Work Text:
Walking the Path is always miserable, but this spring and summer have just been…Lambert doesn't even have words to describe how shitty it's been, and when Lambert doesn't have enough foul language, something has gone real fucking wrong.
Every single thing that could go badly has, short of Lambert actually dying. Contracts have been for monsters much harder than anticipated, and aldermen have refused to pay the difference. Everyone he's talked to has flinched from him or insulted him or both. He's failed to save two separate people from the monsters that took them, and been blamed for both, and can't even argue, because if he'd somehow been faster or stronger or better, maybe they would still be alive. He's fallen off cliffs and into rivers, and hasn't gone a full week without his supplies being spoiled somehow, whether by water or by rats or by having been sold moldy vegetables. He's been denied space in nearly every inn and most fucking barns. People have spat on his shadow and his face and his food. He's used every one of his potions and had to rent space in an apothecary to brew more twice, and the apothecaries charged every coin he could scrape together.
The only way he's been able to keep from just fucking dying is by intimidating the absolute fuck out of innkeepers and aldermen and stableboys and - well. Everyone. And Lambert doesn't usually mind being an intimidating son of a bitch, but that's when he's choosing to do it. Not day in and day out just to fucking survive.
He's just so incredibly fucking tired, and he wants - he needs - to put the whole mess down for a little while, to get out of his own head and not fucking think for a few hours. To not be a scary intimidating monster of a man. To let someone else make the decisions.
He doesn't usually do this outside of Kaer Morhen. In Kaer Morhen, he knows that whichever of his brothers he goes to will treat him…not gently, perhaps, but kindly. They know what the Path does to witchers. They know what he needs, and they'll give it to him, just as he'll give them what they need when they need it, because for all that Lambert scorns most of the traditions and all of the so-called honor of his profession, he does know that they're all in this together, and if nothing else, they've got each other's backs. They look after each other as best they can, doms and subs alike, and Lambert's knelt to all his brothers who want to be knelt to when he needs to, and let them make him kneel when they need to, and - it works. Not beautifully, perhaps, not like a well-oiled piece of dwarven machinery, but they all get what they need and it's enough.
Outside of Kaer Morhen, well, the few times he's given in and gone to a matching house…he knows what he looks like, and he knows what most people think of witchers. He hasn't exactly been surprised to come out of the encounters beaten black and blue, his soul just as bruised from the insults spat at him, or sore to the bone with bitter humiliation, or covered in abrasions from having been bound so tightly he started losing feeling in his fucking hands. That's why he only goes to a matching house when he really, really fucking needs it.
Unfortunately, he really fucking needs it. His temper is on a fucking infinitesimally short fuse, his concentration is shot, he's starting to make mistakes the way he only does when he's been too long without going down. If he doesn't take a chance with a matching house, there's a damn good probability he won't fucking make it back to Kaer Morhen this autumn. And be damned if he's going to die from having been too proud to let some asshole put him down for a little while.
Even if he's not going to enjoy the experience, so what? He doesn't much enjoy getting swatted around by monsters, either, and that's his fucking job.
He knows he's scowling like a thundercloud when he comes stomping into the little front room, and the receptionist flinches like a beaten dog and quavers a greeting. When he demands a submissive's intake form, she looks like she's been slapped with a fish, she's so shocked, and she fumbles it three times as she hands it to him. Lambert just barely manages not to snarl as he retreats to the counter along the wall to fill the damn thing in.
It doesn't take him long. He doesn't bother to add any limits; no one pays attention to a witcher's preferences anyhow, and what, is he going to complain? He doesn't bother to add any requests, either, not even the 'male partner preferred' checkbox, because he'll be lucky to get anyone, and he needs this enough that he's not going to risk even the smallest chance of getting it. (And if the checkbox would be a lie, because he would actually fucking prefer a female partner but the chances of him not fucking that up are too godsdamned fucking high for his tastes, that's no one else's fucking business. Or even his own.)
The only thing he does bother to write before he signs his name is, I need to not be the biggest threat in the godsdamned room.
And then he gives the receptionist the form and follows her shaking finger deeper into the matching house, to a small well-appointed room where he can wait to see if anyone, anyone at all, will be willing to give a witcher the relief he needs.
The waiting is the worst part. Lambert sets his swords aside, and strips off his armor, and kneels down on the carpeted floor, and forces himself to think of nothing at all.
*
Milena doesn't come to Roberta's often - her duties are time-consuming, and while she knows Marika would not begrudge her the hours, she feels guilty for taking the time away from the household. But as Marika has reminded her, it is not healthy to refrain from exercising one's inclinations, and also this afternoon she received a note from Roberta herself explaining that there would be a young person new-come to their inclinations visiting the house that evening, and Roberta would be quite pleased if Milena might be interested in taking on their first encounter. Milena is known, in a small way, for being good with new submissives. Her particular gentle-but-firm approach is a soothing introduction to the somewhat intimidating idea of indulging one's inclinations at matching houses.
