in peace.

.

1. Stuck like glue.

The bard never felt unwanted again. Everyday he was surrounded by the wolves.

Lambert chased him around the keep, hiding around doors and secret hideyhoes he didn’t know existed, Ciri showed him all the magic and special abilities she was gaining, Vesemir read with him in the library and taught him how to cheat his pups at Gwent and Eskel showed him some basic sword moves in the courtyard between cooking lessons.

But his time with Geralt, that was his favourite. Mainly because it was either filled with cuddles, his music or some great sex.

With the other witchers having taken Ciri on as their own, Geralt wasn’t worried about them being disturbed so Jaskier often found himself being whisked off to one of their bedrooms for a few hours before returning slightly bedraggled and reeking of Geralt even after a bath. But of course, he couldn’t smell that and the others were forbidden to tell him.

That didn’t mean there weren’t days when he still felt off, too tired to talk or small to leave the keep. But he was never alone. One of the wolves (usually Lambert since his room was closest) would come and pick him up, all swaddled in furs, and take him to the sitting room in front of the fire. They didn’t expect the bard to talk on these days, didn’t force him to either. Lambert would pull his head to rest on his shoulder while Eskel fed him some porridge and berries for breakfast; Ciri led across Jaskier’s lap as a weighted blanket with her head resting on Geralt’s thigh as the man moulded himself around his lark’s body.

No matter how much Vesemir loved his pups dearly, he was still too old to contort himself into a position that fit him into the wolf pile so took a seat on one of the chairs, casting a protective look over the vulnerable pack and guarding to make sure no harm touched them.

These days were always easy. No chores or training or rush to fix something in the keep. Just as much calm and relaxation as possible.

Later when the lark felt better and had moved up to Geralt’s room after a much too big bowl of stew and successful game of Gwent (and some slow, euphoric sex) he cuddled in closer to his witcher’s warm body and sighed contently.

“I’ll always want you on my hands little lark, for as long as you’ll have me.”

Lambert prides himself on being an independent Witcher. Well, that may be a bit redundant, Witchers are supposed to work alone, live alone, travel alone. But, Geralt’s got the bard and the witch, Eskel keeps finding lost goats to follow him around the continent, and Lambert? Well, he’s spent the last half a century traveling the world alone, and he’s been doing just fine. 

    Until he met you. You had been walking along the trail under the blistering sun, a small pack slung to hang across your chest. Your shirt was loose around your waist, and your skirt flowed freely along the ground with every step that you took. 

As Lambert had approached behind you, his pace a bit faster as he walked back to the town that had hired him, he watched as you tilted your head to look behind at him, sensing him there. He saw you take in his eyes and the scar through the one on the right, his twin swords, his armour, stained with wyvern blood. 

Lambert waited for the inevitable stench of fear, the accelerated pounding of your heart in his ears as you dash away. But instead, you only smirked, turning back to face the road ahead as Lambert stopped in his tracks. 

    “You know,” he yelled, rushing after you and settling into a comfortable stride at your side, “you shouldn’t turn your back on strange men walking along the road. You could be taken advantage of.”

    You hummed, glancing over at him as you reached to your waist. You deftly unclasped the skin of water that hung there, taking a sip before you held it out to Lambert. He squinted as he looked into your eyes, distrustful of this unnecessary act of kindness. However, all he found was generosity, and as he felt sweat drip down his back under the weight of his armour, he felt his distrust melt away. 

    As Lambert took the skin of water, his fingers brushed against yours for the briefest moment. You jumped, your heartbeat intensifying in his ears. Lambert clenched his jaw before he drinks from the skin, disappointed in himself for thinking that this random girl that he just chased down the trail would be kind to him just for the sake of being kind.

    You had seen him tense up at your reaction. Your cheeks had reddened as you clasped your hands to the strap on your pack. “I’m-I’m so sorry, Master Witcher,” you had stammered, “I promise, it’s not because of you, I’m just-I’m just very sensitive to touch.”

