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Sweat and Sex and Sin: The Passiflora in Bloom

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Whenever he was in Novigrad, Geralt went to the Passiflora to take care of an itch he couldn't scratch.

No, he didn't go for the sex.

He went for the Gwent.

It was the only place on the continent that held high-stakes tournaments that truly tested him. Where the strategies were as good as the decks themselves. Where the payout could buy him new armor and fine liquor, while a loss could see him sleeping under the stars for a full month.

He went for the challenge.  He liked a challenge.  He took challenging jobs, and befriended challenging people (or, perhaps, was befriend by challenging people), and sought challenging sparring partners, and climbed challenging mountains.

In his opinion, there was very little point in doing something if it was easy.

This time, before heading to the Passiflora, he stripped down to his thin linen shirt and leather trousers, leaving most of his professional accouterments--save his swords--at the inn. He wanted to be comfortable. Fully at ease, so he could concentrate.

Now he sat across a small table from a Nordling, Count Something-Or-Other. A man with a constant sneer plastered to his face and an attitude as appealing as soured milk. The bastard was both boisterous and arrogant, and Geralt was looking forward to wiping that snide look off his lips when he won the round.

Around them were five other tables, three now empty, two occupied by other tournament challengers still in the game.  Some of the losing contestants had stayed to watch, others had left in a huff. 

Through the small throng, prostitutes weaved their way back and forth, some delivering drinks, others delivering suggestive smiles.

These tournaments weren't held at the Passiflora by accident, after all.  Rich pots enticed rich competitors with rich tastes. And if their needs couldn’t be sated by the cards, well, then there was other expensive fun to be had.

Geralt sat with his back to the main entrance, looking inward at the establishment's grand staircase and well-pillowed lounging area. He easily ignored the comings and goings of the barely-clad courtesans, concerned only with the bitter opponent before him.

The Count threw down Biting Frost and Geralt rolled his eyes.  Picking through his hand, trying to decide how best to lull the arrogant man into a false sense of superiority, Geralt glanced up as someone new came strolling languidly down the stairs.

He wouldn't have spared the person a passing thought, except that it was Jaskier.

A mostly naked Jaskier.

Geralt had last seen him in Vizima, and hadn't expected to cross paths with him again until he went to Oxenfurt in two weeks' time.

What was he doing here? This was supposed to be a closed event--tournament participants only. 

Gods, had he been fucking someone upstairs this whole time, and now the Madame had found him and thrown him out or something?

Geralt nearly moved to stand, to go chide his stupid bard for his indecency--after all, someone could mistake him for a whore--when the Count cleared his throat.

Oh, right.  The cards.

Distracted, Geralt tossed out a decoy to reclaim a spy.  Only he accidently replaced the wrong spy--he grabbed the four instead of the one.

"Ah, fuck," he cursed at himself. 

Still, as soon as the bad move was made, he looked for Jaskeir again.

But the bard wasn't hurrying out the front door like a madwoman was chasing him.  He was strolling, one hand lightly--suggestively--passing over the shoulder of a patron as he moved closer to the active tables.

Jaskier caught Geralt's gaze, held it.  But there was no recognition in his eyes. He licked his lips provocatively before looking Geralt up and down, appraising him.

Then Geralt realized: it wasn't Jaskier.

Just someone who looked remarkably like him.

A whore who looked remarkably like him.

Something dark and oily slid through Geralt's core. He immediately tried to suppress it.

The Count made a move, and Geralt answered it, but he never stopped tracking the mostly-naked man.  The whore swayed his hips and slipped away toward the lobby's sitting area.

It was unsettling, how much he looked like Jaskier.  How much he moved like him, even.  But there were subtle differences.

Jaskier was taller, Geralt was sure.  By a few inches, at least.

This man's eyes were hazel instead of blue.

His hair was sandy instead of mousy brown.

And there was less of it covering his chest.

The courtesan might have been younger, too, but Geralt knew his prolonged life had left him with an inability to properly guess at a human's age.

The young man sidled up to a male patron dressed in deerskin who was sitting in a plush, red chair.  He leaned in to whisper in his ear, and the man grinned, his hand coming up to brush seductively across the whore's abdomen, to rest greedily on his hip.

Geralt's grip on his cards tightened. So hard, he bent them.

"Your move," the Count grumbled.

Hardly paying attention to the game anymore, Geralt selected a card without really seeing it and slapped it down.

It's not Jaskier, he told himself as he watched the patron slide his fingers under the whore's smallclothes, clearly testing the weight and girth of his cock.

The whore bit his lip in pleasure--it didn't really matter if it was an affectation or a sincere reaction--and Geralt mirrored the motion, but in irritation. He sunk his teeth into his own flesh until he felt a spike of pain.

It wasn't Jaskier, but still, seeing another man touch him like that--right in front of everyone--was doing things to Geralt.

He could feel his own cock fattening between his legs, and an insidious possessiveness bubbled up through his body, fogging his mind.

He'd wanted Jaskier for a long time.

He frequently jerked off to fantasies of claiming him.

He'd touched himself thinking about Jaskier giving him a blowjob in the woods.

He'd touched himself imagining Jaksier bent over a tavern table, stuffed full of cock.

He'd touched himself envisioning Jaskier waiting for him at an inn, naked and hard and pleasuring himself in a hot bath.

On and on. So many different scenarios, so many different positions.

So. Many. Fantasies.

And he'd come so, so close to admitting to them.  There were times when he stared at Jaskier across a campfire and nearly blurted, I want you. There were instances where their hands brushed in a market place and he almost clasped their fingers together.  There were occasions when they were forced to share a bed in an inn where he came terrifyingly close to wrapping his arms around him and rutting his cock against him.

Every time he was near him, he itched to be closer.  So, more often than not, he found himself pushing him away instead.

Geralt didn't want to break what they had.  Didn't want to risk rejection, didn't want to risk making Jaskier uncomfortable around him.

He couldn't risk ruining their companionship, so he yearned in silence.

To have fate tease him like this...

"Are you here to play Gwent, or window-shop for your next plowable field?" the Count demanded.

"Fuck off," Geralt growled, throwing down another card.

Not-Jaskier climbed into the deerskin-clad man's lap, straddling his thighs. The patron's hands slid around the young man's backside, squeezing.

Geralt's blood boiled.

"Pass," said the Count.

Blinking, Geralt looked at the table, then at his hand.

The Count had him. 

He'd lost the hand.  And the round.

And the tournament.

And the fucking ten-thousand crown purse.

All because a fucking prostitute had Jaskier's fucking face.

He pocketed his deck and shoved away from the table.  Picking up his swords, he stomped towards the door.

It wasn't the prostitute's fault.  He knew that.  Geralt tried to be reasonable, tried not to blame him. He was just an innocent whore who had no idea he was so distracting. Had no idea he looked exactly like the gods-damned bard Geralt spent most of his life with and wanted to stick his cock in. He had no idea that everything--from the way he walked to the way he gestured to the way he batted his eyes--reminded Geralt of Jaskier.  He had no idea--

Geralt caught himself.

The man had no idea.

And the man was a whore.

He was for hire.

Geralt might have lost the tournament, but that didn't mean he had to leave without a prize.

Setting his jaw, he spun on his heel and stalked over the plush red chair.

Something in the back of his mind told him this was a bad idea.  But he didn't care.  He was irritated, put-out, wound up, and in need of a good fuck.

The prostitute was kissing the patron's neck, grinding himself down into his lap.

"You pay already?" Geralt demanded, voice all gravel.

"He's taken. Find another he-whore, witcher."

Geralt sighed, turned his attention to the prostitute. "Did he pay you already?"

The young man stopped his ministrations, looked up at Geralt with exactly the same kind of defiant, questioning expression he would have expected from Jaskier. "No."

"Then I'll pay double.  Up front."

The young man immediately stood, the other patron forgotten. "You must want something particularly dirty," he said. 

It wasn't an accusation. And Geralt didn’t disabuse him of the notion.

The tenor of his voice was even similar to Jaskier's. His accent, though, that was all wrong.  He didn't have Jaskier's noble lilt.

"Hey!" The man in the chair protested, tried to pull the prostitute back down, grabbed him roughly around the wrist.

"Let him go," Geralt said warningly.

But Not-Jaskier was clearly a professional.  "I'll find you someone else, dear, don't worry." Looking across the foyer he spotted a colleague of about his build and gestured him over.

Deerskin was easily silenced as the new courtesan slid into his lap.

Geralt led Jaskier's look-alike across the room, subtly scenting him as they went.  He didn't smell scared, or overly aroused. But Geralt supposed both things were natural for a whore. The man did seem intrigued, though. And he wore a floral fragrance, but not one Geralt had ever smelled on Jaskier.

"What's your name?" Geralt asked once they'd put enough distance between themselves and the other man.  He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall--the main entrance now lay across and to his right, the staircase sweeping up on the left.

The whore stood before him, hands propped on his hips in a very Jaskier-like manner. "Call me whatever you want," he said with a suggestive quirk of his brow.

"How about I call you mine for the evening?" Geralt suggested, not bothering to hide his predatory leer. "Or at least the next hour or so?"

"If you've got the coin up front like you claim, that shouldn't be a problem."

"Good."

"Good," he agreed with a nod. "Now, that dirty thing that you want. What is it?"

"I want to fuck you up against this wall right here."

"In front of everyone?"

"In front of everyone," he growled.  He knew it was sleezy.  He felt sleezy.  He felt filthy and selfish and bitter.

"The Madame usually frowns upon fucking in the lobby."

"Done a few favors for her over the years, don't think she'd mind."

The whore considered him thoughtfully, looked him over.  "I remind you of someone," he said bluntly.

That wasn't usually the kind of thing prostitutes pointed out.  Usually best not to drag up a client's private shame or sodden secrets.

Yeah, Jaskier didn't know when to keep his mouth shut either. It made Geralt want him even more. "That a problem?" he asked.

"Depends on whether you hate him or are in love with him."

"Neither."

The man narrowed his gaze. "Best tell me now.  I'll know afterwards, anyway."

"How's that?"

"There's a lot you can learn about a man from the way he fucks. Especially when the fuck means something to him."

"You a whore or a shrink?"

"Fuck me and find out."

Geralt slid his palms onto the man's naked waist and griped tight.  Immediately, in his mind, it was Jaskier under his hands. Not hard to imagine at all.  He crooked his face into the whore's neck and breathed deeply, trying to convince himself the baseline scents were Jaskier's as well. 

He pulled him close, slotting their bodies together. 

Geralt had had his arms around Jaskier plenty of times.

It could be him. Here, now.

He wanted it to be him.

"Coin?" the whore asked.

Geralt fished in his pocket, pulled out his purse--lighter now because he'd lost his entry fee, but still hefty.  He'd had a good spring.  He leaned back to hold it up between them, then tossed it beside their feet.  The tie slackened, and gold coins spilled out over the floor boards.

Satisfied, the whore pressed into his touch.

Swiftly, Geralt spun them, shoved the whore's back into the wall.  The man's eyes went wide, dark, and Geralt waited for the stench of fear, but it didn't come. Instead, the sweet aroma of arousal filled the air around them.

It would be the same with Jaskier. He knew it would.

 ...He hoped it would.

He imagined it would.

"You kiss on the mouth?" Geralt rumbled.

"It's extra."

"Hmm. Always is."

He leaned in, lips crushing against the other man's, tongue snaking out. 

He wanted to kiss Jaskier so badly.  Every time the bard sang, every time he sipped wine, every time he ate a berry, Geralt longed and longed and longed to taste him. To nip at him gently.

But he made this kiss bruising, not sweet. 

He couldn't let this be sweet. 

It couldn't be tender.

It didn't mean anything, here, with this whore.  He could pretend it was Jaskier, but he couldn't...he couldn't let himself feel...

It was just Geralt taking a little of what the universe owed him, what destiny owed him.  A small fantasy, a slight reprieve. 

That was all.

Chapter Text

The whore's lips moved expertly against his, and wasn't it fucked up that Jaskier's technique would prove just as tried and tested as any whore's? He'd kissed so many people--dozens and dozens and dozens and dozens and dozens.

But not Geralt. Never Geralt.

That thought made the fire in his belly grow.  Made him roll his hips against the whore's, made him bite down on his tongue.

The whore whimpered.

The witcher didn't want to keep calling the man beneath him the whore, so he searched for an appropriate stand-in, wracked his brain for something suitable.

He couldn't call him Jaskier.  If he so much as breathed that name the jig would be up.  Jaskier was too famous.  The young man might not know he looked like the renowned master bard, but surely he'd heard of him.

He cast about for something else. A jaskier was a flower--a buttercup--but Buttercup sounded too sweet, too sappy...yet fitting for the Passiflora.

Still...

"Julian," escaped his lips before he could stop himself.

"What?" the whore whispered.

It was so close.  Too close.  Too real.  But it was already out of his mouth.

"Julian," Gerlat breathed against the whore's lips. "I'm going to call you Julian, alright?"

"Whatever you want," the whore--Julian--reassured him.

 Julian was pliant as Geralt pressed him into the wall. When Geralt ground forward, the man bucked in return, and Geralt purred as a hard length met his.

Geralt slid his hand under the hem of Julian's smallclothes, slipped around and down to grab at the soft curve of his backside. His fingertips dug firmly into the flesh, and he yanked forward to pull him hard against his groin.

Geralt let his other hand wander up, over Julian's chest, to rake through the hair there, to drag his nails through it.  He tucked his face against Julian's and found his ear, worried the lobe between his teeth.

"No marks," Julian gasped. "You can't leave marks."

Geralt hummed his acknowledgement, all the while imagining what kinds of markings he could leave on Jaskier--imagining bruises sucked into his neck and red lines clawed down his back and half-moons dug into his hips.

He kissed down Julian's neck, thinking of how often he'd watched Jaskier's throat work as he spoke or swallowed.

He pressed his lips to Julian's pulse, noting how fast his heart was beating.  Not as fast as Jaskier's would.  Jaskier would have a rabbit-heart--it would race as Geralt touched him, as Geralt pleased him. 

Gods, he wanted to please him.

He wanted Jaskier to tell him what to do, to tell him how he liked it. Geralt had heard him pleased enough times--through the thin walls of an inn, down the echoing halls of a manor.  Geralt had heard his sighs and his moans and his screams of pleasure. 

He wanted to know what made him make those sounds. 

Geralt kissed further down Julian's neck, to his collarbone, down his chest, across his pectorals, down his abdomen, to his navel. 

The witcher went to his knees, kissed just above the hemline on Julain's smallclothes before pulling them down, releasing his cock.

His prick was long and lithe, just like he was.

Geral leaned in, nuzzled its base. Julian's breath hitched.

He looked up, saw Julian looking down at him. 

Geralt stared into his eyes.

Hazel eyes.

The wrong eyes.

This was wrong.

This was all wrong.

It made something in his chest hurt. 

Geralt realized he'd been lavishing Julian the way he wanted to lavish his bard.  But the whore was here for his pleasure, not the other way around.

In a fit of anger--anger at himself--Geralt stood and turned Julian around, forced his face against the wall with a firm hand on the side of his skull.  Not hard enough to hurt--he didn't want to hurt him. 

Geralt just needed to get control of himself.  He couldn't do that if he had to look the wrong man in the eye while he fucked him.

The witcher had had plenty of whores.  This really shouldn't be any different.

It was a simple exchange.  Coin for services.  This man was for hire just like Geralt was for hire. 

He pushed Julian's smallclothes down all the way with his free hand--keeping the other clasped at his skull--watched them pool around his ankles.  The whore kicked them to the side.

Geralt ran his fingers between Julian's cheeks, felt the warmed base of a copper plug. "Have you had a cock today?" he asked.

"No," Julian answered, spreading his legs wider.

"Then you might still need stretching."

Julian huffed a laugh.  "On average I take four cocks a day, suck double that, and I wear the plug, so I'm always ready--I don't need stretching."

"When was the last time you had a witcher's cock?"

"I've never had a witcher's cock."

"That's what I thought.  You'll need stretching, trust me.  The mutagens make us--"

Someone behind him cleared their throat.  Geralt glanced over his shoulder to see all of the contestants watching him. 

"Be decent and go upstairs, witcher," the Count barked at him from his new table.

Geralt twisted his fingers in Julian's hair--unlaced his trousers with his free hand.  "Are you here to play Gwent, or watch me plough my field?  Huh?" He barked at the Count. "Eyes on your cards."

Today he was happy to play the part of the vulgar mutant everyone thought he was.

Because he needed to. 

If he took Julian somewhere private, it would be too easy to fall all the way into the fantasy.  Too easy to find himself whispering Jaskier and dropping to his knees again.

Even here, with all of these eyes on him, he was already having trouble remembering himself, remembering where he was and who he was really with.

When no one else challenged him, he turned back to Julian. "Do you want to remove the plug, or should I?"

"Whatever you want."

"What do you want?"

There was a long pause before Julian said tentatively, "That's not a question I hear often.  Most people--"

"I'm not most people," Geralt said bluntly. "Which do you prefer?"

"You," Julian said. "You can take it out."

Geralt immediately took hold of the plug's base, tugged and twisted, working it free.  Julian hissed into the wall, gasping when the largest part of it slid past his entrance.

The toy was no small thing, and it thunked heavily when Geralt dropped it to the floor.

It rolled a few feet away, but he paid it no mind, too focused, instead, on the gentle drip of oil seeping from between Julian's legs.

Geralt slid his hand a few inched beneath Julian's opening, catching the droplets on his fingers.  After a moment, he reached up, pressed his newly-oiled fingertips against Julian.

And Julian bowed his back, pressed his bum onto Geralt's hand, onto his fingers--

Three of them slipped easily inside.

They both groaned.

Julian was loose.  Loose like only a whore could be. Even Geralt's slutty little bard would never be this loose.

He'd seen Jaskier take big, hulking men to bed.  He could only imagine their cocks were proportional, huge, stretching Jaskier so well--

Geralt slid a fourth finger into Julian, and there, yes, some resistance clamped down around his digits.

Julian gasped.

"Alright?" Geralt asked.

"Does it matter?"

"To me, yes."

He hated every fucking arsehole who couldn't be bothered to treat a whore like a person.

Perhaps that was one of the reasons he'd always felt a kindred draw toward prostitutes; many people desired the services of both witchers and whores, but spat on their very existence.

"I'm fine," Julian assured him.

"Anyone ever fist you?"

"Once or twice. You're not--?"

"No. But at least I know you can take it."

He worked him with his fingers a few minutes more.

Geralt was surprised when another prostitute came over to them.  He nearly shooed her away, but she wasn't there to intervene. She was pretty, blonde, with elven ears, and offered Julian a sip of water from a cup.

Geralt allowed Julian to lean back a bit form the wall, gave the woman room to lift the cup to his lips.

She patted Julian's cheek after he'd taken his drink.  "Our Dandelion gets dehydrated easily," she said with a wink, eyes unabashedly straying to where Geralt's fingers disappeared inside the other man.  "Best to keep him watered, especially if you intend to play a long time."

Dandelion.

Of course.  Geralt might have guessed. Narcissa, Viola... Dandelion.  All the Passiflora whores took flower names.

Just like Jaskier.

The connection made his face hot, made him clench his teeth and close his eyes.

As she walked away, Geralt wrenched his fingers from Julian's--  Dandelion's--  The whore's body. "You ready?" he rumbled in his ear.

"You're the one with the monster dick, you tell me."

In answer, Geralt pulled himself out of is breeches, gave his thick cock a few long strokes before he pressed the blunt head of it against Julian's opening.

Julian braced his hands against the wall, shoved back against Geralt.

The witcher let himself sink slowly into the whore's well-slicked heat.

Fuck, it had been too long since he'd fucked someone in the arse.  He'd almost forgotten all the ways it was different from a pussy--where a cunt was open and accepting, here there was always a resistance, a clenching that was different.

He shoved himself in to the hilt, until he felt Julian's heavy sac smack against his.

They both let out a huff of air.

Julian tried to rock his hips right away, but Geralt caught him by the waist, stilled him.  The witcher released the other man's hair and ran his hand down the curve of his spine, once again imagining Jaskier. 

"Do you want me loud, or quiet?" Julian asked, a little tremor in his voice.

"Loud," he said immediately.

Jaskier was so very loud.

Julian tried to buck once more, but Geralt forced him still again. "I just want to feel you," he mumbled.

He let his hand trail from Julian's back around his hip and down to his groin.  He was pleasantly surprised to find him still hard--whores couldn't always keep it up, even the expensive ones--and so he stroked him, wrung a lovely little moan from him. 

"Did you take something?" Geralt asked.

"What?" Julian asked, clearly confused.

"For the stiffness."  He gave him a firm squeeze.

Julian let out a breathy laugh.  "No.  But it's not often I get to fuck someone I actually like."

He was a whore, he had to say such things.  But Geralt let himself be flattered anyway.  Let himself lean in to nuzzle at the back of Julian's head.

He was so warm and wet around Geralt's cock, so hot and heavy in his hand.

"Now," Julian said after a time, "Are you going to fuck me or braid my hair?"

"Bratty," Geralt grumbled, his cock immediately jumping. 

"Hmm, you like that?" Julian asked, keeping his voice low, keeping the words just between them.

Geralt didn't say anything, but yanked his hips back before ploughing forward.

Julian gasped, met Geralt's thrust with his own harsh, backwards push.  "Ah, oh, yes, you like that. Do you like that because he's like that? Does he talk back to you, give you lip?"

His bard was bratty.  So very, very bratty.

Geralt drew back and fucked in again, picking up the pace, focusing on force instead of speed.  He relished every rigid smack of flesh meeting flesh.  Every wonderful, firm glide put a glorious squeeze on his cock.

"You're going to have to tell me about him sometime," Julian said.  "This man you don't hate or love who talks snidely to you and makes you want to fall to your knees for him."

Geralt growled through his teeth, digging his hands into Julian's hips, pulling him back harshly onto his cock.

"You wanted to suck my prick, I know you did," Julian teased. "Because you want to suck his."

Another ragged grumble escaped Geralt, and he thrust into him harder.

"Do...do you like this?" Julian asked. "Do you want me to keep talking about him?"

"Yes," Geralt hissed through his teeth.

"It would help if I knew--"

"He's a slutty little shit," Geralt bit out.  "Fucking cocky bastard."

Julian hummed thoughtfully--too thoughtfully, what with the way Geralt was pounding his arse. "I think I...I think I understand. He's a slutty little shit...slutty for everyone but you?"

Geralt rumbled threateningly, angrily, in the back of his throat.  He shoved Julian's hips forward, made him plaster himself head-to-toe to the wall. Geralt pressed into him bodily from behind--caging him, trapping him. "Yes," he admitted through his teeth.

Julian reached back over his shoulder, grabbed Geralt's hair, tugged.  "He doesn't know what he's missing," he whispered softly, sensuously--kindly.  "You would fuck him so good."

Geralt tucked his face into Julian's shoulder, couldn't keep the strangled sob from escaping his chest.

He thrust forward, trying to get deeper, trying to bury himself, to hide away in Julian's body.

There was a pang in his chest and heat on his cock, and he just wanted so thoroughly. Wanted something he couldn’t have.

"That's it, fuck me," Julian growled.  "Fuck me. I'll give you everything he won't."

Geralt fucked him hungrily, fiercely, could feel his orgasm building, his need heightening.

The harsher he fucked Julian, the more garbled the whore's words became.  He dissolved into moans and sighs, and he sounded--he sounded just like--

Geralt pulled out before he came, turning to the side, spilling himself onto the floor, stroking himself through his orgasm. His come splattered onto his boots and Julian's ankles, but he didn't care.

His pleasure was fleeting.  His orgasm swamped in and fluttered away just as quickly, leaving him feeling hollowed out.

Geralt's breathing was labored.  Far more labored than usual after a fuck.  He turned, leaned his back heavily against the wall beside Julian, who also turned--turned toward him, reached for him, fisting the front of his shirt.

