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Lambert wakes to the scent of Geralt’s pre-heat slowly giving way to a much heavier, richer aroma. He opens his eyes to find Geralt’s gaze resting on him. “G’morning,” says Geralt in his now-familiar sleepy rasp. “Got about five minutes before I lose my mind. Last chance to escape.” He smiles to show that it’s a joke, but Lambert doesn’t like the thread of real apprehension in his voice.
“Fuck that,” says Lambert. “‘M I the first one awake?”
“Mhm.”
“Layabouts,” Lambert says, not unfondly. “Want me to help with the beginning of it?”
“Please,” says Geralt, and reaches for him.
There are a lot of wonderful things that come along with being a newly-minted member of Geralt, Eskel, and Gweld’s pack, but getting to kiss Geralt every morning ranks pretty highly among them. A couple of months isn’t nearly enough time to get used to it, but he suspects that even once he’s been doing this for years, it’ll still be just as good. Geralt pulls back to lick at the scent gland in Lambert’s neck, and Lambert sighs with contentment. In a moment he’ll get to return the favor, and then rub his and Geralt’s mingled scents onto Voltehre as he wakes up, and then—
But as Lambert noses at Geralt’s scent gland, Geralt shudders hard, and a heady caramel-sugar sweetness overtakes the subtler notes of his scent until it’s nearly all Lambert can smell. He’s been on the other side of this twice now, and he’d known it was coming, but he still smushes his nose into Geralt’s neck and sucks in a helpless deep breath like some knot-brained alpha, as though he could get that sweet smell to coat the bottom of his lungs if he just inhales hard enough.
“Mmmmplease,” Geralt gasps right into his ear.
With a heroic effort, Lambert shakes off his delirium. “Lemme help,” he says as he gently presses Geralt back against the blankets. The first moments are the worst, as he now knows from experience—the sudden desperation to be touched, overwhelming every other desire, almost physically painful in its intensity. He licks a messy stripe across his palm and reaches down to give Geralt’s prick a few firm strokes, and Geralt quickly arches up against him and spills over his hand. “Better?”
“Little bit,” Geralt mumbles. “Fuck me?”
Lambert swallows. “Yeah, of course,” he says, trying not to sound too eager, and kicks off the braies that were all he’d worn to bed the previous night. He reaches down to probe at Geralt’s folds, not wanting to hurt him by moving too fast, but he only has a split second to register that Geralt is already very wet before Geralt snarls and knocks his hand away. “Uh—?”
“Not finger me,” Geralt snaps. “Fuck me.”
“Right, right,” says Lambert, and hastily shuffles between his legs to line up and push in.
He’s done this enough times by now to know what he’s doing; not for the first time, he’s incredibly thankful that his pack has a decidedly egalitarian approach to everything from chores to fucking. When he’d unexpectedly come over all omega at seventeen, he’d wondered at first if he’d ever get a chance to do anything in bed except bend over, which was—well, first, it turned out that that actually felt really damn good when he was in the mood for it, and second, it’d been unfair to Voltehre, who’d already loved him for years even then and would never have made him do anything he didn’t want to just because his designation had changed. Still, though, from the way the other boys and some of the trainers talked, it hadn’t seemed like most alphas or betas were interested in getting fucked themselves, and what omega (aside from Lambert himself, anyway, whose embarrassing little crush on Geralt had not vanished along with his beta-ness) would want another omega’s prick if an alpha’s or even a beta’s was on offer? Except that Geralt does like it when Lambert fucks him, and so do Voltehre and Gweld and even Eskel, which still feels like a bit of a fever dream, if fever dreams were pleasant. So, Lambert knows from experience that if he angles his thrusts just right—
“Fuck,” Geralt grunts, and arches his back, and peaks a second time, cunt pulsing hard around Lambert’s prick. Lambert tries to hold back, he really does, but that scent is so strong and so sweet, and Geralt is so warm and wet around him. He loses the battle, and presses his forehead against Geralt’s chest as he spills, panting.
Geralt pets his hair distractedly for a moment, but then whines, low in his throat. “Need more,” he says. “Please?”
