#soft lambert

1.

The walls of the keep hardly contained the warmth of the fire, so late in the winter. The other boys were coming back from training. With blue and brown and green eyes, they hadn’t yet undergone the mutations the older trainees had. They knew only three out of ten of them would survive, so they used the little free time they had trying to forget their fate.

“Who wants to play hide and seek?” one boy asked, with blond hair and brown eyes.

“Who will be the seekers?” another boy, with red hair and a scar on his cheek responded.

“Old Vesemir, obviously.” The first boy rolled his eyes with a chuckle.  “We have his class next, don’t we? Let's see who can avoid him the longest.”

“Can I play too?” A voice from the back asked, causing the group to turn and look at the owner. The youngest boy in the group with raven black hair and hazel eyes, no more than five years old. His chest was puffed out, but the crooked smile betrayed his confident persona. The blond-haired boy laughed, leaning down threateningly.

“Get lost, pipsqueak. Only big, strong boys can play with us. You and your s-s-s-stuttering will give us all away.” He mocked, earning a chorus of laughter from the other boys.

“Y-Y-You’re an asshole, Malik!” The raven hair boy shouted.

“What’s that? I couldn’t hear you from all the way down there” the boy known as Malik put a hand to his ear with a shit-eating grin. “C’mon Lambert, s-s-s-s-s-speak up!” He mocked again.

Lambert’s face turned a deep shade of red, and with a shout, he balled his hands into a fist and tried to punch Malik as hard as he could. Predicting what the young boy would do, Malik caught his fist and punched him square in the nose, causing him to fall to the floor. Lambert brought a hand to his face, pulling it away when he felt a warm and sticky liquid running from his nose. blood. He staggered to his feet slowly before running back to the boy in another attempt to fight. His fist bounced off Malik's chest, causing all who witnessed to roar with laughter again.

“You know what I think boys? I think we should teach the little lamb how to fight.” cruelty dripped from the blond boy’s words, a smirk growing from the corners of his lips. Two other boys grabbed Lambert by the arms, holding him in place as the rest kicked and punched him until his entire body was sore. about a minute or two had passed before the sounds of two sets of feet came closer and closer.

“Shit!” the redhead yelped. “It’s Vesemir! Scatter!”

The boys who were holding Lambert up suddenly dropped him as they all ran in different directions.

“Fucking brats.” The fencing teacher's voice echoed off the walls, making its way to Lambert’s ears. Trying to push himself back to his feet, he could feel a ball form in his throat as tears threatened to spill from his eyes.

“Eskel,” He heard Vesemir start, “get this pup back to his bed, he can train with me later today. No point in trying to teach someone who can’t stand.”

A hand was gently placed on Lambert’s back, followed by a baritone voice. “C’mon kid. Let’s go get you some rest.”

The young boy looked up, lip trembling. The boy, Eskel, was a couple of years older than him, about ten to twelve. His eyes proved he had already gone through the mutations and was well on his way to going on the path on his own for the first time.

Lambert whimpered and tried to push the older boy away. “I-I-I-I don’t n-n-need your help.”

Eskel chuckled before helping Lambert to his feet. On his way to the room he shared with the rest of the boys that haven’t gone through mutations yet, Eskel was quiet. The room was empty when they got there. Lambert pushed himself away from the older boy and quickly made his way to the bed, diving under the covers to pull them over his head.

He wasn’t crying. He wasn’t. The room was dusty, that's all.

A sigh was heard from the entrance of the room, the door creaking on its hinges as it was pulled closed. “Feel better soon,” he heard the older boy whisper before the door clicked shut.

_________________

2.

His eyes burned with pain. It felt like a hot and molten metal was slowly pumping through his veins, forcing every nerve to come alight. He was ten years old, on his sixth day of the Trial of Grasses.

From what he heard from the few times he was lucid, most of the boys in his group had already died, their bodies rejecting the mutations. There was only one day left that he had to try and survive this.

It was about three to five times a day when he was lucid enough to understand what was happening around him. most of the time the mages were getting ready with the next batch of mutations. Other times those mages were talking to his teachers about his progress. They kept saying he wasn’t going to make it, and he was dead set on proving them wrong.

It was the fifth time that day that he was becoming aware of his surroundings again. He knew it would probably be the last of the day. When he tried to open his eyes, all he could see was red and yellow. The colours were swimming, mending into one another before coming apart again.