The whore's eyes were wide, needy. His fringe was plastered to his forehead with sweat.  Geralt looked down, saw he was still hard, his cock straining and rosy with blood. 

His arousal was genuine.

Geralt wanted to suck him off.

He wanted to please him, this man who'd known him less than an hour and could read him like a book.

It scared him.

He'd never been terrified of a whore before.

"Which one of your colleagues gives the best head?" he asked between breaths.

"I do," Julian breathed, still looking at him with want, with--with adoration.

"Who do you want to suck your cock?" Geralt demanded.

Julian's fingertips came up to brush at Geralt's mouth, but he said nothing.

"Pick one," Geralt urged, grabbing his hand, pulling it away.  "Pick and I'll pay you both for the pleasure."  Surely they had clients who liked to watch.  Surely they weren't adverse to fucking each other when the coin was right.

"Amrynn," he breathed, pointing at the she-elf who'd brought him his drink.

"Call her over," Geralt gasped, running his hand across his face, trying to regain his composure.

The whole room was looking at him.  He tried to ignore them as he tucked his cock back into his trousers.

Julian got Amrynn's attention with a crook of his finger.  Geralt picked up his purse and counted out all the coin he owed--double for a public fuck, and four times the rate for a blowjob.  A blowjob that wasn't even his.

As Amrynn sank to her knees and Julian let out a desirous gasp, Geralt picked up his swords and walked away, feeling for all the world like he'd just been through a fight instead of a fuck.

Chapter Text

Geralt didn't fully realize the gravity of what he'd done--what kind of a mistake he'd made--until he met up with Jaskier in Oxenfurt two weeks later. 

It was late evening when Geralt entered The Alchemy. He was tired from several unexpected encounters on the road, and was looking forward to a quiet laugh with a good friend, a cold ale, and a warm bed. Nothing simpler, nothing better to set his mind at ease.

But when he spotted Jaskier in the far back corner, his breath caught in his chest.

He'd thought fucking the whore would give him a release, would dampen the need.

Not make it go away, no--he wasn't self-deluded enough to think bedding someone who simply looked like Jaskier would make his want to go away.

He'd just hoped it would dull the sharp edge of desire when he next laid eyes on his friend.

But it made the itch to touch him so much worse.

The bard's face was jovial, and his eyes glittered in the inn's candlelight. He grinned widely as a barmaid plunked a plate down in front of him, and his tongue dripped honey into his thank you and my good lady and don't you look wonderful this evening. Even as she stepped away, Jaskier continued to thank her profusely, adding in a suggestive wink for good measure.

Gods, he was magnificent.

The bastard.

"Geralt! There you are," Jaskier called, waving him over.  "I'd almost given up hope. You said you'd meet me three nights ago, what kept you?"

"Nekkers on the road," he grumbled, sliding onto a bench across the table from Jaskier, curling his gloved fingers into fists against his thighs.

"Well, I was just about to run off and go scouting for treasure all on my own, but now that you're here I suppose I can be convinced to split the hoard fifty-fifty."  He slapped a piece of parchment onto the table between them.

But Geralt's attention wasn't draw to the paper. Jaskier's long fingers sported two new gold rings that Geralt had never seen before.

The witcher wanted to pull the jewelry off with his teeth.

Jaskier slid his hands over the parchment, trying to smooth out the wrinkles and folds.  The tip of his tongue stuck thoughtfully out of the corner of his mouth as he worked.

He had such a wicked tongue...

"What's that?" Geralt asked, barely remembering to say anything at all--barely remembering that a conversation went two ways--so preoccupied, was he, with the idea of sucking on Jaskier's bejeweled fingers. 

"A treasure map, of course," Jaskier said, blissfully unaware. "Seems some bandits hid their haul in an abandoned church yard just south of the city, and..."

Jaskier kept talking.  And Geralt watched his hands, then his lips--watched his eyes flutter, noted how blue they were.  Blue, like they should be.

He called up the memory of kneeling before Julian--Dandelion--and was now able to place the correct shade of blue into his eyes. No more hazel. Just blue.

If his eyes had been blue, he would have sucked his cock.

Blood rushed to Geralt's groin.  He placed his hand over his crotch, subtly pressing down with the heel of his palm.

"--Geralt, are you even listening?"

No, he wasn't.  He was watching Jaskier's adam's apple bob and remembering how Dandelion's pulse had fluttered under his touch.

"Sorry," Jaskier said with a sigh. "Where are my manners?  You've been on the hot, dusty road all day, the sun's already gone down, and you're likely in need of a good ale before we set off. And, here." He pushed his plate of bread, cheese, and dried meat over to Geralt.  "Unless you'd like to go straight upstairs?"

Geralt blinked. "Upstairs?"

"Upstairs?  To sleep?  Really, Geralt, you must be exhausted, what with the way your mouth keeps hanging open like you've never heard words before.  I procured a room for us."

"Yeah, actually, sleep sounds good," he said, standing. 

He could lie there in the dark and get control of himself, regroup, figure out how to interact with Jaskier without reliving his last fuck every five seconds.

"Right. Then we can head out in the morning."

Jaskier stood as well, taking the plate of food with him, and they began to make their way to the stairs. 

"I am sorry to say, though," Jaskier added, "there's only the one bed. I wasn't going to book a double room again, what with you failing to show on the appointed night. We've managed before, so I--"

No. No no no no, oh no.  Geralt could not tolerate a one-bed situation with Jaskier right now.  Not when...not when it was already taking all of his self-control not to press him up against the wall and see if he tasted different than the whore.

"On second thought," he grumbled. "How far away is the church?"

 

#

 

"Goodness, what a dig," Jaskier said, wiping the sweat from his brow. 

"You've barely done anything," Geralt shot back at him. 

They stood in the middle of the darkened church yard, full moon over head, pavers pried up before them and shovels in-hand. 

Supposedly, there were valuable diagrams and a heap of gold under this walkway--which led back towards a set of abandoned family mausoleums at the rear of the yard--supposedly.

Jaskier had latched onto bad tips before.  Had sent the two of them on plenty of wild goose chases, and into traps, and monster dens.

There'd even been that one time Jaskier had agreed to be succubus bait, and instead of drawing her out with his singing, he'd just gone into her lair--like a complete idiot.

Now, the bard had barely managed three shovels-full of graveyard dirt before he'd whipped off his doublet and his chemise, flinging them over a nearby headstone.

Geralt kept his gaze fixed on the shallow hole they were digging. 

He would not stare at Jaskier's naked chest in the moonlight.

He would not admire the way his high-waisted breeches hugged his hips.

He would not imagine undoing the lacing on the back of those breeches.

He would not--

"Yes, well," Jaskier said indignantly, replying to Geralt's griping. "Typically, it's my legs, not my arms, that get a workout when I'm with you--what with your no bards on horses policy."

I'll give you a workout, Geralt grumbled silently to himself. Work you right up against that fucking gravestone.

The witcher thrust the tip of his shovel just a tad too harshly into the dirt.

Jaskier started to dig again, but paused, asked suddenly, "Do you hear that?"

"You don't need to make up excuses to quit shoveling," Geralt groused at him.

"No, no really.  Do you--?"

Geralt stopped.  Yes--there. Voices.  He focused his hearing. Drunkards, by the sounds of it.  Drunkards headed their way.  Drunkards talking about wine, and women, and gold.

Shit.

How had he not heard them first?  Why was he letting himself get so damned distracted?

"Bandits," he said, tossing his shovel, then Jaskier's, into the nearest bush. 

He reached for the bard next, meant to yank him along by his collar--before he remembered he currently had no collar. His hand landed instead on the slope of his bare throat.  With no time to think, he tugged him along anyway, steered him further into the yard, back towards where the mausoleums were tightly packed.

"Damn it, Jaskier, I thought you said this site was abandoned," he whispered harshly.

"I said the church was abandoned, not the treasure," Jaskier corrected, allowing Geralt to push and pull him in various directions.  "Don't people who bury treasure usually intend to come back for it?" The bard glanced the way they'd come.  "They've lit torches now, maybe six or seven."

"Great."

"What's the problem? You can take half a dozen bandits in your sleep."

"Not with you here. I'd never hear the end of it if you lost an eye, and I'm not lucky enough for them to take your tongue."

"I know that was meant to wound me, but I must say I find it awfully chivalrous of you--so concerned with my bodily integrity, you're willing to give up a haul like this without so much as a protest, let alone a fight."

"Shut up."

The moonlight, which had so worked in their favor while digging, now threatened to expose them.  The only dark niches were between the lavish, closely-packed tombs.

Without ceremony, Geralt shoved Jaskier down the narrow passage created by two tall marble walls.  The bard cursed as the growth of vines and weeds there scratched and pricked at his bare torso. The witcher followed close after--the space was so tight, they had to press right up against each other. 

Jaskier stopped moving forward, even as Geralt tried to insist he continue on.  Instead, Jaskier tried to shuffle back the way they'd come, forcing Geralt to press his back up against one wall as the bard tried to wriggle his hips by.

Idiot poet. "Where are you--?"

"You could have at least allowed me my chemise, Geralt. What if those ruffians steal it and I have to walk all the way back--?"

"There's no time, you can't go back for it now."

"Really, you expect me to--?"

"Be quiet, they'll hear you." Without thinking, he put his hand on the side of Jaskier's head and shoved his face against the cold stone of the mausoleum to force him still. The bard's shoulder's followed his head, and his hips pushed back instinctually, countering the shift in weight.

His arse made firm contact with Geralt's groin as his back bowed.

Instantly, the witcher was transported to the Passiflora, with Dandelion's skull under his fingertips, the whore's naked back dipping before him, arse slick and hot around--

Fuck.

His cock started to swell.

He tried to will his arousal away, tried to snuff it out.

But, here was Jaskier, bent over just like a whore--just like his whore.  All half naked and bathed in moonlight--with a sheen of sweat between his shoulder blades just there for the licking and--oh fuck.

"Geralt," Jaskier whined. "You brute, come on, just let me--"

The witcher grabbed him by his shoulders and awkwardly turned him around.  Geralt plastered his own arse to the opposite wall, keeping his groin as far away from Jaskier as possible--which was no more than a hair's breadth in the cramped space--and slapped his gloved palm over Jaskier's mouth. "What part of be quite don't you understand? They're getting closer.  Any minute they will see that someone's been digging and come looking for us.  If you wish to keep your eyes--and your hands, and your head, and likely your fucking cock--then shut up."

Jaskier's eyes went wide. Geralt could feel Jaskier's hot breath warming the leather of his glove, could feel his breaths quickening, could see the rapid rise and fall of his chest. 

And then the air turned sweet around them.

Sweet, and thick, with Jaskier's arousal.

Geralt took a deep breath, and closed his eyes.

This was the problem. 

Always the fucking problem. 

Was it any wonder Geralt wanted Jaskier when the bastard got off on danger?

Every time Geralt drew his sword with the bard near, not only did he have to contend with the stench of whatever monster was about, but also the aroma of Jaskier's excitement.

The bard smelled like want every time they found themselves cornered, or bloodied, or running for their lives.

Hunts made him hard.

Approaching doom gave him a thrill. 

Promise the man impending peril, and as much as he'd act the coward, his cock would thicken at the thought of it.

Was it any wonder the bastard chose people with the most murderous spouses as his bed partners?

He had as much fun fleeing from cuckholds as he had making them.

How could Geralt be expected to do his job and not desire his bard when his bard always smelled of desire whenever he tried to do his job?

It was maddening.

"Don't," Geralt whispered. He wasn't even sure if he was chiding himself, or Jaskier.

When Geralt opened his eyes again, he expected Jaskier to look contrite. 

Instead, an image of Dandelion--all sweaty and wanton and looking at him with need--flashed before his eyes.

He wanted to make Jaskier look at him that way.

But, gods above, the way that Jaskier was looking at him now...

How could he stand there looking at Geralt with those sweet blue, blue eyes, his shirt gone, the scent of his excitement rolling off of him in waves, and not...not expect Geralt to...?

He wanted to fall to his knees.  He wanted to take Jaskier's cock into his mouth, down his throat.  He would treat him so well, suck him so good.  He would make Jaskier come so hard, if only--

"Oi, someone's been diggin'!"

Chapter Text

"Which one of your whoresons was it?  Fess up!  Was it you, Fergus?  I saw you sneakin' off last night."

"To fuck yer sister, mate.  Why'd I want t'come back and half dig up our loot?"

"Look 'ere.  Look 'ere, this fancy jacket."

"And a nice shirt, too."

"Too fancy for grave robbin', doncha think?"

Jaskier struggled, then.  Damn fool was more worried about his expensive clothes than his fucking extremities.

And Geralt was more worried about Jaskier's safety than his own mortifying erection.

So he pressed in close, held him still with his body.

And prayed that Jaskier couldn't feel the stiffness of his cock through his leathers.

Jaskier's hands, which had been scrabbling at the stone behind him, came up as though to push Geralt away.

But instead settled on the witcher's waist.

"Don't move," Geralt mouthed.

Jaskier nodded--nearly imperceptibly behind Geralt's glove--and eased against the witcher.

"Who takes off their nice clothes in the middle of a cemetery, anyhow?" came more of the bandits' jeering.

"Did it when I bedded that traveling merchant that one time.  Ye haven't lived, boys, till you've fucked on top 'o graves."

"That what you thinkin' then?  Somebody's around here fuckin'?"

"I only see one set of clothes."

"And only a half-dug pit, eh? Maybe they interrupted their own grave robbing with a bit of knob-grabbing and we interrupted that.  Whacha think?"

"Spread out!  See what you can find."

Jaskier's eyes went wide again, and he tried to say something into Geralt's glove.

"Shh," Geralt warned him softly.

Jaskier bucked.

It was a full-body jolt--likely from fear, likely part of his instinct to run.

But the movement rolled his danger-induced hard-on right against Geralt's own twice-cursed prick.

Pleasure shot through Geralt's groin.  He hissed involuntarily.

What if I just kill him? Gearlt mused.  If I murder him, I won't have to worry about getting us both killed because I'm too busy thinking about ploughing his arse to pay attention.

Torch light came close.  They couldn't stay here.

He Jerked his head to the side, indicating they should move further back.  If they could squeeze out the other side, then it shouldn't be far to the stone wall surrounding the churchyard. After that, they could run into the nearby forest. Hopefully, if they were spotted, none of the bandits would care enough to give chase.

Jaskier nodded his understanding, moved when Geralt pushed him.

It was a tight fit.  Geralt had to shove Jaskier out the other side--lithe as he was--and Geralt realized he had no chance of making it through with his armor on.

After Jaskier broke through, he patiently accepted the pieces Geralt was able to unbuckle and hand over--his swords, his pauldrons. But the witcher could only get out of his cuirass by wedging it between the buildings and sliding out from beneath it.

His well-worn under shirt caught on one of the loose studs as he went.  The metal tugged at his shoulder, forced the fabric taut, tore at the aging threads, and pulled at the closures down his front.  Half of the buttons beneath his collar popped away as he wrenched himself out of the narrow passage, leaving his own chest bared to the night air.

As he stumbled out from under the cuirass, he ran bodily into Jaskier, who'd just been standing there dumbly, holding his things. "Leave them," Geralt grumbled. "There, in the bushes."

"Geralt, we can't.  My doublet is one thing, but your armor, your swords--"

"We'll be back for them.  I doubt these men will go scrounging in the weeds."

"No, we--"

"Don't make me throw you over my shoulder.  Leave them and run."

Jaskier very reluctantly did as he was told.

Geralt had to boost Jaskier over the church yard wall--hands full-on gripping his backside--but he tried not to think about it as shouts arose in the yard.  The bandits were fighting with one another.

The two of them barreled into the woods, doing their best to beat the moonlight and the torchlight all at once.

It was dark under the cover of trees.  Too dark for Jaskier to see.  He stumbled several times, and Geralt had to yank him up.  Again and again.

Finally, Jaskier's boot caught on an upraised root. Geralt tried to catch him as he pitched forward, but failed to realize the root wouldn't give.  Jaskier made a pained sound as his ankle twisted, and they both fell.

Worried the oaf might hit his head on an undiscovered rock, Geralt rolled himself in front of Jaskier at the last moment, so that he landed on his back with Jaskier sprawling face-first on top of him.

Jaskier slammed into him with and oof.

They both simply lay there for several heart beats, Jaskier's breath coming high and fast, their chests pressed together.

With growing unease, Geralt noted that neither of their erections had flagged.

When Jaskier leaned up to look at Geralt, his face was stunned.

A shiver of anxiety shot through the witcher. 

He had to stop himself from simply knocking Jaskier away in panic.

"Get. Off," he growled.

Jaskier smirked.  He couldn't see Geralt's face in the dark, but he obviously knew Geralt could see his.  "Well, well.  Is that a proposition, or--?"

No. No. You stupid--

Geralt was in no mood to be teased--especially not like that, not now. Now with the both of them hard and rolling in the dirt. "Get off me before I throw you off."

"The moment I saw you this evening, I could tell you were wound awfully tight," Jaskier said.  Talking, but not moving. "Suppose that's what spending most nights alone does to a man. We should hurry back as soon as this bandit nonsense is done with, find you some company to ease that witchery tension of yours.  Find us both some company what with the way...well, you know."

"I don’t want company," Geralt grumbled.  He got a hand under Jaskier's chest, shoved at him lightly, warningly.

The bard simply sat up, which meant all of his weight was now bearing down on Geralt's groin.  "Oh, I think you do," Jaskier said playfully, clearly fully aware of Geralt's erection.

Jaskier was never one for discretion, never one to shy away or get embarrassed over a silly little thing like a hard cock pressed against him.

It would never cross his mind that he should be mortified here, straddling his best friend.

Yes, I should kill him, Geralt thought.  Murder was the only practical solution.

Jaskier crossed his arms, as though they were just having a polite conversation like they would anywhere else. "When was the last time you got your dick good and wet, hmm?" he asked.

Two weeks ago in Novigrad.  In a man who looked just like you.  I fucked a gods-damned whore and pretended I was getting my dick wet in your slutty gods-damned arse.

Hiring Dandelion had been impulsive, and ill-conceived--thoughtless, careless.

A mistake.

But here, now, looking up at Jaskier in the dark as the bard straddled him--shirtless, breathless--he knew: he would do it again in a heartbeat.

He would do it again tomorrow, if he thought his feet could carry him there that quickly.

He would do it again the next time he was in Novigrad, no question about it.

"Come on, Geralt. Let me at least hire someone for you when we get back. My treat."

Blood pounded in Geralt's ears.

Gods-damned son of an ass didn't know when to shut the fuck up.

You could give me a treat right here, right now.  You could pull the rest of those poncy clothes off and bend over for me in the dirt.

Or, at the very least, you could shove down the hem of your trousers and let me get my mouth on you.

Or just your hands.  Your hands on my dick, or your fingers on my tongue. Fuck, let me, just--

Shit.

Fuck.

With a roar, Geralt shoved Jaskier the rest of the way off, made him fall back on his arse in the dirt.  The witcher shot to his feet, then stumbled forward and planted a boot warningly on the inside of Jaskier's thigh. "Stay right here, don't move, and for the love of some lesser god do not speak."

He turned and started to stalk away, deeper into the woods.

"Geralt?  Geralt!  Where are you going?  Don't leave me. I can't see a thing!"

"I said shut up and don't move.  I'll be back for you." 

He couldn't stand it anymore.  He had to get away from him.  His scent, his warmth, his gaze, his voice. It was too much.  Everything about him was too much.

Geralt drove himself another twenty paces before collapsing against a thick tree. 

He was hard and throbbing in the confines of his leathers. Maybe--maybe if he just--

He put his hand over his mouth as he palmed himself through his trousers, trying to muffle the cries he knew he couldn't bite back.

His eyes fluttered as his lips met the leather and he realized: this was the same hand he'd used to cover Jaskier's mouth. The same one the bard had made hot with his breath.

And Geralt could taste him on it.

With his other hand, he quickly worked open the buttons on his trousers, shoved his smallclothes aside, and pulled out his cock.

With the smell of Jaskier in his nose and the taste of him on his lips, Geralt stroked himself and imagined mounting Jaskier right here, right now.  Imagined the bard yanking down his own trousers and presenting himself. Imagined him begging Geralt to slip inside, to fill him up.

To fuck him good.

Dandelion's voice echoed through his mind. "You would fuck him so good."

I would.  If he would only let me.  Oh gods, I could.  Right now. Fuck. He's so close. So fucking close.

If Geralt was too loud, Jaskier would hear him. Hear him jerking off in the woods.

Part of him was terrified Jaskier would hear.  Another part wanted him to hear.

Gods, what would he say, really, if he caught Geralt with his hand on his prick?

He'd probably make a fucking joke.

"Does he talk back to you, give you lip?"

Geralt would like to see Jaskier try to make a joke with his lips stretched around a cock.  That would shut him up for certain.

But he didn't want to shut him up.  Not really.  He wanted Jaskier to egg him on while he thrust into him. 

"That's it, fuck me. Fuck me."

Geralt's fantasy became blurred.  He imagined Jaskier in the forest, but the memory of Dandelion, of how he felt on his cock and beneath his hands, dominated the illusory sensations.

But there was one thing he could do here, in the woods, that he couldn't do with the whore.

"Jaskier," he whispered. 

He wanted to breathe Jaskier's name into the bard's own skin.  He wanted to say it against his thighs, and between his shoulder blades, and into his neck. 

He didn't want to say it to him in spite, or irritation, or indignation. Not like he said it to him in the daylight.

He wanted to say it with hunger.  He wanted to fill it full of the lust he felt, wanted every letter to carry his need and convey his appetite.

It felt so heavy on his tongue, now, ghosting out into the darkness.

"Jaskier," he huffed, panting into his palm, keeping the name trapped as best he could while he stroked himself in the cold night air. "Jaskier. Jaskier. Fuck. Jaskier."

The tip of his tongue flicked out to glide briefly over the leather, to lick at where Jaskier's mouth had been.

It was a sharp hint of what it would be like to kiss him, of what his mouth would taste like.

Those soft lips and that well-practiced tongue had been here, right here, right against Geralt's hand.

He tugged himself more firmly, his cock throbbing, his pulse making it thump heavily in his hand. The leather of his glove was soft against his cock--he always kept them supple. It would have been better with some slickness, no doubt, but he was too far gone to really care.

"Geralt?" Jaskier called from nearby. 

Very nearby.

Far closer than where Geralt had left him.

Geralt gritted his teeth, torn between saying nothing and barking at Jaskier to stay away.

But he didn't stop stroking himself.  He couldn't--he'd built his pleasure up too high, the only way to knock it down was to tumble over into orgasm. 

And he had to do that before Jaskier found him.

"Geralt? Where are you?"

The witcher bit his lip and curled further into the trunk, trying to put his back to the voice.

"Geralt..." Jaskier said softly.  Too soft for anyone other than a Witcher to hear at his distance. "Geralt, I need you."

It was so quiet, so desperate.

So easy to mistake for the sigh of a lover.

With a strangled shout, Geralt came. It took everything in his power not to cry out Jaskier one more time. 

His spend shot, hot and wet, over the dead leaves at his feet. Rope after rope of it splattered to the ground, each little after shock of his orgasm wrenching one more spurt from his cock.

He couldn't catch his breath, couldn't hear anything but his steady heartbeat in his ears.  Everything was a white-out of pleasure. 

Slowly...slowly...he came down from the high.

"Geralt? Where did you go?"

When it was finally over, the witcher gasped, and gave himself only a moment to recover his wits before he tucked his over-sensitive dick back into his trousers and licked up the dash of his own come that had accidently splashed onto his glove.

Ashamed, he stepped out from behind the tree, whirling toward the voice. "I told you to stay put," he growled, hoping only he could hear the shakiness of his voice.

"You can't abandon me half-naked in the woods and expect me to stay put," Jaskier shot back, still hidden amongst the trees.