For a minute, Lambert considers waking Eskel. He wouldn’t be upset. Quite the opposite, in fact; Lambert is sure that Eskel would be completely delighted to be woken up in order to get his prick into Geralt. But if this is going to last a whole three days like his elder packmates said it would, then it’s probably a good idea to let their only alpha get as much sleep as possible. “Can I use my fingers?” he asks.
Geralt thinks this over briefly. “Yes,” he says. “But don’t tease.”
“Since when do I fucking tease,” Lambert grumbles, and slides three fingers into Geralt, crooking them up sharply to rub against the front wall of his cunt in the way that makes him gasp and start absolutely dripping. He collects some of Geralt’s slick on his other hand before wrapping it around his prick, which has hardened back up with flattering speed.
He can tell it’s not as good as when he was actually fucking Geralt, but it’s good enough. Geralt doesn’t make any actual displeased sounds, nor is he bored or frantic, he’s just not as loudly appreciative. His third peak takes longer, but he does get there eventually, eyes fluttering shut and back arching against the nest. He claws at the blankets of the nest with both hands, too—or tries to, but he’s not exactly looking where he’s putting his limbs, and so one of the things he grabs ends up being Eskel’s arm.
Eskel‘s light snore chokes off immediately. “Mmm?” he groans. Then he sniffs the air. “Oh. Oh. Getting started early, Wolf?”
“‘M not early, you’re late,” says Geralt, and tosses his head impatiently.
“Right you are,” says Eskel with a smile in his voice. “How do you want me?”
Geralt gets a thoughtful look on his face, and then suddenly gives Lambert a shove. Completely unprepared, Lambert falls over flat on his back. Had he done something wrong...? But then Geralt crawls on top of him and pushes up on his knees and elbows, looking back over his shoulder at Eskel.
Who is grinning, half amusement and half anticipation, and another half ravenous hunger for good measure. “Wanted some company while you’re down there, did you?” Eskel says, lightly mischievous, as he shifts into place behind Geralt.
Geralt drops his head to rest on Lambert’s shoulder, a lock of his silk-smooth hair falling across Lambert’s face. Lambert brushes it away from his mouth, and then, feeling oddly shy, strokes his hand over Geralt’s hair a few times. “Good company,” says Geralt petulantly. “He doesn’t tease me.”
“Point taken,” says Eskel. From his current angle, Lambert can’t actually see what he’s doing, but he can tell the moment he pushes into Geralt, because Geralt’s entire body jolts and he gives a shuddering gasp. “You’re already so wet,” says Eskel, sounding gobsmacked. His eyes find Lambert’s over Geralt’s shoulder. “How many times have you made him come?”
“Three,” says Lambert.
“I’ll be damned,” says Eskel. “Good work.” His voice is rich with approval and pride, and Lambert shivers, a pleasure that has nothing to do with the physical lancing down his spine.
“Took good care of me,” Geralt mumbles, muffled against the side of Lambert’s throat.
“I can see that,” said Eskel, and reaches down over Geralt’s shoulder to touch Lambert’s cheek with surprising gentleness. Lambert blinks up at him, a blush working its way across his face. “So glad we brought them in, Wolf,” Eskel continues, and though he’s addressing Geralt, Lambert thinks the words are intended for him. “Such quick learners, and so dedicated. So good.”
Lambert hides his face in Geralt’s hair. For one wild moment, he thinks he might burst into tears.
“So good,” agrees Geralt, and Lambert quivers with the intensity of the feeling in his chest—and then Geralt wriggles restlessly, a whine in his throat. “Eskel, fuck me.”
Eskel chuckles throatily. “Sorry, Wolf, got carried away.” Geralt’s whole body jolts again, and he gasps against Lambert’s throat. “There you are. That’s better, isn’t it?”
“Harder,” Geralt snarls, and he grips Lambert’s shoulders tightly enough to leave bruises. Lambert wraps one arm around his back and buries the other hand in Geralt’s hair, gently running his nails over his scalp in what he hopes is a soothing motion. Geralt whines and pushes his head into Lambert’s hand, so he must be doing something right.
Eskel makes a low sound, and then Lambert can feel the force of his thrusts as Geralt is rocked forward against him, once, twice, and then again and again. “Yes,” Geralt groans. “Eskel.”
