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“Dandelion, you’re a cynic, a lecher, a womanizer, and a liar. And there’s nothing - believe me - nothing complicated about that. Good night.” Geralt curled into himself, like a centipede disturbed from beneath its rock by a curious child. The straw paliasse shifted, stray bits of it poking up and tickling Dandelion’s exposed armpit.
“Good night, Geralt.” The bard relaxed and stretched easily on the paliasse, cradling his head with his crossed arms. The sound of the surf beating against the shore was quite lovely, and even through the cobwebs in the window the night sky was striking. He looked contentedly outward, and, since it was right beneath, at the hunched, almost foetal Witcher, whose breathing was not slowing to the rhythm of sleep but seething out of him like hot, gray fumes from a smoking shed. A few possible courses of action skipped around in the bard’s mind. His fingers twitched at the thought of reaching for Geralt, but he decided to simply wait. Geralt was an adult and if he wanted something, he would have to ask for it. Oddly, his own desire had dwindled earlier in the evening, when it became obvious at the wedding reception that no worthy partners were in attendance. He’d thought about spending the evening with Essie, passing old stories and a bottle of wine pilfered from the host’s cellars back and forth until the wee hours. But he had been unable to find her after the party had wound down beyond its ability to entertain him, and with nothing better to do, he had come back to bed. And to Geralt.
He and Geralt certainly made odd bedfellows, to the untrained eye, but Dandelion truly enjoyed traveling with the Witcher. Granted, there were a great many sorts of people he enjoyed: countesses, widows, merchants’ daughters, comely musicians of any gender (as long as they were beneath his skill, and grateful to be tutored by an expert), barmaids, whores of all the flavors the world could produce. Country girls with flowers in their hair, who would feed him well and cry tears of gratitude into his shoulder after their climax. Sharp-eyed stablehands who would try to rob him as he sighed and lolled his head in the afterglow of his own completion. Each lover was a daub of paint on the sprawling canvas of human experience, truly a bit boring up close, but when one stepped back, considered the symphony of the hues and shadows, a wonder. And Geralt was the taupe, gray-beige background to it all, the neutral space that anchored the cacophony of florid colors and balanced their chaos. Geralt, always close to hand, dull but dependable, his desires and needs always in such perfect counterpoint to what Dandelion was best at. And though Dandelion recognized the abyssal depths of loneliness and insecurity that lurked just under the Witcher’s pale, marred skin, Geralt was always careful not to ask for more than he could give.
The paliasse shifted, and Geralt grunted and pushed himself into a sitting position. He passed his hand over his pale face with a sigh. “I’m going for a walk,” he muttered, knowing without looking that the bard was still awake. The Witcher paused, pretending that the purpose of the pause was to rub his eyes. “Waste of a perfectly good paliasse,” he further hinted.
Dandelion knew exactly what he was waiting for. His lip curled fondly. “Geralt,” he said in his most dulcet of tones, gently laying a hand on the Witcher’s flank. He felt his friend relax visibly at the touch.
The Witcher brought his knees up to his chest, a gesture that only Dandelion ever got to see. “I’m sorry, Dandelion,” he said, shoulders slumped. “I’ve made an ass of myself. To Essie and to you. Forgive me.”
“I already have, dear Witcher,” the bard reassured. Although Geralt’s moodiness and complete lack of self-awareness could be maddening, at the moment, with the starlight playing in his mussed white hair, and the way he was hugging his knees with those sinewy pale hands, Dandelion found himself feeling very tenderly towards him. He sidled up and leaned into the Witcher’s space, planting his right hand on the straw beside Geralt where his sword rested, just in case. His chin found a perch on Geralt’s bony shoulder.
The Witcher stared into the darkness ahead. “I think,” he said, with great effort, “I was... jealous. Not that someone else might have you, either of you. I was jealous of you. That it’s so... easy for you. To get close to people.”