"Would you prefer fully-naked next time?" he demanded, hating himself the moment the words left his mouth.

"Geralt, you know me," Jaskier said, finally moving into Geralt's line of sight. "Fully-naked is always preferable."

Chapter Text

Jaskier came closer still, was now no more than a few paces away.

Without thinking, Geralt held out a hand, terrified the bard would stumble over to him and step in the evidence of his shame. "Stay back."

Jaskier instantly froze.  "Is something wrong?"

Yes.  Everything about you makes me lose my mind.

"Is there something out here?" Jaskier asked, looking around as though he could spot a monster in the darkness when he couldn't even see Geralt.

"No."

"Well thank the heavens for that. When do you think it'll be safe to return to the church?" The bard wrapped his arms around himself.  "I'm getting a chill, and you know what'll happen if I get sick.  So much as a slight cough or runny nose and I'll lose a week's worth of coin--never mind the potential damage wrought by a full-blown sore throat.  I can't take the hit to my livelihood."

He shivered, hands rubbing up and down his biceps.

Geralt wanted to bundle him into his arms, share the perpetual heat of his mutated body. 

But he couldn't stand to touch Jaskier again, not right now.  He feared he'd do something foolish.

With a heavy sigh, Geralt pulled his torn shirt over his head.  "Here."  He moved swiftly to the bard's side, swathed him in it.

Jaskier looked surprised for a moment as he worked out just exactly what he was wearing.  "You are a prince among men," he said exuberantly, hugging himself again, running his palms up and down his arms now to appreciate the softness of the worn material instead of to ward off a chill.  After a moment, he rolled up the sleeves past his elbows and tucked the hem into his breeches.

Geralt swallowed thickly as his enhanced eyes drank in the way the garment hung from Jaskier; he was nearly broad enough for it in the shoulders, but he didn't have the muscle to fill it out the way Geralt did.

The way it fit him was enticing none the less.

Geralt had to glance away, take a deep breath.

Great.

Another mistake.

Now he would always know what Jaskier looked like draped in his clothes.

 

 

#

 

Their bandit problem, as it turned out, had resolved itself.

The six men lay lifeless, their corpses strewn about the churchyard like dolls flung around by a spoilt child.

It appeared they had all killed each other.

"Do you think it was over the treasure?" Jaskier asked.  "Or should the one ought not to have fucked the other's sister?" He looked over the bodies just as thoroughly as Geralt did, as though he too had enhanced senses by which he could deduce the chain of events.

"Looks like maybe two tried to cheat the rest. Though it doesn't matter in the end, I suppose."

They gathered the treasure, and their things. Jaskier's abandoned clothes were shredded and bloodied, having been fought over as well, so he wore Geralt's shirt all the way back to the inn. 

The inn where there was only one bed.

When they finally returned to The Alchemy and reached their room, both it and the bed were even smaller than Geralt had imagined.

But he was too tired to grouse. 

Similarly, Jaskier was too tired to properly get ready for bed. 

As Geralt tucked away his things, he could hear Jaskier undressing behind him and kept his gaze averted. His shameful wank in the woods might have temporarily cooled the fire between his legs, but there were still plenty of embers there ready to be stoked back into a full blaze at any moment.

He only dared turn around when he heard Jaskier flop onto the straw mattress with a sigh.

The bard now sprawled face-first across the entirety of the absurdly narrow bed, his legs splayed wide. Open and--Geralt swallowed harshly--inviting.

A small pile of garments lay near the foot of the pallet--Jaskier's boots, his trousers...and his smallclothes.

But he still donned Geralt's shirt.  The hem of it just long enough to cover his groin.

The witcher had half a mind to snap at him to take it off, except--

Except then he'd be completely naked.

Just as he'd said he'd prefer. 

Even now, all it would take was a slight wrinkle, a bit of gathering, a twist or a shift, and the shirt would be rucked up high enough to reveal the pale curve of his arse, the swell of his sac--maybe even the head of his cock.

Geralt's mouth watered.

He wanted to go to Jaskier and bury his face between his thighs. To hold him down with a hand pressed into the small of his back while he licked at Jaskier from behind. He could drag the flat of his tongue over Jaskier's backside, his balls.  He could bite into the meat of his legs, leave imprints of his teeth, evidence he'd been there.

It would be so easy.  He was right there.  All the witcher had to do was press up behind him and say something.  Ask.  And then he would know if Jaskier knew what he was doing to Geralt--if he was doing it on purpose--or if he was...

Was just relaxed.

In a safe place.

With a good friend.

After a long day.

Geralt gritted his teeth, cursed at himself.

Jaskier felt safe with him.  Safe to bathe in front of him, and undress in front of him, and sprawl out openly on a bed before him.

What would he do if he could read Geralt's thoughts?  If he knew the witcher he trusted was just standing there salivating over him, barely holding himself back?

Geralt didn't want to scare him--to make Jaskier self-conscious or worry that the witcher would...that he'd do something. Something the bard didn't want.

Geralt nearly stormed out.  He started to turn, reaching for his bags, a half-formed excuse on his lips. He could spend the night in the stables with Roach.  And he and Jaskier could get proper, separate rooms tomorrow.

But then Jaskier tucked his arms under the pillow beneath his face and burrowed his nose into its soft covering, humming pleasantly.  

And Geralt knew he didn't want to be anywhere except by Jaskier's side--as difficult as it was to simply exist there.

With a heavy sigh, Geralt resolved to stay, and though he usually preferred to sleep in nothing but his undergarments at an inn, he steadfastly decided to keep his trousers on tonight.

Steeling himself, he approached the bed, dousing the single candle in the room with a small snap of aard.

"Scoot over," he grumbled.

"Make me," Jaskier replied.

Don’t force me to lay my hands on you right now. I don't know what I'll do.

"Scoot your arse or I'll make you take the floor."

Melodramatic mumbling followed, but Jaskier shimmied to one side and crawled under the blanket before turning over with his back to the mattress's middle.

Geralt joined him. The pallet creaked and the mat bowed beneath his weight, and he, in turn, rolled on his side with his back to the middle. With a deep breath, he pressed his shoulder blades into Jaskier's, letting the bard's heat seep into his spine.

He could be content with this. 

With this pleasant companionship and this shared warmth. 

He could.

He could.

#

 

No sooner was Geralt on the streets of Novigrad once more than he'd dropped off his things at the Kingfisher and stalked his way to the Passiflora.

Amrynn greeted him as he came through the door. "Afraid there's no Gwent this afternoon, my love."

"Dandelion, where is he?"

She smirked knowingly. "Upstairs, first landing, second door on the right.  Finished up with a client ten minutes ago, so he might still be bathing, but--"

"Thanks." Geralt brushed passed her, making for the staircase.

He found the room easily and swept the door aside. It hit the wall with a bang.

The small room was nicely furnished, if not overly lavish. It had a bed, a filled tub. A vanity with a mirror sat close to the door.

Dandelion stood in the middle of it all, atop a bearskin rug, with nothing but a thin towel wrapped around his waist. His hair was fluffy and damp, and water still dripped from his extremities.  "Door closed means--Oh.  Oh, it's you again."  He sounded pleasantly surprised, fascinated even.

Geralt held up his purse, fat as it was with his half of the graveyard loot. "You still want double?" he asked.

"You still want something filthy?" Dandelion shot back.

"Want you to talk filthy."

"About him?"

"About him. And--" He pulled his shirt over his head, held it out. "I want you to wear this."

"Your shirt?" Dandelion took it, stretched it out between his hands.  "Buttons are missing."

"I know," Geralt growled.

With a shrug, Dandelion dropped his towel--giving Geralt an unencumbered view of his soft cock--and slipped the garment on.  "This is rather mild as far as request go.  I've donned much worse for far less, and...oh." He grabbed the collar, brought it up to his nose.  "It smells of you, of course, but also..." He held Geralt's gaze, raised an eyebrow. "Him?"

"Him," Geralt confirmed, dropping his coin pouch on the vanity before moving in to put his hands around Dandelion's waist. "It smells like him," he whispered, tucking his face in the whore's neck before rubbing his nose across his shoulder, scenting Jaskier.

It was a scent akin to a mix of honey, lavender, and cedar wood.  Jaskier always smelled like spring time.

The morning after their treasure hunt, Jaskier had bought himself a new chemise and doublet, and instead of darning or washing the torn shit, Geralt had weaseled it away at the bottom of his saddle bag.

They'd stayed in Oxenfurt together for four more nights. They drank, and bantered, and watched sunsets from the harbor, and continued to share the same small room, without another word spoken about the inconvenience of it all.

But eventually their pleasant time together had come to an end. Jaskier had a courtly engagement further south to get to, and Geralt took a contract that had him swinging up north.

So they'd parted ways once more, agreeing to see each other the week after.

Leaving Jaskier always made Geralt feel a strange mix of things.  Relief, like he was coming up for air.  And somehow, at the same time, anxiousness, like he couldn't catch his breath.

Putting off his contract, Geralt had let his feet carry him unwaveringly to Novigrad, the shirt still tucked in his bag. He hadn't so much as touched it since first hiding it away, for fear it might lose its scent before he arrived.

Now it hung from Dandelion the way it had hung from Jaskier. 

It fit him just the same.

Geralt ached suddenly.  Everything in him hurt.  His chest grew tight, and his grip on Dandelion became clawing.

He pulled him close.  Crushingly close.

Jaskier's name was on the tip of his tongue.  He wanted to say it--needed to.

But he couldn't. He couldn't hand that over. Couldn't let Dandelion know.  He couldn't give this man that kind of power over him. 

"Jas--" He bit his tongue. "Julian," he gasped instead.

"What about your name?" Dandelion asked, his hand coming up to pet Geralt's hair.  "Tell me what to call you."

He nearly lied. Nearly gave him one of the names bestowed upon him by the elves, or one that he'd used when traveling secretly through hostile lands.

Nearly told him to shut up all together.

But, if he couldn't say Jaskier's name, perhaps hearing his own tumble from Dandelion's lips would suffice.

"Geralt," he admitted quietly.

"Geralt," Dandelion echoed.

The sweet way he said it sent a shiver down Geralt's spine.

"Kiss me, Geralt," Dandelion ordered.

The witcher could do naught but comply.

Chapter Text

He fell into Dandelion with a groan, reaching up to cup his face in both hands as he kissed him deeply, eyes closed.

With him clothed like this, Geralt could do the things to Dandelion that he'd longed to do to Jaskier on their shared bed.  He could taste him, he could fuck him, and now, he could make him moan his name.

Overeager--with a hunger in his heart and a throbbing ache between his legs--Geralt gathered Dandelion up in his arms, lifting him with two firm hands cradled beneath his bum.  The whore's legs instinctually wrapped around the witcher's waist.

Still slinking his tongue sensually between Dandelion's lips, Geralt carried him to the bed, pausing at the foot of the frame. 

A litany of Jaskier, Jaskier, Jaskier, played over and over in his head.

He couldn't shake his desperation, his neediness.

And he hated it.

He let himself drown in the kiss only a few moments more before tossing Dandelion onto the mattress.

Dandelion hit the sheets with a gasp. The whore wasn't exactly small, and probably wasn't used to being manhandled with so much ease. He scooted up toward the headboard, scrambling backwards as Geralt toed off his boots and knelt on the mattress.  

"Does he wear your clothes often? Or is this his?" Dandelion asked.

"Mine. And no," Geralt said, prowling forward on all fours. "Not often."

"Why does it smell so strongly of him?"

"He slept in it.  Just it. We...we had to share a bed."

Dandelion let his legs fall open, and Geralt slipped forward between them.

"But he didn’t let you fuck him?" Dandelion asked, voice smooth, honied, and yet...taunting.

"No," Geralt said, pressing forward, looming into Dandelion's space--forcing the whore to tilt his head back to look up at him.

"But he deserved to be fucked, didn’t he?" Dandelion asked, words shaded with spite. He reached for Geralt's medallion, yanked firmly on his chain. "Little slut put on your clothes and crawled into bed with you, what did he expect? Fucking tease, isn't he?  Did he press himself against you in the night?" He rolled his hips suggestively. "Did he wake up with his prick hard and peeking out from beneath your shirt?"

Geralt had tried to ignore Jaskier's morning wood.  He'd pretended he hadn't seen.  He'd only noticed the sheets tented, nothing more, but still--

"Yes," he hissed, running a finger down the front of Dandelion's exposed chest, skimming the edge of the shirt.

The whore curled a hand in the hem, pulled it slowly up to reveal his own dick, already thick and leaking. "Did you want to touch his cock?"

I wanted to touch him everywhere--anywhere.

"Yes."

"Did you want to suck his cock?"

"Yes."

With one hand still clutching the fabric, Dandelion slid the other around the back of Geralt's head and pushed.

He pushed him down, toward his groin.

Pushed him hard.

Geralt's instinct was to resist.

Instead, he let himself be forced, and buried his face in the seam of Dandelion's thigh.

"He shouldn't torment you like that," Dandelion cooed, threading his fingers through Geralt's hair. "It's cruel. You deserve to fuck him, Geralt. You deserve to have him. Show me how good you'd be to him, how well you'd take care of him, if only the bastard would let you."

Geralt shivered all over.

This was dangerous. 

Dandelion's words were dangerous.

The whore knew exactly what Geralt's fragile ego and aching heart needed to hear, and it would be so easy to claim those words and turn them into weapons against Jaskier.

I deserve this.  I deserve you.

He didn't.

He didn't deserve anything from Jaskier that his friend wasn't willing to give.

But he wanted. 

Gods, he wanted.

Geralt parted his lips, mouthed at the damp skin between Dandelion's legs.  He breathed in his musk, and nuzzled into the curls of hair covering his sac and framing his cock. He let his lips wander between his thighs, let his tongue swirl over his balls.

But this wasn't how Jaskier had sprawled on their bed.

"Turn over," he commanded.

Dandelion did as he was told, and the throbbing between Geralt's legs intensified as Dandelion flipped over and rucked up the shirt to reveal his arse.

As soon as he was comfortably arranged on his stomach, Geralt kneed the whore's legs further apart and spread his arse cheeks with his thumbs.

Dandelion wasn't wearing the plug.  He'd just had a bath--had just washed off the remnants of his last client.  And his hole was still reddened and swollen from recent use.

An unexpected pang of jealousy cut through Geralt.

Other people fucked his bard.

Other people fucked his whore.

Growling deep in his throat, Geralt surged forward, licking a long stripe from Dandelion's sac to the base of his spine.

The whore let out a delicious set of sharp cries.

Geralt reached up, smoothing his palm over the small of Dandelion's back before closing his eyes and bunching the shirt in his fist. With another rumble deep in his throat, he plunged his tongue into Dandelion.

The other man writhed beneath him, pressing his bum back, muttering obscenities. "Fuck. Oh fuck--Geralt."

The witcher had to assume not many patrons were interested in rimming their whores.

He worked him firmly with his tongue--spearing him deep, then pulling back to lick delicately at his entrance before lapping into him again.

"Gods, I take it back," Dandelion gasped.  "The little prick doesn't deserve you.  If this is what you'd give to him and he won't even touch you--  Fuck."

Geralt wanted to believe everything Dandelion said was sincere, that they weren't just the overly enthusiastic mutterings of a man doing his job.  He wanted to believe he could impress a whore. 

Because then maybe he'd have half a chance of impressing Jaskier. Of satisfying him.

If only he'd let me.

Dandelion began rocking back and forth, humping forward into the mattress and pushing back onto Geralt's tongue. "Fuck me, Geralt," he groaned. "If he doesn't want your fucking cock, give it to me."

Geralt's dick pulsed. His trousers were suddenly too tight--not just over his crotch, but everywhere--and he had to get them off this instant. 

As he sat up to pull them off, Dandelion's hand snaked under the mattress, and he pulled out a vial of oil. Geralt guessed there were probably dozens of the little bottles stashed all over the room.

"Let me slick you," Geralt said once he was naked.

Without a word, Dandelion handed over the vial.

"Lay on your side," Geralt said as he poured the oil over his fingers.  "With...with your back to the middle of the mattress."

"You sure?  It'd be easier with me on all fours--"

"I want you to lay...lay like he did, beside me. I want to take you the same way I wanted to take him." 

"Of course," Dandelion said softly, rolling into position.

Laying there in the darkened inn, with his shoulders pressed against Jaskier's, Geralt had imagined turning over.  Imagined pressing his chest into Jaskier's back.  Imagined whispering softly into his hair, "Jaskier, are you awake?  I can't stand it anymore.  I have to tell you. I wanted you in the churchyard tonight.  I wanted you in the woods.  I want you now.  Do you want me?  Please say you want me. Please."

"Say you want me," Geralt directed now, sliding in behind Dandelion.  He snaked his hand between their bodies, moving it low, letting his oiled fingers press at Dandelion's entrance.

"I want you," Dandelion whispered.

Geralt slipped one finger into him.

Dandelion gasped.

Geralt leaned forward, pressed his nose into the collar of the shirt, breathed deeply.

Honey, lavender, cedar wood

"Again. Please," he begged.

"I want you...Geralt."

Geralt rewarded him with two more fingers.

He wasn't stretching him.  He didn't need stretching.

But Jaskier would have.  

Jaskier, who'd lain there next to him, all warm and pliant. Jaskier, who hadn't sought out company that night.  Jaskier, who'd chosen to go to bed with Geralt, after he'd spent their evening together all excited and hard and nearly naked.

Was it any wonder the witcher had let himself hope for the briefest moment that his desire was reciprocated? That Jaskier's mouthwatering sprawl had been on purpose? If it had been anyone else, Geralt wouldn't have simply hoped--he'd have taken it as clear evidence of mutual attraction. 

Except he knew Jaskier.

And if there was one thing Jaskier never lacked, it was words.

If he wanted something, he said so.

And he never...he'd never said...

"Say it," Geralt bade again.

"I want you."

Geralt's lip trembled.  He bit down on it, hard, screwed his eyes shut, tried to steady himself.

Dandelion reached back to toy with his hair, to run his fingers gently through the long, white strands.  "I'm ready for you," he said quietly.  

Geralt reclaimed his slicked hand and ran it once up his own shaft.

"He should have fucked you, Geralt," Dandelion purred.  "I don't know how anyone could stand to be in bed with you and not touch you."

With a shuddering breath, Geralt guided the head of his cock to Dandelion's entrance, gasped when his glans caught on Dandelion's rim.

"Fuck me," Dandelion said resolutely. "I want you. Forget about him. I want you."

Chapter Text

Geralt threw his arm around Dandelion's middle and hugged him close as he snapped his hips forward, sinking in firmly. He hissed through his teeth as gratifying heat engulfed his cock.

Part of Geralt just wanted to lay there with Dandelion spooned against him.  To just drift off with the scent of Jaskier in his nose, a firm body pressed against him, a tightness on his prick, and a comforting word in his ear.

He could be relaxed.

And happy.

Content.

Or, he could have been, if any of it was real.

But the closeness was imaginary.

The intimacy was a fantasy.

This wasn't a bed in The Alchemy, and there was nothing happening here except an exchange of coin for services.

Coin for services, coin for services--he could never let himself forget that. 

Coin for services.

Dandelion was his whore, not his lover.

Clutching at Dandelion's backside with one hand and fisting the shirt collar in the other, he fell into a tight rhythm, pulling back and thrusting forward again.  And again.  And again.

Dandelion clearly remembered Geralt wanted him loud.  He moaned and sighed and met each thrust eagerly.

"This is how you wanted to take him?" Dandelion asked.  His hand slid on to Geralt's hip, gripped tightly, encouraged him. "All close and curled against each other?"

Grunting, Geralt threw one leg over Dandelion's, planted his foot firmly on the mattress, and rolled his hips into a new angle. 

Dandelion gritted his teeth, writhed and clawed at the bedding like a good little whore.

He let Geralt forget, for a long few minutes, about anything other than the divine pleasure of an enthusiastic fuck.

But then he started to murmur the Witcher's name.

Soft, quiet.  Too quiet for a human to hear.

Barely a movement of his lips and a puff of air.

"Geralt... Geralt... Geralt..."

And Geralt knew he wasn't meant to hear. 

Dandelion was saying his name for his own pleasure, not the witcher's.

It made a strange sort of agitation rise in Geralt's chest.

With a shove and a twist, Geralt forced Dandelion to roll onto his belly, intending to be rougher with him--to stop making this fuck feel so damned sweet.  He covered the whore with his body, grabbed his hands and held them up by his head.

But then Dandelion threaded their fingers together--made their fuck seem sweeter still.

It was too much for Geralt.

Too affectionate.

Too intimate.

And exactly what he wanted.

He felt a deep sob building in his chest, but didn't want to let it escape.  He needed to stop it somehow. To muffle it. He scraped his teeth along Dandelion's shoulder. Started to bite down--

"No marks," Dandelion growled, suddenly stiffening.

Geralt wrenched his head to the side, heart dropping into his stomach.  "I'm sorry," he grunted.

"The other patrons, they don't like to see--"

"I'm sorry, I won't.  I'm--"

"It's alright.  It's fine."

"No... No, it's..." Geralt stilled. He tried to sit up, to pull away.

Dandelion gripped his hands all the tighter.  "Don't stop," he said breathlessly. "Don't you dare fucking stop. My last client had no clue how to use his fucking dick.  Don't stop."

Geralt didn't pull away, but he didn't thrust again, either. He wasn't sure how to tell Dandelion that he didn't need his ego stroked--not in that way, at least.  He didn't need to hear how he compared to other Passiflora patrons.

"Come on," Dandelion whined, bucking his hips. "No one's fucked me right since you were here last. I need you to fuck me."

Something in Geralt's gut turned sour. "You don't have to lie to me," he grumbled directly into Dandelion's ear.

"You're right, I don’t, so why would I?" Dandelion asked snidely.

His brattiness went straight to Geralt's cock, but still the witcher held himself steady.

Dandelion let out a resigned sigh, relaxing somewhat beneath Geralt's weight.  "Look, I haven't been able to get my prick up all day," he admitted. "Some clients don't care.  Others get disappointed. Had to turn away a regular because I couldn't get hard enough to fuck her. I've got friends who like to use fisstech to keep it up, but I hate the stuff. Thought I was just having an off day--" 

He arched his back.

"--but then you come in here with a stupid fucking shirt and a needy look in your eye and I get hard in a fucking instant."

He thrust his arse tight against Geralt's hips.

Geralt clenched his jaw, took a steady breath through his nose, and did not move.

"You left me wanting last time," Dandelion growled, humping down into the mattress, then pushing up and back--taking Geralt's cock. "Usually it's better if I don't come.  It's easier to get hard for the next patron.  But with you I had to.  I wanted to.  I wanted your mouth on me.  I wanted to come down your throat."

Geralt's muscles were rigid as Dandelion fucked himself--speared himself again and again on Geralt's cock--using Geralt like he was the whore.

"And now all I fucking want," Dandelion spat, "is to get off with you inside me. Don't you dare leave me wanting again. Don’t you fucking dare. Fuck. Me. Now."

Still, Geralt couldn't bring himself to thrust.

And Dandelion, the prick, new exactly how to get a rise out of him.

"You wouldn't leave him wanting, would you?" he prodded. "I bet you'd neglect your own cock--wouldn't even care if you got off--as long as you could make him come."

Geralt growled without meaning to, hips jerking forward.

"What would you do if he asked you to make him come but offered you nothing?" Dandelion asked, tone smug.  "What if you caught him all hard with a hand on his prick, whining for it?  Begging for a mouth? Any mouth?"

Geralt immediately imagined it--imagined Jaskier sitting in some rickety chair in a crappy inn, touching himself.

"Geralt," imaginary-Jaskier fussed, "I've been stroking my cock for an hour now and I can't come.  I need something more. A nice warm mouth. I need someone to suck my cock."

"You'd offer to help him, wouldn't you?" Dandelion said, voice soothing and gentile, his timbre almost hypnotic in Geralt's ears.  "You'd pretend you were just doing him a favor, though.  You'd hide how much you're gagging for it, wouldn't you?"