“I have you, Wolf,” Eskel says. The words were probably intended to sound comforting, but the half-growl in Eskel’s voice makes them come out hungry, possessive. Lambert licks his lips. He’s not even in heat, but the sound of Eskel’s voice and the heavy musk of his arousal in the air is doing something shivery and good to the pit of his stomach.
Geralt lifts his head from Lambert’s neck and presses his lips to Lambert’s in a messy, biting kiss. Lambert moans a little, then reaches down between them to get his hand on Geralt’s prick again. He’s barely given him half a dozen strokes before Geralt stiffens and spills again, gasping into his mouth.
“Good work,” says Eskel, that note of deep approval back in his voice.
“Esk,” Geralt gasps, before Lambert can say anything embarrassing. “Knot me.”
“Soon,” says Eskel soothingly, and rubs one hand down Geralt’s spine. “How about I give you one more, first?”
“No,” Geralt snaps. “Now.”
Eskel blinks, eyes darkening. For an instant, Lambert wonders if he’s about to tell Geralt off for trying to boss him around—and then he realizes that the expression on Eskel’s face is not one of anger. “Whatever you need, Wolf,” Eskel says, and then he thrusts hard into Geralt a few times before curling over him with a rumbling groan, hips stilling. Geralt cries out, the high sound harsh in his gravelly voice, and his head falls to rest beside Lambert’s neck again, his breathing hot and fast and desperate against Lambert’s skin. His whole body is shaking, and his prick twitches once or twice in Lambert’s hand.
Lambert resumes stroking him—or tries to, anyway, but Geralt seizes his hand by the wrist and drags it away from his prick. “Want your mouth,” he says.
“That all right with you, Lam?” Eskel asks.
“Yes,” says Lambert, and he helps as best he can as Eskel rolls over to recline against the edge of Geralt’s nest with Geralt draped over his chest, legs spread obscenely wide to reveal the knot filling him.
A handful of heat-hazed memories rise to the surface of being in Geralt’s place, both during his first heat and his much more recent and extremely pleasant second one. Lambert licks his lips as he settles into position. Truthfully, he doesn’t remember exactly what Voltehre had done to him that had felt so good, but he remembers the important bits: being pinned in place on his back, helpless to move but cradled warm and safe like a treasure, with Eskel’s knot huge and hard and satisfying inside him and a sweet tongue bringing him to ecstasy. Lambert takes a deep breath, tasting Eskel’s pleasure and Geralt’s desperation on the air, and then leans down to put his mouth where Geralt wants it.
It takes about ten seconds for Geralt to peak, and he does it noisily, hips jerking in tiny movements, restrained by Eskel’s knot. Lambert laps at the meager drops of spend on Geralt’s stomach, feeling extremely pleased with himself.
There’s a quiet hum of appreciation from off to one side, and Lambert glances over to see that Geralt’s cries have finally woken Voltehre and Gweld. Voltehre’s expression is soft and muzzy, as though he’s not sure he’s not in the middle of a very good dream; Gweld is watching Lambert with something like admiration. “That’s damn pretty,” says Gweld. “So gorgeous, taking care of our Wolf.”
“Gweld,” says Geralt, who has finally lost the frantic edge that’s been in his voice and scent since he’d reached full heat. Instead he sounds sated and lazy—but no less imperious. “C’mere. Kiss me.”
Gweld nearly falls over in his eagerness to obey, scrambling across the nest to get to Geralt’s side. Voltehre giggles and crawls over at a more sedate pace to kiss Lambert. He makes a little noise of surprised pleasure when their lips meet, probably at the taste of Geralt’s slick and spend on Lambert’s mouth. Voltehre pulls back to nuzzle his face into Lambert’s hair, and Lambert sighs contentedly against his neck, and then they both turn to watch their packmates. Gweld and Geralt are kissing hungrily, open-mouthed and messy. Eskel, not to be left out, is littering soft little kisses all over Geralt’s hair and the back of his head, hips moving gently to make Geralt gasp into Gweld’s mouth and squirm in Eskel’s lap as the knot in his cunt shifts ever-so-slightly.
