Knowing himself and his inclination towards letting his dick get him into trouble, Jaskier is honestly surprised this didn’t come up sooner.
The first few years that Geralt had taken to bringing him home for the winters, Jaskier and Lambert had been locked in an unusually combative courtship.
Jaskier has to imagine that ‘flirting’ wasn’t exactly what Lambert was thinking they were doing. Probably. Or at least not back then. Lambert hated him at first, taking every opportunity he could to harass and scare the bard, with little success. Scaring Jaskier generally doesn’t work—they both know Lambert wouldn’t bother incurring Geralt’s wrath to actually hurt Jaskier, so Jaskier was startled at best—and the harassment was met tit for tat.
Until Jaskier realizes Lambert is endearingly easy to fluster.
Compliments make him crinkle up like a paper ball and, oh, once Jaskier spies a weakness, he keeps pulling the thread. Honesty is the key to dealing with witchers, so Jaskier lets himself wax poetic about how handsome and funny Lambert is, calls him dear and beloved and darling puppy and… Then he allows his latest fixation to come out of his mouth.
Lambert has really nice hands.
Like really nice. Like if Jaskier were an artist, he’d have entire studies on Lambert’s hands alone His thick fingers and the hills of his knuckles, the coarse hair that spots each finger and starts again halfway down the back of his hand before it creeps up his arms. The veins like rivers disappearing into his fingers, the bite (from a horse, of all things) on his left hand, the burn on his right palm where one of his bombs ignited prematurely and—
Okay, he doesn’t say all that, but when Lambert catches him staring and snaps “What the fuck are you looking at, bird?” he tells the truth.
“I was thinking about kissing your hands,” he admits dazedly, smirking when Lambert stands so abruptly he knocks his chair down on his way out of the room.
This new holding pattern is much more entertaining. Lambert still snarls and snaps, but it feels a lot more like a kitten trying to decide if it likes being pet or not.
Lambert decides, a few years later. After a winter away from the keep—spent regrettably in Lettenhove—Jaskier doesn’t bother hiding his relief to be back in a place that feels far more like home. Lambert does a bit of his usual hissing and spitting, but that same night winds up wrapped around Jaskier like he’s a toy bear and purring.
Jaskier stops trying to avoid calling the feeling in his chest love.
And when Jaskier loves someone, well—his dick is usually pretty quick to get involved.
Being acutely aware that witchers can smell arousal makes him hyperaware of himself in a way he usually isn’t. His self-control is sorely tested when Lambert kisses him for the first time, roughly with a hand threaded in Jaskier’s hair, before he storms off to take his turn hunting. His self-control fractures when they’re lying around one night and Lambert, drunk and a little starry eyed, strokes his thumb over Jaskier’s chin.
Heat courses through him instantly, skin tingling at the feeling.
Lambert’s nostrils flare and Jaskier’s feels his own cheeks darken. “You weren’t kiddin’ about my hands, huh?” he slurs a little. “S’not pity.”
Though Jaskier is a bit inebriated himself, the words cut through the haze of alcohol and simmering arousal. “No,” he replies, confused. “Why would it be pity, darling?”
Lambert blinks at him—confusion, shock, and scowling resignation in quick succession. “Because you’ve got a fucking rabbit’s libido and my dick doesn’t work.”
Jaskier is feeling acutely more sober even if the room sways when he sits up on his elbow. “Lambert, I’m not a bastard, if you’re too drunk—”
“S’not ‘cause of the fuckin’ Gull,” Lambert snaps, in the particular growl he usually only takes with Vesemir and Jaskier—gets it, then.
It makes the same cold and angry grief—to think what his witchers have had stolen from them—snake down the inside of his chest before he smothers it. A number of questions flutter up the back of his throat and die on his tongue.
“My libido and I are quite alright with things the way they are,” Jaskier says slowly, letting himself sound as snotty as Lambert expects. “If I was a sex crazed maniac, I wouldn’t agree to be frozen in a keep all winter with men who’ve never tried to fuck me.”
“But you like my hands,” Lambert says.
Jaskier nods, threading his fingers through Lambert’s. “I would be more than happy to take your hands anywhere you’d like to put them.”
Lambert doesn’t say anything, just a low grunt before he looks away, tugging Jaskier back into his space. The alcohol has him running a little too hot for cuddling, but it’d take a team of horses to move Jaskier away at this point. He’s fallen asleep worse than a little overwarm and gratefully does so again tonight.
