Geralt had always known there was something not quite human about Dandelion. Whenever his golden-haired poet was near, the wolf’s head would hum quietly on his chest, a fact that Dandelion seemed to delight in. Whenever they shared a bed or curled up together on the forest floor, Dandelion’s long lutist fingers would wrap around the wolf, calloused fingertips tracing the fur on its ears and muzzle. But Geralt never asked, and Dandelion seemed content to keep the mystery a secret. Years passed, decades, maybe nearing a century, Ciri blooming into a beautiful young lady, zipping off through time and space, Yennefer still scouring the Continent for a way to take back what she believed was stolen from her, and Regis settling down in Toussaint with a fellow vampire, popping in to see Geralt and Dandelion on occasion.
No one seemed to notice that the seemingly human bard hadn’t aged a day over the cruel winters and burning summers that had passed.
Geralt noticed but he was scared, scared of losing the one constant in his life. If he asked, if he drew attention to it, the peace surrounding them might shatter and he’d be left alone, always waiting for his friends and family to arrive, isolated.
Dandelion hummed, tucking his hair behind his ears before leaning down to press a kiss to Geralt’s neck, sucking a bruise into the tender skin, his hips rolling over Geralt’s cock. Ever the poet, Dandelion murmured a steady stream of praise as he trailed his lips under the line of Geralt’s jaw, whispering rhymes and verses as he nibbled Geralt’s ear.
“What thoughts are rattling through that pretty little head of yours, my darling?” Dandelion asked as he sat up onto his heels, his fingers tracing patterns into Geralt’s chest, not dissimilar to the runes on his swords.
“Nothing to worry about,” Geralt muttered, pulling his husband into a kiss to finally silence him. The words melted into a soft moan as Dandelion’s lips parted easily under Geralt’s, elderflower wine still on his tongue, sweet, delicious, divine.
They kissed some more, lazy and slow, a simmering heat gradually building into something more insistent as Dandelion’s hands finally wrapped around Geralt’s cock.
“You’re lying to me,” Dandelion hummed, hand slick with oil even though Geralt never heard the cork pop. “Tell me, dearest, please.”
Geralt’s eyes fluttered closed, Dandelion’s fingers working magic along his hardening cock, making it difficult to think about anything else. “You,” he finally mumbled, “was thinking about you.”
Dandelion giggled, the sound making Geralt’s medallion vibrate a little more against his chest. “And what about me?” Dandelion asked, his voice ever musical and beautiful, one carefully trimmed nail running along Geralt’s cheek.
“You- you never age, Dandelion. Why?” Geralt asked, feeling his cheeks heat up as he finally voiced the question that had been haunting him for years.
The poet sighed, pressing his face into the crook of Geralt’s neck, fingers wrapped tightly around the wolf medallion. “I was wondering when you would ask, my dear witcher.”
A heavy silence fell over the room as Dandelion sat up, legs resting either side of Geralt’s waist. He continued to trace patterns into Geralt’s skin, until the quiet became almost unbearable, crushing Geralt under the enormity of its weight. The question became a burning sword, ready for Geralt to fall upon, the destruction of everything he held dear. Until, in a strangely vulnerable voice, Dandelion spoke once more.
“Promise not to hate me, Geralt, darling, please.” His voice cracked, shattering along with Geralt’s heart. They may have had their spats over the years but to hear that his husband doubted him so… it was unforgivable. He would spend the rest of their days together trying to make it up to Dandelion, until his husband truly believed how much Geralt loved him.
Geralt took one of Dandelion’s hands in his, placing a kiss to each knuckle before gently turning it over to kiss the palm. “You must think me mad,” Geralt reminded him, echoing words from so long ago, “if you think I could ever hate you.”
And still Dandelion remained silent, cornflower blue eyes locked on his, lacing their fingers together. “Even if I’m a monster?”
If it weren’t for the sincerity in Dandelion’s voice, Geralt would have assumed the poet was joking. How could his husband, kind and gentle Dandelion who threw up at the sight of blood, think he was a monster? The most vicious Dandelion ever got was when he was up against Valdo Marx in a bardic competition, but his old rival had passed many years ago.
“Even then.”
“Are you- are you sure?”
“Dandelion, speak,” Geralt said, squeezing the poet’s hand in his.
“Very well.”
But instead of speaking there was a sudden burst of magic in the room, Geralt’s medallion jumping off his chest, the teeth of the wolf almost snarling as it vibrated wildly. Dandelion’s features blurred and changed, his already sharp cheekbones becoming more angular, the fingers between Geralt’s lengthening, claw-like nails replacing neatly trimmed ones. When Dandelion opened his eyes once more, cornflower blue irises now glowed with slitted pupils not unlike Geralt’s, and when he smiled, Geralt saw a row of sharp teeth glistening between rosy pink lips. His golden ringlets parted to reveal two curled horns, but what really drew Geralt’s attention were the shimmering rainbow wings that unfurled from behind his husband’s back.
He was beautiful.
“Dandelion,” Geralt breathed, unable to think of any other word.
“Hello, Geralt.”
“You’re- you’re beautiful.”
Dandelion’s eyes fluttered shut, a serene expression gracing his lips, and the room seemed to glow from whatever magic the poet was weaving, his hair gently blowing in a breeze that Geralt couldn’t feel. Behind him, Dandelion’s wings beat slowly, catching off the candlelight and sending glittery sparkles of light cascading across the room. It was captivating, enchanting, alluring, and Geralt couldn’t take his eyes off his husband.
“Can I kiss you?” he asked, his voice distant to his own ears.