It’s sweet, and private. Being in an omega’s heat-nest—well, another omega’s heat-nest—is weirdly overwhelming, and not only because of the heavy richness of the pheromone-laced air. For a split second, Lambert almost wants to shy away from the intimacy of it, to leave Geralt and his mates to their pleasure and go somewhere he can’t make a fool of himself.
But then Geralt lifts his face away from Gweld’s and fixes his blown-black eyes on Voltehre. “Come here,” he says. “Want you.” His gaze slides over to Lambert. “Both of you.”
Gweld scoots over to make room, and Voltehre shuffles forward to sit in front of Geralt, Lambert only a beat behind. Geralt reaches out to take Voltehre by the shoulders and then yanks him forwards, and Voltehre only has time to give a surprised little squeak and then Geralt is kissing him, too. Before Lambert can try and give them space, Geralt lifts a hand from Voltehre’s shoulder to grab him by the forearm and pull. Lambert ends up kneeling beside them, one arm around Voltehre’s back, his chest pressed against Geralt’s side.
Which means he’s also pressed up against Eskel, who smiles lazily and reaches up to pet his hair with the pleasure-drunk expression that Lambert has learned to recognize as the one he wears when he’s right in the middle of a good tie, after he’s come down from the initial peak but his knot is still about ten minutes from releasing. “Lovely together, aren’t they?” he says, nodding towards Geralt and Voltehre.
“Yeah,” says Lambert, tightening his grip on Voltehre’s back.
Eventually, Geralt pulls back. “Want your mouth,” he says to Voltehre with no preamble.
Voltehre blushes beautifully. “Okay,” he says, breathless and very eager, and shuffles down to begin licking slow, deliberate stripes through Geralt’s folds and up the underside of his prick, which has hardened yet again. Lambert watches with interest. So that’s what had felt so wonderful.
Geralt shudders, whining. “Fuck,” he mutters, and then, to Lambert’s surprise, he carries on speaking. “Knew you’d be good at this. Almost made Lam cry with it the first time.” Lambert blushes. “Pretty thing,” says Geralt. “Pretty hair. Pretty mouth. Clever mouth, ah—” His head rolls back against Eskel’s shoulder, a shudder running through him. “Gonna teach you all my tricks,” he says, a low promise in his voice. Voltehre whimpers, and his hips buck against the mattress a few times. “Gonna show you how to make Gweld n’ Eskel scream. Gonna get you to show me how to do it to your Lam, too—”
Voltehre swallows Geralt to the root and moans around him, and Geralt cuts himself off with another loud cry of ecstasy as he comes down Voltehre’s throat, and then melts, panting, against Eskel’s broad chest. Voltehre pulls back and wipes a hand at the corner of his mouth, looking stunned but very pleased. “You weren’t kidding, were you?” he asks Gweld, voice hoarse. “He really is talkative.”
Gweld snickers and reaches out to tug playfully at the end of one of Voltehre’s curls. “He has his moments, yeah. Ready for three days of this?”
“Oh, gods,” says Voltehre faintly, the pink flush on his face deepening.
Gweld laughs again and leans forward to kiss Voltehre. But before he gets a chance, Geralt speaks up again. “Gweld. C’mere and fuck me.”
Gweld leans his forehead against Voltehre’s with an apologetic grin. “Sorry, sweet thing. Duty calls.” He shuffles over on his knees to lean over Geralt, and then says in a lightly teasing voice, “Hmm. Think there might be a slight logistical problem with that, my darling.” He traces the tip of one finger around the opening of Geralt’s cunt, where Eskel’s knot still sits hard and fully swollen within him, forming a tight seal.
Eskel shudders a little. Geralt rolls his eyes. “Afterwards,” he says. Then he gets a speculative look in his eye. “Unless—”
“Afterwards,” says Eskel firmly.
Geralt huffs but subsides.
“Aw, I wanted to hear what he was gonna say,” says Gweld.
Geralt opens his mouth to speak, but Eskel promptly presses two fingertips down on his tongue, and Geralt makes a pleased humming sound and begins sucking on Eskel’s fingers as though that’s what he’d been after the whole time. Eskel glares at Gweld, though the expression is at least as fond as it is exasperated. “It is the morning of the first day,” he says reproachfully. “For the gods’ sakes, don’t give him ambitious ideas until tomorrow afternoon at the earliest, you absolute menace.”