Put like that, Milena can see this as a duty, too, which means that she can quash the guilt and take her leave of Marika, who smiles approvingly at her, and make her way down to Roberta's in good time. The receptionist, Ella, gives her a strangely shaky smile and points her down the hallway, and Milena makes her way to the first door with a green tag on its handle, room three, which is where Roberta usually puts new submissives.
She knows as soon as she opens the door that some error has been made, because the enormous man kneeling in the center of the floor, his hands clasped behind his back and his head bowed, is most definitely too old to be the new submissive Roberta described.
She almost steps away to speak to Ella, to learn where the new submissive is and leave this man to whoever might come along next, but -
But his shoulders are trembling, just a little, and she can see the tension in every line of him, and she cannot leave a submissive in such distress. Roberta herself can handle the new submissive; Milena did not write to promise she would come, so no one will be disappointed when she does not appear. Roberta is quite skilled herself at gentleness. The new submissive will have a perfectly lovely experience. And this man - this man needs Milena more.
Milena steps fully into the room and closes the door quietly, taking just a moment to examine the kneeling man. He's tall - even kneeling he seems to loom - with close-cropped dark hair that recedes into a deep widow's peak and three long pale scar-lines over one eye. His body is thickly muscled, and what little skin she can see is laced with further scars. His clothing is sturdy but much-patched, and dyed in the sort of faded browns and blacks that only the very poor or those who work with extremely dirty materials wear. He is at least as old as she is, probably somewhat older; his skin is weathered as someone who spends a great deal of time outdoors.
He looks miserable, which is not at all the expression she expects of someone who has come to a matching house for relief from their inclinations' needs.
He looks miserable, and if she does this right, she can help. Can smooth the lines of tension from his brow, the tremble from his limbs. Can leave him content at the end of the night, calm and even-keeled and hale. And that is what her inclinations need, above all else.
"Eyes up," she says, soft but clear. "Tell me what you need."
The man looks up, and his eyes are yellow as topaz, brilliant and shocking, the pupils thin vertical slits like a cat's. He's a witcher.
Almost she quails. Almost she leaves the room. But the bleak despair in those inhuman eyes is far too painful to abandon. She stands her ground and holds his gaze and waits for his response.
*
A woman. A tiny dainty woman in the sort of finely-woven, embroidered, expensive clothing that only nobles or extremely wealthy merchants wear. She looks like a strong breeze could blow her over, like Lambert could break her with the little finger of his off hand. This is absurd. How the fuck is she supposed to put him down?
But he's not going to get a better option, is he now?
And her eyes - her eyes are huge and dark and serious, unflinching, unafraid.
Lambert licks his lips and swallows. "You can do whatever you fucking like, just put me down so I can stop fucking thinking. So I'm not - not a fuckin' threat."
Her eyebrows go up. "Very well," she says, voice cool and clear. "If that is what you need, that is what you shall have." She tilts her head, considering him; he can't read her expression at all.
Her gaze flicks down to his medallion, just for a moment, and her eyebrows draw down into the slightest frown, and then her expression clears again. She takes a step forward, closer to him, drawing herself up to her full scant height and somehow making him feel just a little bit smaller. Another step, and the room is small enough that she'd be close enough to touch, if he dared let go of his own hands and reach out.
She reaches out, and puts a slender uncallused hand on his cheek. "I do not see a threat here," she says, the words like cool water washing down his spine. Gods, her eyes are fathomless. He could fall into them forever. "You are no threat to me," she says quietly. Her thumb strokes across his cheekbone. He wants to lean into it. He wants to whimper. He doesn't move or make a sound. "Shall I tell you what I am going to do, or would you prefer to be surprised?"
Lambert shivers. He doesn't want to think, and if he knows what's coming he'll - he'll get all tangled up in his own head waiting for it, jittering and miserable and not able to just go down. "Surprise me, uh - mistress?" he ventures, hoping she won't hate the title. He's had doms expect him to just fuckin' intuit their preferences before. That's usually how he earns the first slap, by getting it wrong.
She strokes his cheekbone again, gentle and calm. "I usually use 'my lady'. Would you prefer to call me mistress?"
"My lady," Lambert rasps. He doesn't fucking care what title she wants; he's just boggled that she isn't taking the excuse to dig her nails in, or backhand him, or - well. Something along those lines.
"What shall I call you?" she asks.
He doesn't actually like most of the things the dominants at matching houses call him. They're all insults, mostly filthy ones. His brothers usually call him pup, since he's the forever-youngest of them, and from them he doesn't mind that, because they're all Wolves together after all. He has no idea what he'd want to be called, aside from -
No one on the Path uses his fucking name. It's always witcher, or monster, or unnatural filth. No one ever even asks what his name is. He only ever hears it in Kaer Morhen.
"Lambert," he says, expecting her to laugh.
She smiles like sunrise. "Lambert," she says, and her soft voice makes the plain name beautiful somehow. "Thank you." She pets his cheek again, bizarrely gentle against his rough skin. "Undress for me, Lambert."
Lambert swallows, and shivers, and nods.