Morning greets him with Lambert plastered against his back, his hand spread wide over his stomach, like he’s holding the butterflies in.
“Lam?” Jaskier mumbles, heating when Lambert’s hand sweeps low.
Lambert hums in response, before changing course and stroking up Jaskier’s chest, slow like he’s trying to find his ribs through his nightshirt. He’s more successful at finding his nipples, Jaskier bowing into the touch, stifling a soft sound.
“Nobody’s ever let me touch them like this,” Lambert mumbles into the back of his neck and Jaskier is caught in a minor storm of sadness, affection, and arousal. The gentle trace of Lambert’s fingers up his throat has him shivering before they ever reach his face. He turns into the touch as Lambert says, “Never figured I’d be any good at it.”
Jaskier hums. “I feel very good right now, dear heart.”
“I can smell that,” Lambert teases, but his fingers tickle across Jaskier’s lips before he can reply. Jaskier kisses them gently, feeling Lambert’s sharp inhale. “Can I—?”
“Yes,” Jaskier interrupts.
“Can I poke your fucking eyes out?” Lambert snaps, just to be a dick.
“Don’t be a brat, that’s not what you were going to ask,” Jaskier chides, the words buzzing against Lambert’s finger tips. “Lambert, I meant it. Touch me how you want. I want that, too.”
There’s a tingling moment of anticipation where Lambert doesn’t stop stroking Jaskier’s bottom lip, an easy thread of pleasure making its way through Jaskier’s insides. The feeling melts, spreading sharply through his whole body when Lambert pushes his fingers into Jaskier’s mouth.
Jaskier’s morning wood goes from casually present, to achingly insistent.
“Fuck,” Lambert whispers, breathing deep in the crook of Jaskier’s neck. “Thought I hated this smell, fuck, Jaskier.”
Moaning at the thought, Jaskier sucks reflexively at Lambert’s thick fingers. He’s curiously petting at Jaskier’s tongue, goes still when Jaskier pushes forward enough that the pressure tickles at the back of his throat.
“Jas—I don’t—I don’t want to make you puke.”
“Mm-mm,” Jaskier replies. His gag reflex has been pretty dead for years now and he likes this feeling, basks in it as he suckles, tongue tracing the ridges of Lambert’s skin. He could happily lay just like this for the rest of the day.
In fact, he whines, rather embarrassingly, when Lambert pulls his fingers free.
“Can—?” Lambert stops when Jaskier automatically turns towards him, nipping at his throat to forestall any sass. It just makes Jaskier arch against him. “I want to touch your cock.”
“Yes,” Jaskier gasps. “If you want, Lambert, yes, please.”
Lambert laughs, a sharp and bright sound, pushing up onto his elbow. Jaskier rolls onto his back into the scant space between them to look into Lambert’s face. “So you are easy.”
“Fuck you, you’re the one that asked,” Jaskier says, even though his cheeks are hot and he’s tenting his smalls. He kisses under Lambert’s chin, tickled as his stubble scrapes his face. “I meant what I said last night.”
“All of it,” Jaskier mumbles, still kissing him. “Touch me or don’t, Lambert, I’ll still want this.” Want you, he thinks to himself. He blinks when Lambert leans down to kiss him, letting out a pleased hum.
The sound turns wanting when Lambert’s hand returns to his stomach, sweeping down until his thumb catches on the waist of Jaskier’s underwear. Lambert breaks the kiss to look and Jaskier’s eyes follow reflexively. The sight of Lambert’s hand so near his prick has his heart thudding in his chest.
“Huh.” Lambert says and Jaskier twitches when his fingers brush his pubic hair.
“I wish I could draw,” Jaskier pants.
Lambert snorts. “Ok, that’s narcissistic even for—”
“I meant your hand on it, asshole,” Jaskier snaps. “Gods, I’d pull myself off every—oh!” he breathes out when Lambert tentatively—he never does anything tentatively, gods alive—closes his hand around Jaskier’s cock.
“Huh!” Lambert says again, giving Jaskier a curious stroke that has him arching up off the bed. “Just—this?”