“Hmm, well, I rather think you should,” Dandelion giggled, leaning down to press their lips together.
Geralt’s fingers tentatively reached out to caress Dandelion’s wings, making the poet shudder, a soft gasp falling from his lips, the taste of wild flowers on his breath.
“Again…” Dandelion murmured, and so Geralt stroked along the seemingly fragile veins of the wings until his husband was a quivering mess on top of him, cock hard and leaking onto Geralt’s stomach. “Oh gods, Geralt.”
“I’ve got you, Dandelion,” Geralt hummed, his fingers digging into Dandelion’s thighs as they rutted together, Geralt’s cock aching between the curve of Dandelion’s arse.
“Julian,” Dandelion whispered. “My name is Julian.”
Geralt blinked up at his husband, cheeks flushed bright, the very picture of ethereal beauty. “Julian,” he repeated, “my flower.”
As the name fell from Geralt’s lips, a strange silver light whipped around his husband, connecting his heart to Geralt’s, and he cried out, lost in pleasure as he came, purely from the caresses to his wings. He collapsed forward, sharp teeth latching onto Geralt’s shoulder to muffle his cries. Geralt hissed in pain as the fangs sank into his skin, but the pain soon succumbed to pleasure and he thrust up against Dandelion’s arse, hands still exploring the colourful wings that were so alive beneath his fingers. Every touch tingled against his skin, hot and cold at the same time, magic in its rawest form, making Geralt feel dizzy.
Dandelion moaned, releasing Geralt’s shoulder for barely a second before kissing over the wound. His husband then wriggled from Geralt’s arms, kissing down Geralt’s body as he shuffled down the bed, each kiss was accompanied by a sharp bite until Geralt’s skin was a map of unfamiliar teeth marks, some bleeding, some not, Dandelion didn’t seem to care. Wherever his razor sharp teeth did break through Geralt’s skin, there was a thrum of magic, building and building inside of Geralt, until he could almost feel Dandelion’s heart beat right alongside his. Wings fluttered out behind Dandelion, now out of reach but still so captivating.
“My darling, my husband, my Geralt,” Dandelion murmured between kisses, gazing up at Geralt with glowing blue eyes as he pressed a kiss to Geralt’s hip.
“Yours, Julian,” Geralt agreed, threading his hands through Dandelion’s soft blond curls, knuckles bumping against the newly grown horns. Unlike the wings, Dandelion’s horns didn’t appear to be sensitive in the slightest, but Geralt was still intrigued. He gripped one of the horns in his hand, guiding his husband lower, moaning with every kiss and bite to his skin.
Dandelion giggled, pressing a kiss to Geralt’s inner thigh, “Patience, love.”
“You try my patience, poet.”
“And yet you insist I’m not a monster,” Dandelion sighed, sinking his teeth into Geralt’s thigh.
Fire blazed through Geralt’s veins, crackling electricity, even as Dandelion’s tongue lapped over the bite mark. He knew there was some magic at play, but it was a part of Dandelion, a part that had remained hidden for so long and finally, finally, Geralt had been allowed to see.
The trust that Dandelion- that Julian had in him was almost overwhelming.
Glowing eyes met his and Julian winked, eyelashes even longer and darker than before. That was all the warning Geralt got before his cock was enveloped in the wet heat of Julian’s mouth, the bard already moaning around his length. Geralt’s own moans harmonised with his husband as his head fell back against the pillow.
chapter one | chapter two | chapter three | chapter four | chapter five
read on ao3
for @thewitcherbog teef week
shoot me an ask if you'd like to be tagged!
Over the seasons that Jaskier and Geralt traveled together, Jaskier found himself picking little things up about his victim— er, friend. Geralt slept on his stomach when at camp, arms folded under his head, one of his knees pulled nearly to his chest. In a bed, Geralt sprawled, wrapping blankets and sheets and curtains and Jaskiers up in his arms and legs. He would eat anything, if he had to, but Jaskier could tell when something was spiced too heavily for Geralt’s liking. He loathed the feeling of some fabrics but nearly worried a hole in the thigh of his leathers by rubbing it with his thumb while riding Roach.
The way that Geralt spoke hadn’t piqued Jaskier’s interest at first. His mouth barely moved, lips parting only enough for the words to escape. It wasn’t until Geralt began to express the little emotion he managed to let loose that Jaskier noticed the quarter turns, or the tucked chin, or the curtain of hair between Jaskier and himself.
If Geralt had to open up any more than a sliver, Jaskier was deftly deflected away with the practice of someone quite used to hiding his mouth.
Once Jaskier noticed, he couldn’t stop. He caught himself staring more than once, watching Geralt speak and dance away from him.
Geralt, too, seemed to notice. Quirked eyebrows met reddening ears and cheeks until one night, Jaskier much too far in his cups, leant over the table in the middle of a tirade to grip Geralt’s chin between his thumb and finger.
“Why do you turn away when you talk?” He asked when Geralt’s voice came to a screeching halt.
“I don’t,” Geralt replied, leaning back from Jaskier enough to tuck his chin ever so slightly.
“There, just there,” Jaskier said, shaking his still-outstretched hand at the other man. “You always hide your mouth when you talk. Why?”
Geralt hummed in response and his gaze languished over Jaskier before he stood and turned from the table.
“Where— Geralt!” Jaskier stumbled to follow him up the stairs to their room, chagrined when Geralt had to catch him by the elbows near the top.
It was very unlike Geralt to miss a chance to taunt Jaskier’s drunken antics. When Jaskier peered over at him, his lips were pursed and his eyebrows furrowed in what Jaskier knew was worry.