*
Milena watches as Lambert the witcher - the Wolf witcher, if she has judged his medallion aright - pulls off his clothing. He folds it very neatly, which is interesting, but then, it is tidily patched and quite clean despite the difficulty he must have in finding laundry facilities during his travels. He takes care of his possessions. But not, she thinks, eyeing the many many scars covering his skin, of his own self. Though admittedly his profession is a very dangerous one; perhaps this is a normal amount of scarring for a witcher. She hasn't actually met one ere now.
He may not be the new submissive she was asked to aid, but she actually thinks he needs her more than they do, whoever they are. He flinches, just slightly around the eyes, at so many things; he trembles under her hands; he offered her anything she liked without limits. Those are not signs of a submissive who has been well-treated. She isn't quite sure what he expects of her, but she suspects it's pain and humiliation. Which - well, she is quite aware that there are submissives who do prefer those, and she would never say they are wrong to do so, for everyone's inclinations are their own nature. But her nature does not incline in that direction, and never has. And she does not think Lambert's does either.
He is a well-built man, though she thinks, looking at him as he finishes folding his braies, that he has gone without adequate food for some time. He looks too lean for his proper build; he should have more padding to his bones. Milena nods to herself and turns briefly to scratch a note upon the scrap paper left for just such purposes on the little table beside the door, then slips it through the letter-slot for Roberta's minions to find. Most of what she needs for what she has planned is in the room, but perishables, for obvious reasons, are not.
He kneels again once he is nude, and Milena considers him for a moment, contemplating how best to do this. He's trembling again. He seemed to calm with her hand upon him before, which accords well with her current plan.
She steps forward to cup his cheek again, noting the tiny flinch and then the even tinier pressure as he leans into the touch. "Good," she says quietly, and sees the shiver that isn't fear. Oh good. She was hoping for that. "That was very tidily done; I am quite pleased."
Lambert shivers again and licks his lips, and she can see his eyes starting to go just a little hazy. That's a very good start.
There's something about the moment when a submissive just starts to go under that is…well. It makes her want to stand a little taller, makes her feel protective and possessive and pleased down to her very soul. As it should, given her inclinations. It has been too long since she felt that. Marika is right; she should do this more often. Though it isn't often that she is given the opportunity to feel protective of a submissive so very obviously dangerous as Lambert is, and that's a surprisingly strong thrill, actually. Lambert is a warrior, a man who slays monsters, far stronger than Milena could ever hope to be - and here and now, it is Milena who will guard him from all harm.
She must be sure to treat so remarkable a trust with all the gravity it is due.
"Go and move that chair to the center of the room, and choose a kneeling cushion to put in front of it," she tells him, stroking her thumb across his cheekbone. "And then kneel, and wait for me."
Lambert swallows and nods, just slightly. "Yes, my lady," he says, and Milena smiles.
*
This is not going anything like Lambert expected it to. He's not entirely sure if that's a good thing or not. Usually by this point in an encounter at a matching house, he's already being slapped or flogged or paddled or something like that, not - not petted. His whole cheek tingles strangely as he gets up to move the chair.
The solemn, serious, honest look in her dark eyes when she told him she was pleased with him is going to stick with him for a while. He doesn't quite know what to do with that, but fucking hell does he want, with a desperate hunger he wasn't expecting and doesn't know how to handle, for her to say that again.
He's not down yet, not really. But he's also not having to fight every instinct that says he ought to fight back, which he usually is at this stage in the proceedings, so…
This is going weirdly well, actually, and that's the strangest thing about it.
He puts the chair down and frowns at the stack of kneeling cushions. Which one does she want him to pick? From any other dom he's had at a matching house, there would be a right answer - or rather, whatever he picked would be the wrong answer. But he doesn't get the impression that this dom works like that.
If she told him to grab a kneeling cushion, he's probably going to be on his knees for a while. Not that that's a hardship - witchers learn to kneel for hours without any trouble at all - but she doesn't know that, and he is not getting the impression that she means to hurt him. He could easily be wrong about that - her gentleness thus far could be a front, meant to lull him into a false sense of security - but damn it, he's got good instincts, and his instincts say she's just…not planning to hurt him. Not fucking with him for shits and giggles. Not playing mind games. Just…telling him what he needs to do to please her, simple as that.
So he picks a good sturdy pillow, well-stuffed and thick enough that if he's kneeling on it for the rest of the evening, it will stay reasonably comfortable. It's in a shade of red that makes him think of Eskel's favorite gambeson, too, which is strangely reassuring. He sets it down in front of the chair, takes a deep breath, and sinks to his knees, shifting until he's sure there aren't any creases in the pillow and he thinks he can stay put for as long as she needs him to.
She's looking for something in the big cabinet on the wall. Lambert fixes his gaze on the chair and doesn't look to see what she's doing. He doesn't want to know. The anticipation is always worse than anything else. And if he doesn't look, if he doesn't see her picking a paddle or a whip or whatever else she decides is appropriate, he can hold onto this strange calm for a little longer, this bizarre certainty that this time, he will come out of a matching house without bruises on his skin.
He doesn't know yet whether there will be bruises on his soul, but that's a different problem.