Jaskier doesn’t let on how it pains him that Lambert doesn’t know. “Yes, just—wait,” he says, reaching down for Lambert’s hand. He tugs until he gets his hand up to his face again. His first instinct is to kiss it, so he does, pressing his lips to the nick on his thumb and the burn on his palm.
“That can’t feel as good as…” Lambert’s voice trails off when Jaskier licks his palm, tracing his tongue over the same path his lips had taken. “Uh…” his voice shivers with something akin to desire and Jaskier’s cock throbs at the sound.
“Feels better wet,” Jaskier replies breathily when Lambert’s palm is slicker. He guides his hand back down, letting out a salacious, but not at all showy moan at the slide of his hand. “Lambert.”
Lambert is staring at him in open shock and curiosity, pupils gone round with interest.
That look alone makes Jaskier want to eat him alive, but he settles for moaning his name and breathless encouragements while he strokes his arousal with growing confidence.
Shame is for suckers, so Jaskier lets the feeling of his orgasm approach him as quickly as it wants, turning to pant into Lambert’s chest. “I’m gonna come, Lambert, fuck, don’t stop.”
“I-Yeah, okay, fuck,” Lambert says, but his hand continues moving unerringly even as Jaskier thrusts up sharply, head back as he lets his orgasm crash over him, leaving him dizzy and breathless. “Fuck.”
“Oh,” he pants, shuddering and clenching tighter at Lambert’s wrist until he stills, letting Jaskier rock gently into his grip. “Lovely, darling, just perfect.” He pries his eyes open and can’t help but moan softly at his spend dribbling down Lambert’s fingers. “Sweet fucking Melitele,” he practically wheezes.
Shame is for suckers, so Jaskier paws at his hand again until he can get his fingers back in his mouth.
“You are so—” Lambert doesn’t bother finishing, watching hungrily as Jaskier cleans his hand. “You’re the one with the pretty hands, birdy.”
A hot flicker of desire stirs in Jaskier’s chest. He lets Lambert’s fingers slip free, pressing a gentle kiss to his damp fingertip. “I could make good use of them, if you’d like.”
Anger makes an unwelcome appearance on Lambert’s face, lip curling. “Didn’t I just fucking say I can’t—”
“No, I know, darling,” Jaskier explains quickly, holding on before Lambert can take his hand away. He kisses his palm soothingly. “I didn’t forget.”
“Sure the fuck sounds like you did,” he says, but he sounds grumpy, not irate.
“Darling, you don’t have to get hard to come,” Jaskier replies silkily. “And you don’t have to come to feel very good. Have you ever been cock warmed? Or fingered, perhaps?”
Lambert’s mouth opens, but he appears unable to get any words out at first. “I’m not a woman.”
Jaskier rolls his eyes. “No, really, I never could’ve guessed,” he deadpans, nipping at Lambert’s sneer. “Neither am I and I still enjoy buggery quite a bit if my rabbit libido is to be believed.”
“You—?” Lambert’s brow twitches down. “Your ass??”
“If you don’t want to try, we won’t,” Jaskier assures him smoothly. “It’s an open offer, shut it if you’d like.” He kisses Lambert lazily, pleasure making him slack and sleepy. “I like what we have without this, I like what we did today, and I like you, dear wolf. I’d have you however you wish to be had.”
The way Lambert growls and squirms is a familiar reaction to such open affection, kissing Jaskier to keep him from waxing poetic any further.
For a few days, Lambert gets skittish. He’s training harder than usual for this time of winter, picking fights with his brothers over the littlest thing. Jaskier melts him with kisses and compliments. Those start a new round of teasing and reflexive snarling, but nothing too vicious. He doesn’t ask to touch Jaskier sexually again, but now Jaskier gets his comeuppance, watching Lambert space out again and again with his gaze locked on Jaskier’s fingers.
Geralt laughs at him, doesn’t even deign to react when Jaskier petulantly kicks his shin.
A few weeks later, though, Lambert is still damp from the hot spring and sitting completely bare on Jaskier’s bed. His dick is soft and lovely between his legs and Jaskier would love to rest it on his tongue, but that’s not what Lambert has asked for today. He’s been kissed until his lips have reddened and his eyes are nice and round, fixed entirely on Jaskier and, oh, how Jaskier loves attention.
Jaskier kisses Lambert’s temple where his hair has fallen into damp curls. “I’ll tell you what I’m doing. If you don’t like it, tell me to stop, okay?”
