This little piece is entirely inspired by this amazing art by @johix.
Please enjoy some silly husbands enjoying summer, wine and each other <3
On Ao3 here
Blue skies and endless fields spread out as far as the eyes can see. Dandelion sits in the shade of their canopy, watching Geralt pick out a wine from three identical bottles. He rests his chin in his hands, studying Geralt with a soft smile.
“They are completely identical, my dear witcher,” Dandelion teases, knowing exactly how Geralt will bristle at that.
“No two bottles are identical, bard. Even if they are from the same batch, there are subtle differences, ” Geralt mutters, just as predicted, and frowns at him.
His face is so smooth now; it’s been a while since Dandelion last saw him clean shaven. It makes him look… not younger, but as if he took a step back in time.
It suits him. But to be fair, most things suit Geralt. Most of all, the relaxing days of retirement suits him. His high metabolism makes it hard for him to gain weight, but Dandelion thoroughly enjoys watching him fill out ever so gently.
“Stop staring at me,” Geralt says, sounding every bit as self conscious as he looks. It only makes Dandelion smile wider. Finally, one of the three bottles pass whatever criteria Geralt is holding them against, and he pours them a glass each.
“Alas, I cannot,” Dandelion says, feeling terribly fond. “It feels like it’s been a lifetime since I saw your upper lip.”
Geralt glares over his glass of wine, and Dandelion's smile turns into a smirk.
“That was the last time I will fall for one of your tricks.”
“It’s not my fault you fell asleep with wine stains in your beard.”
“It is, and you know it.”
“Alright, maybe,” Dandelion concedes, standing up and sauntering over toward Geralt on the other side of the table. “But it is no fault of mine that you are completely irresistible, pink beard or not.”
He plops down in Geralt’s lap, one arm draped over his shoulder, the other hand caressing the pale skin of his cheek. Smooth skin brushes against his thumb, a thin scar, pale and barely there anymore, on his chin.
“Watch the wine,” Geralt murmurs, his lips brushing against Dandelion's finger as he traces old lines, new lines, laugh lines.
“Can’t. I’m watching you,” Dandelion says, thumb catching on Geralt’s lower lip. He can’t resist the temptation to lean in and press a peck on that wine stained mouth.
“All these splendid vistas... and I still only have eyes for you, darling.”
“Dandelion.”
“Yes, love?” Gods, the way Geralt says his name.
Geralt doesn’t reply. Instead, he steadies Dandelion with one hand and reaches forward and puts his wine to safety.
Then he leans forward, his other arm too wrapping around his bard, pressing them close. This kiss is longer. Gentle, indulging, the art of tasting wine from another's lips.