After a long moment she closes the cabinet and comes back over to him, soft slippers quiet on the carpeted floor. She puts a hand on his head, carding her fingers through his hair, nails scratching very gently against his scalp as she runs her hand down to the nape of his neck. Lambert shivers all over and closes his eyes without meaning to, leaning into the touch and biting back a whimper.
"Let me hear you," she says softly.
Lambert swallows a sudden surge of apprehension and whispers, "Yes, my lady."
"Good," she says, and strokes her fingers through his hair again. This time, Lambert lets himself whimper. "Oh, very good," she murmurs. Lambert shudders. Fuck. She sounds like she means that. "Now. Here are the rules."
Lambert appreciates it when doms lay out the rules ahead of time, actually, because then at least he knows when he's breaking them. He makes a sound to show he's listening.
"Stay still unless I tell you to move. You may make as much noise as you like, but do not speak unless I ask you a question or something is uncomfortable. I wish to know at once if anything hurts or chafes. If you need me to stop for any reason, say stop. Is that clear?"
Lambert boggles quietly. That sure does suggest she doesn't mean for whatever she's planning to be painful. He's…not entirely sure he knows how to deal with that. "Clear, my lady," he says shakily.
"Have you any questions?" she asks softly.
Lambert licks his lips. "What's the punishment if I fuck up?"
There's a pause, and then her hand strokes through his hair again, coming to rest on the nape of his neck. "I prefer to avoid punishments," she says quietly. "I had rather say that if you are good for me, I will give you rewards. Do you require punishments?"
Does he require them?
Literally no one has ever asked him that before. Literally no one has ever suggested that was an option before. It does not fit into his understanding of the world.
Punishments always make him want to fight back - to strike out at whoever dared do him harm. Even when he was a child, being punished just made him angrier, not more obedient.
Does he require punishment?
Lambert stares into the darkness behind his eyelids for a long moment, mind reeling, and then says shakily, "No?"
"Very good," she says, voice warm with approval. "Then I will say that if you are good for me, and follow my rules, I will reward you. Will that suit you, Lambert?"
Lambert shivers and leans a little more into the hand on the nape of his neck and rasps, "Yes, my lady. It will."
He gets another stroke of her fingers through his hair, a gentle squeeze at the nape of his neck. It already feels like a reward.
*
Milena takes a deep, quiet breath and looks down at the man under her hand. He is - well. He is not under yet, but oh, he's close, visibly starting to drift a bit, the tension starting to ease from his frame. Just from this. Just from kneeling with her hand on him, and being told what she expects of him. Gods. Every dominant who has ever had the privilege of Lambert's submission and treated him cruelly needs to be beaten. If Lambert needed cruelty, that would be one thing, and providing it would be right and proper and appropriate, but a submissive who so clearly responds best to kindness, to soft touches and gentle orders and praise -
It is a disgrace to their inclinations, to their very natures. Those who mistreated him do not deserve to hold dominance over anyone, ever again.
And she cannot be thinking about that, because what she needs to be thinking about is the man currently trembling beneath her touch.
She pets him again, because he responds so beautifully to it, and then she sets the bundles of soft rope down on the chair and contemplates her options. The only thing Lambert has asked for is to not be a threat. She does not think he is, truly, at least not now and not to her, but her task now is to convince him of that.
Daunting, but not impossible.
She picks up a length of rope and makes a loop, ties the first knot, and says, "Let your arms hang at your sides, and breathe deeply."
Lambert obeys, but there's still too much tension in him; Milena sets the rope aside, and strokes her hands down his arms and shoulders, petting him slowly and gently until his deep breaths are easy instead of deliberate, until he's malleable as warm clay beneath her touch. Until the tension has drained almost entirely from his muscles, save for what is needed to hold himself in position. She feels like she would purr, if she were a cat, she is so delighted by his trust being placed in her hands. Is it only that she is not behaving as he expects dominants to behave? Well, if so, gods be praised that she was the one who was given this opportunity. Gods be praised she is being allowed to fix whatever hurts have been given him before.
When he is calm and relaxed and breathing deeply, all his nervous tension eased, she takes up the rope again.
She likes using rope. It is an extension, perhaps, of her affection for embroidery; rope is just very thick thread, after all, if one looks at it a certain way. But also, when she is very carefully and deliberately tying a submissive up in decorative knotwork, she knows two things: first, that she is utterly focused on the submissive, attuned to their every breath and subtle movement, and second that they are utterly focused on her - well, her and the rope, but the rope is in some sense an extension of her will.
Also it looks pretty. She has sometimes thought that if she could paint, she would like to paint pictures of the various submissives who have granted her the privilege of binding them with beautiful knots. But she cannot - she has tried, and she is not skilled with paints as she is with thread - and in any case she does not think she could capture the true beauty of such moments, which is fleeting by nature, because a painting cannot show how much the submissive trusts her in those moments, which is what truly gives her the most pleasure.