Voltehre begins giggling, and Lambert can’t help but join in. Eskel shakes his head, but he’s smiling ruefully. And then he grimaces, and Geralt makes a little displeased sound around his fingers.
“All done?” Gweld asks.
“In a minute,” Eskel says. Geralt whines and moves his hips with intent, and Eskel bites off a curse and grips his hip with his free hand. “Ah—a moment longer, Wolf, hold on—”
Geralt makes a very displeased sound, but goes still until Eskel lets go of his hip and withdraws the fingers from his mouth, and then he lifts up on his knees. Eskel’s now half-blown knot slides out of him with an obscenely wet sound, and spend begins dripping down the insides of his thighs. Gweld grins and holds his arms open. “Ready for more? I’m—oof!”
Geralt pounces on him, knocking him flat on his back in the nest. “Gweld,” he says. “Gweld, please, I need—”
“Take what you need, my love,” Gweld rasps, reaching up to run a hand through Geralt’s hair. “Anything you want, I promise, I’ll give it to you.”
Geralt makes an almost wounded sound, lines up over Gweld, and sinks down on him. And then he begins riding Gweld at a frankly shocking pace, given that he’d had a knot in him only a minute or so ago. The two of them are a beautiful sight together, and Lambert leans his head against Voltehre’s shoulder, thinking idly about putting his hand on Voltehre’s prick.
As though he’d heard the thought, Eskel catches Lambert’s eye, and then glances from him to Voltehre. “We’re in the thick of it now,” he says, raising his voice a little to be heard over the sound of Gweld gasping and Geralt muttering filthy things into his ear. “First day’s usually the most energetic. He won’t hurt you on purpose, but—remember what I said about him being grabby in heat?”
“Don’t be in arm’s reach if you don’t want him riding you,” Voltehre recites. “Even if he looks like he’s dozing, or occupied.”
“Right,” says Eskel. “There’s no shame in stepping away for a little while—sometimes even Gweld and I have to take breaks if he gets a little too focused on one of us for too long. We’ll make sure he’s not hurting for attention if you need some space.” He nods to the pallet that Gweld had set up on the floor a little ways away the previous night. “If you need a rest, feel free to take one. We don’t want you forcing yourselves to do anything you don’t want to out of misplaced obligation.”
Lambert snorts. “Oh no,” he says sarcastically. “Fucking the White Wolf while he’s pouring off enough heat-scent to choke a manticore. What a burden.”
“Lam,” Voltehre groans with worn-soft exasperation.
But Eskel only laughs. “Fierce thing,” he says approvingly. “Well, the option’s there if you need it. For both of you.”
“Thank you,” says Voltehre. “It’s very kind of you.”
Eskel touches Voltehre’s cheek gently. “Just taking care of my pack. Speaking of which—”
Gweld peaks with a shout. Geralt growls low in his throat and turns his heat-darkened eyes on Voltehre, who licks his lips and then scoots away from Lambert enough that when Geralt bowls him over a few moments later, Lambert isn’t knocked flat with him. “Oh,” says Voltehre, and then, “Oh, oh, gods, oh—”
“Need more,” says Geralt, a plaintive note in his voice as he rocks against Voltehre. His legs are trembling—not from arousal, but from tiredness. “Please.”
“Can I lay you down?” Voltehre asks. “I’ll be quick, and then it’ll be easier, I promise.”
Geralt gives a little whine. “Be quick.” He lets Voltehre tumble him sideways, and then flops onto his front and lifts up on his knees, shaking with the effort.
Voltehre sucks in a deep breath and then pushes into him, holding onto his hips to help support his weight. “That’s better, hmm?”
“Harder,” Geralt mumbles into the bedding.
“He likes it pretty forceful in heat,” says Gweld, rolling onto his side to get a better view. “‘S all right, you won’t hurt him.”
Voltehre nods seriously and snaps his hips forward. Geralt sighs with satisfaction and goes boneless. Voltehre readjusts their positions a little and then sets a ruthlessly quick pace, and Lambert settles in to watch, enthralled.