Geralt found himself thrusting again, slowly at first, but picking up speed as Dandelion spoke--as he imagined Jaskier whining for a tongue on his prick.

"You want him to feel good--that's what you want the most, isn't it? You'd offer to make it better, offer your mouth like it didn't mean anything to you when it would mean everything to you." 

Geralt grunted and snapped his hips forward harshly, making Dandelion gasp.

The witcher imagined falling at Jaskier's feet.  "I know how to make it better.  Let me help you. I'll help you," he'd say, like it was nothing, like it was just something he knew how to do, so he'd do it.

"You’d let him use you if he wanted to, wouldn't you?" Dandelion asked, voice dark.  "If that's all he'd ever let you have, you'd gladly take it."

Gods, how did this man know what sick little things went on inside Geralt's head?

"You'd take whatever you could get from him," Dandelion huffed, meeting each of Geralt's thrusts. "You already do, don't you? I bet he knows. That's why he came to you all nearly naked. I bet he's toying with you. Gets off on tormenting you.  Knows you'd lick his cock if he asked.  Knows you'd lick his fucking boots if he--"

With a roar, Geralt threw off Dandelion's grasp and sat up on his haunches. Roughly, he grabbed the whore's hips and began fucking into him with force.  The pallet frame creaked beneath them, and Dandelion's back arched further as he braced his hands against the headboard.  

"Do you want him to use you?" Dandelion taunted.  "Want him to treat you like a play thing? You'd let him if he asked."

Geralt would--he absolutely would let Jaskier use him however he wanted.  His hands, his mouth, his cock, his arse.  He'd give his body to Jaskier for Jaskier's own pleasure and nothing more. Jaskier could take what he wanted and work Geralt up and leave him hard and begging and Geralt would thank him for the neglect--for the meager attention already bestowed.

The witcher grabbed Dandelion's hair, yanked on it hard.

"Yeah, fuck me.  Harder," Dandelion demanded, hissing as Geralt tugged on his hair.  "The bastard torments you and then goes off and fucks around.  Fucks around while he strings you along.  He'd have a warm, willing mouth every night, but he chooses to tease you instead. He-- Ngh, fuck, Geralt, just like that."  

Geralt's ears started to ring with the sheer rush of blood to his groin.  He could feel his balls drawing up tight, ready to spill, but he gritted his teeth and held himself back.

Dandelion wanted to come on his cock.

So he was going to make Dandelion come on his cock.

He fucked him harder, made him lose his words, made him tumble into moans and sighs.  He pressed him firmly into the mattress, so that every thrust would put friction on the whore's dick.  He worked him higher and higher, noted when he started to tremble.  And then said, "What about you? You want to use my cock? Then use it. Come on my cock. Come for me, Dandelion."

The whore let out a wanton cry and bucked hard.  He clenched around Geralt's dick, and the witcher couldn't help but chase his own release.  

He felt light headed, foggy. His limbs tingled.  He stared at Dandelion beneath him and as his orgasm overtook him, he found himself not just thinking of Jaskier, but Dandelion as well.

For the briefest instant, as pleasure overwhelmed him, he imagined having them both.

Even as his orgasm started to burst through his body, a spark of something tickled at the back of his mind. At the last moment, he remembered that they hadn't negotiated where he was allowed to come. With a grunt he pulled out, shooting onto the sheets beside Dandelion's hip.

Aftershocks rocked him for a long while, and he sat there dizzy with ecstasy, palms smoothing over Dandelion's backside as he panted.

"Gods, now I remember why I like this job," Dandelion laughed under him.

Geralt let himself smile at that.

Chapter Text

Breathing heavily, avoiding the wet spot, Geralt moved to prop his back against the headboard.  Dandelion still lay on his front, stretched out contentedly, like a cat.

The scent of sex hung heavy in the air, cloying in Geralt's nose.  But he didn't want to leave. He wanted to bask.  That was a rarity in a whore house. 

And, before he left, he needed Dandelion to know...

Geralt wasn't sure why he had the urge to say anything at all, really--it was none of Dandelion's business--but he couldn't stop himself.  "He's not like that, you know."

"Not like what?" Dandelion mumbled.

"If he knew I wanted him, he wouldn't use it to torment me. He's not cruel. Never."  Wrote a whole song on my behalf, after only knowing me a day, in hopes the world might think better of me. "If anything, he's overly kind.  Naively so."

Dandelion reached out, lay a hand across Geralt's abs.  "I said those things because they turn you on." He lifted his head, peering more closely at Geralt. "Or did I read you wrong?"

"No," Geralt admitted, covering Dandelion's hand with his own. "I liked it, I... I just don't want you to..."

"You don't want me thinking ill of him."

Geralt hmmed and nodded.

"Do you know why the Passiflora is considered the best brothel not only in Novigrad, but in all the Northern realms?" Dandelion asked.

Geralt opened his mouth, but Dandelion cut him off immediately.

"If you say it's because the whores are clean and the sheets aren't moth-eaten, I will send you away this instant.  No. It's because we can offer things other establishments can't. People don't come to the Passiflora when they simply want a warm body.  Any strumpet on the street can give you that for a tenth of the price. People come to the Passiflora when they want a production. When they want something particularly perverse or intensely wanton. When they need someone to fulfil a fantasy, not just a function."

He rolled onto his back, seemingly heedless of his own wet spot, and flung an arm over his eyes. "The courtesans here don't last long if they aren't quick to suss out their client's needs. Some people are straightforward with what they want. Usually it's the people with a tangible kink--those who want to be pissed on, or slapped around a bit or something. Simple. Easy.

"Sometimes clients don't know what they want. Just something new, maybe.  Something they've never even thought of before. Something they had no way to give voice to. And we have to figure it out.

"And then there are people like you."

"Like me?" Geralt grunted skeptically. 

Dandelion raised his arm slightly, shot Geralt a sideways glance from beneath it. "People who know exactly what they want, but refuse to give out all the details. You want it so much you're afraid of it.  But I can't give you the full fantasy if you aren't willing to divulge it."

He turned again, sitting up on his side, facing Geralt.  "I'm going to be direct with you, witcher.  I like you.  You pay well, and are, in my professional opinion, a great fuck.  The happier I make you, the more likely you are to come back. So the more I know, the better I can perform--the better I can make this for you." He trailed his finger down Geralt's breastbone.  "And I can, I can make it so good. I can make you believe it's the real thing, if you let me. Do you want that?"

He did. Geralt wanted it, and he feared it. But he didn't say anything.

"Let me start by telling you what I already know," Dandelion continued. "Stop me if I've got something wrong. Firstly, I know you don't want me entirely agreeable. You want me bratty.  Do you want me to openly fight with you? Do you have spats with him often? Little lovers' quarrels, despite not being lovers?"

Geralt simply glared.

"Suppose I can work that out on my own," Dandelion mused. "See how bratty I can be before you tell me to stop. What else now? I know you want to be soft with him, and that softness makes you angry. You want to make love to him--"

"No," Geralt denied, sitting up more rigidly. "I don't."

"Hush. I know. Like I said: angry. So, instead, you want to fuck with a fierceness. So I'll fuck you with a fierceness.

"I also know you want to say his name. And I don't simply remind you of him.  I look too much like him, don't I? But I could be closer." He tugged at the shirt. "If you tell me how to dress, what scents he wears, his profession, his favorite food, I can--"

"No.  No." Geralt shook his head. He ran a hand over his face and turned away, threw his legs onto the floor, making to get up, to get dressed.

He couldn't handle all that.  He couldn't.  It felt like a violation of Jaskier's trust. He could pretend Dandelion was Jaskier, but he couldn't make him into Jaskier.

An arm snaked around his chest from behind.  Dandelion pressed himself into Geralt's back, keeping him from getting up.

"No, you don't want that, or no...?"

"No, I won't ask for that.  It doesn't matter if I want it, I won't tell you those things."

"I just want to make it good for you," Dandelion whispered.

"It's been good for me," Geralt said.

"Will you be back, then?"

Geralt half-turned on the edge of the bed, so that he could cup Dandelion's face, look him in the eye. "I don't think I can stay away," he admitted.

Chapter Text

The pattern continued for months. 

Geralt and Jaskier would meet.  They would travel together.  They would have a roaring good time--and at least one melodramatic squabble over something stupid. And, inevitably, Jaskier would do something enticing that would leave Geralt panting, heartsick, and weak in the knees.

Then, the moment they separated, the witcher would turn Roach toward Novigrad and seek solace in Dandelion's bed. Sometimes Geralt would act out the same scenarios he'd found himself in with Jaskier. Sometimes he'd do everything in his power to forget Jaskier.

Dandelion was receptive either way. 

The whore cooed and taunted him in turn, always attuned to Geralt's needs.

Such was his talent.

 

#

 

Five months after Geralt first met Dandelion, Jaskier decided to get sloshed right before a set--which was very unlike him.  The tavern crowd was thin--hardly worthy of even being called a crowd at all--and rowdy.  The drunken audience and the drunken bard fueled one another as his performance went on, and when the wolf-whistling and cat-calls started, Geralt had a mind to drag Jaskier off stage and into the night.

"You could grace my ride-along, bard!" one man shouted.

"I could pull on your horn for you," yelled a woman. "Doesn't have to be in the morn, could be now."

"Why don't you come sit on my lap, little song bird?" shouted another man.

Jaskier took it all graciously, of course. 

Too graciously.

"Afraid there's only one lap for me," he declared, stumbling over to where Geralt sat in the corner, immediately plopping his drunken arse on top of the witcher. 

Geralt was halfway to pushing Jaskier onto the floor when another patron yelled, "Oh, I see how it is.  You only bend over for mutants, eh, little whore?"

It was the combination of insults--the use of mutant and whore together like they were both dirty words--that made Geralt see red.

It was a wonder no one died that night.

But several men lost teeth.

And Jaskier and Geralt were summarily banned from the tavern premises.

After, Jaskier insisted on praising Geralt for defending his honor as they walked down the dusty road toward their inn. 

The night was cool, crisp.  The stars were out. Jaskier smelled of ale and enthusiasm.

"No, no really," Jaskier insisted. "You are always so much more valn--valva--valiant than you give yourself credit for." He dangled off Geralt's shoulder as they walked, one hand waving flippantly through the air, his lute strapped across his back. "What do fair ladies give you when you swoop in like that? Bet you've been offered a maidenhead or two.  Haven't you?" His tone was conspiratorial, as though it was a secret he needed to coax Geralt into revealing.  "Haven't you?"

Jaskier stumbled, and Geralt caught him around the waist, propping him up, holding him close against his side.

"There you go again, sweeping me off my feet," the bard giggled.

Geralt's heart fluttered, and he chided himself. "You're pissed out of your gourd," he grumbled at Jaskier.

"And you...you..." Jaskier seemed to forget whatever he was about to say the moment he tried to say it. 

They were both silent for a long time. 

Well, mostly silent.  Once in a while, the bard made unintelligible exclamations, and Geralt did his best to ignore them as he helped his friend down the road.

They were nearly back to the inn when Jaskier said triumphantly, "A kiss!"

"What?" Geralt was focused on putting one foot in front of the other, on making sure Jaskier didn't fully collapse before he could get him some water and into bed.

"Fair ladies, don't they usually reward their knights with a kiss?"

"I suppose."

"Then I owe you a kiss."

Geralt's chest tightened.  Jaskier barely had control over his tongue when he was sober, and now...  "I'm not a knight," he said sternly. "And you are certainly no fair lady."

Jaskier's fingers came up to Geralt's mouth, traced his lips, and Geralt had to bat his hand aside.

"I owe you a kiss," the bard said firmly.

Stop it, Jaskier. Please stop.

"I'm not going to let you kiss me, you buffoon."

Geralt knew what he'd told Dandelion was true: Jaskier would never torment him.

Not on purpose.

But it seemed he loved to do it by accident.

"Let me reward my knight as is proper," the bard insisted.

Stop teasing me. Please, Jaskier. You don't know... you don't know how much this hurts.

"A knight--" Geralt started, but had to stop to clear his throat--it had gone tight.  "A knight would never take advantage of a drunk."

"See! There you go, being all valiant. Again."  Jaskier curled into Geralt, hand splaying in the middle of his chest. "Perhaps that's two kisses I owe you. One for defense and one for chivalry."

"You don't want to kiss me," Geralt said, as much as it pained him to point out. 

He could see the front door of their inn now, illuminated by torches. So close, yet so far.

Jaskier made a scoffing sound. "You're dense, you know."

"And you are so potted, it's a wonder you're not a plant."

"I'm not drunk enough to...to forget..." he trailed off, sounded almost sad.

"To forget what?"

"I forget," Jaskier laughed a moment later.

"We'll get you some water.  You'll be right again come tomorrow afternoon.  I don't envy you the morning, though."

"Will you let me reward you tomorrow? When I'm...When I'm not..." he gestured up and down his body.

Geralt's heart leapt into this throat and then sank to his feet.  "If you still want to kiss me after your hangover," he said with a sigh, knowing better than to hope, but letting himself hope anyway. "I'll let you."

"Good.  Good."

I'll do more than let you.  If you kiss me, I'll tell you everything.  If you kiss me, I won't be able to hold back anymore.  If you kiss me...

That night was rough. 

The morning, rougher.

Come noon, Jaskier was finally well enough to leave his bed.

But he didn't mention kissing again.

Geralt was sure Jaskier didn't even remember what he'd said the night before. They'd been the muddled words of a drunkard, and the witcher had been a fool to imagine they were anything more.

 

#

 

The next time Geralt visited Dandelion, he kissed him for a full hour, and left without taking off a single scrap of clothing.

Chapter Text

And then there was the time Geralt misplaced Jaskier in a tiny, crappy, backwater village.  It was the type of town that consisted of no more than a handful of professional stalls whose merchants relied entirely on travelers to keep them going.

The townsfolk had come together to pool their coin and hire a witcher to rid them of a draconid nesting on a nearby ridgeline, and while Geralt spoke with the alderman to gather more details--to try to figure out exactly which sub-species he was dealing with--Jaskier went to the smithy to see what was on offer.  Geralt had been looking to upgrade his silver sword, and if the blacksmith had the proper supplies, he wanted to have the work done before setting out.

The witcher and the bard agreed to meet in the alderman's stable once they'd gathered their respective intel. After confirming it was a slyzard (unusual this far north), Geralt busied himself by brushing Roach while he waited for Jaskier's return.

He waited.

And waited.

And waited.

He'd given Jaskier one simple task, which required one simple answer. It should have taken no time at all.

But now, over half an hour had passed since Geralt had entered the stable. 

He started to worry.

This was a one-horse town.  It wasn't like Jaskier could get lost.

He gave Roach a reassuring pat, then stalked back out onto the road, half expecting to find Jaskier dawdling toward him or leisurely chatting up the herbalist. But the stupid bard was nowhere to be seen.

Focusing, Geralt heightened his senses. He sniffed the air, searching for traces of Jaskier's scent.

He caught a whiff of it near the stable door and followed the faint trail toward--expectedly--the smithy. But when he got within ten paces of the place, Jaskier's scent was overpowered by the smell of warm iron and sword oil.

Yet, the forge was cool, and the anvil quiet. There was no one at work.

If Jaskier had come this way, only to find the blacksmith wasn't in, why hadn't he--?

A noise caught Geralt's attention.  He jerked his head to the side, listing.

It was the unmistakable sound of Jaskier's soft panting.

Was this a bad panting, or--?

Jaskier laughed, moaned.

No, definitely not bad panting.

Bastard is getting his dick wet while I have a job to do, Geralt grumbled to himself, While he fucking knows I'm standing around waiting for his scrawny arse to come back.

The sound wasn't emanating from the smithy proper, but from the small, one-room cabin next door. Incensed, Geralt stomped up to the door, raised his fist--intending to pound on the planks, to interrupt Jaskier's inconsiderate and ill-timed tryst--but fell short.

Another sound stopped him.

Another voice.  A deep voice.

"Say it again," the voice demanded.

"My my," Jaskier chuckled, "It's quite the kink for you, isn't it? Really want me to tell you how much I adore your fat little cock?"

Still furious--and now, suddenly aroused and confused to boot--Geralt clenched his jaw and pulled his fist back, intending to try again. To make himself knock.

But then Jaskier let out the most delicious happy sigh.

And Geralt couldn't do it. Couldn't knock. Couldn't interrupt.

In which case, he knew he should leave. 

Instead, a terrible urge overtook him. An impulse he was too weak to fight.

He trailed around the back of the cabin, stopping only when he found what he was searching for: a partially-open window.

Bracing himself, he looked inside.

Jaskier lay flat on his back on a thin sleeping mat, trousers around his knees, doublet gone, undershirt rucked up past his nipples.  His hair was tousled, his cheeks flushed.

Stradling him was the blacksmith--a big, bronze-skinned man with arms well-toned from pounding steel day in and day out.  The smith was completely naked, his thick-yet-stubby cock bouncing as he rode Jaskier.

Geralt immediately turned away, breath catching in his throat as he pressed his back against the roughly-hewn logs of the cabin.

He shut his eyes, as though that would block out the sight.

But it was unquestionably seared into his memory forever.

"You want to come on me?" Jaskier asked, all heated and heavy.

Blood rushed between Geralt's legs, and his hand instinctively went to his crotch--but he immediately flung it away again.

No.  No, he would not--

"You want to come on me with your beautiful little cock?"

The blacksmith moaned.

And Geralt swallowed a groan of his own.

The smell of sex--thick, intense--wafted out of the window, and the witcher slapped a gloved hand over his nose.

He could almost taste Jaskier on the air.

And the bard would not shut up.

"Fuck, you're gorgeous," Jaskier said, voice heady. "Maybe I don't want you to come on me.  Maybe I want you to stick your fat little cock up my arse instead. Come in me all messy and shallow. Would you like that?"

Geralt bit his lip.

Yes, yes he would like that.

Geralt knew Jaskier had a mouth on him.  This was not news.  The witcher had heard him through numerous walls--much to Geralt's shame.

But this was different.

All those other times Geralt had overheard Jaskier, it hadn't been his fault.  He'd been in his own room at an inn, or a manor, and Jaskier's voice had simply carried to him.

But now, this...this was wrong.  This was Geralt listening on purpose--invading Jaskier's privacy. 

He should leave.  He should go.  He felt sick, and his hands were shaking. A cold sweat broke out across his shoulders and down his back.

Nothing good could come of staying--

"Think you could get it in me?" Jaskier asked, breaths coming in great huffs.  "It's so thick--good thing I fingered myself last night."

Geralt's eyes flew open.

Had he?  They'd camped together, been no more than a few feet apart, only the campfire between them. How could Jaskier have fingered himself without Geralt noticing?

"Come on, up you go. I want to try." Jaskier was exceedingly chipper, like it was a fun little challenge.  "You come up my arse, and then I'll come in yours."

A moan accompanied the slick sound of Jaskier's cock sliding out of a wet hole.  And a deep whine from the blacksmith followed as he clearly mourned the loss.

Then a scrabbling.  A thumping, as they rearranged themselves inside the cabin.

I will not look, I will not look, I will not look.

Geralt knew he should do more than simply not look.  He knew he should walk away.  Knew he should get on Roach and go fulfil his contract, sans sword upgrades. Knew he should leave Jaskier stranded here while he went on his hunt--then the bard could fuck his small-cocked blacksmith all he wanted.

And then Geralt wouldn't have to hear it.  To smell it. 

To crave it.

"Mmm, mmm fuck," Jaskier said.  "Yeah.  Shove it in deeper, I know you can."

Geralt's knees threatened to go out from under him.

"Gods, it's like the thickest little plug I've ever worn. So perfect."

Geralt bit the inside of his gloved palm to stifle his shocked moan.  He could feel his heartbeat between his legs, and it was almost painful, what with the way his trousers choked his erection.

"Love your little fucking cock in me."

Geralt's cock certainly wasn't little.  Jaskier would never call it little.

Or maybe he would...

If Geralt asked him to.

Fuck. That wasn't...he'd never...he never would have even thought of it--it never would have occurred to him that anyone could want this particular kind of dirty talk--if he hadn't heard Jaskier's breathy encouragements:

"Yes, that's it. Fuck, your little cock feels so wonderful.  Are you going to make me all messy with your little cock?  Going to make my backside all sloppy?" 

Yes--fuck, yes--I'd make such a mess of you.

Jaskier, I could be so dirty for you.   

Geralt wanted Jaskier to talk this way to him.  Jaskier could praise him.  He could shame him.  He could call him a bastard, or a princess, or cockslut, or a whore, or a sweet little thing, and Geralt would want it all. Jaskier could say whatever he desired, he just had to say it exactly like that.  In that rough and needy voice.

"More. More. Harder."

There came a distinct thump that Geralt felt more than heard.

Someone had been shoved into the planks directly opposite his back.

And that someone was undoubtably Jaskier.

The blacksmith was fucking Jaskier up against the wall, and Geralt could feel the vibrations of each rough thrust.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

"Come on.  Come in me," Jaskier demanded.  "I want it.  Want to feel it run down my thighs."

Geralt's legs could no longer support him.  He slid down the wall as every thump of the blacksmith's thrusting rattled his bones and drove him increasingly mad.

A strangled moan preceded one last thump, and the smell of semen assaulted Geralt, despite the glove over his nose.

After a moment of heavy breathing, Jaskier laughed. "You better clean up your mess," he said coyly.  "I can't go back to my witcher like this."

Geralt's heart--which thus far had done little more than send all of his blood to his cock--twisted.

My witcher.

And then Geralt knew, for certain, what he wanted Jaskier to say to him in bed.  What he'd beg Jaskier to call him, if they ever fucked.

And it wasn't princess, slut, or whore.  

Geralt swallowed harshly, his throat growing tight.

Call me yours, Jaskier.

Tell me I'm yours.

"My witcher."

Say, "Mine." 

Mine, mine, mine.

Please, Jaskier. Please.

I need it.

Say it.

He wanted him to say it again now. To tell the blacksmith, emphatically, that Geralt belonged to him.

My witcher.

A slurp emanated from the cabin, and Geralt realized the blacksmith was cleaning Jaskier just as he'd been ordered...with his tongue.

Geralt couldn't take it anymore.  He couldn't stay here while they finished, while they changed positions again, while Jaskier came.

The witcher willed himself away from the cabin, crawling at first--which he tried to convince himself was for stealth purposes. In truth, his extremities felt simultaneously like lead and jelly.

He knew he was in no condition to fight--not without taking at least three separate potions and risking high blood-toxicity.

He decided he would strand Jaskier in the village for a day.  Geralt would track the slyzard to its nest now, but camp overnight. Wait to attack until he was sure he was over...whatever this was.

Shock?

Surprise?

Utterly incurable longing and insatiable desire?

Might as well wait for the sun to stop rising, he chided himself.

If nothing else, he would wait until he was certain the scent of sex had left his nose and the ghost of the blacksmith's thrusts had stopped reverberating through his body.

Chapter Text

When Geralt reached Novigrad the next time, he didn't immediately set out for the Passiflora.

After all, he had to prepare.

He couldn't get the image of the blacksmith riding Jaskier out of his head. And he wanted Dandelion to fuck him.

But not on the floor.

He wanted to be fucked up against the wall.  Like he'd first taken Dandelion.  Like the blacksmith had taken Jaskier.

He wanted to be taken as roughly as the two of them had been taken. He wanted to be manhandled and maneuvered into position. He wanted to be the one bending and giving way.

In anticipation, Geralt had purchased fine oil, and a plug--though not one nearly as heavy or extravagant as the copper plug Dandelion wore--and set to work stretching himself, shut away in his room at the Kingfisher.

It had been a long while since he'd bottomed for anyone. It required trust.  Trust he hadn't had in any of his casual acquaintances. Trust he would only give to a friend.

No, not a friend.

He shoved that idea out of his head immediately, unnerved and disquieted by the notion that he could think of Dandelion--someone he paid to spend time with--as a friend.