“Geralt?” Jaskier asked, voice raised an octave in concern, tripping after the man in question.
Geralt sat Jaskier down on the bed and took a few steps away, propping his hip on the small chest of drawers across the room. He stared at Jaskier for a few unnerving moments before frowning and taking a deep breath.
“If I show you something, do you promise not to scream?”
Jaskier’s ears began to ring with an emotion that he couldn’t possibly name.
“I— I won’t,” He promised, and Geralt took a long look at him before stalking closer and leaning over until they were eye to eye.
Jaskier took a quaking breath and blinked at the sudden proximity, so close he could feel the puff of air of Geralt’s short laugh at Jaskier’s jumpiness. Geralt’s eyes still held worry as he knelt down in front of Jaskier and hooked a finger in the side of his mouth.
If Jaskier had had a knife to his throat, he could not have guessed what Geralt had been hiding all the time they’d known each other. What secret he kept so jealously, so carefully, so fully that Jaskier’s head began to spin as he realised what he was looking at.
Geralt had fangs. Four of them; two on the top and two on the bottom. Jaskier’s first thought was that of a hunting dog he’d seen once to the south.
“Is that all?” Jaskier asked, brow furrowed.
Geralt, finger still in his mouth, blinked owlishly at Jaskier as though he’d grown an extra head.
“All?” Geralt slurred before remembering himself and taking the finger from his mouth. “Is that all?”
“They’re a little cute,” Jaskier murmured with a woozy, dizzy grin. Emboldened by Geralt’s apparent confusion, he took both of Geralt’s cheeks under his palms and used his thumbs to gently force Geralt to smile.
Geralt’s eyebrows nearly form into one angry, furrowed, confused eyebrow and the mixture of the goofy grin and the angry eyes made Jaskier dissolve into giggles.
“Definitely cute,” He huffed, flopping sideways on the bed.
He drifted off, then, but he had the vaguest memories of someone taking off his boots and wrapping a blanket around him before climbing in the bed behind him.
At the time, he blamed it on a wonderful dream, but he could’ve sworn someone had pressed a gentle kiss to his temple before he slipped into a wine drunk slumber.
Written for @thewitcherbog's teef week (another one yes... I have a problem)
Ship: Gerlion
rating: T
Summary: Dandelion is nervous before a competition, chewing and mouthing at anything he can get his hands on.
CW: Dandelion is non-verbal and big anxious
_
When Dandelion succumbed to his anxiety, he had a terrible habit of putting random shit in his mouth. More often than not it was his poor quill that suffered the onslaught of his mouth, the poet chewing at the feather in between mutterings of rhymes and stanzas. When he wasn’t paying attention, Dandelion would chew the wrong end and be left with ink stains on his lips, smeared across his cheek. Geralt thought it looked unbearably cute although he had never actually told the poet, Dandelion would latch onto the fact and never let it go, and so Geralt preferred to keep his thoughts to himself on that particular matter.
That morning, Dandelion was chewing on the ends of his hair. The bardic competition was one of the most important of the year, and Dandelion was the reigning champion, a fact that he had mentioned countless times over the season. Whenever they had introduced themselves to strangers, villagers to kings, Dandelion would always give a deep bow, so that the feather in his hat brushed the floor, and then announced that he was:
“Master Dandelion, troubadour and poet of the highest renown, and winner of Oxenfurt’s annual bardic extravaganza for three years running, you may have heard of me?”
It was pretentious, dramatic nonsense, but Geralt couldn’t help but smile behind Dandelion’s back every time. The poet was so proud of himself and it warmed Geralt’s cold unfeeling heart.
But now all that talk was starting to bite Dandelion in the arse. Geralt had never seen him so nervous before a competition before. The poet normally meticulously took care of his hair, spending hours treating it with oils and magical ointments before curling it each morning, but instead he was biting at the ends and weaving small braids into the locks. He would surely regret it by the time it was his time to play, but as reigning champion, Dandelion was to perform last; that was the tradition.
“Hey,” Geralt murmured, gently taking one of Dandelion’s hands in his, and pulling the lock of golden hair from his mouth.
Dandelion blinked, his eyes struggling to focus on Geralt’s face, and he slowly glanced down at their joined hands. Letting out a soft hum, Dandelion pulled Geralt’s hand into his mouth, gently nibbling at the skin between his thumb and forefinger, tongue flicking out to lick over the teeth marks he left behind. Geralt was dumbstruck, his breath knocked from his lungs as he watched Dandelion mouth and bite at his hand.
He seemed almost like a completely different person, vulnerable, small, subdued. Gone was the vibrant cocky bard persona that Geralt knew so well, and in his place was left a bundle of nerves and anxiety that Geralt just wanted to wrap up in his arms and take far away from the competition.
“You’ll be brilliant,” he said softly, bringing his free hand up to stroke along Dandelion’s cheek. “There hasn’t been a single performance that I’ve seen where you haven’t outshone everyone around you.”
Dandelion just scoffed, biting harder on Geralt’s thumb, a warning not to lie.
“I mean it, Dandelion. Even at your worst, you’re still incredible.”
Another sharp bite to his knuckle.
“And even if you don’t win today, you’ll still be my poet, my best friend,” Geralt insisted, pressing his forehead against Dandelion’s. “Not even Valdo Marx can say that.”
Dandelion finally let out a soft melodic laugh, his lips moving from Geralt’s hand to the corner of his lips. Geralt could hardly breathe as Dandelion pressed a tentative kiss to the very edge of his mouth, his hard beating almost as fast as a human’s. The kiss could have been one between friends, but it was a tease of something more, Geralt’s lips still tingling from where Dandelion’s had barely brushed against them. It didn’t take much to turn his head, stubble brushing against Dandelion’s cheek as Geralt claimed his lips in a chaste kiss.