“I’d close my eyes if I were you.” A voice said from beside him. “Your new eyes are still forming. You’ll muck up the progress if you keep your eyes open for too long.” Lambert quickly shut his eyes at that. He could hear more liquids being put into the vials that were connected to his veins. He knew after six days of this hell that he only had half of a minute before being thrown into blinding, bone-breaking, body morphing pain again.

“I-I-I-Is it almost o-over?” he whispered out, his throat as dry as coarse sand. The voice beside him hummed, followed by the tinking of glasses being gently knocked together.

“By this time tomorrow night, if you survive, it will be over.” The voice sounded unimpressed and uncaring, as though they were talking about the latest politics of Velen. Lambert choked out a sob, gripping the arm of Sad Albert.

“C-C-Can you h-hold my hand?” He sounded pathetic to his own ears. He shouldn’t be asking for something so useless and stupid from someone who doesn’t care. He was just a kid. He didn’t deserve this.

Just then, a large and calloused hand gently landed on top of his own, smaller one. It wasn’t one of the mages, that was for sure. he knew the mages had softer, more bony hands.

“Take a deep breath, Lambert” he heard the voice of his fencing teacher say, just before he was thrown into the fiery pain of the Trial once more.

___________

3.

It was his third year out on the path. The kikimore was a bastard and a half to kill, but he managed it without losing any of his organs. His side was sliced open and the back of his head throbbed like a bitch, but he’ll survive with some Swallow. He dragged the bloody head of the kikimore through the mud and dirt, all the way to the little town in the middle of dumb-fuck nowhere, where he had gotten the contract in the first place.

As soon as he entered the town, people immediately shrank away, dragging their children into their homes and locking the windows and doors. Lambert rolled his eyes with a growl. He didn’t have time for idiots and their paranoia of him snatching their little crotch goblins, he just wanted the coin so he could get out.

The alderman of the town was in the tavern, as he had been when he left for the hunt, drinking and laughing and grabbing at any woman who had the misfortune of having to pass him. As soon as Lambert opened the door to the tavern, all went silent, turning to gawk and stare at him. He trudged his way through the tavern to the alderman's table, dropping the head right in front of him. The alderman gagged and dry heaved at the sight, having to turn away.

“I took care of your little problem,” the witcher growled threateningly, “Now pay up.”

the alderman put on a fake smile as he nodded. “Of course, sir witcher,” he began, reaching into his pocket to take out a coin purse, “here is your payment, as promised.”

Lambert snatched the coin purse from the cocky assholes' grubby hands, pulling it open to count the contents.

“.... there's only twenty in here....” His hands shook with anger, snapping his head up to face the stingy bastard. there was no way in all the realms that he was going to accept twenty for a fucking kikimore.

“Is there a problem?” The alderman asked, feigning innocence.

“Y-You owe me a-at least a hundred!” Shit. he bit the inside of his cheek as a form of self-punishment. He was trying to get his stutter under control, and stuttering really fucks a man up when he’s trying to threaten someone. “F-Fuckin... pay me the rest!”

“Oh no, I’m s-s-s-shaking in my boots!” a chorus of laughter filled the tavern, causing Lambert to growl deep in his throat. “What are y-y-you going to do about it?” The alderman asked, an eyebrow raised with a shit-eating grin.

Lambert showed exactly what he was going to do about it. He punched the stupid fucker right in his stupid mouth, knocking him unconscious.

He was run out of town and didn’t get the coin he was owed.

___________

4.

It was winter number who knows. Kaer Morhen had seen better days, the keep crumbling more with every year that passed.

He was sat at the main hall table, Eskel on his left and Vesemir and Geralt on his right. The bastard furthest from him had gained the title of ‘White Wolf’ in recent years, all because of a bard that followed him around. He wasn’t too angry at that, the stupid ‘Toss a Coin’ song was making miracles happen when it came to proper pay. Hell, nowadays he’s even getting tips.

No, he was upset with the way Geralt was talking about the bard. He kept switching between calling him Jaskier and Dandelion, apparently, the bard went by both. The bastard kept complaining about stupid shit. Whenever he mentioned the bard, it was always ‘Jaskier is so annoying, I never get any peace and quiet’ or ‘Dandelion always helps me wash, I just want some time to be alone’ and the complaint Lambert hated the most, ‘he keeps trying to sing songs about me and I hate it.’

Geralt was on another one of his complaining rants, talking about how Jaskier helped patch him up when ‘he didn’t need the help’ and that’s when Lambert had enough. He forcefully slammed his tankard of White Gull laced Ale onto the table as he sharply stood up.