Dandelion nodded into the shoulder. He knew it already, all of it, even the things Geralt didn’t realize himself, but it didn’t any good to tell the Witcher how predictable he was. And Dandelion was very good at telling people exactly what they wanted to hear. “It’s all right,” he crooned. His free hand came up to rub Geralt’s arm lightly through his nightshirt. The Witcher leaned his head into Dandelion’s, letting out a soft breath through his nose. “My temperament suits me just as yours suits you. I wouldn’t want you to be any different, Geralt.” He lifted his face to nose at the sensitive spot just under the Witcher’s ear, his coup de grace, and whispered, “I like you just the way you are.”
He felt the Witcher shiver, felt the fatigue and contrition transform into desire in that sweet alchemy of which Dandelion was an ardent scholar. Geralt turned, grabbed his face like a starving man catching a fish with his bare hands. Yellow eyes sought his, not wishing to make the same mistake twice in one night. “Dandelion,” he breathed. “Please. Can we-”
Dandelion laughed, mirthful and smug. “Of course we can, you silly oaf.” He wrapped his arms around Geralt’s neck and let himself be kissed, deeply, hungrily. Gratefully. Geralt’s hands pawed at him, greedy for more contact but still unsure, always so woefully unsure. Dandelion placed them where he wanted them, and gave an approving hum when the Witcher performed the sort of ministrations he liked. He was an idiot in matters of love, Dandelion mused, but highly trainable.
It wasn’t long before Geralt had rid him of his nightclothes, climbed on top of him, and was positively gobbling him, covering his neck, chest, and arms with his mouth and tongue. Dandelion laughed and squirmed as the Witcher found a ticklish spot. “Did you not get enough supper at the banquet?” he chided, eliciting a muffled, amused grunt from his partner. Geralt traveled further down, kissing his thighs, his belly, caressing his trunk and legs with reverence. Although Dandelion knew it wasn’t just his delectable body that was causing Geralt to go after him so hard, it was quite pleasant to be the object of affection to someone so focused and intent.
Stopping just short of his cock, Geralt came up to kiss him some more, a bit less manic and more tender this time. He lay himself on top of Dandelion, careful not to put too much weight on the bard. The sensation of being blanketed by Geralt’s warm, lean body, and probably the simple physics of the air being pushed from his lungs, made Dandelion sigh contentedly. His cock, now pinioned between them, stirred.
“You smell so good,” Geralt purred into his neck. “Even over all the assembled guests with their sickly oils and the fumes from the feast, I could smell you.”
“And you, my dear, smell like you partook of too many boiled fish-heads and stuffed cabbage leaves.”
Geralt chuckled, warm breath gusting in Dandelion’s ear. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Not at all.”
Geralt rested his head against Dandelion’s chest and hummed with satisfaction. His passion had calmed to something softer, more coherent. This pleased Dandelion; though he wasn’t opposed to the idea of a rough fucking, he wasn’t really in the mood tonight, and Geralt was much more pliable this way. He could have the Witcher any way he wanted like this, his hands fisted in the white hair as Geralt took him silently down his throat, straight to the hilt, or writhing together, shoulder to shoulder, kissing fiercely as they pumped one another’s cocks with sweaty hands. He could fuck Geralt, slow and sweet and showering him with praise until the Witcher tried and failed to bite back the sobs as he came. Or he could let Geralt fuck him, hitch his legs over those bony shoulders and watch the golden eyes flicker as Geralt struggled to balance the knife-edge of his raw need with Dandelion’s comfort and pleasure. So many possibilities, he mused.
“How do you want me, Dandelion?” Geralt asked, his voice like fine gravel. Dandelion carded his hands through Geralt’s hair, as the Witcher trailed his fingertips over the bard’s chest, awaiting his command.
“Hmm...” Dandelion tapped his lips with a finger, as if he was deciding on a new hat from a market stall-holder. Choosing his pleasure was always the most difficult part of making love to Geralt. With his lady lovers, there was usually an obvious winner, but Geralt, lacking that one glorious piece of anatomy, more than made up for it in his eagerness to please. He didn’t flinch the way some men did at being on the receiving end of the sexual event - far from it, he seemed to revel in the feeling of surrendering himself so fully. Dandelion wondered if he had learnt that among his brethren at Kaer Morhen, perhaps in some youthful, pubescent experimentation, or if it was a skill he’d picked up from Yennefer. It would not surprise him in the least to learn that the sorceress had a penchant for penetrating her partners. Either way, their loss was his gain, he thought. While he could be huffy and unyielding in the light of day, Geralt was positively a martyr in the bedroom.