    Lambert had glanced over at you then, ready with about five different retorts about where you could shove your promise. But when he saw your eyes, recognition surged through him. He took in the flowy clothes, the hair that you had so carefully tied so as not to fall into your face, the light scratch marks along your skin. It was like being shot back in time, back to when he had just gone through the Trial of the Grasses. Everything felt too tight, too itchy, too stiff, too much. And even now, the smallest unexpected touch from someone could send him reeling. 

    Lambert had walked at your side the rest of the way to the town, peeling off once he had seen the ealdorman to collect his reward. When he had stepped back out into the sun, his coin pouch a bit fuller, he was surprised to see you still standing where he had left you. He had approached you slowly, feeling like his feet were dragging through the dust and the dirt. 

    You had watched him come with a smile on your lips and a glint in your eyes. You had nodded towards the other end of the town and Lambert looked, seeing a small home resting atop a small hill on the outskirts. 

    “Would you like a bite to eat?”

…

    Now, Lambert lay in your bed, dressed down to his chemise and undershorts, his belly full and his mind wandering. Once the basic pleasantries had been made over a hearty meal, you had explained that you had always been like this, skittish to the touch of other people’s skin. It was different if you were expecting it, you had said, but it felt like someone sending lightning through your every nerve. 

    Lambert doesn’t get it. Why would this sweet, charming woman who can’t stand being touched open her home to him, offer him a warm meal and a warmer bath, and even a bed to sleep in? The sheets are drenched in your scent, something akin to fresh rain after months of drought. Lambert feels his breathing slow with each breath he takes, relaxing into the comfortable embrace of the blankets around him. 

    He looks over at you, curled in on yourself towards him. The moonlight shines across the high points of your cheeks and down the slope of your neck, dissipating into shadows that hide the heart that calls out to him with every beat against your chest. 

He had been careful as he followed you into the bed, grateful for the chance to sleep on something other than dirt and not wanting to risk it with unwarranted advances. Lambert had let you climb in first, trailing after you as he kept as much space between your bodies. He finds himself wanting to reach out and brush a stray strand of hair from your forehead, knowing that it would bother you had you been awake. 

A crackle of thunder sounds far in the distance, the heat carrying the noise faster than the storm. Lambert watches as you shift, stretching in your sleep before your hand brushes against his arm. He stays perfectly still, waiting for you to wake and pull away. Instead, you only move closer, wrapping your arm over his stomach and resting your head on his chest, just above his heart. 

Lambert feels you nuzzle into him, the movement causing his breath to hitch a bit. He steels himself with a deep inhale, slowly letting it out so as not to disturb your slumber. Something new swells inside of him, enveloping his soul with warmth and comfort that it has not seen in decades. You, with all of your anxiety tied up in the sensation of touch, have sought him out in your most vulnerable state of sleep. 

“Lambert, look, they have those little cakes you like!” you thread your fingers through his and tug, pulling the Witcher towards the bakery. You don’t get far though, Lambert planting his feet in the middle of the road.

    “Sorry, what the fuck are you doing?” He asks incredulously, still holding your hand tight in his own. Your brows furrow as you close the distance between you, shaking your head slightly as your skirt billows along the ground. 

    “I’m taking you to get some cake? What does it look like I’m doing?” your voice is like flower petals flowing on the wind to Lambert’s ears, it doesn’t matter what you say, he’d pay every last coin he’d ever seen just to hear your voice. 

    “It looks like you’re holding my hand.” He glances down at your hands, still woven together, neither of you moving to separate them.

    “And? What, would you rather me grab you by the cock and pull you into the shop?” you laugh, placing your free hand on his arm as you lean in closer.

    “I-hmm,” Lambert clears his throat, still reeling as his heart beat three times faster than normal and his face flushed just the tiniest bit. He’d never admit that, though, he’s far too proud. 