“Might as well find out, right?” Lambert growls, but leans forward to put his mouth on Jaskier’s shoulder. “How do you want me?”
There’s a trust to being allowed behind someone’s back, behind a witcher’s back, but Jaskier doesn’t want Lambert fighting against his own instincts. He’d also prefer to be able to watch Lambert’s face for anything discontent. So he straddles Lambert’s lap and keeps kissing him, knee-walking forward until Lambert has to scoot back up the bed.
The vial of oil is the faintest smelling he owns, soft on his fingers when he dips into it. Lambert stares at it until Jaskier kisses him again.
“Relax, darling, I know what I’m doing,” he promises against his lips, settling between his legs. “I’m just going to rub you for a little bit first.”
It feels odd to bypass Lambert’s cock entirely, but he’ll remember to ask to cop a feel some other day. For now, he slides his fingers past Lambert’s balls, massaging gently. He feels him flinch subtly, squirming at the touch.
“The fuck…?” Lambert pulls back to say, looking down towards Jaskier’s hand again.
“It’s weird the first time,” Jaskier agrees. “Shall I continue inside?”
“Yeah, I—uh,” Lambert shifts, drawing his knee up some to spread his leg wider.
Jaskier mouth waters at the sight, but he keeps his focus. He slips his fingers lower to start massaging Lambert’s hole, easing the tip of his finger in and out. Lambert’s breath gets deeper with every increasing increment, every little encouragement Jaskier whispers against his ear. His brow twitches when Jaskier presses in a second finger, but he tells him to keep going before he can even ask about stopping.
“I’m only giving you two anyway,” Jaskier promises.
Lambert cuts him a surprised look, eyes flickering down to where Jaskier is tenting his pants. “Your dick is—”
“Is not going in you today,” Jaskier finishes. “Or ever, if you don’t want, but definitely not today.” He kisses Lambert. “This is the part that can be… a lot for some people,” he says, slowly searching with his fingers. “You have to let me know if it’s a good or bad sort of intense.”
“It’s not bad now, I just don’t—I don’t get it?” Lambert says and he sounds baffled, but not frustrated at least. “It’s fine, but you actually like—?”
Jaskier’s fingers have just nudged over the little knot inside Lambert when his words clip off and he clenches around Jaskier’s fingers so hard it almost genuinely startles him. He freezes when Lambert’s hand shoots down to hold his wrist, remarkably gently for how fast he moved.
“What the fuck?” Lambert exclaims, eyes wide.
Jaskier snorts. “I did say it was intense. And it’s your first time.”
Lambert looks up at him. “Is that—was that an orgasm?”
“Not likely,” Jaskier says. “You’d probably spill, even soft.” He holds himself carefully still as Lambert considers the words. His grip on Jaskier’s wrist loosens, even if he’s still deliciously tight around Jaskier’s fingers.
“Never felt that before,” Lambert admits roughly and Jaskier aches for him, the sweetly befuddled dip in his brow. He clears his throat, licking his lips. “I… may have to stop you.”
“Of course,” Jaskier replies, gently rubbing the spot again. “Tell me when.”
Lambert’s breath explodes out of him, but he doesn’t stop Jaskier’s hand. He just lays there panting, making smothered, growling little sounds as his legs start to tremble so badly they’re shaking the whole bed. He startles when his cock, still soft—mostly, maybe a little firmer but nothing like hard—starts dribbling, clear and runny, onto his stomach. His fist is nearly tearing the bedsheet. “Wha…?”
The response he gets is a string of jumbled nonsense at first, then, “Wait, wait—”
Lambert is spooled tight, still trembling. “I don’t like—I feel too—”
“We can stop here,” Jaskier assures him, but Lambert shakes his head.
“No, don’t—Just wait,” he says and Jaskier can do that. He lets his hand relax while Lambert sits with his feelings for a while. “I want to be on my knees. I don’t like feeling like—” His jaw clenches. “I want to be on my knees.”
“Okay,” Jaskier agrees easily, not wanting to know what caused that tick in Lambert’s jaw, not like this. And anyway, he knows there’s a certain level of control to holding up your own weight, too. “Would you like to kneel over my lap?”