“Well,” Dandelion began, “since you’ve been so cheeky this evening, it only seems fitting that you redeem yourself by putting that mouth of yours to work for a worthy cause.” He craned his neck down and met the Witcher’s eyes, glazed with lust. He brushed Geralt’s cheek with his thumb. “What do you say, love?”
“Seems very fitting indeed,” the Witcher replied, his lip curling. He slid down the paliasse, his nightshirt bunching up in an appealing manner. Dandelion adjusted himself, spreading his legs a little to free his cock, which was still slowly coming to attention. Geralt pressed his forehead into the hollow of Dandelion’s hip and inhaled deeply, releasing his breath in a low moan. The warm air tickled, tantalized the bard, and a smile broke out on his face. Geralt resumed the gentle laving of the tops of Dandelion’s thighs, his belly, burying his nose in the nest of soft blond curls that framed his cock, which was now quite alert and casting an amusingly long shadow in the moonlight.
Geralt shifted further, so that the lower half of his body was off the paliasse entirely. He planted one palm on Dandelion’s hip to keep the bard’s mad bucking from giving him a bloody nose -a lesson that only needed to be learned once, Dandelion thought with chagrin- and took Dandelion’s cock into his mouth in one fluid motion.
There was no arguing that the most convenient and hospitable place to plant one’s prick was in the velvety, wet, warm flower of a woman, Dandelion mused as Geralt’s lips closed around his shaft. It wasn’t anyone’s fault that mother nature had designed humans in such a way, and Dandelion certainly wasn’t complaining about the state of things. But while the more traditional configurations were certainly easy and reliable, there were plenty of occasions where the application of good technique and sheer determination could outstrip even the plumpest and most honeyed of orchids. And technique and determination were two things Geralt had in ample supply. True, he had had the benefit of Dandelion’s masterful instruction, but the man was a quick study and seemed to remember every nerve and pinpoint of pleasure as if he had drawn himself a map. He started slow, taking Dandelion all the way to the hilt, letting the bard feel the spasm of his throat as it struggled to accommodate the length and girth. With his free hand he gently combed the soft hairs away from his nose, using his thumb to rub teasingly over Dandelion’s bollocks. Dandelion hummed and squirmed in approval.
The bard felt himself begin to float in a pleasant haze, the only sounds the chirping of nighttime creatures, the pounding of the surf, and the soft grunts and puffs of breath from Geralt’s nose as he slowly built up a rhythm. His fingers grasped the air, searching for handholds so he could better thrust up into the Witcher’s warm, wet throat. But the firm hand on his hip would not give him enough freedom for that. He writhed happily.
“Oh, Geralt, that’s wonderful,” he purred. “Just like that. Well, perhaps a little faster.”
The Witcher shifted, then, obediently, increased his pace. He stopped caring about getting Dandelion’s pubic hair in his face, and took his bollocks firmly in hand, rolling and squeezing them deliciously. Dandelion gasped like he’d just been given an extravagant present, and propped himself up on his elbows so he could grab a fistful of the Witcher’s hair and tug in encouragement. “Oh, yes, love, that’s just perfect. Please don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.”
Pleasure swelled in Dandelion’s loins like the mighty surf outside, threatening to engulf him. His mouth hung open, and he panted wantonly, hands tangling in Geralt’s hair and grasping his shoulders and stroking his cheeks. “I’m so close, oh, Geralt, you’re so good to me, so good.” Praises spilled from his lips like a pot of water left to boil for too long, and everything was hot and wet and unrelenting and suddenly Geralt was looking up at him with the most beatific expression in those glowing cat eyes and oh, that was it, he seized and curled himself around the Witcher’s head and spent with a delighted shout. Geralt’s arms reached up to brace him as he shuddered and he just kept on moving, slowing the rhythm but taking it all in his mouth until Dandelion gently pushed his head away and he disengaged. Swiftly, he scooted over to the window and rather expertly spit out Dandelion’s seed in a milky stream, onto the sand below. He wiped the remainder on the back of his hand, then climbed up to wrap his arms around the bard and pull the blanket up over them.