    But with you, all of that melts away. He’s still a brash asshole whose mouth doesn’t have a filter, but you’ve worn down the sharp edges, revealing the soft man beneath who just wants to be loved, and learn how to show love in return. 

    “You’re not worried they’ll see?” Lambert gestures to the people in the market, some of them staring at the woman holding the Witcher in her arms. 

    You cup his face in your hand, squeezing lightly with your other. “Do I look like I give a single shit what these people think?” you whisper, going up on your tiptoes to place a gentle kiss to his cheek. You hear him suck in a breath as you move back, starting to pull away towards the bakery. 

    You huffed, trying and failing to blow the stray strand of hair out of your eyes. You’d been bent over the counter for upwards of an hour, mixing and kneading wares for the next week. The sweet dough is soft under your fingers, stretching as you dig and pull at the mixture. The dough sticks to your hands and you know that flour dusts across your cheeks like a bizarre set of freckles. You hum lightly as you work, letting yourself be lulled into a peaceful mindlessness. 

    You look up for a moment, stretching the muscles in your shoulders and down your back. Your workbench is nestled along the back wall of your home, a small window just above overlooking the sprawling valley of flowers in the distance. While your little cottage is your slice of paradise, you can’t help thinking that it feels so empty, especially when he’s gone.

    You shake your head and return to your hunched position as you push and punch into the dough. Your mind has always had a penchant for wandering, but you’re determined to focus and get your breads finished before the night is over. Just as you’re about to slice the large batch into smaller portions for baking, you sense something in the room behind you.

    Before you can turn around, though, a large body leans against your back and a hand cups your arse. “Damn, that bread looks almost as delicious as you,” the man growls into your ear before nipping at your shoulder.

    You feel your heart rate settle as you turn to face the familiar voice. Lambert keeps his hands on you as you spin, glancing along your hips as a smug smile dances across his lips. 

    “Lambert,” you chide teasingly, “you know how I hate surprises.”

    His golden eyes glint in the late afternoon sun, mirthful and full of a joy that he keeps reserved just for you. Lambert had followed the scent of sweet baked goods one afternoon last summer, and ever since he had found you up to your elbows in batter, he hasn’t been able to stay away for long. 

    “Ah, I know, love, but when I saw you bent over that table, I just couldn’t help myself…” he leans and whispers into your ear, capturing some of the soft flesh of your neck lightly between his teeth. You sink into his embrace, careful to rest your elbows on his arms so as to not cover him in dough and flour. 

    “I’m glad you’re back, I miss you so when you leave,” you murmur into his neck as you plant gentle kisses along his skin. 

    “Mhm, there’s truly no place I’d rather be,” he kisses along your jaw before meeting your lips, something sweet and delicate barely suppressing the insatiable hunger in his embrace. 

    Regrettably, you pull back, apologetically meeting his confused gaze. “Let me wash this off, then we can continue.” You place a knuckle under his chin as you turn out of his grasp with a cheeky grin. 

    You step outside, Lambert following behind as you stride towards the well in your yard. Before you can reach for the handle, the Witcher hoists the pail from the depths below. You can’t help but watch appreciatively as his muscles swell under his shirt, flexing and shifting with immeasurable strength. 

    As he bends to place the bucket on the ground you rush behind him, planting your hand on his arse and squeezing, Lambert startling back upright at the sensation.

    “Just returning the favor, dear,” you smirk, pulling your hand back to see a perfect outline of flour in its place on the dark fabric. Lambert chuckles darkly, trying to decide if it was dark enough out to just take you right here in the yard without your neighbors seeing. 

    Deciding otherwise, he moves to your side as you dip your hands into the pail. The cool water is refreshing in the warm afternoon, invigorating waves of energy soaring through your skin. You hurriedly wash away the evidence of your craft, water splashing out of the bucket as you scrub.

