After a decade of marriage, Lambert's not feeling particularly sexy or wanted. Eskel agrees to a little bit of roleplay.
Warnings: Eskel/Lambert, A/B/O (non-traditional), established relationship, smut at the end, roleplay, present tense. For my friends in the @continentcakeshop.
They've been mated for years, and Lambert is going through a "you don't think I'm hot anymore, do you? you're bored of me, aren't you?" phase, but he's not very good at expressing it. It comes out in fits and starts of temper, and a few barbed comments that leave Eskel feeling a little hurt.
Eskel's looking down at his giant boner and half-filled knot after another night when his usual advances have been rebuffed, not quite understanding where this has come from. Does he need to buy flowers? Chocolate? More dates? More sofa cuddles?
No.
Lambert needs to feel sexy again. He wants the thrill of the hunt, but he wants it to be Eskel. Needs it to be Eskel. In principle, Lambert can't stand knothead alphas who flaunt their made up superiority, but roleplaying it with the man he loves? Someone he trusts will never hurt him? Yeah. He wants that.
So, they agree to a little roleplay: sassy, unmated omega with attitude, picked up in a bar by a strong, dominant alpha that will seduce him and carry him off.
Eskel practices in a mirror. Lambert's whole initial attraction to him was that he was strong and kind; he'd never done the alpha posturing thing other than to strut around their bedroom during his rut, or when he's feeling particularly well fluffed. So, he needs to find a little bit of his inner knothead to get the act right.
They choose a bar downtown. Not too shady, but it's so off brand from their usual haunts that there's no chance they'll be recognised by anyone. Lambert puts on a tight pair of jeans, his nice boxers, and the douchiest, low cut top with the billowing armholes that will show A Whole Tit if it falls right. He tops it off with his usual unlaced docs and a leather jacket, and he's golden. Upon arrival, Lambert finds a prominent seat at the bar, orders The Most Expensive Cocktail because he has Eskel's credit card and Eskel said "treat yourself", slapping his arse with a wink before he left, so it's revenge, really. About half an hour passes, and Lambert has to see off an alpha that gets a bit too close (and doesn't take the mating bite poking out from beneath his jacket as a hint). Then a slight niggle of doubt sets in. This is stupid, right? Eskel probably thinks he's lost his last marble, the fucking barman's eyeing him like he's an escort (nought wrong with that, but Lambert knows a judgemental gaze when he sees it), and Lambert's about ready to leave...
...then Eskel arrives. He's gone all out. Lambert hasn't seen him wear that suit since Geralt's wedding. It's a three-piece number with a jacket that fits his v-shape perfectly. No tie though, his collar's open, and Lambert zones in on that exposed skin, his mouth watering. He's going to bite there. Right there, on that collarbone, and... Eskel straightens his cufflinks as he surveys his territory because it's fucking his now.
The alpha that tried his luck with Lambert earlier skitters out from Eskel's path like he's been struck, and Eskel doesn't even look at him. No, he's looking at the bar, honey-gold eyes fixed on Lambert, the corner of his lips tilted up in a wry smile. He plays it perfectly. Eskel's usually an excitable puppy when he sees Lambert after any length of time: big beaming smile, eye crinkles. Shit, if he had a tail, it'd be wagging.
But not now.
Now, he's a hunter stalking his prey, and Lambert presses his thighs together for... reasons. As Eskel moves between the tables, he makes the whole place look shabby. More people move out of his way, mumbling apologies. He wields his presence so effortlessly, and fuck, Lambert hasn't noticed it before. Eskel's always so accommodating; he holds doors open for old ladies, apologises to the damned cat on his lap when he has to get up to go to the toilet. Eskel is King Soft. Always has been. Lambert loves him for it. Lambert also wants to jump him in the club in front of everyone. He's so enraptured that he's still staring by the time Eskel reaches the bar next to him. He doesn't sit, but spreads his palms out and waits. He doesn't even need to draw the barman's attention; the beta runs over like he's on a string.