The tension melted away from Dandelion’s shoulder as he sank into Geralt’s embrace, sighing softly into the kiss as his lips parted under Geralt’s. His fingers dug into the crevices of Geralt’s armour, and as they pulled apart, Dandelion caught Geralt’s lip between his teeth, before pressing their foreheads together.
Dandelion didn’t speak, but he softly bumped his nose against Geralt’s and Geralt heard the words left unspoken.
“You’re welcome, Dandelion,” Geralt hummed and kissed him once more for good luck.
Written for Teef Week in @thewitcherbog. The prompt: Wresting with other and then sudden teef!
Ship: Lambden
Rating: T
CW: biting, canon-typical violence, blood
_
“That was my contract!” Aiden hissed, pouncing at Lambert from the corner of the camp, emerging from the shadows like a ghost.
If Lambert had been paying attention then he would have realised that his boyfriend was there, but he’d been too busy counting his coin, trying to work out whether he could afford a hot meal at the next inn and a bath. He so desperately wanted both but it had been a hard season with more witchers than contracts, despite how few of them there were left. So, Aiden had surprised him, knocking him flying, narrowly avoiding the fire that was crackling in the centre of the camp, the only respite from the cold, autumn feeling more and more like winter, despite only being early in the season.
“You fucking bastard!” Lambert groaned as his back hit the ground, barely remembering to keep his head tucked into his chest. Aiden was faster than lightning, straddling his hips and pinning his arms to his side, smirking down at Lambert, the fucking smug whoreson.
Lambert writhed, twisting in Aiden’s grip until he managed to break one hand free. He blasted Aard at his friend, throwing the handsome idiot across the camp so he had time to recover, but no sooner was he on his feet than Aiden was flying towards him again, catching Lambert in a headlock, Lambert’s back pressed to his chest, the scratch of Aiden’s beard against his cheek.
“Signs are cheating!” Aiden murmured, nipping at Lambert’s ear.
“Says the fucker that sprung out of nowhere,” Lambert growled, jabbing his elbow back, spinning quickly, and finally managing to get the upper hand as he pinned his boyfriend against a tree, their bodies flush together.
“Technically I sprung from that tree,” Aiden said, nodding to the tree behind Lambert.
And because Lambert was a moron… he looked.
Aiden cackled, kicked Lambert behind the knees, and leapt to his freedom. Thankfully, this time he allowed Lambert to get to his feet, and they circled each other around the camp, the fire making their shadows dance in amongst the trees. It was a stupid fight, a waste of precious energy, but Lambert hadn’t felt so happy in a long time. Sometimes it was easy to forget about fun when they walked the path alone.
“I didn’t steal your contract,” he grunted, never taking his eyes off of his boyfriend as they moved slowly around the fire. “I got there first.”
“I needed that one,” Aiden hissed.
“So did I.”
“Bastard.”
“Whore.”
“Oh you wish,” Aiden purred, his tongue flicking out to trace the line of his lip as he winked.
Lambert growed and then pounced. His legs wrapped around Aiden’s waist as he clung onto his boyfriend, the sudden weight knocking them both to the floor, and it was only Lambert’s quick thinking that stopped Aiden from hitting his head on the ground, a gloved hand cupping the back of his head, threading through thick dark locks of hair. Aiden pouted up at him.
“Still cheating,” he muttered, even as their noses bumped together, Lambert’s lips ghosting over Aiden’s in a tease of a kiss.
“Oh yeah?” Lambert hummed, running his nose along Aiden’s jaw, pressing kisses to his neck.
Aiden was now purring steadily beneath Lambert’s hands and lips, a low rumble that settled something deep inside of Lambert, calming him. So he really wasn’t expecting his boyfriend to suddenly bite his neck, sharp teeth breaking through the skin with ease.
“Shit!” Lambert snapped and fell backwards, almost tumbling into the fire. Aiden laughed and pinned him down once more, crashing their lips together in a messy kiss of tongues and teeth.
When Aiden finally pulled away, his lips smeared with blood, a smug expression on his face, he let out a happy trill. “I win.”
Lambert rolled his eyes, gingerly fingering the wound on his neck. It wasn’t deep, and with his enhanced healing it probably wouldn’t even leave a scar, but he fully intended to pout about it for the rest of the evening. He was owed that much.
“Bastard,” he muttered, pulling Aiden down into another kiss.
When Jaskier had been portalled into a whole new realm, a parallel universe as it were, the last thing he’d expected was to end up in a relationship with another version of himself, and his life-long crush; Geralt of Rivia. Really, after so many years of travelling with his Geralt, he should have expected the unexpected, and if anyone was going to fuck themselves it would be him.
Or maybe Yennefer?
She definitely seemed like she was into some kinky shit. Yeah, she’d definitely fuck herself given the chance, and really Jaskier couldn’t blame her. He was hardly an innocent party, but Dandelion had been so fascinating and so beautiful that really Jaskier hadn’t stood a chance.
They were alike in many ways, but equally just as different, enough to make it absolutely thrilling. Dandelion knew exactly what Jaskier liked in bed, and their libidos pretty much matched, leading to a rather ridiculous amount of sex all around Geralt’s estate at Corvo Bianco. Clothes were a thing of the past, and if the surface was free enough, then it was very likely to be used for their exploits.