He trusted Dandelion to fuck him because Dandelion was a professional.  That was all.

When he felt like he was ready, he secured the plug, redressed in his casual attire, and strolled to the Passiflora.

Upon entering, a male whore Geralt had never noted before intercepted him on his way to the stairs.  Geralt was about to politely decline his services when the man gestured to the sitting area.

"Please wait here, Master Witcher. You've come for Dandelion, yes? He will need a few minutes before he's ready to receive you."

"Why? Is he with someone?" The idea made something slimy and selfish slither through Geralt's gut.

"No, he has a surprise for you," the man said with a wink.

"A surprise?" Geralt asked flatly.

"A surprise," the man confirmed.

A long life had taught Geralt to be wary of surprises. But he did as the whore indicated, taking up the plush seat the deerskin-clad-man had sat in during that first gwent tournament.

He fidgeted as he waited, subtly shifting now and again so that the plug moved within him--heightening his anticipation.

Amrynn was the one to retrieve him a few minutes later. "Dandelion is ready," she said graciously. "He's in our best suite--off the second landing, three doors down on the left."

The best suite?

Geralt's coin purse was heavy. But not that heavy.

"I can't pay for the best suite," he told her. "I always give him double, and I can't even cover the standard rate for--"

"Don’t you worry about that. Pay him what you would were it his usual room.  We've already discussed it with the madame."

Geralt furrowed his brow. "But...why?" He asked, though he could guess at the answer.  The suite was reserved for special occasions, special events.  It might have been the madame herself who suggested the suite for Dandelion's surprise. 

"I think it was you who once explained to Dandelion that you'd done our lady several favors?"

"Yes, but, why is Dandelion going through the extra trouble?"

Amrynn shrugged casually. "We're each inclined to do what we can for our favorite patrons."

Geralt's toes curled in his boots.

"Will you see him now?" she prompted.

 

#

 

Geralt knew where the best suite was, even without her instructions. Everyone who spent any time in or around the Passiflora knew--could locate it from both inside and outside the building. The sounds drifting from its windows were often the most decadent one could hope to hear--the sort that made passersby equal parts aroused and curious, and likely to wander inside to discover what kinds of entertainments the brothel had on offer.

If the madame had purposefully put Dandelion and Geralt in that suite today, it was because she expected their coupling to attract business.

When Geralt reached the door, he knocked.

"Come in," Dandelion bade him from inside.

The suite consisted of several rooms.  Geralt opened the door into the receiving area, which was well-furnished, with a spread of fruit and cheeses laid out to encourage him to stay a while.

Dandelion did not greet him at the door, however.

"Dandelion?"

"In here, Geralt," he called from the bedroom, off to the right.

Geralt casually paused at the fruit to snatch a couple of grapes, popping them into his mouth as he glanced around on his way to the bedroom's door--which was cracked open only a hair.  Nothing about the suite seemed unusual, or specifically tailored to him. No surprises, as it were.

Though the faint, familiar scent of lavender tickled his nose.

"Dandelion," he started, pushing at the door, stepping through, glancing back over his shoulder for only a moment. "I don't know what you--"

Geralt froze when he entered the room. All the air left his lungs and all reason fled from his brain. His lips parted, but whatever he was about to say died on his tongue.

Because there was Dandelion, sitting on an enormous bed, with more clothes on than Geralt had ever seen him wear. 

He was dressed in black boots, an expensive baby-blue doublet, and fine trousers to match.

With a lute propped in his lap. Hands poised as though he'd just been interrupted strumming.

Geralt's knees went weak, and he had to clutch at the doorframe to keep upright.

"Don't be angry," Dandelion said, expression vulnerable. His voice was steady, but held an unmistakable plea. "Don't be angry."

Geralt simply stared at him a moment more, wide-eyed, his head empty. "You know," he ground out eventually, voice barely above a whisper.

"I know," Dandelion confirmed.

Geralt couldn't help but see this as a sign. A sign he should end his obsession with visiting Dandelion--now.  He knew he should turn and walk out and never set foot in the Passiflora again.

But he found his feet carrying him forward.

Found himself rushing.

Found himself threading his hands around the back of Dandelion's neck.

Found himself kissing him with a fury.

His pulse pounded in his ears, and his chest tightened with each shaky intake of breath--breath that brought that scent of lavender further to the fore.

"Jas--" he started to say when he pulled away, but the name caught in his throat.  He was so used to strangling it, hiding it away.

"You can say it," Dandelion encouraged him. "Say it."

"Jaskier," Geralt breathed, and he hated how pained he sounded, how desperate.  He fell to his knees in front of the whore, looking up at him in wonderment.

Dandelion took one of Geralt's hands, held it against his cheek. "You're in love with him," he said frankly.

Geralt's vision blurred. 

He couldn't cry.  He wouldn't.  Witchers didn't cry.

But he'd been hiding from this for so long, keeping the truth of it locked away.  To be able to share it with someone.  For some to know, to understand--

"Yes," Geralt gritted out.

"And he doesn't know?"

"I can't tell him."

"Why not?"

"I--" His lip trembled.  He reclaimed his palm from Dandelion's cheek, twisted his hands together--knotting them in the same way his insides were knotting. "I just can't," he gasped.  "What if he doesn't...? I couldn't... What if I told him and he left me?" The witcher glanced away, ashamed.

 "Oh," Dandelion said softly, understandingly. "Oh, Geralt, I'm so s--"

"No," Geralt barked, cutting him off.  "No pity.  I don't come to you for pity."

"No," Dandelion agreed. "You come to me for comfort. You come to me--" Gently, he brushed a strand of hair out of Geralt's downcast eyes-- "to soothe the wounds he leaves on your heart." 

Geralt didn't want to talk about this.  He didn't want to have to rip his chest open when he'd come here to get fucked by a whore.

A whore who knew him all too well.

A whore who'd taken the time to get ready for him, to dress for him, to be as close to who Geralt wanted him to be as possible.

Gods, why had he started this?  Why had he come here?  Why had he allowed himself to touch Dandelion even once?  Why had he been so weak?

Why did this hurt so much?

Lifting his eyes, Geralt caught Dandelion's gaze. It was hopeful.

A heartbeat passed.

Geralt surged upward, kissing him again--hot and hard, to hide his shame.

And because he wanted to taste him. Taste Dandelion. His friend.

No, no.  Not a friend.

Stop it. Stop.

Coin for services. 

Coin for services.

Because if Dandelion was his friend...

His friend who he fucked...

Who looked exactly like his friend who he wanted to fuck...

But could never ask to fuck...

Then...

Then...

Geralt's mind was a blur. Nothing but a swirling mess of conflicting emotion and garbled imagery.

He'd fucked something up.  Badly.  He knew, deep down, that he'd ruined something. He just couldn't pinpoint what.

He'd mixed the two of them, confused his own senses.

Geralt breathed deeply.

Gods, Dandelion had even figured out which perfume Jaskier used. He had a lighter hand with it than Jaskier--which meant the honey and cedar weren't as discernible until he was up close--but it was unmistakably the same.

Gently, Geralt took the lute from Dandelion's lap, set it aside under the nearby windowsill, then made Dandelion lean back on the bed. 

Geralt crawled up beside him and simply held him--occasionally kissing him--for a long while.  He didn't try to undress him, didn't ask him to talk, and gently redirected Dandelion's hands when he tried to get them beneath the witcher's clothes.

"Don't you like me like this?" Dandelion asked after a time.  "Despite what you said all those months ago, I thought you'd want it."

"I do.  Too much," Geralt admitted. "That's why I said...  Dandelion, I--"

"You can call me Jaskier, it's alright."

Geralt pulled back, looked into Dandelion's eyes.

Hazel eyes.

The wrong eyes.

"No," Geralt snarled, sitting up, throwing his legs over the side of the bed and turning his back on Dandelion.  "It's not alright. How did you even figure it out?"

Softly, Dandelion hummed the first few notes of Toss a Coin.  "After you told me your name, it wasn't difficult to figure out you were the Geralt from the song.  But I didn't realize I reminded you of him--your bard--until..." He trailed off, clearly second-guessing his explanation.

"Until what?" Geralt asked, and it sounded to his own ears like begging.

"Until someone told me I looked like him."

"Someone?" Geralt growled.

"A client," Dandelion admitted. "There was someone else who wanted to fuck me because I look like Jaskier, and--"

"Who?" Geralt demanded, whirling around.

"I can't tell you that.  I wouldn't be very good at my job if I didn't know how to be discreet. Plus, if the murder in your eyes is anything to go by, I rate you'd have his dick chopped off by sundown if I gave you his name.  He was just an admirer.  Enjoys the bard's music, that's all."

"Did you dress up like Jaskier for him, too?" Geralt demanded--accused.

"No, Geralt." Dandelion sounded hurt by the suggestion. "This is just for you. But I'll take it off if it bothers you. Do you want me to take it off?"

"Yes."    

Dandelion nodded solemnly. He sat up, began working the doublet's buttons free of their eyes.

He looked sad.  Disappointed.

He'd only wanted to please Geralt, clearly.

With a sigh, feeling weak, Geralt covered Dandelion's hands with one of his own, stilling him.  "Wait."

This is the last time, he vowed to himself.  This is the last time I'll come here.  The last time I'll sleep with Dandelion.

And if this was going to be the last time, why shouldn't he have everything Dandelion was willing to offer?

"Jaskier," he said pointedly, looking Dandelion in the eye, "Wait."

Chapter Text

"Jaskier?" Dandelion asked, trying to confirm they were really going to do this, that Geralt was really going to let himself have the full fantasy.

Everything inside Geralt screamed at him that this was wrong wrong wrong.  That he couldn't do this. He couldn't do this to himself, he couldn’t do this to Jaskier, and he couldn’t do this to Dandelion. He'd already gotten his signals crossed. If he did this, the two of them would be inextricably entwined.  His memories of one would bleed into the other, and everything would muddy and spoil.

But, in the moment, he didn't care.  It didn't matter.  He was too weak, too greedy, too selfish.

This was the last time, and it would be everything he'd ever desired.

"Yes," he confirmed, twisting to fully face him, to face...Jaskier. 

He nearly choked on his own emotions as he allowed himself to think of the man before him that way.  To call him both out loud and in his head by his bard's name.

Parts of Geralt still railed against it--the part that wanted to remain noble and respectful, and the part that dreaded falling head-first into the pain that would come after; what if he did this, and the next time he saw Jaskier, he slipped up? What if he forgot himself and touched Jaskier too affectionately, too intimately?

Again, it didn't matter.

It was too late.

He wanted this too much. 

And he'd already crossed the line.

"Jaskier," Geralt whispered, grabbing the other man's face, pulling their foreheads together. "I've waited for you for so long."

"I know," he--Jaskier--said, looping one hand over Geralt's wrist, rubbing softly at it with his thumb. "I know, Geralt.  I'm sorry.  I want you.  I've always wanted you.  I'm sorry I made you wait."

Geralt's heart clenched.

Dandelion's voice had changed, his lilt--his accent.  Now it was more like a noble Cidarian's. Not quite Kerackian, but close.

Gods, he was even trying to sound just like him.

Geralt could hardly breathe, his chest and throat were so tight. No tears fell, but he felt like he was crying--everything in him was thick and hot and strained.

He kissed him then, to keep from sobbing. 

Parting his lips, he delved deep with his tongue. Jaskier moaned into his mouth, and the sound spurred Geralt on, made him kiss him even more frantically. Desperately. As though this moment could be snatched away from him at any second.

He pushed forward, hard, making Jaskier bend, and something in the back of Geralt's mind told him to be careful--that his neediness was bordering on violent, that his fingers were digging and his mouth was smothering--but he needed to be closer, needed--

He needed--

Jaskier broke the kiss with a gasp, turning his face away.

Startled, Geralt released him, hands shaking. "I'm--I'm sorry. I--"

Jaskier looked back to him with an unsteady smile, ran a fingertip over Geralt's mouth, staring at his lips.  "Shh. Shh, it's okay," he whispered. "It's alright. I understand. After all, this is our first time...isn't it?" His gaze flicked upwards in question, making sure this was what Geralt wanted out of the fantasy.

"Yes," Geralt told him.

"Maybe we should go slow, then," Jaskier suggested, taking Geralt's hands, trying to calm him, to ease him.  "Pour me some wine?" 

He pointed over Geralt's shoulder to a dark bottle and two cups sitting on the nightstand.

Yes. Good. Wine.  He could pour wine.

He could pour wine and take a deep breath and not be a greedy monster.

This would be just like Jaskier, too.  He'd want to be plied with nice things--nice food, nice wine. Gifts. He'd want to be romanced. He'd want all of the pretenses--not just the touching and the kissing but the courting as well.

Geralt gave him a hmm, then stood to fill the cups.  He wasn't on his feet for more than a moment before Jaskier was up as well, pressing against Geralt from behind, putting his arms around his waist as the witcher inspected the bottle.

"This is Fiorano, from Toussaint," Geralt noted. "This is his favorite.  It's expensive, how did you--?"

"Don't think about it now," Dandelion said. "Ask me after. Don't...don't break the spell."

Right. Jaskier, not Dandelion.

Jaskier.

Of course he had Fiorano handy.

Geralt filled both cups, then turned around in Jaskier's arms.  He took a gulp from his own glass as the bard disentangled himself and accepted the other.

Geralt grimaced as bitterness washed over his tongue.

Oh. 

The bottle might have said Fiorano, but the wine inside was a cheap mimicry of Est Est.

Still, the attention to detail...

Details he shouldn't even have...

Jaskier's eyes never left Geralt's face as the bard sipped his wine. A fat droplet beaded on his lip when he lowered his cup, and before he could lick it off, Geralt kissed it away--softly, this time. Gently.

When the witcher pulled back, it was only a hair's breadth.  He kept his eyes closed, kept their mouths near enough to let heat and air pass between them.  "I want..." he started, but his voice failed him.

"Yes?" Jaskier asked softly, eagerly. "What do you want, Geralt?"

There was one thing he'd been denying himself.  One thing he wanted to do to Jaskier that he deliberately hadn't done to Dandelion.

But, if this was the last time...

If this was Jaskier...

He couldn't say it, though.  He didn't have the words to say it the way he wanted to say it--all descriptions of the act were crude in his mind. Dirty. But what he wanted to do to Jaskier wasn't crass or base.

It was loving.

Giving.

Beautiful in a way the witcher couldn't express, because no one had taught him how to ask for such things in a pretty way.

So all Geralt could do was show Jaskier what he wanted to give him.

Setting the wine aside, he slipped to his knees.  Gently, he cupped his hands around the back of Jaskier's thighs and nuzzled into his groin.

The bard gasped, ran his fingers though Geralt's hair.

"Let me please you," Geralt said against the soft fabric of his trousers. "I want to please you."

"Everything you do pleases me," Jaskier said softly.

Geralt let out a shuddering breath.

He so wanted those words to be true, to really be Jaskier's.

A small, choked-off sound escaped the bard's lips as Geralt let his hands slide upwards, over Jaskier's bum, to the ties at the small of this back.  Carefully, he unlaced his trousers, let them go loose around his hips.  Jaskier wore no smallclothes beneath, so as Geralt drew the fine fabric down, he was met with nothing but a plane of pale skin, a snatch of dark hair, and a half-hard cock.

The smell of musk and perfume intensified once he was uncovered, and Geralt realized Jaskier had dabbed the fragrance between his thighs.

The witcher leaned in, eyes fluttering closed as he buried his nose next to Jaskier's balls, breathing deeply, scenting him. "I want to taste you so badly," he murmured.

"Please," Jaskier whispered. "Do it."

Geralt mouthed at his sac, drawing forth a moan.  Jaskier's cock continued to thicken next to his face, and he rubbed his stubbled jaw against it, openly reveling in the hisses and sighs the motion elicited.

The witcher gently took Jaskier's hand from his hair and moved it to the base of Jaskier's ruddy cock.  Geralt made him clutch it, then leaned back, opening his mouth invitingly.

Rolling his hips forward, the bard slid the silky head of his dick across the witcher's outstretched tongue.

The bitter taste of precome made Geralt's own prick throb hungrily between his legs.  With his eyes half-lidded, he savored every sensation--the heat, the scent, the flavor.  The girth and the firmness.  The way Jaskier's pulse beat against his tongue. Humming to himself, he closed his lips around the bard's shaft, and slowly sank forward.

"Oh, gods, finally," Jaskier sighed above him.  "I've wanted your mouth since the moment I met you. Fuck, witcher."

Yes, finally.  Finally.

Grappling at Jaskier's naked backside, Geralt pulled him forward, made him move his hand out of the way and thrust deep.  The witcher could hold his breath far longer than a typical human, and his gag reflex was highly repressed.  He took Jaskier's entire length greedily, elated by how firmly it fit into the back of his throat, how entirely it filled his mouth.  He buried his nose in Jaskier's pubic hair and forced him further still, encouraged him to grind.

Jaskier set his wine down and held onto Geralt's head with both hands, fists knotting his hair, pulling and petting in turn.

Geralt swallowed around Jaskier's shaft and hollowed his cheeks--didn't pull off again until he was drooling over the base of his cock.  Then he slid slowly backwards, relishing every second.

When he held just the tip between his lips once more, he glanced upwards at Jaskier's face.

The bard was gazing at him with such adoration.

It hurt to look at. Like staring into the sun.

Closing his eyes again, Geralt's fingers played lightly across the meat of Jaskier's arse, then stroked upwards to his hips, where he helped him set a rhythm.  

He made muffled moans with every roll of Jaskier's hips, and above him the bard babbled alternating praises and obscenities.

It was perfect, everything Geralt ever wanted from going to his knees.  Jaskier made the most wonderful keening sounds, and--

"Fuck, Geralt, I'm close.  Do you want me to come in your mouth?"

Something dark and desperate rolled through Geralt.  He did--he did want him to come in his mouth.

But there was something else he wanted more.

"No," he gasped as he pulled off. He grabbed Jaskier's cock harshly around the base.

Jaskier cried out at the loss of all that slick, wet heat--a sad shout of frustration.  "Then where--?"

Geralt suckled at his cock head one last time before letting go of him entirely. "Nowhere. Not yet."

"Geralt," he said, chest heaving. "Wh--?"

Geralt stood, bunched his fists in the front of Jaskier's doublet, and kissed him roughly. "You're not allowed to come yet," he growled. "Because I need you to fuck me. Please."  He kissed him again, a strange part of him suddenly--unreasonably--worried that Jaskier would deny him, would tell him no. "Please, I need it. Need you inside me."

The other man gasped, and his expression went from pleasure-edged to worried. "Geralt?" Dandelion prompted--and it was, in fact, Dandelion.  He broke character to ask, "Are you sure?  We've never...You've never asked for anything like--?"

Geralt took one of Dandelion's hands, brought it around to his arse, made his fingers find the hardness of the plug at the seat of his leather breaches. "I'm not asking impulsively," he assured him.

Dandelion groaned, let his forehead drop to Geralt's shoulder. His fingers pressed firmly at the base of the plug, and Geralt hissed.

"Fuck," Dandelion bit out against Geralt's shirt. "Why do you have to be like this? Why does this have to be so good? I..."

Geralt grabbed his face, lifted it up to look him in the eyes. "Jaskier," he reminded him.

Dandelion bit his lip, nodded.  Forced himself to adopt the noble accent once again. "You're too good to me," he said. "You've always been so good to me, Geralt."

"I'd do anything for you, Jaskier," he said, and he meant it.

A hint of pain crossed the other man's face, but he nodded appreciatively. "I know."

Geralt leaned in to whisper against his lips. "Fuck me. Jaskier, fuck me, please."

Chapter Text

When Geralt pulled away from Jaskier's mouth again, waiting for his answer, the bard looked stricken.

Conflicted.

"What's wrong?" Geralt asked. He couldn't tell if the hesitancy was part of the production or not--if Dandelion was trying to play Jaskier as demure and gentlemanly, or if something was genuinely the matter.

"Nothing," Jaskier said after a brief pause, shaking himself. "I'm with you now. How could anything be wrong?"

"Will you, then?" Geralt asked, searching his eyes--ignoring their color--looking for his answer. "Have me? Fuck me?"

"Of course.  If that's what you want."

"What do you want?"

Jaskier pursed his lips. "Just you."

Geralt kissed him again.  He tasted like the cheap wine...soured further with the tang of regret.

Except Geralt couldn't tell who the regret belonged to--if it was Dandelion's, or his own.

After all, the whore could put on a show, but he couldn't entirely mask his true feelings.

And Geralt...well, his own regret was so near-constant a flavor, surely he wouldn't have started noticing it now.

But what, exactly, did Dandelion have to be regretful about?

Geralt pulled back slowly, ill-defined guilt bubbling up inside him. "We don't have to do this," he told him.  "Dandelion, we don't have to--"

"I want to," Dandelion said earnestly, palms settling against Geralt's chest.

"Do you?" Geralt asked.  Not a challenge, not an accusation--an honest question.

The sweet scent of the faux-bard's lust had not waned, but that was no reason to carry on if--

"Gods, you have no idea how much I want this.  How much I want you." There was no regret in his voice as he adopted Jaskier's accent once more. No hesitancy. "Geralt, please, let me take you to bed."

Letting go of the sour emotion, Geralt allowed himself to fall back into the moment.

"Not the bed," he said, yanking at the front of Jaskier's doublet, walking backwards, pulling the bard along with him.

Jaskier held onto the hem of his sagging trousers as he followed, so as not to trip.

Geralt's shoulder blades hit the wall next to the door. "Here."

"Here?" There was something incredulous in the question. Jaskier had been expecting something else.  Something more...romantic, perhaps.

"I...saw you," Geralt said, by way of explanation. "With the blacksmith. In the cabin."

Jaskier raised an eyebrow. "Oh?" he prompted, waiting for more information, unsure how he should react to the revelation.

To the confession.

"You fucked him on the floor, then he took you against the wall. And I...I was on the other side. Of that wall."

The memory flooded back, and it felt different. As much as it had been a shock in the moment, the events felt devastating now. The recollection stifled him. Strangled him. The echo of Jaskier's delight--the easy peals of his happy sighs--pulled tight, like a noose, around Geralt's windpipe.

He'd known Jaskier bedded other men, but he'd never seen it like that before.  And he'd never heard him so at ease, so carefree, with another man. 

Geralt wanted to be the one making Jaskier that happy. Wanted to be the one he laughed with while they fucked.  The one Jaskier teased and talked dirty to. He wanted to be the only man that made his bard relax that way.

But he'd never be the only one.

He'd never be one at all.

No, no. 

He shuttered that notion.  Hid that truth away.

He was with Jaskier, here, now.

"I was leaning against the wall, and I could feel him moving inside you," he admitted, an anxious edge making his voice break. "And now I need to feel you moving in me."

Jaskier's eyes widened as he processed Geralt's confession.

That awful look of pity returned to his face.

"Don't. Don't apologize," Geralt said quickly. "Just...undress me."

Jaskier's mouth hung open slightly, as though there were words on the tip of his tongue.  But he said nothing, instead grasping at Geralt's trousers, working them open.

Geralt looked Jaskier up and down, realized one thing was off.

He reached for the closures on his doublet, popping them free. "This should be open," he said. "When you're not performing, you always wear your jackets open."

"How indecent of me," Jaskier said lightly.

When all of the buttons were undone, Geralt slid his hands inside the doublet to clutch at Jaskier's off-white chemise. "It's distracting," he said. "When you run around half-undressed."

"Maybe I want to distract you."  

Jaskier pulled Geralt's shirt free of his breeches, then tugged up, indicating Geralt should lift his arms, let Jaskier slip the garment over his head.

With the shirt gone, Jaskier knelt to remove Geralt's boots, then he peeled his leathers down.  Slowly, he finished stripping him--leaving the witcher bare before his mostly-clad bard.