Dandelion purred into Geralt’s chest, tangling their legs together and slipping his hand around the Witcher’s waist. He felt perfectly pampered. He could feel Geralt’s cock pressing into his thigh, but the Witcher said nothing, and Dandelion knew he wouldn’t take his own pleasure unless it was offered. It was the strangest thing, but he seemed to get just as much enjoyment out of satisfying Dandelion -even more, perhaps- as he did from being ministered to himself. Dandelion considered it a stroke of luck, and tried not to think too hard about the implications for the Witcher’s damaged psyche. He teetered back and forth for a moment, trying to decide if he wanted to be selfish and drift off to sleep, leaving Geralt to wither or quietly finish himself off, or if this was an occasion that called for a bit more generosity. His good nature triumphed, and he looked up, pressing ghostly kisses along the Witcher’s jawline.
“That was absolutely lovely,” he murmured, and felt Geralt’s cheek shift in a smile. “You spoil me. When you’re not mocking me or insulting my art that is.” He kissed down to the crook of Geralt’s neck, taking slow, wet bites of the tender flesh, digging his teeth in just a little, and listening to the shaky breaths that resulted. “I think you deserve a reward for all that hard work. What’ll it be, my dear Witcher?”
Geralt’s eyes were clouded with lust, pupils now blown wide. His clammy fingers fluttered against the small of Dandelion’s back. “You don’t have to-”
“I know, Geralt.” Dandelion drew himself up and rolled the pliable Geralt onto his back, straddling him. He framed the Witcher’s head with his forearms, staring down with an expression of gentle admonishment. “You know I never do anything I don’t want to do.” He pushed his hips playfully downward, grinding against Geralt, slow and torturous. The Witcher’s eyes fluttered closed and the air rushed out of his lungs. His hands came up to Dandelion’s waist, almost cradling him. “Well? Speak!”
“Ahh...” Geralt’s head fell back on the paliasse and he bucked mindlessly up to meet Dandelion’s slow thrusts. His right hand left Dandelion’s waist to cast about for the bundle by the window that held Geralt’s sword and his purse. Without looking at it, he rifled around for a moment and retrieved a small vial, not unlike his Witcher potions in appearance, but Dandelion knew this one was for recreational use only. “Do you think... can you get hard again?” the Witcher rasped.
Dandelion’s mouth twisted sideways in an expression of skepticism. “I’m not sure about that,” he admitted. “Damn it, Geralt, if I had known that was what you wanted, I would have had you stop short-”
“It’s all right,” Geralt interrupted. “I didn’t want to stop.”
“Well,” Dandelion mused, “I’ve still got plenty of fingers...” He wiggled them lewdly at the Witcher. “Will that do?”
“Surely,” said Geralt with a smirk. “It won’t take much after the show you put on.”
Dandelion laughed. “What can I say? I was born to perform. My enthusiasm is infectious.” He took the vial from Geralt and slid backwards, spreading the Witcher’s legs apart and caressing his thighs and buttocks with slow, gentle strokes. Geralt hummed and pushed into the touch. So eager, Dandelion thought with a smile. There was something very special in the way that Geralt, who was so guarded and circumspect around others, trusted him so implicitly. The way he let Dandelion unfold him like a lost manuscript, trace his fingers over the hidden notations and secret symbols. Geralt wasn’t nearly as mysterious as he thought he was, but Dandelion enjoyed being trusted with his delicate matters all the same.