    Satisfied, you stand once more and take Lambert’s hand, threading your fingers through his. Both of you have hands calloused from years of work and hardship, but for very different reasons. Under your fingers, you can feel his heart thrumming under the skin. A witcher’s heartbeat is always slow, true, but whenever you touch Lambert, hold him close with tender gestures and low words only for him, you can feel it beat just the slightest amount quicker. 

    You pull him back inside, letting him go once you get past the door so that you may cover the dough. Ah, you think to yourself, so much for getting it all finished tonight. 

    When you turn back around, Lambert is...kneeling?

    “Darling, what the fuck are you doing?” You giggle, reaching out to pull him to stand. He shakes his head, staying where he is on the floor.

    “First of all, watch your fucking language.” You laugh heartily, and Lambert does as well. You relish these moments, when the great supposedly impenetrable walls that encase his heart crack and crumble. His laugh is...unique, more of an aggressive bark than what would normally be considered a sound of joy. You know better though, the sound warming your soul as Lambert clears his throat and composes himself, looking up at you with his striking eyes the color of the richest sunset.

    “Ahem,” he starts, and you raise your eyebrows as you hold back a smirk. “I want to be honest with you; I truly have no idea what the hell I am doing.” 

    Your chest shakes with your laughter, but you hold it in, pursing your lips as you huff through your nose.

    “Now, I had the bard help me with this bit, ‘cause I want to get it right and he’s poncy enough to know the proper method of this.” He reaches into his jerkin, pulling a neatly folded slip of parchment into his hand. He holds it aloft in front of him, his free hand flying out in a grand sweeping motion.

    “‘Dearest beloved, I yearn to dedicate an entire volume of poetry to the enrapturing visage of your beauty, but alas I am no poet. So I shall sing your praises in the form of this letter, of which I will read aloud for the world to hear.’”

    You can’t help but smile a bit at his antics, not sure if Jaskier actually gave him proper advice or was just fucking with him. Either way, you felt tears begin to prick at the corners of your eyes at the sweetness of the gesture.

    “‘The moment I first stumbled into your life, the sky had only just opened enough for the great glory of the sun to shine onto the petals of flowers left dewy from the dawn fog.’” Lambert’s eyes never left the page as he read, and a slight blush crept up his neck as he continued along. He never was one for grand declarations, but you’re sure that you’ll remember this moment for the rest of your life.

    “‘...and that is why, dearest of hearts, I desperately plead for you to take my heart as yours, carry it with you wherever you may go, and grant me the honor of holding your heart as mine.’”

    At the final word, Lambert returns his gaze back to you, nervous and vulnerable in a way that you’ve never seen in him. You close the distance between the two of you and sink to your knees, meeting him at eye level. 

    Wordlessly, you snake your hand to the back of his head and pull him to you, placing a gentle kiss to his lips. His hands wrap around your waist as he pulls you flush against him, swiftly deepening the kiss as he licks into your mouth. He steals your breath with every movement, his hands desperately grasping onto any part of you they can. You moan into his mouth and move your hands down his chest, moving to undo the laces keeping his jerkin closed.

    As you begin to untie them, Lambert pulls back with another sharp bark of laughter. “I suppose I can take that as a yes?” 

    You undo the knot and slide the armor from his shoulders, letting it pool on the ground as his hands move to the delicate buttons on your shirt. 

    “Oh, my love, you truly didn’t have to do all of that, my heart has been yours since I caught you smiling at me from across the market, before you really let me see you smile,” you murmur against his neck pulling at any bit of fabric you can reach to try and remove it from his body.

    “Mm, well, you deserve so much more than I can offer, so I figured that I should at least try to court you properly.” Lambert’s voice is low, shame tinging the edges of his words. 

    You move to face him, taking his face in your hands and gently stroking the long scar that runs down his cheek. “You listen here, I don’t give a shit what I do or don’t deserve, what matters is what I want, and what I want is you, only you, my Lambert.”