For a little while, Geralt just makes soft little pleased sounds into the blankets of the nest. He peaks once, without much warning, and Voltehre stops moving and bites his lip hard enough to bruise, clearly trying not to follow him over the precipice. After a few moments, though, Geralt tosses his head and says, “C’mon, don’t stop,” and Voltehre obediently picks up the pace again.
And then, just as Lambert thinks Voltehre isn’t going to be able to hold out much longer, Geralt turns his head to the side to look up at Voltehre out of the corner of one eye, and says in a low rasp, “Knot me.”
Voltehre makes a shocked, punched-out sound, and peaks instantly. As soon as he stops trembling, a blotchy red flush steals over his face and chest. “Uh—” he says. “I—um—”
If Gweld or Eskel had made fun of Voltehre, Lambert would have bitten them to the blood. Luckily, neither one of them even laughs. Eskel pats Voltehre’s shoulder in silent praise, and Gweld strokes the back of Geralt’s head. “Eskel’ll be ready for you again in a little while, he says soothingly.
Geralt makes a muffled, aggrieved sound. “Now.”
Gweld gets a considering look on his face and takes Voltehre’s hand, pressing it palm-to-palm against his own. To Lambert’s surprise, though Voltehre’s hand isn’t as strong or as weatherbeaten as Gweld’s, his fingers are actually longer, his palm broader. “Hands are a little big for this,” he says apologetically. “Maybe you can try tomorrow, when we have more time to warm him up. Lam, want to learn something new?”
“Uh, sure?” says Lambert.
At Gweld’s gentle urging, Voltehre eases his softening prick out of Geralt, and Lambert steals a kiss in passing as Voltehre shuffles out of the way to lie down next to Eskel, who drapes a heavy arm over him and nuzzles into his hair. Then Gweld briefly inspects the neatly-trimmed fingernails of Lambert’s left hand before forming it into a wedge shape, thumb tucked up under his fingers. “If you don’t have an alpha handy, or any toys,” says Gweld, “this is the next best thing.”
Lambert glances from his hand to Geralt’s cunt to Gweld’s face. “Uh?” he squeaks, finally realizing what Gweld is after.
“If you don’t want to, I can do it,” says Gweld. “And we do have a few toys handy, since it helps our Wolf sleep when he’s in this state.”
“No, I wanna,” says Lambert. “How do I...?”
Eskel hands Gweld a bottle of some thin oil, which he pours over Lambert’s hand. “Never hurts to have a little extra slick,” says Gweld. “Push in gently. He’s already plenty relaxed, and your hands aren’t too big, so it shouldn’t be difficult.”
“Fucking knot me already,” Geralt mumbles, which definitely doesn’t do something baffling but wonderful to Lambert’s hindbrain. Nope.
“Getting there, sweetheart,” says Gweld, and strokes a hand down Geralt’s spine as Lambert cautiously presses the tips of his fingers into the opening of his cunt. “Lam’s never done this before.” He makes deliberate eye contact with Lambert before continuing. “But don’t worry. He’ll knot you up nice and tight and then you can relax.”
“Fuck,” says Lambert weakly. And then he presses his hand a little further in, and Geralt’s body just—fucking opens for him, like he was made for it, and then Lambert’s hand is buried in Geralt’s cunt to the fucking wrist. “Oh, gods.”
Geralt sighs, long and shuddering, and most of the tension in his legs and back evaporates. “Mm, s’better.”
“If you want, you can make a fist,” Gweld murmurs. “Slowly. Helps if you rock your hand back and forth a little.”
Lambert takes a steadying breath, which is not actually all that steadying due to all the smells, and tucks his thumb against his palm, and carefully eases his fingers down until his hand is curled up inside Geralt’s cunt. Geralt sighs again, and his internal muscles squeeze Lambert’s fist almost gently. “Feels good,” he mumbles.
“Yeah?” says Lambert, and wets his lips. “Feels—feels right, doesn’t it? Being—knotted?”
“Mmm,” says Geralt.
“You’re right where you ought to be,” says Lambert, drunk on the scent of Geralt’s pleasure, on the feeling of Geralt’s cunt clenching around Lambert’s fist like he thinks Lambert’s his alpha, taking care of him during his heat. He shuffles around to Geralt’s side so that he can lean down and kiss the knobs of his spine. “Right here, under me. On my knot.”