Geralt seemed almost relieved by Jaskier’s presence in their world, finally able to take a break from his bard’s insatiable sexual appetite. In this world, the witcher had a fondness for watching, sitting comfortably in the corner of the room, quite content to ignore his own erection as the two bards fucked each other in a frenzy. It was even hotter when Geralt took himself in hand, grunting as he came to the sight of his boyfriends. That always took Jaskier’s breath away, making his skin tingle and his cock twitch even mere moments after he’d cum.
But the best times were when Jaskier and Dandelion could lure their witcher boyfriend into their arms, lavishing him with attention, waxing poetry as they worshipped his body. Sometimes he would fuck one of them as they sucked the other’s cock. Other times, they would fuck Geralt at the same time. It took far too much thought and planning for Jaskier’s liking, but the end result was worth it, seeing Geralt’s hole stretched around both their cocks.
Fuck.
Was it any wonder that he couldn’t keep his hands to himself? He was just horny all the time, all the sinful memories trapped in his mind, replaying at the most inconvenient times, like when he was trying to write his entry into the Toussaint Bardic competition, for instance.
Well, if he was going to fail then the best thing he could do was drag Dandelion down with him. He smirked as he sprung from his chair in his office, and went to find his boyfriend.
“Lion?” he called as he wandered around the house, padding barefoot along the stone floors.
“In here!” Dandelion called back from the lounge, a couple of velvet couches set up in the front of the house.
Perfect.
Jaskier smiled seductively as he slid into his boyfriend’s lap, knocking the book from his hands and sending it tumbling to the floor.
“Hello,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to Dandelion’s neck as he brushed the long blond hair behind his back. Dandelion let out a soft sigh, tilting his neck to give Jaskier better access, the skin already sporting a rather lovely dark bruise from Jaskier’s attention the night before. “I missed you.”
“Darling, it’s barely been an hour,” Dandelion reminded him, trailing his fingers along Jaskier’s spine, making him shiver as he kissed the hickey he’d already left behind.
“Hmm… far too long,” Jaskier agreed, nibbling at Dandelion’s ear and then capturing the poet’s lips in a lazy kiss, licking into his mouth, the taste of fiorano lingering on the poet’s tongue, rich and tantalizing, reminding Jaskier of their many picnics together in the fields surrounding the vineyards.
It didn’t take long for the kiss to turn heated, Jaskier wriggling in Dandelion’s lap, the poet’s hard cock pressed up against his arse. His fingers threaded into soft golden curls as he moaned into the kiss, yanking hard at the hair in his hands just to hear the sweet sound of his boyfriend’s moans, and Jaskier sat up just enough so he could reach behind him to guide Dandelion’s cock inside him, already loose and well slicked from Geralt’s cock not an hour before.
“Oh gods,” Dandelion gasped, his lips never leaving Jaskier’s. “You little whore.”
“Can’t leave you two alone for a minute.”
Jaskier moaned loudly as he turned to the door, and sure enough, there was Geralt gazing back at them with dark golden eyes, his arms crossed in front of his chest. He licked his lips as his eyes roamed over Jaskier’s body, lingering where Dandelion’s cock was pressed into his arse. Jaskier winked at the witcher, slowly pulling off Dandelion's cock before sinking back down with a choked gasp, biting down on his lip.
“Fuck, Geralt, it feels so good, he fills me up so well,” Jaskier whined, rolling his hips to drive Dandelion deeper inside him.
“Not well enough if you’re still running your mouth, darling,” the poet purred, capturing Jaskier’s lips in a searing kiss, nails scraping down Jaskier’s back as he thrust up, hitting that sweet spot with ease, sending sparks flying across Jaskier’s vision, and before he could recover, Dandelion had thrust up again.
“Ah- f-fuck!” Jaskier gasped, the words muffled as Geralt’s lips covered his, the taste of fine wine replaced dwarven spirit, but Jaskier didn’t mind, he could spend a lifetime kissing Geralt and never get bored, especially whilst impaled on Dandelion’s cock.
Geralt’s hand pinched Jaskier’s nipple as his tongue delved into Jaskier’s mouth, leaving him breathless, and falling towards oblivion as Dandelion fucked into him with sharp thrusts. Calloused fingers trailed through the thick dark hair on his chest until they finally wrapped around Jaskier’s cock, and with just a few quick tugs, Jaskier spilled all over Geralt’s hand, droplets of cum hitting Dandelion’s chest.
Before Jaskier could catch his breath, he was pulled into Geralt’s arms, away from his beautiful poet, and he let out a soft whine, reaching out for Dandelion. “Lion…” he slurred, gazing at his boyfriend through the fog in his mind.
“I’m here, my dear buttercup, no witcher can take you away from me, isn’t that right, Geralt?” Dandelion purred, licking his lips as he looked at Geralt over Jaskier’s shoulder.
“Wouldn’t even try,” Geralt agreed, humming as Dandelion stood up, leaning into Geralt’s side as the pair of them shared a deep kiss. “Bedroom, more room there.”
“Excellent plan, my dear.”
“Hmm,” Jaskier agreed, mouthing at Geralt’s shoulder.
When Geralt finally kicked open their shared bedroom, Dandelion crawled onto the mattress and then beckoned them with a crook of his finger. “Won’t you join me, loves?”
“With pleasure,” Geralt growled, setting Jaskier down in the middle of the bed and then pulling Dandelion into another kiss over Jaskier, until Jaskier started to pout, feeling needy and left out.