She takes her time tonight. She has a plan for what to do after Lambert is thoroughly bound, but it is not time-sensitive, and it would be a poor repayment of his trust to shortchange him on the care that this art requires. Indeed, she nearly forgets about it entirely, focused utterly on each loop and knot. As she works carefully down his torso and arms, fastening them together with many intricate curls of rope, he relaxes even further, bit by bit, the tension running out of his muscles and his head sagging forward as his breath deepens and slows yet more. It is beautiful to watch. It is wonderful to know that she is responsible.
She starts talking after the first few knots. Not about what she's doing - he asked not to be told of her plans - but simply praising him, gently and sincerely, for his obedience. He is sitting very still for her, is letting soft whimpers and gasps spill from his lips, is refraining from true speech. He is being very good for her indeed.
She strokes her hands over his skin as she works, petting him gently; he leans into her touch, just a little, not enough that she could truly say he is moving, and she cannot bring herself to reprimand him for wanting to be touched. So she simply enjoys the feeling of his skin beneath her hands, and the way he yearns into it so sweetly.
When she is done, he is bound from neck to ankles in loops and whorls and lovely knots, his arms tight to his sides, his thighs fastened to his calves, his torso adorned with diamonds and complicated lines. The rope she chose is a deep blue, not merely because she likes the color but because the texture was pleasant, neither too rough nor so slick that the knots would not hold, and Lambert looks…oh, he looks like a dream come to life, and Milena wishes yet again that she could paint.
She touches his hands softly, checking to make sure he is still warm enough, and trails her fingers up his back as she rises to her feet, enjoying the contrast of rope and skin and the way he leans into her touch. She strokes her fingers through his hair, rests her hand upon the nape of his neck, and moves to stand in front of him. "Lambert," she murmurs. "My sweet, obedient, lovely Lambert. Look at me?"
It takes him a moment to raise his head and open his eyes, and when he does - oh. Oh, he is deeply under, his pupils blown round and dark, his expression cracked open with dazed joy. He might be the most beautiful thing she has ever seen.
"Lovely," she whispers, and slides her hand around to cup his cheek, strokes her thumb against his parted lips. He makes a soft, formless sound and leans his head into her hand. "Lovely," she repeats. "Oh, you are perfect."
He makes a rather louder sound at that, desperate and pleading. "You are," she tells him. "You are perfect for me, my lovely Lambert. I am so very pleased with you. You have most definitely earned a reward."
She heard the reward delivered as she worked, though she did not pay much heed to the sound at the time, as she had far more important matters occupying her attention. Now she bends and presses a light kiss to Lambert's forehead. "Close your eyes, lovely Lambert, and count to thirty for me."
Lambert closes his eyes, and though he makes no sound, she sees his lips form the shape of one.
She moves quickly, now, over to the door, pulls it open and snatches up the folding table outside and brings it back with hasty steps to set it beside the chair, then back to close the door as silently as possible, and as Lambert's lips form a silent twenty-eight she seats herself in the chair and reaches out to put her hand back on his cheek. His eyes open, hazy and beautiful.
Milena smiles at him. "Well done, my lovely one. Very well done."
*
Lambert feels…
Fuck, words are really hard right now. His whole brain is full of wool, blissfully soft like clouds look like they oughta be. He kinda feels like he's floating, too, except for how he very much knows that he's kneeling here on the sturdy cushion, with soft rope wound around every one of his limbs and his torso, not too tight and not too loose, binding him gently but firmly in place.
He doesn't actually have any leverage, and it's good rope, sturdy and well-made, and the knots are well-tied. He's not sure he could get out of it by pure brute strength, and burning it off would probably go badly too, which means -
Which means he's really and truly unable to hurt anyone, even - especially - the gentle-handed lady sitting in front of him with her hand on his cheek, smiling at him like he's done something marvelous.
He's not dangerous. He can't hurt her.
Oh, thank fuck.
The last dregs of tension drain out of his muscles, and Lambert thinks the word he's been groping for, the word for this feeling that makes his head go fuzzy with pleasure and relief, might just be safe.
He's safe. He can't hurt anyone, and his lady -
His lady said he did well. His lady said he earned a reward.
"Open your mouth," his lady says, stroking her thumb over his lower lip. Lambert lets his mouth fall open. She smiles. "Good," she says, and reaches over to the side with her other hand, and then she puts - something - between his lips.
"Eat," she murmurs, so he closes his mouth and chews and - oh.
Oh fuck.
The flavor of honey-glazed strawberry fills his mouth, and Lambert moans. His lady beams.
"Ah, that is a reward, then," she says, sounding very pleased. "I hoped it would be. You are being so sweet for me; you deserve sweetness in return. Would you like another?"
Lambert swallows and nods. Her smile grows somehow wider. "Open," she says, stroking his lip again, and puts another strawberry between his lips. Lambert savors it wonderingly. He gets strawberries, now and again, usually by gathering the wild ones for himself, but this - ripe, plump, hothouse-grown berries glazed expertly in honey and given to him as a reward, by his smiling lady who says he is good for her -
Fuck, strawberry might be his new favorite flavor.