"Whisky, hold the ice, and," Eskel's eyes slide left, "whatever this pretty thing's drinking."
Lambert didn't realise he was slurping an empty drink until Eskel ordered him another, at which point he slams his glass down and tries to lean nonchalantly on the bar.
Truth is, Lambert's completely out of practice and he isn't sure how this flirting thing goes these days. He can make a fart joke usually and Eskel will laugh, it's... that's just what marriage is. Fart jokes and memes, right?
He's panicking.
Because Eskel hasn't actually worn any cologne. He's freshly showered, all proper, but it's those pheromones rolling off of him that Lambert can smell, even over the saccharine tang of the cocktail the barman places down in front of him. Eskel hasn't moved any closer. He's not looming, not caging Lambert in, but Lambert's so very aware of him and can't now lift his eyes from the sugared lip of his glass.
"Got a name, pretty thing?"
How can Eskel talk like that? Where has that come from? It's the velvet rumble that Lambert's used to, but there's an edge to it that makes his insides go a little weak. Does he make up a name? He hasn't thought that far ahead. Eskel's too good. They agreed - drink, dance, out, bed - now Lambert's not sure his legs will work. "Lambert," he says, quietly at first, then a second time a little louder.
"Lambert," Eskel repeats, and he savours it, rolling it across his tongue like he can taste Lambert already. "Eskel, it's a pleasure." He offers his hand and Lambert should have expected what came next - the palm was up, after all - but he plops his own hand in Eskel's grasp like a puppy offering its paw, and damn near chokes on air when Eskel places a kiss on the back of Lambert's knuckles, those honey-gold irises almost drowned out by how big his pupils are.
Lambert had forgotten that this was about exciting Eskel too for a hot second there and is doubly relieved to see that Eskel is more than a little interested. Eskel does find him sexy.
This amazingly stunning alpha, with his huge shoulders, his confident stride, his suave rumble, finds Lambert attractive. Lambert feels the shiver run up his spine and takes his hand back slowly. The revelation has given him a little confidence, and he leans back on the bar, elbows propped up. "Little downmarket for someone so prim and proper, slumming it with the little folk?"
"Hoping to find a diamond in the rough," Eskel replies after another of those faint, wry smiles. "I didn't expect to unearth something so precious so quickly."
Fucking. Smooth. Rat. Bastard. Lambert's toes curl in his boots and he bites his lower lip.
"That pick up line work usually?"
"Doesn't matter," Eskel takes a sip from his tumbler and turns to rest his hip against the bar, "it's worked this time."
Oh fuck, because if Lambert can smell Eskel, then Eskel can smell him, and he was wet in his smalls from the moment Eskel sent the inferior alpha scuttling into the corner of the room with a glance. What a basic bitch. But it's Eskel, and he's walking omega-nip, isn't he? He always has been. And he belongs to Lambert. Or will. Usually, Lambert would shuffle his rear into Eskel's lap, demand love and affection, but he can't now. This is a Strange Alpha. He can't break the fantasy; Eskel's doing this for him. And it's... fuck, it's more fun than he had thought it would be.
"Arrogance. Not a very attractive feature," Lambert replies as airily as he can muster, but he has to grip his glass pretty fucking hard to steady his hand. "Might have been that guy who got me all hot and bothered." Lambert jerks his chin towards the corner of the bar where the previous reject lurked.
He feels Eskel expand. All Eskel does is shift a little, shoulders straightening, eyes narrowing, but he suddenly feels twice the size and Lambert breathes him in, eyes flickering. "And how did he do that?" Eskel's voice is far too level and for a moment Lambert almost believes he feels threatened.
"Laid on the moves, you know," Lambert replies, taking another sip from his cocktail. "I was going to head home with him, unless you can outclass his offer."