He managed to get his hand between the two, pushing Geralt back onto the bed, and positioning himself between the two as he kissed down the witcher’s body, nibbling gently at each and every scar that passed under his lips. Finally, Dandelion joined him, licking and kissing at Geralt’s nipples as he straddled one leg, his still hard cock leaking as he rutted against the thick muscles of Geralt’s thigh. It was a dizzying sight, and Jaskier’s cock was already threatening to fill out once more. He groaned into Geralt’s skin as his teeth nipped at the soft curve of Geralt’s stomach.
“Gods, you’re so hot,” he murmured, one hand pressed against Dandelion’s thigh, as the poet rode the witcher so beautifully, golden curls falling in front of his face as he lost himself in his own pleasure, the most beautiful medley of moans and gasps escaping his lips.
“Oh fuck,” Dandelion moaned, long lutist fingers wrapped around his cock as he brought himself off, his cum covering Geralt’s stomach, tantalizingly close to Jaskier’s lips and tongue.
“Such a mess,” Geralt hummed, his fingers carding through Jaskier’s head, eyes dark with hunger as he watched his two bards use his body for their pleasure. “Clear it up.” The order was gentle, more of a suggestion but it still had Jaskier’s head reeling and he let out an obscene moan, crawling back up Geralt’s body to lick the mess of cum off the pale skin.
It wasn’t his favourite taste, but he felt filthy, and wasn’t that just the best fucking feeling when having sex with the two most beautiful people in all the universes.
When he was done, Dandelion pulled him into a sloppy kiss as both their hands reached for Geralt’s cock together. They laughed as they broke apart, eyes meeting, two very different bards, but still the same in so many ways…
Without talking, they both settled between Geralt’s thighs, Jaskier taking the head of his cock into his mouth, whilst Dandelion kissed the shaft. Above them, Geralt swore, his hips bucking off the mattress, and he dick fucking deeper into Jaskier’s mouth. Jaskier whined, a little surprised but taking Geralt’s cock with practiced ease, hollowing his cheeks, and bobbing his head as the witcher settled back onto the bed. Next to him, Dandelion hummed happily, kissing at the soft pale skin of Geralt’s thighs, and as he met Jaskier’s eyes he winked, and bit down hard, nearly breaking the skin. Geralt cursed, a growl tearing from his throat as he struggled to catch his breath, but the two of them managed to keep him pinned to the bed as they worked. With a content hum, Jaskier pulled off of Geralt’s cock, sharing a quick kiss with Dandelion before they swapped places, the poet licking a long stripe up the underside of Geralt’s cock before swallowing it down, Jaskier’s hand stroking the base where Dandelion couldn’t quite fit it all in without damaging his throat.
The bite mark on Geralt’s thigh was already red and swollen, a perfect indentation of Dandelion’s teeth marking the witcher as his. Well, that wouldn’t do at all.
Jaskier giggled, his lips grazing over the tender skin on Geralt’s other thigh, mirroring where Dandelion's mark was, and nipped gently, kissing and nibbling all the way down to Geralt’s knee. He pressed a single kiss to the side of Geralt’s knee, a silvery scar marring the skin there, and then ran his nose back up along the inside of his thigh until he reached his mark. As Geralt’s gasps and pants grew more frantic, Jaskier bit down, sucking a dark bruise into the skin, just as the witcher came with a guttural moan that would haunt Jaskier’s dreams for years to come.
“Fuck!” Geralt cursed, the word slurred as he slowly recovered from his orgasm, letting Dandelion and Jaskier kiss him lazily until one golden eye cracked open, the taste of their witcher’s cum lingering on their tongues.
“Fuck indeed,” Jaskier sighed, and the three of them collapsed onto the bed, far too exhausted to move.
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The morning after Geralt’s big reveal, Geralt watched him with round amber eyes full of so much caution that Jaskier nearly choked on it.
Geralt said nothing to him until they were well on the road, waiting until they were letting Roach drink from a stream to clear his throat and shuffle his feet in the stones on the back of the stream.
“Do you… Do you remember last night?” He asked, peering at Jaskier sidelong through hair that he’d left loose. Jaskier itched to clean it and gently urge the knots from the strands, but Geralt had been so skittish that morning Jaskier wouldn’t chance it.
“I do,” Jaskier confirmed carefully, swallowing heavily at Geralt’s noticeable wince as he turned toward Roach’s saddlebags and slowly began sifting through things.
Jaskier watched him, so confused as to be rendered mute, until he realised what Geralt was doing.
“Are you— Oi!” He blurted, hands flying up in the air between himself and the witcher. Geralt nearly dropped one of Jaskier’s spare shirts before he caught it on his shin, casting a dark look at Jaskier for a moment before snatching it back up and gently refolding it. “Are you packing my things, Geralt?”
“I figured if you wanted to go, I wouldn’t have to…” Geralt stopped, tucking his head to his chest. Jaskier heard a small, broken noise; a clicking in Geralt’s throat as he swallowed. From experience, he knew how hard Geralt was trying to keep his voice steady. Geralt cleared his throat again, shaking his head as if to clear it, and continued. “I wouldn’t have to watch you pack.” He spat, turning back toward Jaskier with a tight expression.
“You… You absolute moron!” Jaskier exploded, loud even for him, and clapped both hands over his face. “I don’t— I wouldn’t— Geralt!” He bellowed, slowly dragging his hands down his face and stomping a foot. Roach nickered at him and he forcibly took control of his tone so he quit scaring the poor lass. “Geralt, I have seen you so many different ways. If you stalking into a tavern covered in guts and other ghastly innards didn’t make me pack my bags, why on Melite’s blessed, bountiful bosom would I run now?”
Geralt froze, which is to say that he somehow became even more still than he usually was while at rest. Jaskier could have sworn that even his hair refused to blow in the wind.
“You won’t?”