Dandelion traced his partner’s entrance with well-oiled fingers, teasing the opening and using his other hand to scratch long pink lines into Geralt’s thighs and buttocks with his fingernails. Geralt sighed with pleasure. He took himself in hand and began to pump lazily on his cock. “That’s it,” Dandelion encouraged. “Oh, what a lovely view... just gorgeous. Here we go, love-” He slid one finger inside, slow at first, then playful, stretching, curling, exploring. Geralt’s chest began to heave and his cock strained in his grip. His hips rocked gently, almost in time with the surf beyond the window.
“And two,” Dandelion hummed. Geralt’s pace quickened, his free arm reaching up for a bedpost that was not there to brace himself. He settled for making a fist of it and pressing it against his mouth, to stifle the soft cries that Dandelion was wrenching from him with each languid thrust.
Dandelion rose up onto his heels and used his free hand to bend the Witcher’s left leg inward, towards his stomach. He leant his forearm on the back of Geralt’s thigh, using his hand to coax the other leg in the same direction. With Geralt fully exposed and angled for even deeper penetration, he gave a quick warning and slid three fingers inside as far as they would go.
The Witcher stilled, his eyes squeezed shut, his breathing shallow. Dandelion could feel the muscles tensing and relaxing around his hand, the tremor in the Witcher’s legs. “All right, love?” he whispered.
Geralt took a deep breath, nodded, and moved his hips experimentally. The sensation made him gasp and sent a spasm through his trunk and legs. Craving more, he began to move in earnest, and the raw, desperate sounds issuing forth from behind his closed fist made Dandelion’s heart flutter. He held fast to Geralt’s legs while pumping as fast and hard as he dared, leaning down to kiss the soft skin on the inside of the Witcher’s knees, the backs of his thighs, his knobby shins. “Oh, Geralt, look at you, you’re like a marble statue in the moonlight, so beautiful, so perfect,” he panted, hooking his fingers towards that sensitive spot that would push him over the edge. Geralt all but whimpered, and the sound sent an electric current down Dandelion’s spine. “Come for me, Geralt. Come for-”
“Aargh!” The Witcher stiffened, pitched forward, and spilled all over his hand. Dandelion released his legs and, with his un-sullied hand, cradled the Witcher’s head, pressing their foreheads together as Geralt shook silently through his climax.
“Beautiful,” Dandelion breathed, stroking the Witcher’s hair gently. Geralt swayed and leaned against him until he had caught his breath, then he reached for his discarded nightshirt to wipe up the mess. He took Dandelion’s hand and slowly, carefully wiped away the oil and the -remarkably few, Dandelion was happy to discover- specks of shit. Shocking, after all the fish heads and cabbage. It was such a tender gesture that he decided to stifle the laugh in his throat and keep the joke to himself.
Tossing the ruined shirt aside, Geralt leaned back on the paliasse and pulled Dandelion down beside him. The Witcher was staring at him with an expression that Dandelion would have described as ‘lovesick’, but no one would ever believe him, not if he lived for a thousand years. Even Geralt would deny it, to his grave. But, Dandelion thought, if the truth died with him, that was all right. It was a little treasure, just for him to keep.
“You’re looking very pleased with yourself,” said the bard. Geralt harrumphed, and avenged himself by grabbing Dandelion by the shoulders and stealing a few, final, fierce kisses. “All right, all right, enough!” Dandelion protested. “It’s time for bed, you brute. I can sleep as late as I like -and I intend to- but you, Master Geralt, have an early appointment, if I’m not mistaken.”
He motioned for Geralt to turn onto his side, facing the moonlit window, and settled into position behind him, threading their legs together and encircling the Witcher’s middle with his left arm. “That Duke is as arrogant as he is stubborn,” Geralt grumbled. “I hope that mermaid bites his cock off and feeds him to the kraken.”
Dandelion yawned. “It would be a nice strategy to bait the monster,” he mused, “but it might affect the circumstances of your payment.”
“Good night, Dandelion,” said the Witcher. “And thank you. For putting up with me.”
Dandelion nuzzled the back of his neck. “It’s the least I can do, given that you put up with my, what was it? Cynical, lecherous, womanizing, lying ways,” he teased. “Good night, Geralt.”