Geralt shudders hard, and he thrusts down against the nest, once, twice, and then peaks, just from that and from Lambert’s words and his hand. Lambert realizes, distantly, that he’s shaking all over, on the edge of peaking himself. He shouldn’t—he should save it, in case Geralt wants to get fucked again before any of the rest of them are ready—but fuck it, Gweld said they had toys handy somewhere, and if Lambert doesn’t come right the fuck now he might actually die. He wraps his free hand around his prick and closes his eyes and imagines for a moment that he has a knot for real, that the tightness of his hand and the tightness around his other hand are one and the same, and spends into the half-imaginary slick heat of Geralt’s cunt. “Holy fuck,” he rasps when he can talk again.
He’s saved from having to wonder if his sudden display of un-omega-like behavior is offputting to the rest of his pack by both Gweld and Voltehre trying to kiss him at the same time and nearly smacking their foreheads together. Gweld turns aside to suck a line of marks into his collarbone instead, letting Voltehre take his mouth. “Was that good?” Lambert says hazily, not sure who he’s even addressing, when Voltehre comes up for air.
“You have to ask?” Voltehre squeaks.
“So fucking glad we brought you in,” Gweld mumbles against his neck.
Suddenly there’s a heavy, musky warmth against his back: Eskel leaning gently against him, chin fitting over the crown of Lambert’s head. “So glad,” he says.
“Mmm, yes,” Geralt agrees sleepily, and then yawns, and dozes off right there with Lambert’s hand still inside him.
**
Three days later, Lambert wakes with the dawn and stretches luxuriously. The caramel-sugar aroma is thinner now that it’s no longer pouring off Geralt in waves; before long it’ll just be a single faint note in the bouquet that is Lambert’s pack’s combined scent.
He’ll miss it, a little, but it’ll come back next year. And in the meantime—well, it’s not as though the past few days haven’t been enjoyable, but Lambert has to admit to himself that he’s feeling a little wrung-out. He has a newfound appreciation for Eskel and Gweld’s endurance.
Beside him, Geralt gives a little groan—not of arousal, this time, but of pain. “All right?” Lambert asks.
Eyes still closed, Geralt makes a face. “Sore.” Lambert unsuccessfully tries to muffle a snicker, and Geralt opens one eye a crack to squint at him. “What?” he grumbles.
Lambert presses his face affectionately into Geralt’s neck. “Sore? After all that? I never would’ve guessed.”
“Sarcastic ass,” Geralt mutters, and slings an arm over Lambert’s side to hold him closer. “...Thanks. For helping.”
Lambert smiles secretly against his skin. “‘Course. Anytime.”
“Not anytime,” says Geralt with faint horror. “Once a year’s enough.”
“Yeah, that’s fair,” says Lambert. “Wanna wake up the rest of them and go to the hot springs, soak for a bit?”
“If you like,” says Geralt with the careful indifference he sometimes puts on even in front of his own pack. It’s been driving Lambert nuts ever since he’d first noticed Geralt doing it, but now—that tendency, combined with how grabby and bitey and demanding Geralt had been when stripped of his usual self-control—they click together in Lambert’s mind, forming a new picture of his packmate, always so quiet and reserved.
He gazes at Geralt for a moment—the way he’s holding himself sort of gingerly, the fading bruises on his hips from when he’d demanded his packmates hold him ever-tighter—and determines that the answer to his question, the one Geralt hadn’t wanted to give, is most likely yes. “I do like,” says Lambert, noting with satisfaction the flicker of relief on Geralt’s face. “Up, lazybones,” he says, louder, poking Eskel in the ribs and then gently joggling Voltehre’s shoulder. “I wanna go to the hot springs, I’m sore.”
“Morning, Lam,” Voltehre mumbles with a soft smile, still half-asleep.
“Morning, honey,” says Lambert, smiling back down at him like a fool for a second before remembering that he’s on a mission. “Now c’mon, up.”
Geralt is a touch unsteady on his feet as the five of them dress for the trip down to the baths. As he steps towards the door, he wobbles a little with a grimace. Eskel and Gweld reach for him, but Lambert is already there. “I’ve got you, Wolf,” he says, the nickname falling from his lips without thinking. “I’ve got you.”