“No, you—“ He sighed at Geralt’s doleful eyes and he shook his head, smiling slightly. “You waited until we were far enough away from town that I'd get lost to ask me that, didn't you,”
Geralt didn't answer with words, but Jaskier, saw the broad, self-satisfied smile in response on Geralt's face for the first time.
From that moment, slower than a drop of blood rolling down the edge of Geralt’s blade, Jaskier saw more and more of Geralt. Not in a ‘Geralt immediately began walking around shirtless,’ way, unfortunately, but in a ‘Geralt began to loosen up a bit,’ way. Jaskier had originally thought that Geralt had already loosened up, but apparently he barely knew the witcher at all.
Jaskier tried, with every measly scrap of self-control contained in his miserable bard body, to not read too much into it. If he was wrong, if he was imagining it all, if he was projecting his inner desires onto a Geralt that didn’t mean anything by his sudden change in behaviour…
Well, he didn’t want to be dramatic, but he was pretty sure he would immediately turn to dust, lute and all.
That is, he’d turn to dust if Geralt’s laugh didn’t get to him first.
One night, after they’d both settled in around the fire and had eaten a bit of hare that Geralt had caught for them, Jaskier had been regaling him with a tale from before they’d begun to travel together. Before, Geralt had always seemed to reluctant to listen to Jaskier’s stories. As of late, Geralt started lighting up when Jaskier began to spin a yarn, leaning toward him with a crooked grin on his face and an excitement in his eyes that made Jaskier’s heart roll over in his chest.
“And to put the lovely, honeyed glaze over this whole disaster, I hadn’t even slept with his sister! It’d been his brother I'd taken to bed!” Jaskier finished with a flourish of hands and a grin he knew to be dazzling, thanks much.
Geralt reeled back as though he’d been struck, tucking his chin into his chest and putting a hand to his brow in a move that Jaskier had previously read as exasperation. Jaskier’s jaw dropped with absolute wonder when after a moment, Geralt’s shoulders began to shake and he dropped both hands to his stomach while tossing his head back.
In laughter. Geralt was roaring with what Jaskier had to say, objectively, was one of the ugliest, snortingest, cackliest, absolutely most charming laughter that he had ever heard in his entire lifetime of making people laugh for his daily bread.
Unbidden and completely unwarranted, giddy tears sprung to Jaskier’s eyes as he helplessly joined in, covering his mouth with both hands when a hiccough interrupted his throaty, tearful chuckle.
Another peal of laughter rang from across the fire in response and the two of them laughed themselves hoarse as the stars slipped out of the veil of sunset and the moon hung heavily overhead. For the rest of the world, it was just another night.
To Jaskier, he was certain that it was the most beautiful night he’d ever had.
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TW: blood, graphic depiction of canon typical violence, and i made the bard cry. sorry.
As Jaskier nudged the door to their room at the inn open with his shoulder, arms full of bandages and dinner and blankets, he saw Geralt drag himself up on his elbow. The wince of pain and following grimace gave Jaskier a lovely glimpse of Geralt’s pearly whites, but he’d rather it be in any other way.
“Lay back down, dear heart, I’ll bring it all over to you,” He nearly dropped the crusty bread and soup in his right hand and launched the blanket in his left straight into the sodden pile of wretched armour in the corner to save Geralt’s dinner. “Well, not that one. I’ll give you this and get a new blanket for you,”
“No need,” Geralt murmured, his lips hooking into a little half smile. His eyes glittered with amusement as he weakly held his uninjured hand out, over the edge of the bed, and Jaskier, ever the fool, put his supper in it. Geralt blinked at it and frowned before Jaskier, on every level except physical, punched himself in the face and removed it, settling it on the small desk near the bed.
“Wh—“ He stammered for a moment before Geralt laced his fingers between Jaskier’s, rendering him well and truly speechless for a moment. “Mother of Melite, are you dying?”
Geralt’s huff of laughter turned into a cough that spattered his lips with flecks of blood and brought tears to his eyes, the hand gripping Jaskier’s shaking like a leaf in a storm.
Jaskier dabbed at Geralt’s face with a warm cloth and tried to pry his foot from his mouth.
“Sorry,” He settled on, voice sounding as thick with tears as he felt.
“Don’t apologise,” Geralt chided, looking up at him through snow-white lashes, the crooked smile returning. It send a flash of heat through Jaskier and he busied himself with cleaning the wounds on Geralt’s right shoulder. “Unless you’re secretly a fiend,”
“A fiend?” Jaskier squawked, apologising under his breath at the hiss of pain from Geralt when he dabbed a bit too hard in shock. “The alderman said it’d been a chort,”
“The alderman’s a fool.” Geralt sighed, watching Jaskier fret over a sluggishly bleeding gash over Geralt’s ribs. “And so am I,” He huffed.
“Not a chance,” Jaskier said immediately. “Only if you think I’m not claiming that bounty tomorrow while you stay right here in his bed and rest,” He raised his voice over Geralt’s rebuttal, flicking his wrist and swatting at the air like he could knock the words off course before they sunk in to his ears. “And I’ll be taking that head we sawed off the creature and putting it properly up the alderman’s pompous—“
“Jask,” Geralt finally wheezed, hacking up more blood for Jaskier to clean from his lips and chin. “It’s… It’s fine,” He rasped, uninjured hand looping around Jaskier’s wrist.
“It’s not,” Jaskier replied, but there wasn’t any heat behind his words. He watched Geralt’s calloused fingers deftly find his pulse and the tension that had been building in Geralt’s shoulders leeched out with every beat of his heart. “It’s… You scared the hell out of me, Geralt. I thought you were…” His voice failed him, coming to a tearful sniff that dragged Geralt’s eyes open to peer at him with concern.