The next thing she gives him is a tiny pastry shell filled with honey-glazed nuts, sweet and crunchy and magnificent. After that a little bitty square of cake, covered in marzipan - that one's a little too rich, and Lambert eats it but apparently his lady can see that it isn't as good as the others, because she hums softly and the next thing she gives him is another strawberry, as if to make up for it.
There's a tiny cherry tart and a tiny apricot tart and a thing made of baked spiced apple bits and raisins and oats all held together with honey; she alternates the sweets with bits of good bread with salted butter and squares of cold ham and rich cheese, and none of it is anything he'd ever get on the Path or in Kaer Morhen, all fussy and expensive and really fucking good. She gives him water, too, cold and clean, lifting the cup to his lips and tilting it just so between every few bites of food, and doesn't spill a drop. And his lady keeps smiling at him the whole time, keeps her soft little hand on his cheek and keeps stroking her thumb over his lips and keeps praising him, telling him he's good and sweet and perfect, telling him he's pleased her, telling him he deserves this reward.
He's been drunk off his ass and not felt this dazed and blurry. He's knelt for doms who beat him bloody and not gone this far down. He feels so good. He's bound and safe and nothing hurts and his lady is telling him he's good, telling him he's sweet and perfect, telling him he's doing well.
The next time she strokes his lips, he kisses her thumb, because he can't think of any other way to show her even a little of how good he feels. And his lady's eyes go wide for a moment, and he thinks she'll be angry - she didn't tell him to do that, did he do wrong? Was he bad? - and then she smiles again, soft and pleased, and says, "You get another strawberry for that, my lovely Lambert." And he does.
He kisses her fingers when she gives him the strawberry, and her smile gets even softer.
Lambert isn't quite sure what he's feeling about that, but whatever it is, it's a lot.
He isn't sure how long he kneels there, eating tidbits from her hands and kissing her fingers whenever he can reach them. It really doesn't matter, honestly. He would happily spend days kneeling here, if she only kept smiling at him and praising him and offering him delicious rewards for being good.
He thinks maybe it's a long time before she runs out of tidbits.
He thinks it isn't nearly long enough.
*
Milena would very much like to stay here all night, petting Lambert and praising him and watching him melt beneath her hands and words. He is lovely like this, relaxed and smiling, his eyes fixed on her and his limbs bound in her ropes and everything about him radiating joy.
She isn't sure she's ever felt more pleased and proud and protective and possessive of a submissive. He's - he's a large, dangerous, deadly man, and yet here he is at her feet, on his knees, bound by her hands and will, and happy. It's intoxicating, better than fine wine or rich brandy.
She wants to wrap a collar around his throat and keep him.
But of course she cannot; he did not come to a matching house to find a partner, only an evening of relief for his inclinations, and of course she does not know if they would suit each other when he is not desperate to be put under. And in any case he is a witcher, and must follow the dictates of his profession, and she is chatelaine to her sister's household, and has her own stern duties binding her.
But she has a duty, too, to see to it that the man who has offered her such beautiful submission is brought up out of it gently and kindly.
She strokes her fingers through his hair, and presses another kiss to his forehead. "You are so good for me," she tells him. "It's time for me to untie you, now."
He makes an unhappy noise. Milena pets his hair some more. He leans into the caress, eyes fluttering shut, and she keeps petting until at last he sighs, long and low, and nods.
"My sweet Lambert," she says quietly. "So good for me."
She takes the same care in untying him as she did in binding him in the first place, of course. She pets his skin as the knots come undone and she lifts the rope away, strokes the slight marks it has left upon him, murmurs praise with every breath. He stays still except when she commands otherwise, breathing deep and slow and even, and when at last she lifts the final loop of rope away, he makes a soft plaintive noise but doesn't object.
"Good," she says, and takes the very last honey-glazed strawberry from the table and holds it to his lips. He kisses her fingers as he takes it. Milena strokes her fingers through his hair and praises him and wants to keep him, dear gods, wants it like she wants her next breath of air.
"Come, my dear," she says, instead of any of the things she should not say, and steps towards the bed. And he - oh, the sweet, perfect man. He falls to his hands and knees, though she knows he must be stiff from being bound so long, and he crawls beside her to the bed.
She adjusts the pillows until she has them as she wants them, and then she sits down at the head of the bed, with her calves hanging over the edge and the pillows behind her, and pats the bed beside her hip. "Come up here and lie down," she orders.
Lambert obeys, stretching out on his side and putting his head on her thigh just as she wanted him to, and she twitches the blanket over him and leans back against the pillows and runs her fingers through his hair, scratching gently just the way he seems to like the best. He lets out another long sigh and relaxes, going limp against the mattress, head heavy and warm against her leg.
She keeps petting him, long slow strokes that make him sigh out sweet little contented noises, his hair soft against her fingers, until at last his breathing evens out and when she peers carefully down at him, his eyes are closed and his face is lax in sleep.
Good. Very good.
Milena settles herself comfortably and begins going over the week's duties in her mind. She is not going to sleep. She is going to stand guard over her sweet Lambert, her dangerous Lambert, because right here and now, it is her place to protect him.