The music's low but loud enough to be heard over the murmur of collected voices. There are a few people dancing between the tables, a couple on the cleared space passing from the dance floor. It's late. Most of the patrons are just touching the boundary of "tipsy enough to not worry about looking like an idiot". Eskel doesn't like being the centre of attention; the scars, his size, a general dislike of people he doesn't know. But this version shrugs his jacket off nonchalantly and unbuttons his cufflinks. Lambert watches those thick forearms appear and wants to bite those too. He's so fixated on that familiar scar wrapped over Eskel's wrist that he blinks when Eskel takes his hand.
"Allow me to prove that I'm in a class of my own."
Lambert follows Eskel to the dance floor, watching in awe as the path miraculously clears before them. There's no weaving between tables, knocking drinks and stray elbows, for Eskel. The world bends to his whim. Lambert wants to bend to his whim. Eskel pulls him close, guides Lambert's hands to his chest and settles his own at Lambert's waist. This close, Eskel's scent is overwhelming, that exposed collarbone within range of Lambert's mouth. But those eyes are close too. Intense and bright; wanting and hungry. Liquid fire, Lambert thinks, as they sway together.
Lambert wants to ask whether Eskel's okay. People are watching them. The weight of each heavy gaze is a mixture of jealousy, curiosity and boredom. But Eskel's the most intimidating presence in the whole bar, and the space around them clears. Lambert knows if he asks then the spell will be broken. He scents the air anyway, tries to read his husband's face and eyes, and finds no discomfort. He relaxes into the hands cradling him, holds that intense gaze as one song melts into the next. There's no fear there, Eskel's ignoring everyone else, they're of no consequence. No threat. No interest. The focus of his entire world is Lambert, and Lambert feels dizzy with the thought.
Eskel lifts one of Lambert's hands and kisses the palm, the fingers, the wrist. He nuzzles over the soft skin there and holds Lambert's hand to his face before turning him. A slow spin leaves Lambert's back to Eskel's chest, warm lips finding the space beneath Lambert's ear. Such a light kiss steals his breath away, and he pushes back, encouraging. This is probably too fast for a realistic fantasy encounter, but it's Lambert's fantasy, damn it, and he suddenly wants his Hot As Molten Lava husband on him, in him, over him.
The slow tenderness is making him ache. The way that Eskel slides a hand down Lambert's torso, following the contours of his lean build, mere fingertips hooking just beneath his waistband. It's possessive, his fingers leaving an invisible brand of ownership everywhere they touch, and an offer. Lambert's sure that if Eskel demanded to mount him here, he'd drop and present in seconds; he feels lighter than air, grounded only by the searing heat of Eskel's body, and the soft rumble of an aroused alpha nosing over his neck.
Lambert tilts his head back against Eskel's shoulder, feels another warm palm marvel down the length of his body, and he realises that Eskel's displaying him to the other hungry eyes watching them. He's showing them a glimpse of what they can't have because Lambert's his now. Even in the fantasy of their encounter, Lambert's making all the right noises, moving in all the right ways. Eskel is showing off the beautiful omega he has enticed to him, and Lambert lets out a soft moan. He's that beautiful omega. The one that made Eskel's eyes go like that, made him want to stake a public claim for all to see. This amazing alpha, with his hot-as-fuck body and warm honey eyes wants Lambert. But it's not just that either, is it? Lambert knows how gentle and tender the heart underneath it all is. He lets out another wistful moan and rocks his hips back against Eskel's, feeling the hard length of his alpha's cock through his slacks.
"Don't be makin' noises like that, baby," Eskel says, his voice so low and husky that Lambert can feel it to his very core, "or I'll have to do somethin' about it."
"Yeah?" Lambert tilts his face to Eskel's neck, all but arched against him. "Then do something."
The challenge sparks something in Eskel and Lambert hears him growl. It's so low. Like a summer storm on the horizon; threatening, inevitable. Lambert wants it to wash over him and lets out another soft moan when he feels Eskel's teeth on his neck.
Mine.
Did Eskel say it? Breathe it? Perhaps he kissed the thought into his skin like a brand, and now Lambert knows it with every fibre of his being.