He chuckled wetly, dropping the blood-soaked rag back into the bowl of hot water.
“Don’t look at me like that,” He huffed, trying his best to wring the water and dirt and blood and blood and blood from the rag one-handed. “You’re the one that’s bleeding all over,”
“I’ll heal,” Geralt rumbled, frowning deeper at Jaskier’s tears.
Jaskier couldn’t reply without his mostly-quiet tears becoming full-grown sobs, so he continued cleaning the wounds up and down Geralt’s side. He had to admit: it could have been so much worse. When Jaskier had decided that Geralt had been gone long enough, thanks, and hightailed it to where the damnable alderman had sent him, the sight that greeted him nearly stopped his heart.
A massive creature, buckled over on two twisted front legs, had its antlers spattered in blood and buried in Geralt’s side. Geralt, trapped under the beast’s great head and veritably pinned to the ground through his sword arm, was weakly trying to saw through the creature’s neck with his off-hand and his steel blade.
In the end, Jaskier, retching and bawling, had finished the job at Geralt’s insistence right before the witcher himself had passed out from blood loss. The adrenaline rush that followed saw Jaskier somehow hefting a bleeding, limp witcher in full armour back to the inn while still dry-heaving and crying, causing the entire tavern below to fall into a stunned hush as he brought Geralt up to the room Jaskier had played for the night before.
He supposed he made for a hell of a sight, covered in blood and snot and carrying what had to be a thousand pounds combined of witcher weapons, witcher armour, and witcher ass.
Geralt’s thumb rubbed back and forth over Jaskier’s pulse, making Jaskier’s breath stutter in his throat as he set the bloodied bowl of water on the floor next to the bed.
“I’ll need both hands to stitch you closed,” He said tautly, wiping his face on his already ruined doublet.
This time, Geralt didn’t try and stop Jaskier from taking care of his wounds. He stayed still, not even flinching as Jaskier gently tried to mitigate the worst of the damage.
“Can you feel your hand? Bend your elbow?” He asked, taking Geralt’s injured hand gently in his. The fiend’s antler had gone clean through his tricep and left massive gashes down his forarm.
Geralt bared his teeth in pain as he clenched Jaskier’s hand weakly and straightened out his elbow.
“Hurts like hell,”
“But nothing’s broken,” Jaskier sighed, daubing the blood from Geralt’s arm and setting to doing his best to put it back together. “I’m no healer, Geralt,”
“You’re doing just fine,” Geralt replied, voice thin with pain and flirting dangerously with a coughing fit.
“If you don’t stop coughing up blood within the half-hour, I’ll get the healer, coin be damned.” Jaskier threatened before biting the thread from Geralt’s inner arm and moving to straddle his hips to reach his outer arm.
Geralt bared his teeth again, his fangs now stained with blood yet still sending that electric shock thorugh Jaskier’s core.
“Sorry,” He hissed, shifting his knee off Geralt’s wounded hip.
“Jaskier,” Geralt sighed, tipping his head back and looking heavenward as though the ceiling or the stars could give him an answer. “Don’t apologise.”
Jaskier could only shake his head and keep stitching.
He could no longer stifle the sobs that made his shoulders shake and his breath come in hitched, wretched gasps, and once he put the last stitch in, Geralt reached over and snapped the thread and took the needle from his fingers in one smooth motion.
“Come here,” Geralt murmured, tugging Jaskier closer to his uninjured side. “Come, Jask, come here,”
“I’ll get you all bloody again,” Jaskier burst in a stuttering wail. A part of him knew it didn’t make all that much sense to have a full breakdown about it, but wailing ‘The whole walk back I couldn’t stop thinking about how I would have to tell your brothers that you were dead’ would have broken his heart and possibly Geralt’s, too.
Geralt only answered by gently undoing the buttons on his doublet left-handed and tugging it off, dropping it to the ground with a wet smack, before snaking his hand up under Jaskier’s chemise. Jaskier let him pull that off over his head and bring him close to his chest, tucking Jaskier’s head under his chin and pressing his face to Jaskier’s hair.
He let Jaskier cry all over him until the great juddering sobs turned into stuttering sniffles; until the sniffles turned into whimpers; until, at last, Jaskier and Geralt’s breathing had fallen in step.
Jaskier peered up at Geralt to see he’d been crying, too, and it nearly set him off again.
“No, none of that,” Geralt said wetly, a laugh chasing the end of a sniffle as he playfully tucked Jaskier’s head back to his chest. Jaskier let himself be crowded against Geralt once more. He could hear Geralt’s slow, strong heartbeat and he shut his eyes to focus on it, to commit it to memory.
Jaskier woke some time later, disoriented, to Geralt tucking a blanket under him and he moved to sit up.
“Go back to sleep, Jaskier,” Geralt murmured, wrapping his arm back over Jaskier’s back and drawing him back into his arms. Geralt still felt cool to the touch, a startling side effect of his slow heartbeat and the blood loss and his witcheriness in general and Jaskier tangled his legs with Geralt’s and pressed the length of his torso against Geralt’s flank.
“Gotta warm you up,” Jaskier murmured blearily, pressing his forehead to the hollow of Geralt’s throat and huffing a sleepy sigh.
“Right,” Geralt replied, voice husky and breath ruffling Jaskier’s hair.
He wasn’t drunk this time, and yet come morning, he couldn’t say for sure if he felt a kiss pressed to the top of his head or if Geralt had simply gotten closer to warm himself up in his sleep.
