The Witcher (One shots)

Weak and Needing

(Eskel x Lambert x Geralt
Warning: This story is mostly smut!)

Lambert slouches into Kaer Morhen like a storm brewing, and Vesemir sets him out to training before he can even settle in. Eskel volunteers to spar with him while Geralt cleans the chimneys, and Lambert only doesn’t argue because it’s Eskel, and arguing with Eskel when he makes that tender-eyed face at you is like arguing with a small, sad puppy, and is equally useless besides; Eskel never lets him get away with anything. 

Eskel also doesn’t fail to notice when Lambert can barely keep his hands from shaking as they weave around the yard knocking steel. 

“Alright,” he says, the fifth time he knocks Lambert’s sword from his hands and sends him to the ground with barely any effort. They’ve been training for hours by now, and Lambert’s gotten progressively sloppier, letting Eskel pin him again and again, hating and wanting the feel of another body crushed against his in equal measures. He needs to get up, he tells himself. He needs to fight. But his body throbs, sore from riding and climbing the Killer and sore from training and sore from a year spent by his fucking self saving people from monsters only to be called one himself; Eskel’s mouth firms as he gazes down at him, limned by the weak winter sunlight, eyes full of understanding, and fuck, fuck Lambert hates him, hates Kaer Morhen, hates it all as much as he loves it because they all know him so fucking well and at least he can get by with pretending when he’s on the Path, but not here, no one ever lets him hate himself here, and it’s terrible, like being an exposed nerve. It’s awful. And he wants it so bad his teeth ache, which only makes him angrier. He’s barely been here for five fucking hours. “That’s enough,” Eskel decides, when Lambert just lays there, seething, sweating, aching, and arguing with himself, with his body and all its stupid needs. “That’s enough.”

He spits out a mouthful of snow and mud and jolts to his feet, blood rushing, his face hot with defiance and shame. “The fuck it is!” he snarls. He goes for his sword but Eskel blocks him, grabbing him by the wrist and hooking a foot around his ankle to tug him off balance; he uses Lambert’s own body weight against him to trap him, Lambert’s back against his chest with Eskel’s massive arms wrapped tight around his chest and pinning his arms to his sides. Lambert bucks, snarling and snapping, but Eskel’s always been the stronger of the two of them and the older Wolf simply holds him, easy. A year’s worth of sickening bitterness and fucking loneliness rises up his throat and he quakes in Eskel's arms, writhing and whining, warring between wanting to push closer and get as far away as he can, find somewhere dark, hide; he bites his tongue bloody to keep from sobbing. 

“Shh, pup,” Eskel murmurs, low and soft, his mouth brushing the shell of Lambert’s ear and sending a shiver down his spine. “I’ve got you.”

Lambert grunts, still twisting, but it becomes progressively weaker, half-hearted, his pulse slowing into a familiar, steady rhythm as Eskel just stands there holding him, an immovable mountain, steady as the rising sun and fucking unbearably tender-hearted. A whine tears at his throat. “Eskel -”

“Shh,” Eskel says softly, and lets go of him with one arm to press his palm over Lambert’s stomach firmly. Lambert’s breath catches on reflex, his belly quivering, and he feels the ache of anger and frustration start to melt out of his shoulders, his spine, his hips; it’s the first time anyone’s touched him in a year. He shouldn’t want it - he shouldn’t need it - he shouldn’t he shouldn’t he shouldn’t. But he shudders, melting back against Eskel’s chest, because he’s weak, and Eskel holds him up with one arm easily, unwavering. “I know,” Eskel murmurs, soft and gentle. “It’s been a long year for all of us. But we’re safe, Lam, we’re home.”

This isn’t a home, Lambert wants to say. But that wouldn’t be all the way true. “Eskel,” he rasps.

Eskel’s mouth touches his neck briefly, a tickle of pressure right over his slowed pulse. “It’s alright, pup,” he whispers. “It’s alright. We have you.”