Utterly naked, save for his medallion and the tie in his hair, Geralt leaned back against the wall, pressing his palms to it. He felt exposed, in a primal way. His own nakedness hadn't left him feeling this vulnerable in a long time.

His heart fluttered unnaturally fast for a witcher, and each breath made his chest heave like he was running. 

He tried to center himself. To calm himself.

To remain stoic.

He could do that with monsters breathing down his neck, why couldn't he do it here, under Jaskier's gaze?

His behavior was entirely unbecoming of a witcher.

But he didn't feel like a witcher right now.  He just felt like a man.

A man overwhelmed by his own wanting.

"Keep it on?" Jaskier asked, waving up and down his own body.

Geralt didn't trust his voice, so he simply nodded.

Jaskier dove for him, then, the bard's mouth and hard cock simultaneously landing against their mates.

The two men kissed quickly. Jaskier soon moved to Geralt's neck, nipping it, licking it. He bucked his hips into Geralt's, and the head of Geralt's cock caught on Jaskier's open trousers, smearing the fabric with precome.

Geralt kept his hands pressed to the wooden cladding behind him. His knees were weak, and he feared he wouldn't remain upright without the grounding pressure on his palms.

"You wore a plug for me," Jaskier sighed against Geralt's skin.

"Yes," he said, though it came out more like a grunt than a word. He swallowed, tried to clear his throat so he could say more. "I wanted to be ready."

"Ready for me," Jaskier said.

"Ready for you," he confirmed.

But they both knew it wasn't Jaskier he'd gotten ready for.

Teeth scraped down the side of Geralt's throat, across his shoulder. "Turn around," Jaskier instructed.  "So I can take it out."

Doing his best to appear in control, to hide the tremors running through him, Geralt slowly turned, bracing his hands high on the wall.

"Spread your legs," Jaskier said.

Geralt was surprised by how commanding he sounded.

He was even more surprised by how much it made him want to obey.

There was a gentle tug at his entrance.  Jaskier gripped the plug's base with well-practiced fingers, and Geralt let out a guttural cry as the bard slipped the toy free.

Oil immediately began dripping from his hole.

"Fuck, look how wet you are." Careful fingers probed at his rim. "May I?"

"Yes," Geralt hissed, bucking back.

Jaskier let out a filthy groan as he pressed forward with what felt like a thumb. "You did well." The first digit retreated, only to be replaced by two. "Oh, fuck, you did such a good job stretching yourself."

The praise made a warm glow radiate through Geralt, and he hated how much he preened under so little affirmation.

A third finger easily slid into place.

Geralt's groin throbbed, and each probing slide of Jaskier's fingers sent a pleasant pulse up the backs of his legs.  

"Please," he said meekly. 

He didn't mean to beg.

But he was most definitely begging.

"Please, Jaskier."

Those eager fingers were exchanged for the soft, blunt head of a cock.

"Is this what you need?" Jaskier demanded.

"Yes."

"Rough?  Sweet?  How do you want it?"

"I..." He pushed back, trying to take him in, to show him, so he wouldn't have to say.

Jaskier let the tip slip inside.

They both froze, gasped in tandem at the spike of pleasure.

Jaskier's hands fell lightly to Geralt's hips. "What do you want, Geralt?"

Affection.

Devotion.

Agitation.

Playfulness.

Fierceness.

Tenderness.

Madness.

Happiness.

He wanted one thing that was all those things.

"Jaskier," he breathed, and it wasn't an entreaty. 

It was a statement. 

It was what he wanted:

Jaskier.

The man behind him said nothing.

He simply rolled his hips forward, slowly pressing deep inside.

Geralt sobbed as his body adjusted. As he took Jaskier in.

Yes, this was what he wanted.

Jaskier, any way the bard would have him.

When he felt Jaskier's sac press up against his own, he let out a breath. 

It was so good.

He felt so full.

His cock throbbed.

His heart hurt.

"Fuck me," he managed to croak.

Jaskier pulled back, then thrust in again in one long, languid slide.

It made his cock drag deliciously over Geralt's prostate. "Yes.  Like that.  Just like that," he said, rolling his hips to meet Jaskier's thrust.

They picked a steady rhythm.  Not too fast, not too slow.  Firm, with an edge of desperation, but not rough.  Not violent.

The measured slap slap slap of skin-on-skin, and their harsh, heavy breathing, were the only sounds for a long time.

Eventually, Geralt became vaguely aware he was mumbling.  Over and over. The same two words.  He couldn't stop himself.  They tumbled from his lips with every thrust, punched out of him. "Jas-Jaskier. Please. Please. Jaskier. Jaskier. Please. Jas--"

Please, please love me. 

Love me back.

I'm not supposed to love anything.

But I love you.

There was a pit inside him--in his chest--and it kept filling up and emptying out again.  He wanted affection from Jaskier, and he genuinely felt it, for a moment, but then he remembered none of this was real, and devastation swamped in.  Again and again, conflicting emotions sloshed inside him. He was filled, then emptied, then filled again--with feelings he both hated and craved.

Soft lips landed between his shoulder blades, replaced shortly by sweat-dampened fringe and the firm press of Jaskier's forehead.

Their pace eased.  Jaskier's thrusting became slower, but tougher. Almost punitive in the way he severely punctuated every meeting of their hips.

"I'm--I'm close," Geralt warned him.  "Don't stop."

The pleasure built and built, his entire lower body aflame with sensation.  His blood pounded in his ears, and Jaskier pounded between his legs, and it was all too much and not enough. He wanted more and he wanted it to end. He wanted to be right here, and he wished he was somewhere else.

"Don't stop. Gods-- I-- Don't stop."

Jaskier started to make a keening sound, but his hips never faltered.

"Don't stop," Geralt said again.  "Come--come inside me.  Don't stop."

That seemed all the permission the bard needed.  With a great shout--one torn violently from the depths of his chest--Jaskier came, hot and slick inside Geralt.

And that--Jaskier's orgasm--was enough to push Geralt over his own edge.

His bard was a pleasure-filled mess against him, and that was all he really wanted.

"I love you," he whispered as he came--unable to keep the words trapped behind his teeth. He spilled onto the wall, his cock completely untouched.

Wave after wave of sad, sick pleasure washed over him, around him.  It was beautiful and ghastly, and he thought that if he should die right here, in this moment, that it would be enough.

It would be close enough.

To the real thing, with the real man.

They stayed joined for a few moments longer.  Both breathing heavily, both sweaty and warm.

When Jaskier pulled out, the bard made a choked-off sob.

Geralt turned quickly, ready to give him a heated kiss, but he stopped halfway to reaching for him.

Jaskier's eyes were glassy.

Damp with tears.

"You're crying," Geralt said flatly, reaching again.  "Why are you--?"

Jaskier batted Geralt's hand down, then surged forward, taking Geralt's face in both palms, crushing their mouths together. The back of Geralt's head hit the wall with a soft smack.

Geralt closed his eyes.  Felt--tasted--one of Jaskier's tears as it rolled down to seep between their joined lips.

But they weren't Jaskier's tears. 

There was no way this was simply part of the pretense--that Dandelion was pretending to be overcome.

Geralt put a hand on Dandelion's chest, pushed him back, broke the kiss. "Why are you crying?" he asked, but not unkindly.

Dandelion's eyes were red. His cheeks were red. His gaze was anguished.

"You have no idea what it's like, do you?" he demanded, voice shaking.  "What it's like to take the full force of someone's love for another.  To be a target let-loose upon, to be struck repeatedly with feelings and affection not meant for you?"

"Dande--"

"No." Dandelion turned away, rubbed at his eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I can't.  I'm sorry."

Chapter Text

"I can't keep pretending right now. I thought I could do this, but... I'm sorry," Dandelion continued. He took a deep, shuddering breath--kept his back squarely to Geralt.

The whore was easily within arm's reach.  Geralt could reach out, force him to look at him.  Instead, the witcher kept himself plastered to the wall. 

A rivulet of Dandelion's spend ran down his thigh.

"I'm a professional," Dandelion said, chiding himself. "I should be better than this. But...this is why I asked.  In the beginning--whether you loved or hated him. I can take the hate sex. Gods, I've had so much hate sex." He ran a hand over his face. "I can even take the imaginary love. Lots of people come to the Passiflora and tell one of us we remind them of someone they're in love with.  It's a common fantasy. But those fucks are always so...cold--so obviously lacking in love that it's a wonder they want the pretense at all.

"And then...you." He turned his head a little, to speak over his shoulder while he wrung his hands. "You come here, so desperately in love that you didn't want anyone to know.  Not even me, the man you allowed yourself to touch when you can't allow yourself to touch him.  You told me our first time that you didn't love him. You lied to me, and then you made love to me--again and again--in his stead, and I--"

"I didn't mean to..." Geralt swallowed thickly.  "I didn't think it mattered, how I felt.  The lie, it wasn't--"

Dandelion spun back around, expression open, tormented. "No one's ever done this to me before, Geralt. And I don't know what to do with it." He crowded in against the witcher, bracketing him with his arms. He leaned forward, as if to kiss him, but fell short--catching his eyes, holding his gaze. "If there's one thing every whore knows, it's not to get attached. But when you turn your intensity on me, when you look at me like I'm him, I want that look to really be for me."

Dandelion closed the distance, then, lips lightly tugging at Geralt's.

But Geralt couldn't bring himself to kiss back. Not because he didn't want to, but because he was still trying to process what Dandelion was saying. Was still in mild shock over the fact that he'd made a whore cry.

But Dandelion seemed to take his stillness as a sign--as rejection.  He pulled away, nodded sadly to himself, dropping his gaze, clearly unable to look Geralt in the eye as his tears continued to fall. "I know it's fucked up," he said, voice hot and pained.  "I know it's him you want, I do. I know it's not me. I know it.

"I know it shouldn't be me," he gritted through clenched teeth. Dandelion took two steps back, and Geralt felt like he could draw a proper breath again. "I know it can't be me, because we don't even know each other, not really. But it hurts when you're here. And it hurts when you leave, and it hurts in a way that I want.  I want you, and I shouldn't.  I can't have you.  You're not mine.  You could never be mine.  Even if I somehow stole you away--"

He gasped at himself, shook his head, glanced up then. "I wouldn't try," he said quickly, clearly afraid of offending Geralt, of angering him. "I wouldn't try to take you from him, I swear it. But even if... You could never be mine, because I will always be too close to him in your eyes.  I could never just be me.  So all I can hope for is to keep you coming back. So that I can have you for an instant--a moment--and we can both play pretend." He ran the heel of his hand beneath his eyes. "You pretend I'm him, and I pretend I'm the one you want--that I can be something you want."

He let out a sad, self-deprecating chuckle. "And then I find myself hoping that maybe you at least...maybe you at least care for me."

"I do care--" Geralt said immediately. 

He did--he cared deeply for Dandelion.

But the whore shook his head. "You love him too much.  I don't even know if there's room in your heart for anything else." 

Geralt had no answer for that.

Dandelion's words died, and the air went quiet, still.

Both of them were silent for a long while.

Geralt wanted to curl his arms around Dandelion, to hold him, to comfort him.  But he could only imagine his touch would hurt. Bring more pain.

Stupid witcher, he snarled at himself. All he could do was stand dumbly by, with Dandelion's seed dripping down his thighs, as the man he'd bludgeoned with his love for Jaskier confessed his feelings and broke down right in front of him.

At their first meeting, Geralt had cursed every patron who'd failed to treat a whore like a person.

But, in the end, in a way, he'd been no different.

He'd used Dandelion like he used practice dummies in Kaer Morhen: as something to take his frustrations out on, as a target for his fear and his love and his torment.

And he'd just expected him to bear it.

"I'm sorry I did this to you," he croaked eventually.  "I'm sorry I confused you."

"You didn't confuse me, Geralt," Dandelion said quietly, rubbing at his eyes. "You made me fall for you. Without even trying, which makes it all the more terrible. I've had my share of white knights, who wanted to whisk me away from all this." He gestured vaguely. "But I like it here. I don't want to leave. And certainly not for them, try as they might to convince me they love me.

"But you... I just... I never expected... No, that's not true.  I saw it coming, and instead of turning you away, I--" Dandelion took a deep breath, "I dove right in." He tugged listlessly at the front of his doublet, expression stunned, as though he was mildly surprised to find himself wearing it. "I wanted to be him, for you. I want to be everything you desire."

Geralt closed his eyes, set his jaw. He hit the back of his head against the wall once, twice, unsure of what to do with himself. With his frustration, his self-hatred.

"I don't know him," Dandelion said firmly. "I don't know if he will ever love you the way you love him.  But, gods, if I'm dying under the intensity of your affection, he could only thrive...and you're keeping it from him."

"I have to," Geralt growled.

"No, you don't. You won't lose him."

"You don't know that," Geralt said earnestly, eyes flying open. "You don't know him.  You don't know us."

Dandelion lowered his head into his hands, covered his face and drew a shuddering breath. "You're right. I don't."

"How did you--how do you know any of this about him?" He gestured around the room, even though Dandelion wasn't looking. "This is more information than one patron could give you." A sudden protectiveness flared in his gut. "Have you been stalking him?"

Dandelion's eyes shot up. "No.  Gods, of course not.  No. I've never even laid eyes on him. You were silly to think I wouldn't ever find out who he was. After all, you're both famous. It's not difficult, when asking questions of the right people, to figure out what the famous bard Jaskier wears--and thus how he presents himself--what the famous bard Jaskier drinks--and thus what he tastes like--where the famous bard Jaskier was born--and thus what he sounds like.  These details are not nearly as intimate as you believe them to be. Anything private I know about him...that has all come from you."

Geralt's hackles raised. "I haven't told you anything."

"Oh, haven't you?" A bitterness edged into his voice. "How many people know he fucks blacksmiths against random walls? How many people know he tries to kiss you when he's drunk?  How many people know the bard and the witcher share sheets when they have to?  Most grown men would rather sleep cold and alone on the floor. I can't imagine anyone suspects the witcher and the human cuddle up to one another--not even the innkeepers you rent your one-bedded rooms from."

He was right.  Geralt had divulged too much.  He'd handed Dandelion Jaskier's secrets, betrayed Jaskier's confidence.

How could he do that?  How could Geralt do that to the man he loved so much?

He knew how.  He knew why.

Because he was a monster. He was the Butcher of Blaviken; he wasn't built to love, and he didn't know how to love, and when his heart tried anyway, he just...broke things.

Dandelion suddenly looked around, fidgeting, as though he didn't know what to do with himself, didn't know how to give either of them an out.  "I'll...I'll gather your clothes. There's a washroom on the other side of the suite, if you want to..." He left the specifics unsaid, but Geralt heard the words anyway: If you want to clean away my touch, my scent, my come. If you want to wash me off of you. Away from you.

Geralt didn't know what to say, so he nodded, moved to leave the room.

He spotted the plug on the floor, where Dandelion had dropped it, and subtly scooped it up when the whore's back was turned.

The washroom lay on the opposite side of the entry way, and consisted of a filled wooden tub, a stand of towels, and a plethora of salts, soaps, and bath oils.

Geralt wetted a towel in the tub, swiped it between his legs.

But he didn't clean out entirely.

After wiping off the plug, he braced one hand against the wall, and pushed it back inside with a gasp, trapping whatever had yet to leak free.

He wasn't even sure why he did it.  What possessed him.

No, that wasn't true.  He was lying to himself. 

He knew why.

Stupidly, Dandelion's spend felt like a gift. And he wanted to keep it.

After, he washed his hands and returned to the bedroom.

Dandelion had folded Geralt's clothes, stacked them in a neat pile on the bed.  The whore sat beside the pile, the doublet and the undershirt gone--he clearly felt more like himself with fewer clothes on.

"I wanted this to be good for you. I'm sorry I spoiled it," Dandelion said, pulling his knees up to his chest, hugging them close.

"You didn't," Geralt reassured him, reaching for his underclothes.

It's me.  I spoiled it.  I spoil everything.

And that was why he couldn't tell Jaskier.  Their friendship was as yet unsullied--the one thing he hadn't yet ruined.

Slowly, Geralt redressed.

"Will you be back?" Dandelion asked sullenly. "I want you to come back," he added softly.

This is the last time, Geralt reaffirmed to himself.  I've caused too many problems for the both of us.  This has to be the last time.

But he didn't know which was worse: telling Dandelion--now that the man had confessed his feelings--that he intended to stay away.  Or reassuring Dandelion he would return, only to leave him in some kind of heartbroken limbo, always waiting for a moment that would never come.

Geralt tucked the hem of his shirt into his breeches, then sat down next to Dandelion to pull on his boots. "I'll only hurt you," he said eventually.

"Then hurt me," Dandelion said. "As long as you come back, I don't care if it hurts."

They turned to look at each other.

Dandelion's gaze was pleading.

It stirred a new sort of longing in Geralt. A longing he didn't know what to do with.

The witcher leaned in, kissed Dandelion softly.

A kiss goodbye.

Then he stood, made to leave.

Without bothering to count how much coin it held, Geralt dropped his purse on the bed, left it there. The whole thing. 

He gave Dandelion every last copper.

It was fine. He'd make more.

Monsters and money. That was all his life was supposed to be.

A distant memory stirred at the back of his mind, of a young man insisting he could sense more in Geralt.

That he smelled of heroics...

...and heartbreak.

Chapter Text

Geralt wasn't more than half a mile outside of Novigrad before he ran into Jaskier. It had only been two days since his heart-wrenching last encounter with Dandelion, and everything about it was still fresh in Geralt's mind.

The guilt, the hurt--it all left a horrid taste in his mouth. Worse than the bitterness of regret. Worse than the fetidness of shame.

He wished...he wished he'd never laid eyes on Dandelion. It might have saved them both so much unnecessary heartache.

"What are you doing here?" he asked Jaskier just a little too gruffly.

"I have a week's worth of performances booked at the Kingfisher," the bard said lightly, falling into step next to Roach, even though Geralt continued to ride in the opposite direction of the city. "I have a new song that's almost finished, and figured this would be an excellent venue for its debut. What were you doing here?"

It was an innocent question, basic conversation.

Geralt tried not to interpret it as an accusation.

"Ending something that should have ended long ago," he admitted.

"Well that sounds ominous," Jaskier said in a delighted sort of way.

You'd probably think it was ballad-worthy--suitably tragic--if it had happened to someone else, Geralt mused. If it didn’t involve my feelings for you.

"Have a pressing engagement elsewhere?" Jaskier continued, stumbling slightly--over a rock or his own feet, it was difficult to say. He hoisted both his pack and his lute higher on his shoulders once he recovered.

"No," Geralt answered--before his brain caught up with exactly why Jaskier would ask.

"Why don't you come back to the city with me, then? The new song is about you; the fight with that pair of bruxa--bruxae, bruxai? You know, the one where we both got chewed on and I was sure my very life-force was leaving me?  Anyway, I know you like to look over the lyrics and critique my work before it goes public, so--"

"You've never changed a single word on account of my objections."

"That's not true at all."

Geralt looked down at him, raised an eyebrow.

"I have most definitely changed at least one word somewhere," Jaskier insisted. "Oh, come on, Geralt. You said you don't have anywhere else you're supposed to be. Will you come?  For me?"

Will you come for me?

Geralt's traitorous libido flared to life, dick twitching in his trousers.

A few months ago he might have snorted at the unintended pun.  But now...

Jaskier's gaze was hopeful, expectant.

And innocent.

"I'm low on coin," he admitted, hoping he didn't sound as ashamed as he felt. "I can't afford the city right now."

And I need to kill somethingI need to run my sword through a monster so I can stop thinking about running an entirely different kind of sword through you.

Or about all the times I ran it through Dandelion...

Ran it right through his fucking heart, it seemed.

"The Kingfisher is providing me with lovely accommodations," Jaskier said. "You're welcome to share, as always."

Geralt looked away, closed his eyes--steeling himself.

He could tell him no.  He had told him no--many, many times, after many, many requests--and yet, he always found himself wherever Jaskier asked him to be.

Without a word, he pulled on Roach's reins, turning her back toward the city.

Jaskier shot him a winning smile and fell into step beside the horse once more.

 

#

 

The Kingfisher was just as lively as it had been a few hours ago, when Geralt had left, with patrons noisily boasting and toasting their way through their mid-day meal.

"Master Witcher, you're back!" the innkeeper declared from behind the counter, which lay immediately to the left of the main entrance.

"I found the bard you ordered," he quipped, moving swiftly inside to reveal Jaskier trialing behind.

"Ah, was that this week, Master Julian?"

"Good to see my performances have been highly anticipated," he snorted.

"No offense meant--memory isn't what it used to be.  But I haven't got a room prepared yet. Unless...Well, we haven't touched the room you were in yet, Master Witcher, it's as you left it.  We can bring new sheets after the laundry comes in.  Oh, but then..." The man looked mournfully at Geralt. "Are you staying as well?"

"He'll be my guest," Jaskier said quickly.

"Oh, well, then I'm sure we can find an extra sleeping pallet."

Not even the innkeepers suspect the bard and the witcher share sheets.

Without looking back to see if Jaskier was following, Geralt crossed between the tables of the spacious main dining hall, keeping the stage--where Jaskier would be performing--to his left as he made for the stairs directly across the way.

It was a simple and familiar path to trudge, and yet it felt surreal.

He couldn’t remember the last time he and Jaskier had been in Novigrad together.

Oxenfurt was Jaskier's city, in his mind.

Novigrad belonged to Dandelion.

And now, all three of them were in the same city, at the same time.

Separated by no more than a few winding streets.

At the very least, he hoped to keep it that way.

 

#

 

"Oh, yes," Jaskier moaned as he flopped face-first onto the mattress, lute still on his back.  The bedding was in disarray, the sheets tangled and the blankets thrown aside, just as Gerlat had left them.

Gerlat stiffened as he set down his swords near the door. For a moment he worried Jaskier would be able to smell what he'd done in that bed--that he'd know Geralt had touched himself, all hot and sad and confused, with the plug and Dandelion's spend still inside him.

But Jaskier didn't have a witcher's senses.  He had no way of knowing Geralt had lain there and fantasied about walking into the Passiflora suite to find Jaskier and Dandelion both.

Geralt had thought about two sets of lips on his skin, two sets of hands on his body.  Two sets of eyes staring at him with want, two melodious voices praising him, two tongues and two cocks, and two enticing, entwining scents.

But he didn't deserve both of them.  He didn’t deserve either of them.

He'd been selfish and stupid and unintentionally cruel.

"I can practically hear the gears in your head grinding to a halt," Jaskier said, sitting up. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." He began to move about the room, tucking his saddlebags beside the writing desk.  It sat under the room's single window, with the bed to its left, a book shelf on its right.

"I'm sorry I'm making you share a cramped room. Again," Jaskier said.

"It's fine. That's not... It's fine."

 "You know, they promised me meals, too. I saw a scrumptious assortment of fruit on our way in--the grapes looked especially plump.  You could always go retrieve a platter.  Oh, and there's a merchant around the way that keeps Fiorano stocked."

At the mention of the wine, Geralt startled, but tried to keep his expression neutral. "So now I'm your errand boy?"

"The fruit and wine are for the both of us, you arse.  Though I would be delighted to upgrade you from errand boy to serving girl and let you feed me grapes, if that's more your thing." He raised an eyebrow in challenge.

"Could feed you something else," Geralt grumbled.

"Oh?"

My cock.  "My fist."

"Oh, har har."

"I'll get you your damn wine. Where's your coin?"

"In my pack." He gestured lightly to where he'd left it, not far from where Geralt had set his swords.

Jaskier seemed to care not a wit if Geralt rifled through his things, so the witcher made a show of it, huffing as he pawed through the pack, grumbling as though the scant thing was instead bottomless.  He paused only when his fingers landed on something cold and hard.  He brought it into the light.

A glass bauble.

A fucking plug.

He dropped it quickly, face burning. 

He risked a glance at Jaskier out of the corner of his eye.  Thankfully, he was sure he hadn't seen.