“Lambert?” He heard Eskel ask beside him, but he practically ignored it as he turned to face Geralt.

“Do you honestly ever stop complaining?!” He shouted, not surprising anyone at the table with him. “You’re always complaining about shit that isn’t even that bad! Do you even know how good you have it? Or are you too much of an entitled ass to wipe the shit from your eyes that’s blinding you from the actual situation you’re blessed to fucking be in!”

“What are you-” Geralt tried to say, but the younger wolf cut him off.

“You have no right to fucking complain about anything! Y-You have a bard that sings your praises and cares for you in a way none of us have! Your name is known all across the continent a-and you aren’t even from Rivia! W-What makes you so important that makes everyone love you so much, huh? We all know Eskel here is just as capable of a witcher as if not more so, and no one even gives him the time of fucking day because he isn’t the ‘great White Wolf’ and i-its fucking B-BULLSHIT!”

“It just seems like you’re jealous of me.” Geralt rolled his eyes as he turned his attention back to his drink, which Lambert knocked to the ground.

“T-This is why I fucking hate you, you b-bastard! Y-You act so high and m-mighty, l-like you’re a-above us all, but the truth is that y-you don’t deserve h-half the shit you have!”

“Lambert that’s enough!” Vesemir shouted, slamming his hand onto the table. Lambert was panting now, shaking with the uncontrollable rage that festered inside of him. He felt Eskel behind him, planting a hand on his shoulder, but he shook it off as he began to march towards the door.

“Where are you going?” He heard Eskel call to him.

“F-Fishing!”

He wasn’t crying. The debris that was floating in the air was irritating his eyes. ______________

5.

“Aiden!” He called out, throat becoming hoarse from the amount of yelling he was doing.

Aiden told him that someone was on his trail. He told him that he felt like he was being followed. Hell, even he felt the eyes on the back of their heads following them, but Lambert left him alone. He thought the cat witcher could handle them, but he shouldn’t have ever left his side.

Finally, after calling and searching, he finally found him. The attackers dumped him in the bushes, far from the campsite. Thank the Gods that he could follow the smell of his blood, maybe he made it just in time.

He could see the witcher's boots sticking out from a bush, and he carefully dragged him out.

Arrows. Seven arrows were protruding from Aiden's chest. A witcher would have a chance of surviving that if it weren’t for the deep slit in his neck. Lambert could feel his heart drop at the sight. His hands trembled as he struggled to take off his gloves, feeling his face for any warmth. He knew his heart wasn’t beating, he couldn’t hear it, but he was trying to delusion himself into thinking Aiden had a chance of surviving.

His skin was cold, eyes wide with shock. Lambert's vision started to blur as he felt warm and wet drops of water roll down his cheeks and off his chin.

“A-Aiden... c-come on Aiden... i-its t-time to get up y-y-y-you fucking asshole.” There was no venom to his words. If he focused, he could almost hear what Aiden would say when he started to stutter.

“Deep breaths, Lambert. Think about the word you want to say.”

But he wasn’t saying that. Not anymore. Now all that was left of the witcher was a corpse, cold and lifeless.

The walls Lambert had carefully built when he was a child to hide his emotions had crumbled away. He had no chance of stopping himself from sobbing and crying. He leaned down to press his forehead to Aidens, still holding his face in his shaking hands.

“D-D-D-Don’t leave m-me Aiden, please! I-I-I can’t do it without y-y-you. C-C-Come back! Please!”

He wailed into the night, and soon he could feel the sun warming his back as it rose over the horizon. Still, he refused to move.

“Not him.... a-a-anyone but h-him.”

_______

6.

Ciri was growing up to be a stubborn young lady, just like her grandmother. It was dark and cold, the wind howling through the cracks of the old keep, and Lambert thought he was the only one awake, nursing his vodka next to the warm fire.

“Mind if I joined you?” A familiar deep voice called gently from the darkness. Lambert turned his head to look at the figure looming in the doorway. Eskel had a thin blanket wrapped around his shoulders, carrying a tankard of what smelled of mead in his hands. Lambert shrugged and put his focus back onto the fire, listening as Eskel moved across the floor to sit next to him.

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, the only sounds being the thumping of their hearts and the crackle of the fire. If Lambert really wanted to focus, he could hear Jaskier all the way from Geralt's room, but he really didn’t want to.