“Yeah,” Lambert sighs, relaxing again. “Yeah, is that—? That’ll still work, right? It feels…” He shudders when Jaskier pulls his fingers free to let him sit up. “It’s intense, but…” he runs his fingers through the slick on his stomach and Jaskier swallows against the urge to demand them into his mouth immediately. “The good kind.”
“Good,” Jaskier purrs, sitting up against the headboard. “I only want it to be good for you, darling. Yes, I can still touch you like this. Come here.”
Lambert is shaky when he gets to his knees, all hot and shuddery when he kneels over Jaskier’s lap. They’re drawn together in a kiss that leaves Jaskier tingling with pleasure before he even re-slicks his fingers. He trails the back of his hand up Lambert’s thigh to warn him before he slips his fingers back in.
“Oh, fuck,” Lambert tears away to say as soon as Jaskier curls them.
The shaking returns to Lambert’s legs, vibrates right up the rest of his body. His hands are surely digging bruises into Jaskier’s shoulders, a steady and grounding ache. If that’s the price for the view of Lambert, glowing with sweat and face twisted with pleasure, Jaskier will gladly pay as many times as he needs. He keeps his clean hand on Lambert’s waist and continues to stroke his insides. Softly, gently, but it’s still more than enough to move his entire body in waves. His cock is leaking steadily now, dripping onto Jaskier’s forearm, the dribble rolling into his lap; it’s taking all of his focus to ignore the feeling.
“Don’t—don’t stop,” Lambert begs.
“I would sooner give up the lute,” Jaskier replies, kissing Lambert’s chest because it’s there and lovely and gasping for breath from pleasure.
It doesn’t take long for Lambert’s breathing to pick up into a new pattern, racing in and out on tiny whimpering sounds Lambert would never admit to. Jaskier eats it up. He hopes Geralt and the others don’t come running to rescue him with all the noise he’s making, because Jaskier isn’t stopping until Lambert says so.
Lambert doesn’t actually say anything, though. He just suddenly seizes up, clenching so hard Jaskier’s fingers ache as his dick abruptly floods Jaskier’s lap. Not in spurts, just a deluge of weepy come as Lambert’s mouth locks wide and soundless.
“Oh, yes,” Jaskier moans, unable to pick one part of this beautiful man to rest his eyes on, drinking it all in as quick as he can. “Beautiful, Lambert, just like that, let it all go.”
Gasping, Lambert suddenly has enough air to shout out a guttural “Oh!!” before his eyes slam shut. He rocks spastically down onto Jaskier’s hand. “Jaskier, fuck, please, I—” He shudders violently, voice breaking as he finally stills.
For a given measure of still, anyway. He’s shivering and heaving for breath like he just ran ten miles uphill. Jaskier only narrowly gets his hand out of the way before Lambert is collapsing onto him, heavy and hot and sticky and Jaskier loves this more than he and all his seven liberal arts will ever have words for.
Jaskier wraps himself around Lambert, draping his arms protectively around Lambert’s head. “That was lovely, Lambert, my darling puppy, you’re so beautiful when you’re being pleasured,” he coos, kissing Lambert’s sweaty temple. “Thank you for sharing that with me.”
“I didn’t—You’re still—” Lambert makes a move like he may be trying to sit up, but suddenly isn’t sure how to control his limbs.
“Shh, don’t worry about that,” Jaskier cuts in, because yes, he’s hard enough to hammer nails, but he can see to himself when Lambert isn’t shaking like a leaf. “Can I just hold you for a while, darling?”
“Y-yeah, I—” Lambert starts, before he fumbles a hand up to cover Jaskier’s ear. “You open that fucking door and I’ll crack your shitting skull!!”
Jaskier doesn’t know who finally came to investigate the noise, doesn’t actually hear anything. Whichever witcher it is must take the warning seriously because a moment later, Lambert is liquid deadweight again.
“Please,” he mumbles so softly if it wasn’t said right against Jaskier’s neck he wouldn’t have heard it at all.
“Oh, of course, my love,” Jaskier whispers, melted and sweet inside at the way Lambert starts purring when Jaskier scratches the back of his head. “As long as you want.”
“We’ll get stuck together.”
Jaskier snorts. “Then until you can feel your legs. We can scandalize the masses in the hot springs once you can walk again.”
“Deal,” Lambert agrees in a sigh, tucking his face into Jaskier’s throat. “…Thank you.”
Humming, Jaskier just kisses Lambert again and settles happily beneath his weight.