*
Lambert wakes up feeling…good.
Really quite surprisingly good.
He isn't bruised anywhere that he can feel, nor aching, nor bleeding. Not physically. And - hell. His soul doesn't feel bruised, either. He feels…safe. Safe, and warm, and happy.
He's lying on something soft - a mattress, a real one, stuffed with wool and not straw - and there's a blanket over him, and his head is resting on -
On someone's leg. On his lady's leg.
Wait.
His lady?
Oh, that's new and worrisome. Lambert's never gone and fucking internalized someone's title before.
On the other hand, he's never had a dom - not even his brothers - treat him like…
Like he was something to be cherished.
He lies there thinking about that for a while. His lady (hell with it, he doesn't know her name and he's going to keep thinking of her like that whether he wants to or not, so fuck it, why make this harder than it has to be?) is awake; he can hear her steady breathing. Her hand is resting gently on his head. It's…late; he's not quite sure how late, but sometime between midnight and dawn, most likely.
She tied him up and fed him expensive tidbits and praised him for who fucking knows how long, and then she brought him to bed and let him fucking sleep on her for hours. And he feels - gods. He feels so fucking good. Like he's gone down under deep water and come up again and taken that first breath of clean air, and his whole fucking body lit up with it.
Huh.
He asked - he asked to not be the most dangerous thing in the room, and she tied him up so he couldn't be dangerous, so he couldn't hurt anyone at all. Really fucking well, too. Lambert wants to learn some of those knots. They looked…pretty. She could've tied him up a lot more efficiently, if she'd wanted to, and she took the time and effort to make it pretty. Like he was someone who could be decorated like that, and not have it look absurd.
She sure didn't look like she thought he looked absurd. She looked - if his hazy memory is right, and he thinks it is - she looked like she thought he was good. Like all the praise she heaped on him was true. And she fed him honeyed strawberries and let him kiss her fingers and didn't flinch from his eyes.
Is this what going down for a dom is supposed to feel like? Gods damn. Lambert could easily be very, very angry at the whole damn world, because not even with his brothers has he felt this good before.
He feels too good to be angry, which is a genuinely odd sensation. He's never too content to be angry. Except, apparently, in the aftermath of having been very gently and very thoroughly put all the way down and brought back up again.
Now what?
Usually, if he goes to a matching house, after the dom is done with him they leave him to put himself back together and make his own way out. He's not entirely sure what to do with one who stuck around.
He clears his throat. The hand on his head twitches in startlement, and then his lady cards her fingers through his hair, nails scratching gently at his scalp and sending startlingly pleasant shivers down his spine. "Awake, then?" she asks quietly.
"Yeah," Lambert says, and sits up, somehow not surprised that she keeps her hand resting gently at the nape of his neck. She's so little. He looms over her just sitting next to her. She doesn't feel small, though, and that slender uncallused hand on the nape of his neck feels like it could hold up the entire world.
Her eyes are big and dark and solemn, but her smile is sweet. "How do you feel?"
"Really fucking good," Lambert says with perfect honesty. Her smile grows broader.
"I am very glad to hear it." She sounds like she means that.
"Uh. Thanks." Lambert ducks his head, but he still sees the way she looks startled and delighted at the gruff words. "I - now what?"
"Well," his lady says thoughtfully, "I suppose if you wish to leave, you certainly may. Or, since Roberta will not expect us to vacate the room until the morning, if you wish to stay a while, that is also an option."
"Stay and do what?" Lambert asks, frowning at her in confusion.
"Sleep, I should think," his lady says with a little breath of laughter. "It is well past midnight."
"Oh." Lambert eyes her for a moment. She's been - hell. She stayed awake, stayed on watch, while he slept in her lap. And it is late, and he could sleep more, and - well.
Fuck it, he wants to.
"I could stay," he says slowly. "If you want me to."
"I should like that a great deal," his lady says at once. "Do you get comfortable, while I undress a little."
Lambert busies himself rearranging the pillows and blankets, weirdly charmed by the fact that she very clearly set up the pillows so she could stay up and watch over him, and only glances over when she comes back to the side of the bed. She's stripped down to her chemise, and for the first time, it really occurs to him that she's pretty. Really quite remarkably pretty. Hopefully that won't end up being awkward.
She slides into the bed with a soft smile, and arranges herself comfortably on the pillows, and then stretches out an arm. "Will you come and rest on my shoulder?"
"Uh," Lambert says, surprised all over again, and stretches out carefully with his head on her shoulder and an arm slung over her waist. She makes a soft, contented sound, and begins running her fingers through his hair again. Lambert closes his eyes and feels the tension draining out of him. Oh. This is fucking nice.
He falls asleep a lot faster than he expects to, and his dreams, for once, are sweet.
*
Milena doesn't expect to see the witcher again, honestly. He leaves quickly in the morning, dressing himself and strapping on his swords and becoming again the most dangerous person in - well, probably the whole city, honestly. He thanks her again before he goes, and she thanks him for the honor of his submission, but he leaves before she can think to do anything sensible like, oh, offer him her name.