When some time passed, he could hear Eskel shuffling beside him, as if to take something out of his pocket. Knowing him and his massive pockets, Lambert assumed it was a travel-sized book or a ball of yarn. Why Eskel took up knitting, he had no clue. It was neither of those things, however, as the older wolf placed something into his lap.

It was a tray of watercolour paint. Brand new and unopened. Lambert gawked at the paint for a moment, his brain trying to think of something to do or say, and all Eskel did was chuckle.

“I found your painting stuff near the lake last year.”

“H-H-How did you know it was m-mine?!” Lambert asked, flabbergasted.

“Jaskier would own better supplies, Ciri is still too young to paint even half as well as what I saw, and I doubt anyone else would even consider painting.” Eskel smiled gently, nudging Lambert teasingly. “I took note of the colours you were running out of, and bought some replacements for you when I stopped by a Novigrad art supply shop.”

Lambert was dumbstruck. He didn’t know what to say. He put his vodka down beside him to lift the paint, gently as if he would break it.

“I-I don’t know what t-to...”

“A ‘thank you’ will suffice” Eskel laughed, wrapping an arm around Lambert's shoulders.

Aiden stretched his arms up, as if he were a little kid begging to be picked up. Would have been nice if Lamberdini picked him up. He could probably manage it. Aiden isn't that much taller.

Instead, Lambert had flopped down on him, just, right on top of him. Stomach to stomach, Lambob didn't even try to catch himself.

"Hah! Lambob!" Aiden giggled, and Lambob squirmed around him, fitting their bodies together in the odd way that is theirs, limbs everywhere.

This shape they never tried before though. The puppy pile.

"Do we need a dog?" Aiden asked, nuzzling into Lambag's elbow.

Why is his elbow on his face? Ooh, maybe he can lick it. He never managed to lick his elbow before. Wait, was this even his own elbow? Meh!

Aiden licked the elbow with great satisfaction! Hah! Wait until he tells Coën about that!

"I don't like dogs. They stink," Lambert muttered, and their shape shifted.

Aiden lay on top of Lamberton, his back over his chest. This dog's arms are way too far away for Aiden's liking, so he grabbed them and put them around himself.

It's warm and snuggly, and he couldn't contain the happy purr building in his chest.

Their fingers tangled and untangled, the low light of the fire lined Lambernie’s skin with gold, glowing. He traced it as Bertbert nosed at the side of Aiden's neck.

"You smell like bread. And wet cat," Lamburr whispered against his skin, and Aiden laughed happily.

"You like it, Lambchops," Aiden purred, bringing up one of their entangled hands to his mouth.

To lick it? To bite it? To kiss it?

He didn't know, but he wanted it closer.

There we go, perfect nuzzling distance. Nuzzle nuzzle nuzzle, this hand was his now.

He pressed the back of Lambert's hand to his cheekbone, rubbing it against his skin, his knuckles hard against his ear.

"Mine now," Aiden whispered, kissing that scarred wrist. "Mine mine mine mine mine."

Under him, Lambert chuckled and rolled them to their sides, looking at the fire again.

Warm, soft, safe, comfortable. Fuzzy, golden, popping of logs where the fire licked at it.

"I'm hungry," Aiden decided aloud, and with Lambolamb's hand so close to his face, that was what he would chew on.

"Ow!" Lambert complained, but didn't try to free himself. "No more bread for you, kitten."

"But whyyyy," Aiden whined, squirming to see his face.

"Because I'm tastier," Lambilambilamb murmured when their eyes met, and then their lips touched.

They hadn't tried that either, but it was fuzzy and golden and warm and oh so very satisfying.

There was a lick of catnip left on Lambert's tongue, and Aiden chased it.

When next Aiden woke up, their bodies were molded together, fitting like jigsaw puzzles, cut to fit each other.

His ear rested over Lambert's heart, its strong, slow beat thrumming in his chest.

"That was some good bread," Aiden mumbled, and then giggled. Witchers didn't giggle, and cats didn't do puppy piles, but here they were.

"We still have some left," Lambert murmured in response, tightening his grip around Aiden.

"Hmmngn," Aiden replied. That was a good response, right? Especially because Lambert shifted and shuffled them until their foreheads were touching and their noses bumped.

Aiden gave in to the urge, leaning in and nipping at Lambert's lips.

"Let's have a taste then," Aiden whispered, and again their shape shifted.

Puppy piles were a success.

The baker figured out quickly that certain witchers were fond of his wild wheat bread.

So whenever a contract was posted in town, he made sure to have some on the way into the oven.

Everybody won.