They leave the bar. Eskel snatches his jacket and throws some cash down next to his half-finished drink. His presence must have expanded even further because a cabbie appears from nowhere. Lambert sits astride Eskel's lap and devours him in the ten-minute (read: eternal, never-fucking-ending) drive to the hotel room that Eskel booked. His lips never leave Eskel's neck, and he leaves a bruising kiss on that exposed collarbone.
Lambert wraps himself around Eskel's chest and they stumble through the hotel lobby, past a mystified receptionist and harried concierge. As they get to their room, Eskel nearly kicks the door off its hinges in his haste to get Lambert into the room, onto the bed. The jeans don't last; the button pings off, the denim rips, but Lambert doesn't care. He's too busy scrambling at Eskel's belt, which might as well be a multi-layered Aztec puzzle box for all the luck he has getting it off.
Eskel's hands are everywhere; his lips, his teeth. Lambert winds his fingers in his hair and arches into him, babbling, pleading. And when Eskel finally gives him what he wants, their bodies moving desperately, furiously, Lambert crushes their mouths together until his lungs burn for air and the rest of his body glows with pleasure.
Their skin glistens with sweat, they tumble over the bed, kicking sheets and pillows onto the floor, desperate to taste and touch and have. Eskel pulls his head back, his hips pressed flush to Lambert's body, their foreheads leaned together and breathes, "Mine."
Lambert grins, throws his head back in ecstasy and rolls his body against Eskel. It's perfect, this is perfect. He feels wanted, and attractive - no, not attractive, fucking hot, like he's the finest piece of ass to walk the Continent, and he's won this beautiful, staggeringly good-looking alpha over all the others. Not a consolation prize. Eskel could have had anyone in that fucking club - alpha, beta, omega - they were all watching him. But he chose Lambert... would choose Lambert every time.
The perfect grind of Eskel's cock pushes him into an orgasm that makes his toes curl, his nails biting into Eskel's shoulders, and punches a desperate cry from his chest. When Eskel tries to drawback for another thrust, Lambert's legs tighten and he grips a fistful of hair to drag Eskel's ear to his mouth. "Mine."
Eskel moans, fisting the sheets, and comes. Lambert feels the pressure of his knot as his own body bears down on it. It's another thrill of pleasure and Lambert rocks onto Eskel's prick until they're both shaking and breathless. It's not the last time they make love. Lambert lets Eskel up for a drink of water but pins him down again barely half an hour later. The next few times are slower; they kiss the bruises and the scratches they left behind, and eventually fall asleep wound together, sated and exhausted.
In the morning, Lambert wakes to one honey-gold eye watching him from the pillow next to him. The corner crinkles when Eskel realises Lambert's awake, lopsided smile curling over his face. Lambert's husband is back; the soft-hearted goof with the fluffy hair and soft eyes. "Hey," Eskel rumbles.
"Hey yourself." Lambert stretches like a cat, feels all the aches in all the right places, and flops over onto his side to face Eskel. His alpha's studying him closely, chewing on the inside of his cheek.
"How did I do?" Eskel asks.
"Well," Lambert begins, propping himself up on his elbow so that he can stroke the scruffy mop of Eskel's hair. "I don't know where you've been keeping that other dude, but he can visit again some time."
Eskel looks proud of himself and Lambert let him have the victory without teasing. Then that well-earned smugness melted into doubt; a frown tugs at Eskel's lips, and a ponderous hum leaves his chest. "Do you, uh... do you prefer the... um, the other guy?"
Lambert grins and tilts their foreheads together. "Nah. He's nice for a night. Couldn't imagine waking up to him every morning though. Be fucking exhausting."
Eskel sighs, relieved. "Oh thank fuck. I'm exhausted. I think those shoes gave me blisters, and do you know how much I had to suck my gut in to get that waistcoat to fit? Kreve's tits, I thought I was going to need shaping pants."
They both dissolve into hysterics, because the idea of Eskel in lady's shapewear is too much. He's enjoyed a few pints and more than a few full roast dinners since Geralt's wedding, but that's absolutely fine, because Eskel is exactly as he should be. Lambert wouldn't have him any other way.