Having learned his lesson, he quickly found the velvet pouch that held the bard's coin.

Remembering his own plug, he growled, "Don't touch my things," and swiftly exited the room.

 

#

 

When Geralt returned, supplies in hand, he found Jaskier standing at the writing desk, hands braced on the top as he studied a piece of parchment.  His head tilted back and forth as he hummed to himself.

He looked thoughtful, but relaxed.

An easy sense of affection passed over Geralt. He placed the bottle and tray of fruit on the bed, then strode up behind Jaskier to look over his shoulder. "What are you doing?" he asked casually.

"Putting the finishing touches on the new song."

"Hmm," Geralt acknowledged, absently laying a hand on the nape of Jaskier's neck as he leaned forward further, trying to catch a glimpse of the lyrics.

The song was as he'd said: about their tussle with the vampires. Only, Jaskier had somehow made the bloodletting seem...appealing. Sensual.

Erotic. 

 

...And then she did descend upon that strong, bared throat...

...lips rose red on soft, pale skin...

...with the taste of the bard and the witcher betwixt her (teeth)...

...that throbbing ache, that slick, wet hunger...

...for want of a kiss, the blood did mingle bright...

 

Without thinking, the witcher let his fingertips stray up into the strands of hair at the base of Jaskier's skull, petting lightly. He didn't even realize he was doing it until Jaskier rolled his head back, pushing Geralt's hand further into his hair.

"That's nice," Jaskier purred.

Geralt swiftly snatched his fingers away, startled.

The bard turned to look at him, eyes wide, but Geralt kept his gaze averted, eyes on the sheet music.

You shouldn't have done that, he bit at himself.

He knew this would happen.  That once he allowed himself to have the full fantasy with Dandelion, he'd be unable to keep his hands to himself when it mattered.  

He had to find a way to delineate the two.  To keep himself from slipping up.

Pretend...pretend he'll only be with you at the Passiflora. He only lets you touch him when you're there, nowhere else. You can never touch him anywhere else.

Never.

He doesn't want you anywhere else.

He doesn't want...

Geralt's heart constricted.

He doesn't want you.

"Geralt?" Jaskier asked, turning to fully face him.  His pupils were wide, but that was probably due to the late-day lighting, the shadows stretching.

He doesn't want you. Stop looking for signs that he wants you.

If he wanted you, he would have said.

Their bodies were close--too close. Geralt could feel Jaskier's heat, smell his honey-lavender-cedar spice.  Geralt took a step back, toward the bookcase, hoping he didn't look as skittish as he felt.

Jaskier's fingertips alighted on Geralt's forearm, stopping his retreat. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing."

"No. No," Jaskier said firmly. "You've been distant--well, more distant than usual--these last few times we've met up, and it's starting to worry me.  I know I can be irritating, but...am I not even irritating to you anymore? Do I... Do I bore you?"

Geralt breathed deeply, and slid his arm out from under Jaskier's hand.

He didn't want to be cold toward Jaskier.  But if there was no ice, then there would only be fire. A fire he didn't know how to control. 

"You never bore me," he said flatly.

"Then what's wrong?"

I have feelings I don't want; an ache deep in my chest, and a tightness that never leaves my throat, and an itch in my fingers that will only ever be soothed against your skin.

 "Geralt?"

I want you...and it's killing me.

"Drop it, Jaskier," he said, voice a low, warning growl. 

The bard's gaze narrowed as he tried to determine just how seriously he should take Geralt's bark--if there was any bite behind it.  "Does it have to do with what you mentioned on the road?  That thing you ended?  I know you think I'm no good at keeping secrets," he said slowly. "But you're wrong. I'm your friend, and I can be a confidant if you'll let me. If it's not boredom that has you so detached, then what--?"

"I said, drop it," he repeated sadly, backing up further.  His shoulders hit the bookcase, knocking a volume of poems from its shelf.

But Jaskier wouldn't back down.

Geralt looked everywhere but at his face.

I don't know much longer I can do this.  How much longer I can torment myself by being near you at all.  You could never want me like I want you. So maybe...maybe...

Geralt had ended it with Dandelion.

Maybe it was time to end things with Jaskier.

Maybe we should go our separate ways.  For good.

Before I make things worse.

You've been a better friend to me than I could ever be to you. And the best way I can thank you is to leave you alone.

Winter would be upon them soon. He'd go to Kaer Morhen, and Jaskier would go to Oxenfurt--all per usual--and then...

In the spring, he could simply avoid Jaskier. He could let him live his life. 

He could let him go.

Let him go.

Geralt suddenly doubled over, like he'd been stabbed in the gut. The thought of tearing himself away from Jaskier physically cut though him just as surely as a blade.

"Geralt!" Jaskier was on him in an instant, hands fluttering over his shoulders. "Please, talk to me. What is it? Are you sick? Do you have some terminal illness you've been too noble to tell me about? Or a curse? This sudden-pang stuff looks a little curse-y, doesn't it? No, not that either? Indigestion? Kidney stones--can you get those? Or--?"

"Curse is closest," Geralt grumbled under his breath. "And you're rambling."  He planted a palm on Jaskier's chest, pushed him away.

"I'm rambling because I don't know what's wrong or how to help you. Let me help you."

"You can't help me."

Jaskier bit his lip, let his voice go soft, held out his hands imploringly. "Let me try."

Geralt took a deep breath, righted himself.

Jaskier moved to grab his arm, but Geralt snapped at him, "Don't touch me."

Jaskier pulled his hand back as though he'd been burned. "It is me, isn't it?" he asked sadly.

"No, Jas--"

"Was it the kissing thing?"

Geralt stopped dead, looked fully at Jaskier for the first time since coming back with the food. "I didn't think you remembered."

Jaskier's eyes were rueful. "Honestly," he said quietly, "I thought you'd just accepted it as my usual teasing suggestiveness, but I see it hit a little harder than my other...uh...amusing overtures in that department. I'm sorry I made you uncomfortable.  It won't happen again.  Really, Geralt, I didn't..." He paused, looked away, let out at shaky breath. "I understand if you don't want to share the bed with me." He turned suddenly, strode toward the door.  "I'll make sure they bring up that extra pallet.  In fact, I'll take it. You keep the mattress--it's got your sheets on it already."

"Jaskier--"

"No, Geralt, please. I'm sorry I caused this rift between us. I didn't mean anything by it, and I certainly don't want anything to change just because I got very drunk and went very stupid. It'll never happen again, I promise you." He yanked open the door.

"Wait, Jaskier--"

"I'll be back."

And with that, he was gone.

Geralt ran a trembling hand over his face, feeling somehow simultaneously relieved and devastated.

See, he told himself, he doesn't want you.

It's best, for the both of you, if you leave him and never look back.

He glanced at his swords, his saddlebags, wondering if he could sneak away while Jaskier was occupied with the innkeep and the pallet.

But he didn't want to go. 

He was too weak to do what was right--to see himself out of Jaskier's life this instant.

He'll be here a week, he reminded himself. You can have this week.  Be with him now, and then leave him alone. Love him all you can now, and then let him go.

 

#

 

It was a long while before Jaskier returned, and when he came back, his eyes were unexpectedly red-rimmed. 

Geralt didn't know what to say, so he said nothing.

And a painful silence filled the evening. 

Chapter Text

That night, Geralt couldn't sleep. 

Neither could Jaskier.

They both lay awake long after they'd blown out the candles--Geralt staring up at the ceiling, trying not to think too loudly, and Jaskier...

Jaskier gently sniffling, letting out rasping breaths as he clearly put all his effort into holding back tears.  

Geralt didn't want Jaskier to think it was his fault--that he'd done something wrong. He hadn't. He'd been the perfect friend to Geralt.

Too perfect.

Geralt would not let this week pass this way, with Jaskier miserable and physically distancing himself, afraid of upsetting the witcher.  He deserved a better goodbye.

He deserved a better everything.

Geralt took a deep, calming breath.  He knew what he had to do, how best to comfort Jaskier. But it would be torture. Even as it brought Jaskier relief, it would bring Geralt more agony. But he had to do it.

He had to invite him into his bed.

There was a certain way they laid together on particularly frigid nights, when they were caught off-guard out in the open, under the stars.

A way they fit together.

They never laid like that in an inn.  Never.

So...just this once, then.

"You're cold," Geralt said, his voice sounding unnaturally loud as it broke through the near-silence of the night.

Jaskier didn't respond for a long moment.  His breathing evened out. "I'm not cold."

"Yes, you are," Geralt countered.

"No, I'm not," Jaskier insisted miserably.

"You're shivering."

Geralt waited for him to understand--to put the pieces together.

Come to me. Let me hold you.

"You're sure?" Jaskier asked hesitantly.

"Yes," Geralt said through gritted teeth, biting back a please.

Geralt rolled up on his side, facing where Jaskier lay on the pallet in the middle of the room, and pulled back the blanket in invitation. Thankfully they'd both gone to bed in light shirts and soft sleeping trousers--there was no nakedness to contend with.

He heard Jaskier shuffle off the pallet. Then came the soft, brief patter of bare feet on wood as he crossed the short distance to the bed. The mattress sagged as he slid under the blanket, and Geralt immediately wrapped Jaskier in his arms like he did on those cold nights.

One of his arms slid under Jaskier' shoulders, pulling him tight against his chest.  The other he draped over the bard, and he splayed his hand in the middle of his lower back. Jaskier tucked his face in the crook of Geralt' neck, his own palms settling lightly against Geralt's pectorals. Sometimes, this position also brought their hips in line, but tonight Jaskier kept his knees curled up, with the front of them pressed into the top of Geralt's thighs--clearly distancing their groins.

"I'm not angry with you," Geralt rumbled.

"But I made you uncomfortable." It wasn't a question.

"Yes." Just not in the way you think. "But, it's not your fault, I..."

It's not your fault I want your teasing to be real.

Jaskier let out a shuddering breath over Geralt's collar bone.

Every inch of the witcher's skin prickled.

It's not your fault, Jaskier.  None of this is your fault.

When I leave you, please don't blame yourself.

"I'll stop," Jaskier mumbled. "I shouldn't have made those kinds of--" he swallowed thickly-- "jokes. I'll stop."

Geralt didn't say anything, but let his thumb run in soothing swipes over Jaskier's shoulder as he gripped him tightly.

The bard smelled so good, felt so warm.

This--the way they pressed into one another--felt so right. Why did it have to be so wrong?

They simply lay together for a long while, but neither sagged with sleep. There was still too much tension in the line of Jaskier's shoulders, in the curve of his spine, for Geralt to allow himself to drift off.

Eventually, Jaskier pulled back a little ways from Geralt's neck, his chest, and took in a small breath, like he was about to say something else--a long-winded something else. "Geralt?"

"Hmm?"

Geralt tilted his face down just as Jaskier tilted his up.

Their lips brushed in the dark.

Lightning shot down Geral't spine--his breath left him, stolen away.

Jaskier jerked back. "I'm sorry! I wasn't--"

Geralt grabbed him by the nape of the neck, stilling him.  "Shh."

Jaskier trembled in his grasp.

"Shh. Jaskier, it's okay."

It was and it wasn't.

That light touch meant everything and meant nothing.

The witcher's lips still tingled with the ghost of it. He knew he'd savor the memory of that sensation for the rest of his life--a gift given him here, at the end, no matter how accidental.  

Geralt felt like it was his turn to cry. There were so many emotions running through him, filling him up, ready to burst out.  He had Jaskier here, so, so close...so fucking close...but he could have him no closer.

Geralt couldn't let himself...he couldn't--fuck, but he wanted to. He longed to lean in, longed to take that accidental brush and transform it into something rich and real and on purpose.

He was going to end things with Jaskier. This was over either way, why shouldn't he try?  Why shouldn't he take the risk, the leap, just to see, to know for sure--?

But Jaskier's heart was beating rapidly.

And not from lust. Not from want.

From fear.

He smelled of fear. Hot and acrid, like the sulfur-scent rolling off a volcanic mountain.

Geralt imagined leaning in, kissing Jaskier, only to have Jaskier tell him no, to push him away, to struggle out of his arms, trying to get away from him as quickly as possible--mumbling something both awful and true, like, It was a joke--I told you it was a joke, you bastard.

Geralt felt sick to his stomach. Don't you dare hurt him like that, he barked at himself. Don't you dare prove yourself that kind of monster.

Instead, he pushed at the back of Jaskier's neck, encouraged him to bury his face in Geralt's chest once more. The bard resisted for a moment, but then eased forward.

Geralt held him tight.  So tight.

He'd never have this again.  They'd never sleep under the stars together again, never get caught out in the cold. Jaskier's frigid fingers would never seek out his warmth.

This embrace was likely their last.

A sob built in his chest. He held it back.

Did falling in love hurt unmutated humans this terribly? He knew they experienced pain, and disappointment, and longing. But was having the one you wanted with you, but not with you, this awful for them?  Did it feel like loss, like grief? Did it feel like dying? Did it feel like something had been ripped out of their chests--something they would never get back?

Or was this a unique quality the muatagens had given him? It would make sense, really, that the trials would twist even this, his attempt to love, into a terrible experience.

He hoped Dandelion hadn't felt even a fraction of the pain he felt now. He wouldn't wish this on anyone.  Especially not someone he cared for.

Geralt allowed himself to nuzzle into Jaskier's hair, to breath deeply as the odor of fear ebbed away. "Go to sleep," he mumbled softly. "I'll keep you warm."

 

#

 

 

At some point, Geralt must have dozed off. He closed his eyes one moment, and when he opened them the next, a soft morning light was eking through the gap in the curtains.

He still held Jaskier in his arms.  The bard was asleep, and his posture was relaxed.  He'd uncurled his knees, and thrown one arm around Geralt's waist, so now every inch of them was pressed together from chest to toes.

Neither of them was hard, which Geralt was thankful for. It allowed him to savor the moment, to appreciate how safe and comfortable they both were.

If he could pick a single instant to live in for the rest of his life, it would be this one.

Maybe.

He lazily let his mind drift, thinking of all the other moments he'd stop time for:

Jaskier laughing pleasantly.

Jaskier singing a song, a gentle ballad--preferably one not about Geralt. And preferably when they were alone, without a crowd.

Jaskier darning one of Geralt's shirts, his stitching far more even and clean than Geralt's.

Even Jaskier just bustling about camp, making himself useful in whatever way he could.

But Geralt would want to see his eyes.  Whichever moment he was allowed to stay in forever in this imaginary time-bubble, he'd want to see Jaskier's eyes.

As though the bard could sense Geralt's thoughts, he stirred, pulling back to blink sleepily at him. "Oh, you're awake already," he said with a yawn.

"And your breath might make me pass out again," Geralt said playfully, shoving at Jaskier's chest, turning away in mock disgust.

In truth, his morning breath wasn't that bad. But Geralt wanted to set the tone for the day, to make it clear teasing and good-natured jostling were both still a part of how they behaved around one another.

As they untangled themselves from the sheets and made ready, Jaskier was back to his chipper self, and Geralt automatically felt better for it.

He wanted his last memories with Jaskier to be happy ones.

They left the room and went about their morning and afternoon with ease, as though nothing but a usual spat had transpired and they were once again over the dispute, back to normal.

When evening came, they returned to the Kingfisher and Jaskier readied himself for his first performance, tuning his lute and running his vocal exercises as he sat on the bed.

"Will you sing it for me?" Geralt asked softly, not looking at Jaskier directly, pretending instead to search for something in his saddle bag so that the request would seem casual, and not completely out of character.

Jaskier's fingers stuttered on the strings. "Will I...?"

"The new song.  Sing it for me before you play it for them." He glanced up from where he crouched next to the desk, hand inside one pouch, fingers still. "Most of your others I hear while you're composing them," he explained. "I read the words, but I haven't heard..." He trailed off, had half a mind to shake his head and tell Jaskier to forget it.  He'd hear it when Jaskier was on stage, just like everyone else.

"Yeah.  Yeah, okay," Jaskier said, clearly trying to put on a similar casual air, as though Geralt requested songs all the time.  As though this wasn't an utterly unique occurrence.

The bard cleared his throat, finished his tuning, and began--head bowed, gaze on his own fingers, as though he had to watch them to make sure they fell correctly, as though each note and chord weren't completely second nature.

He started soft, his voice full-bodied, low, with the tempo slow, creeping--mirroring the way the two of them had approached the vampires on their moor.  

Geralt sat back on his haunches, enwrapped.

The lyrics were erotic...and the melody haunting.

The tempo increased almost imperceptibly, as did the volume of Jaskier's singing. The song's tension--the story's tension--built as the first minute passed, then the second.

The vampires sprang.

Then the fight was in full swing, the blood gushing.

Inevitably, the witcher and the bard were both bitten, both crumpled together on the ground.

Terrified for his companion, the witcher pressed his hands to the bard's throat, trying to stop the crimson flow.

As Jaskier came to the lyrics, and for want of a kiss, the blood did mingle bright, he looked up at Geralt, eyes shining.

Geralt couldn't look away, but felt as though he should.

When Jaskier eased into the final verse, the meaning seemed different than before, when Geralt had simply read the words.  He'd thought it was about the the vampires--and it was, of course it was about the vampires--but everything was phrased in such a way that it could have easily applied to the witcher and the bard, save for one logical flaw: Both of them were still alive.

 

The two entangled in death, as in life.

Wounds wrought upon their bodies

by the battle,

by each other.

Devoted as ever,

the pair together.

Soft touches, soft kisses.

Imagined. Wanted. But no more.

And thus, 'er they were defeated, by their lust an' desire.

Ruinous was their end, and rapturous--together--had their being been.

 

Jaskier licked his lips as he finished, eyes still locked with Geralt's. "So," he asked quietly. "What do you think?"

It took everything in him not to rush at Jaskier.  Not to scoop him up and bend him back and kiss him hungrily.  He wanted to shove his tongue between those soft, sweet lips, to taste the song's words--or, at the very least, the place from whence they'd originated.

"That's not how it happened," he said absently, knowing he needed an answer, his brain dredging up a dull echo of something he'd said about that first song long ago.

Jaskier smirked, snorted.  "Perceptive as ever," he said good naturedly, then repeated, more slowly, "Perceptive. As. Ever."

 

#

 

Every night, Geralt stood in the back of the dining hall while Jaskier performed, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, perpetual scowl plastered across his lips to deter any drunken patrons from starting up a conversation.

The scowl might have also served to displace the fond smile that wanted to take up residence there instead.  Every little leap and wink Jaskier made tugged at the corner of Geralt's lips as well as his heart, trying to force softness into his expression.

The bard was beautiful in his element, even with all the over-emphasized strutting and prancing he did during his dirty jigs.

This was the fifth of Jaskier's seven scheduled performances. Geralt was accustomed, now, to the heat of the new song, and though it still affected him, he was able to keep his eyes on Jaskier while he sang it.  That first night, when he'd played it in public for the first time, Geralt had been forced to look away, hiding his face in his hand, so overcome was he with the utter want the song stirred within him.

Tonight, Geralt was at ease.

He'd nearly forgotten these were his last few days with Jaskier, ever.

The bard was just beginning to play the opening chords of The Vampires' Kiss, when Geralt spotted a familiar face striding across the dining hall--halfway between himself and the stage.

The witcher startled.

Everything in him tensed.

Time slowed.

A deep-seated dread tugged at his belly, punched his breath from his chest.

Gods.

Oh no.

Oh Fuck.

Dandelion.

Not here.  Not now.

The courtesan hadn't seen him, Geralt was sure.  Too enamored, was he, with the man on the stage.  His gaze was fixed squarely on Jaskier, even as he searched for an open seat form which to view the performance.

He wore a short leather vest over a white long-sleeved tunic, and a tight pair of dark leggings. Very unlike the barely-there braies he typically wore on the job.

A litany of shit shit shit rang between Geralt's ears as he immediately bolted into the mass of people, beelining for Dandelion, hoping above all hope that the stage lighting was too bright and the gathering too large, too full of movement, for Jaskier to pick them out amongst the crowd.

Geralt caught Dandelion by the elbow.  

Surprised by the touch, Dandelion turned with something biting on his lips.

When he saw it was Geralt, his expression didn't so much ease as focus.

Quickly, Geralt shepherded him over to the stairs, out of view from the stage, away from the crowd.

"Dandelion--"

"I have as much right to be here as anybody, Geralt," Dandelion hissed at him, yanking his arm away.  "I'm not confined to the Passiflora.  Whores are allowed out in public, you know."

"I know. You're right, I know," Geralt insisted. "Of course. That's not... But if he sees you, sees us together--"

What?  So what if he saw them?

Dandelion wouldn't say anything, so what, exactly, did Geralt think would happen?

He didn't know, and if there was one thing he couldn't stand, it was walking into a situation he wasn't prepared for.

"I didn't know you'd be here," Dandelion said.  "Though perhaps I should have taken it as a given. But nevertheless, I didn't come for you.  I'm not trying to cause you problems. I just wanted to see him for myself, that's all. With him performing here this week, more and more of my clients have commented on how alike we are, and I needed to see how true it was."

"And?"

"I've definitely got better cheekbones."  

Geralt huffed, amused.

"He does have a lovely voice, though," Dandelion said wistfully, looking toward the stage. "Never been able to carry a tune, myself."

"You have other qualities," Geralt said.

It was Dandelion's turn to scoff.

"I mean," Geralt said, "You'd make a fine actor."

"I make a fine whore, and that's what I want to be," Dandelion said frankly, turning his gaze back to Geralt. "I told you, I'm not looking for a white knight."

Geralt hmmed in affirmation.

As the song hit its crescendo and Jaskier started to sing of kissing, Geralt's eyes flickered--traitorously, of their own accord--to Dandelion's mouth. 

These lips he'd been able to kiss.  This mouth he'd been allowed to plunder.

And Dandelion was as attuned to his mood as ever. The whore licked his lips, worried the bottom one between his teeth.

Geralt bit back a groan, looked away.

"Geralt..." Dandelion purred, voice going breathy.  He slid his palms up the witcher's chest, pressed his body close.

No, no, Geralt said to himself, I ended this. I put a stop to it.

Only, he realized he'd neglected to make that clear to Dandelion.

"You know what else whores are allowed to do with their time off?" Dandelion asked, raising a suggestive eyebrow. 

"What?"

"Fuck whoever we want."

Geralt grunted as one of Dandelion's hands snaked down to palm him through his trousers. Geralt caught his wrist, but didn't fling it away. Doing his best to swallow down the anxiety that instantly rose in his throat, he took a cleansing breath. "I don't have any coin on me," he said, using the excuse to gather his thoughts, to try to figure out how to make his intentions clear. "It's in my--our--room. And the money's not even mine, it's--"

"Fuck whoever we want, for free, Geralt," Dandelion clarified.

"You don't have to," Geralt said quickly. "I know you want my patronage, but that doesn't mean you have to--"

"What part of want failed to translate for you?" he asked snidely, fingers going tight around the growing bulge in Geralt's breeches.

The witcher's cock flexed in Dandelion's firm grasp. "Brat," he snapped.

"Brute," Dandelion shot back. "I want you, Geralt.  Me, the man, not me, the whore.  You know that."

"I do," Geralt acknowledged gently. "And that's why it's not a good idea."

"Fuck you, it's a brilliant idea."       

"Dandelion," Geralt couldn't prevent his tone from going soft and slightly patronizing.

"I can't help but be fond of you," Dandelion said imploringly.  "And I know that a sense of fondness can't compete with how much you love him. But, I'm not trying to compete. I'm not asking you to choose me over him.  I'm not asking you to choose one or the other at all. Just be with me, for a little while."

"Dandelion," he said again, clenching his jaw, looking away.  His grip tightened on the other man's wrist. "We shouldn't."

"Geralt, you don't have to love me."  Dandelion leaned in, clearly angling for a kiss. "I'm not asking you to love me."