In her defense, he really was in quite a hurry.
Still, she regrets not trying harder, and it is in that state of distracted regret that she sits down to handle the day's appointments, which are for the most part dealing with the vintners and greengrocers and clothmongers and other merchants who do business with the ducal house of Montecalvo; Milena likes to meet with them quarterly, at least, to ensure smooth relationships between their businesses and her sister's household, and as there are quite a number of them, and always many more merchants who would like to do business with the ducal house, her appointment days are always quite filled.
She's just finished speaking with a rather odious cheesemonger - not in the sense of his smell, though he does rather reek of his wares, but rather in his insistent attempts to assert dominance over her, which are both annoying and insulting even if he does manage to just barely skirt the line of acceptable behavior - and is rather looking forward to a quiet hour eating her lunch, perhaps taking a walk in the gardens, and, importantly, not speaking to anyone, when one of the maids pokes her head into the room and says, "If you please, m'lady, I know it's meant to be your lunch hour, but the seneschal's out on an errand and there's a witcher here and I don't know who to send him to."
Milena blinks. "Send him here, then - no, send him up to the seneschal's office and I shall meet him there." The seneschal is an organized man, and she will hopefully be able to quickly locate his notes on why a witcher might be visiting the household. No one told her about any posted contracts, but then, if it involved the country estates and not the household, no one would, as that is not generally in her purview.
She doesn't stop to think that it might be her witcher, her Lambert, until she is seated behind the seneschal's desk with the contract laid out in front of her and the door opens and she looks up to meet extraordinarily familiar yellow eyes.
"Oh!" she says, and rises, beaming, but - this is not a matching house, he is not here to kneel to her. So instead of any of the things she might say there, she says, "Master Lambert. Be welcome in this house."
That earns her a startled blink and then a slow, wary nod. "My lady."
"My name is Milena de Roggeven, and I am the chatelaine here in Montecalvo," Milena says, still smiling. "Please, be seated; are you here about the contract for - let me see - I am not sure what an arachas is, actually."
He still looks wary, but less so, as he sits down. "It's a bit like a really big, really nasty spider. With armor plating."
Milena grimaces and shudders as she takes her own seat. "Well, I can certainly see why the seneschal put up a contract, then! What an awful creature. Are you here to take the contract, or have you already slain the monster?"
"Here to take it," Lambert says.
Milena nods. "I have never negotiated a contract with a witcher before. Is it half upfront, as it is with mercenaries?"
"Uh," Lambert says, looking astonished. "Ideally, yes. Usually, no."
Milena tilts her head and regards him thoughtfully for a moment. "Usually?"
"Usually it's 'we'll pay you when we see the heads' and then it's 'nah, we offered half that, and get gone with you before we call out the pitchfork mob'," Lambert says very dryly.
Milena winces. "Well. We shan't be having with that. Half upfront, and when you bring the heads, we will pay as the contract specifies for each, and more if you should discover the true problem is some other creature and slay it. Is that reasonable?"
"Extremely," Lambert says, looking rather bewildered.
Milena smiles, and writes a note on the contract to the effect of what she has just said, signing it with her name and sealing it with her ring, and then she opens the seneschal's safe and takes out half the promised fee and sets it on the desk. "I do strive to be reasonable, when I can," she says. "And it seems quite unreasonable, to me, to shortchange the only warriors who can slay such monsters. I will not have such behavior in this household. And as I am the duchess's sister, and speak in her name, I can give that command."
Lambert shivers and nods.
Milena swallows, and takes her courage with both hands, and says, "When you have slain the monsters, and come back for the other half of your payment, I expect it will be the seneschal who speaks with you. Matters regarding the wider estates are under his purview. But - if you wished to call upon me personally - you would be welcome."
Lambert's jaw drops, and he stares at her for a long moment before he regains his composure. "You'd want that, my lady?"
Milena shivers at hearing her title from his mouth. "I would very much like that," she says quietly. "I know that you have your duties, and I have mine, but - if you ever come to Montecalvo again, however often you come to Montecalvo, and you wish to exercise your inclinations, I will make you welcome, and gladly so."
Lambert blinks at her for another long moment, and then he says, very bluntly, "You want me on my knees for you again."
"I do, if you desire the same," Milena says, meeting blunt honesty with honesty. "I have never before felt so pleased with an encounter as I did with ours. If you should choose to honor me with your submission again, I will be grateful for the privilege."
Lambert swallows hard, and squares his shoulders, and nods deeply and slowly - no, he bows his head, just a little. Just enough. "I'll be back after I kill those arachas," he says, standing and sweeping the coins into his purse. "My lady."
"Be safe," Milena says. "I will await your return most eagerly…my Lambert."
He bows his head once more before he leaves, the door clicking shut gently behind him, and Milena takes three deep breaths and goes to instruct the household that if and when the witcher should return, no matter the hour of day or night, if he asks for her, he is to be shown to her at once.
And then she goes and asks the cook to make sure they have honeyed strawberries available as often as possible.
Her Lambert should always have the sweetest of rewards.