Every syllable made something sour crawl down Geralt's throat. Each one was a reminder that no one here was getting what they truly wanted, and that he'd failed at keeping this relationship purely about coin for services.  He'd created this twisted game, this sorry space where he continuously confused one man for another, and in turn he'd confused Dandelion (despite what he'd said), and made him feel things for Geralt that he shouldn't.

"Geralt, please." He pressed closer, rutting against Geralt's thigh. "You don't have to want me the same as him. Just, feel how hard I am for you, how much I want you. Please."

And all Geralt wanted to do in the moment was shut him up. To make him stop giving the truth of Geralt's awfulness weight by putting it into words. He turned his gaze back to the courtesan with a demand for silence poised on his lips. He would tell him to stop, to be quiet--

"Please," Dandelion pleaded once more.

Weak and tired and completely bereft of all self-control, Geralt kissed him. Hard, forceful. He hated himself for it, but in the moment he didn't know what else to do.

Dandelion, of course, kissed back.

And with the courtesan suddenly quieted, all Geralt could hear was Jaskier's voice, clear and bright, as he sang not more than ten paces away.  The melody soft, sweet.

Jaskier was practically serenading him while he kissed another man.

And then everything felt so much worse.

Geralt broke away with a gasp.

But Dandelion caught him before he could move too far off, locking his hands around the back of Geralt's neck.  Gently, he brought their foreheads together.

"It's so fucked up," Dandelion whispered. "I know it's fucked up, and I know we can only hurt each other if we...if we fuck outside the Passiflora.  But I want to.  I don't care, I want to."

"I...I can't," Geralt said.  His throat felt so tight.

"You can't, or you don't want to?"

"I can't leave Jaskier here, he'll--"

Dandelion let him go--hands sliding away as though they'd lost all strength, all feeling--and stepped back. He met Geralt's stare for a brief moment, then looked away, nodding solemnly. "You can't leave Jaskier," he said flatly. "Of course.  I--I don't know what I was thinking.  He's here, why would you...why would you go off with me if he's here? You can't leave him."

I am leaving him, Geralt wanted to yell.

"You don't understand," he said gruffly.

"No, Geralt, I really do." He smiled morosely. "And it's okay.  Really."

Geralt swallowed thickly, took a deep breath. "I'll stop coming to the Passiflora," he said.

"No," Dandelion said quickly, eyes widening. His expression was shocked, nearly panic-stricken. "That's not what I--"

"It's not fair that I deny you now, and then come to you later demanding you give me what I want simply because I have coin.  I've already made this too hard on you.  I shouldn't have. There are so many things I shouldn't have done."

Dandelion raised a hand to Geralt's cheek. "I don't want you to stop coming to me."

"And I don't want to keep hurting you. Dandelion, I'm sorry. This has to stop."

Dandelion let out a sad little huff of a laugh. "Noble as ever. Fuck." He shook his head, as though trying to clear away a plethora of thoughts. "Gods, you break my heart and I want you even more. I still... I still don't know what's wrong with him.  Why he can't see what I see."

"He doesn't have to want me back."

"But how could he not?" 

They both fell quiet.

The song changed.

The tune was far too light, too happy.

Dandelion removed his hand from Geralt's cheek, replaced it with a soft brush of his lips. "I guess I saw what I came to see," he said. "Maybe I should go."

"No, stay.  I'll go upstairs if my presence bothers you. As you said, you have every right to be here.  And this...this is your city. Your home. I'll go."

"No, Geralt, it's fine. If I stay too long I might see just how much I failed in my attempt to fulfill your fantasies."

As he pulled away, Geralt caught his hand, kissed the back of it. "You never failed me.  You gave me more than I deserved."

"I tried to give you more than you asked for, even though you warned me not to," Dandelion said. "Now look where we are."

"This isn't your fault. It's my fault."

Why did they--the whore and the bard both--keep insisting on shouldering the blame?

"We're all each responsible for our own hearts," Dandelion said, gently reclaiming his hand. "As terrible as that may seem. Goodbye, Geralt. I do hope we meet again. I do. If you come to me, I won't turn you away."

Dandelion gave him one last nod, then made for the door, heading out of Geralt's life--presumably forever.

Though the witcher knew it was all for the best, he couldn't help but feel he was letting something wonderful slip away.

 

#

 

The next day, Geralt was roused from sleep rather rudely.

Jaskier threw open the curtains, and a sharp beam of mid-morning light cut straight across the bed. "Geralt, wake up!  I have just been told the most titillating news."

Geralt ran the back of his hand over his eyes, cringing into the light, blinking rapidly. He must have slept unnaturally hard.  He hadn't even felt Jaskier crawl out of bed--and the bard was already fully dressed, with a breakfast tray in-hand.

Perhaps feeling emotionally drained had finally physically caught up with Geralt.

"What's that?" he grumbled, not yet ready to give up his soft pillow and warm blanket.

"There is supposedly a whore at the Passiflora who looks exactly like me," Jaskier declared, completely giddy.

Geralt was upright in an instant.

Chapter Text

The witcher tried to force the panic out of his limbs, off his face. Tried to keep the strain out of his voice as he replied, "Is that so?" He sat on the edge of the mattress, feet planted on the floor, blanket covering his lap.

"Supposedly.  Allegedly.  I went down to gather us some breakfast, and there was a table of merchants just chattering away.  One of them was incensed. It seems his lady friend was sorely enamored with me and tried to wile her way into my bed--though I can't say I remember her. I've been bone-tired this week and haven't whisked any of my admirers away backstage--as you're well aware.  I've had to reject many lovely ladies, so I must have let the poor thing down." He examined his fingernails casually, not bothering to hide his pleased little smirk. "Well, apparently, she was quite fixated on me, so someone casually suggested she visit a certain man at the Passiflora."

Geralt made a slightly choked hmm of acknowledgment, nodding along as Jaskier spoke--as his own mind reeled. The words incensed, fixated, and certain man hit him like stones.

"And," Jaskier went on, "the merchant was very unhappy, because he's been trying to get into this woman's undergarments for quite some time, but she went to the whore and found him to be exactly to her liking." His eyes sparkled. "Exactly, Geralt. So, when the merchant set eyes on me this morning, he was more than ready to take his frustrations out on my hide, regardless of my complete and total innocence in the whole ordeal. Luckily, his companions stopped him from picking a fight; I would have given him a walloping if he'd tried anything."

He winked at Geralt. 

They both very well knew Jaskier wouldn’t have given anyone a walloping.

"That's..." Geralt wracked his brain for an appropriate response, "...interesting."

"You go to the Passiflora for Gwent tournaments, don't you?" Jaskier asked casually.

Geralt sucked in a sharp breath, had trouble letting it out again. He grunted his affirmation, fighting the urge to hang his head between his knees.

"And you've never seen anyone who could have been mistaken for me, have you?" Jaskier continued.

"I try to focus on the cards when I enter a tournament," Geralt said, picking his words carefully, trying to avoid a lie.

"See, that's what I thought. If anyone there really looked like me, you would have noticed. Probably a load of cogswallop, and the merchant was just looking for an excuse to take a swing.  His lady can go to all the whores she likes--it's got nothing to do with me."

Geralt ran both hands over his face, pretending to wipe the sleep from his eyes.

He had a mind to find that merchant and beat the snot out of him.

"But hey," Jaskier said nonchalantly.  "It did get me thinking.  You and I haven't gone whoring together in quite some time--"

Geralt's blood ran cold.

"--And since I've been too tired after my performances to pick anyone for my bed--er, pallet--why don't we, this afternoon--?"

"No," Geralt said quickly.

Jaskier was quiet for a moment. "It doesn't have to be together together," he said carefully. "If you're still uncomfortable with my... I mean, we don't have to share a whore or anything. I just thought--"

"No, that's...that's not it."

"What, then?" Jaskier raised an eyebrow.  "The coin? Oh, right, the coin. I know the Passiflora tends to be expensive, so if it's a matter of money, I'll pick up the tab, don't worry. I don't mind paying double."

Paying double.

Geralt winced.

"No, it's not the coin either, it's..." He wracked his brain for an excuse.  "I'm not in the mood," he offered weakly.

"Oh," Jaskier said, sounding less chipper. "Well, alright then, I suppose I can go alone."

Geralt threw back the covers and jumped to his feet. "No."

"No?  You're not in the mood, so I'm not supposed to be in the mood either?" He furrowed his brow, frowning in confusion.

"You have to be off again day after tomorrow, and who knows when next we'll run into one another, so..."

Jaskier's face softened. "Oh, I see. How sweet.  You want to spend time with me. Well, alright, we don't have to go whoring."

Geralt let out a breath, relieved.

He should have known Jaskier would never be so easily deterred.

"But we are, at the very least, stopping by to get a glimpse of my doppler," Jaskier declared with flamboyant wave of his arms. "Then we'll do whatever you are in the mood for, dear friend."

Geralt opened his mouth to object once again, only to realized he was out of excuses.  If he offered up another protest, Jaskier would get suspicious.  He would start asking the right questions.

Perhaps he could figure out a way to send Jaskier on a detour, distract him.  Get him to forget about the Passiflora in favor of something more intriguing--

But, what could be more intriguing than a mystery man who people paid to sleep with specifically because he looked like the Master Bard?

This wasn't just some, some...poetry reading, or whatever, that Geralt could easily tempt Jaskier away from with the promise of a treasure hunt.

The bard loved having his ego stroked...and Dandelion...

He could stroke it in more ways than one.

 

#

 

Geralt's feet felt like lead. Every step toward the Passiflora added another invisible weight to Geralt's legs, dragging him down. He tried to steer Jaskier through side streets--to turn him around, to get him lost--but Novigrad was a frustratingly well-planned city. Jaskier knew that as long as they kept the harbor on their left and aimed for St. Gregory's Bridge, they'd arrive at the brothel in no time.

Outside the Passiflora, Geralt asked Jaskier to stop, crouching down to fiddle uselessly with his boot as he attempted to formulate some kind of plan.

But his mind had gone absolutely, uselessly, blank.

He took a deep breath, staring at his shoe while Jaskier tapped his own impatiently.

Maybe I should just tell him.

Be honest.

The idea of letting go, of putting it all out there, was surprisingly freeing.

Momentarily, the knot of anxiety in his chest loosened.

But then he imagined actually doing it.  Imagined trying to explain. He didn't even know how to begin such a confession, how to handle that kind of conversation. There was no way to confess and save face; he couldn't admit to knowing Dandelion now, even casually, without consequences. He'd already denied ever seeing him--had already lied by omission.

Oh, you mean that man who looks just like you? Oh yes, I've seen that man at Gwent tournaments before. I thought you meant some other man who looks just like you.

There was no way Jaskier would just accept that, let it end there.  Geralt would be forced to give him the rest, the whole truth.

And, by the way, this man, he and I, we've been...

But there's a reason. A good reason...

...the reason is...

...I love you?

The knot immediately pulled tighter. His insides twisted.

He scoffed at himself, disgusted.

Geralt just had to pray Dandelion was on his side. The man was a damn good actor, he could easily pretend he and Geralt had never met.

Clenching his jaw, the witcher stood.

"Ready?" Jaskier asked.

No.  Never.

He nodded anyway.

Jaskier pushed inside, and Geralt reluctantly followed. He felt very much like a man being led to the gallows instead of into a pleasure house.

Dandelion was not in the foyer, thank the gods.

But Amrynn was. She noted Geralt first (his white hair stood out like a beacon) and strode swiftly in their direction. "Mast--"

"Yes, hello," Jaskier greeted her before she could get a word out. She startled as her eyes fell to him. "I hear there is a man at this establishment with my face," he continued.  "I would very much like to meet him."

Straight to the point.  When had Jaskier ever been straight to the point before?

"I must say," she said, looking him up and down, "You do bear more than a passing resemblance to our Dandelion. Remarkable."

"So I have heard rumor," he said with a wink. "Where can I find this undoubtably dashing gentleman?"

She glanced past Jaskier to Geralt, who shook his head slightly, giving her the most imploring look he could muster.

Thankfully, she seemed to understand, continued addressing Jaskier. "Do you only wish to lay eyes on him, or do you...?"

"Oh no," Jaskier said emphatically. "I can't simply ogle him and be on my way.  We must have a chat."

Geralt momentarily closed his eyes, begged for strength.

"In that case, you should know that taking up a courtesan's time without pay is a banishable offense," she said.  "Talking, fucking, doesn't much matter what you want to do with the time, as long as you pay for it."

"I would never dream of stiffing a fellow entertainer," Jaskier said.  "He will be generously compensated for my curiosity."

She glanced furtively at Geralt once more, but made no other overtures in his dirrection.

"I'll take your compensation to him now," she said carefully.  "And warn--um--alert him to your visit.  Make sure he's not with another patron, and that you have a private room."

"Oh, yes, excellent. What's the usual rate?" he asked, whipping out his purse and gesturing with a thumb over his shoulder. "Since two of us will be having a chat with him, we'll pay double."

"Of course you will," she said with a small chuckle.  She took the coin from Jaskier, then turned to make for the stairs. "Oh, to be a fly on that wall," she muttered as she left.

Jaskier spun to Geralt with a glowing smile.  "Well, if his fellow prostitutes think we look alike, perhaps we do." His smile faltered when he caught Geralt's expression. "Are you alright?  You look like you're about to be sick."

"I'm fine."

"You're sure?  You've gone pale, and for you, that's saying something."  He slapped him lightly in the shoulder. "Worried you won't be able to handle two of me?"

Geralt tried not to choke on his own tongue.

"No, but seriously," Jaskier said.  "You look stricken."

"I'm fine."

I'm fine.  I'm fine. 

How the fuck did I get here?  

I'm fine.

Amrynn returned a few minutes later and gave them directions to Dandelion's usual room, as though Geralt hadn't been there a dozen times before.

If Jaskier had been a younger man, he might have taken the steps two at a time. As it was, he was practically vibrating with eager anticipation.

Geralt, on the other hand, was forcing himself to just breathe, lest he pass out.

"You...we're only staying for a moment, aren't we?" Geralt asked, voice sounding unnaturally small.

"I just want to have a talk with him," Jaskier reassured him.

Of course, Geralt could not, in fact, imagine anything worse than his favorite whore and the man he secretly loved having a talk.

When they reached the door, Jaskier gave him a wink before knocking.

Geralt nearly turned on his heel and fled.

"Come in," bade a familiar voice.  

Jaskier straightened his doublet, ran a hand through his hair, and entered.

Inside, Dandelion sat on the edge of the empty wooden tub, hands braced on either side, reclining in a way that pushed his pelvis out and made both his naked torso and his bare legs look particularly long.

It was not a pose anyone would adopt if they thought someone was visiting "just to have a chat."

"Jaskier, I presume?" he asked, raking his gaze up and down the bard. His eyes flickered once to Geralt, but he made no other acknowledgment. Amrynn, bless her, had clearly conveyed Geralt's distress.

And yet, neither prostitute had seen fit to simply turn them away.

Jaskier pushed into the room with a cocky air about him--head bowed coquettishly, lips quirked smugly, eyes half-lidded and lashes fluttering.

Dandelion leered.

The atmosphere crackled.

The sparks they generated were instantly palpable--made the air tense and taste cinnamony-sweet with desire. It made Geralt's skin itch. Made his lips tingle and his fingers numb.

Geralt had half hoped they'd be put off one another--that they'd both consider their double a letdown, or even repulsive. Perhaps that way their interaction would be nothing but perfunctory. Over quickly.

But Geralt could never hope to be so lucky.

Watching them warily, he closed the door behind him. His body didn't feel right, didn't feel like his own. He didn't know where to put his hands or how to hang his arms or how to distribute his weight on his feet.

"And you must be...?" Jaskier prompted, though he'd heard Amrynn name him already.

"Dandelion," he said smoothly.

"Dandelion," Jaskier whispered, striding up to him. Dandelion spread his legs in clear invitation, and Jaskier seamlessly slid forward to stand between them.

"This is my friend," Jaskier said, turning to glance over his shoulder at Geralt with a huge, boyish grin--as though he'd just opened the best present in the whole wide world.

Dandelion's gaze strayed to Geralt, caught on him.  He clearly recognized the panic in the line of Geralt's body, in the strain of his brow and thinning of his lips.  "Hello...friend," he said softly. "You wanted to talk?" he asked Jaskier.

"Wanted to see if the rumors were true," Jaskier said.

"And?"

"You're as handsome as they say."

Dandelion blushed, let out a little laugh, and let his eyes slide coyly to the floor. Slowly, he raised them to Jaskier's again, licking his lips, expression heated. "Same."

"How many have there been?" Jaskier asked. "Who've...?"

"Mentioned you?"

Jaskier nodded.

Dandelion was not subtle.  He looked pointedly at Geralt. "A few."

If Jaskier noticed, he made no indication. Perhaps he thought the whore was simply curious about the additional man in the room. "Do they say my name, when they fuck you?" he asked, undeterred.

"Yes." Dandelion's stare did not waver, and Geralt had a difficult time meeting his gaze.

"That's awfully rude," Jaskier said, voice warm, velvety--clearly indignant on the courtesan's behalf.

That got Dandelion's attention.  He refocused on Jaskier.  "Oh?"

"When I bed a man, I like to appreciate him.  Appreciate who I have right in front of me."

A shiver ran through Dandelion. He made a grateful little mmm in acknowledgement.

The scent of arousal grew thicker.  Geralt fought not to cover his nose, not to give away how it was affecting him. He gritted his teeth, willed himself not to get hard. His legs began to tremble, his muscles threatening to drop him. He shuffled away from the door, keeping a hand on the wall for support, trying not to reveal how weak his knees had become.

This had to be a nightmare. His guilt had finally consumed him. He was asleep and his subconscious was torturing him.

"May I touch you?" Jaskier asked.

Fuck.

Geralt lurched into the wall. He turned--first forward, meaning to press his forehead against the wall, to put his back to the two men.  But he swiftly realized how absurd the posture would look, how much it would give away. It would look as temulent and tormented as he felt. Instead, he pressed his shoulder blades into the wall, let his fingertips claw at the flaking plaster behind him before he realized that, too, made his anguish visible.  He forced his arms to cross over his chest, standing as casually as he could.

The whore and the bard paid him no mind.

"I'd like to touch you," Jaskier said earnestly.

"It's your hour," Dandelion replied with a shrug.

"And your body."

Dandelion smiled at him, clearly charmed. And, really, who wouldn't be? "Yes, Jaskier. Please, touch me."

Geralt gritted his teeth. No, don't--

The bard reached for his chest first, brushing his fingertips lightly through the sandy hair there. Dandelion purred, tossing his head back, exposing his throat.  Jaskier's hand strayed up to the bared column, tracing over the other man's adam's apple before gripping tenderly, splaying his hand across the expanse of Dandelion's throat.

Geralt grunted involuntarily, feeling like he'd been punched in the gut.

Dandelion tipped his head up, and he and the bard both turned to look at the witcher.

Geralt demurred momentarily--swearing at himself, shit, shit, fuck--but then found his voice. "You--you said talk," he reminded Jaskier.

"We are talking," Jaskier said. "I can't touch while we talk?"

Geralt wanted to admonish him, but realized he had no idea how to make his objections sound reasonable, sound normal.  If this was just some other whore and some other bard and he wanted the proceedings to end, what would he say?

"Should--should I go, then?" he asked. Yes, that was a perfectly sensible question. He needed to go.  He had to leave.  He shouldn't have bothered to ask, really; he should have simply yanked the door open and gone.

But he couldn't make his feet move, get his legs to work.

The only way he was leaving was if one of them told him to go.

He prayed one of them would order him to go.

Jaskier looked back to the courtesan when he answered. "I paid for the both of us," he reminded him, swallowing thickly. "But if I'm making you uncomfortable..."

"No," he said swiftly, lying through his teeth, not wanting Jaskier to revisit the same hurt he'd experienced the other night. "No. I'm not uncomfortable."

"Then don't go," Dandelion said. He knew the witcher was looking for an out, and refused to give it to him.

Geralt glared.

In answer, Dandelion slid his hands around Jaskier's waist and cocked an eyebrow--clearly daring Geralt to make him stop.

The bard hummed his approval, hands rounding Dandelion's biceps as he took at step back, as he encouraged the courtesan to stand. Dandelion let himself be led, following Jaskier with his arms still hooked around his middle as the bard maneuvered them into the center of the room.

Closer to Geralt.

The entire way, Dandelion's eyes did not stray from the witcher.

This time, Jaskier did notice.

"Don't look at him, look at me," Jaskier said softly, hooking a finger under Dandelion's chin. "I know he's pretty, but look at me."

Dandelion tore his gaze away from Geralt, and the witcher did his best not to melt.

Pretty.

Oh fuck.

He wanted him to mean it.  He wanted Jaskier to really think he was pretty.  He wanted Jaskier to tell him he was pretty. He wanted--

"Gods, your eyes," Jaskier said to Dandelion, voice breathy with awe. "You have the most gorgeous hazel eyes."

Geralt's mouth went dry.

Of course he'd compliment Dandelion on one of the few aspects they did not share. Of course he'd compliment him on something that was all his own. Of course he'd compliment him on the one feature that had so distracted Geralt.

Here he was: Jaskier, the legendary seducer, in action--with the right words and the right touches. With the perfect tenor to his voice and the perfect amount of heat in his gaze.

And it all had the desired effect.

Dandelion swooned.

The courtesan was quickly discovering just how wonderful it was to be caught in Jaskier's orbit. To be the focus of his attention, the center of his world--if only for a moment.

His eyes flicked down to Jaskier's lips, his own slightly parted.

Jaskier knew what he wanted. "Go on then," he encouraged.

Dandelion surged forward, eyes fluttering closed in obvious pleasure as he kissed the bard. He cradled his head, ran his fingers through his hair. He moaned into his mouth, snaking his tongue out, and Jaskier made a satisfied hum in return.

Geralt clutched at his chest--feeling light headed--as his heart seized.

Gods, he was going to die.  The mere sight of them together was going to kill him.

Chapter Text

And then Jaskier made the happiest half-giggle into the kiss.  A sound more pleased, more playful, than even those he'd made with the blacksmith.  He smiled wide while Dandelion chased his mouth, and kissed back even more passionately when he'd wrestled his giddiness under control.

And Geralt...

Geralt let out a small, surprised laugh of his own.

He'd thought he wanted to be the only man allowed to make Jaskier happy.  

But now, watching them, he felt different. 

Dandelion could make Jaskier happy--was making him happy--and it was beautiful.

This didn't hurt like it had with the blacksmith.  This felt right.  Instead of making Geralt's chest ache with emptiness, it made him warm, made his heart swell.  They were stunning together--nearly mirror images of one another, but so different in the way their hands fell, the way their mouths worked.

Jaskier let Dandelion lead. Let him set the pace--which was just the right side of frantic.

They continued to moan and giggle into each other's mouths as their hands started to wander lower. Jaskier's fingertips trailed down Dandelion's spine, dipping into the hem of his smallclothes. Dandelion's disappeared inside Jaskier's doublet, yanking his chemise free of his trousers.

Then the bard took over, shrugging out of his jacket and whisking his shirt over his head. Both items were tossed away with a flourish.

Geralt's cock fattened at the sight of all that soft, creamy skin--all the dark hair covering Jaskier's chest and leading down his belly. He wanted to run his palms over it, nuzzle his face against it. He had a near-overwhelming urge to lick, in particular, at the hollow above Jaskier's left collarbone.

Apparently Dandelion had the same impulse. A moment later, he was leaning in, kissing that exact spot, nails coming up to claw lightly at one of Jaskier's nipples.

"Are you going to bed me, Jaskier?" Dandelion asked, voice dark, breathy.

"Would you like that?"

"Is that what you really came for?"

"I came to talk," he laughed, making no attempt to sound sincere.

Dandelion kissed him swiftly. "You're an excellent conversationalist."

"I like to think so."

"Then talk dirty to me," Dandelion said with a wolfish grin.

Jaskier bit his lip, groaned. "Do you want me?" he asked. "Truly?"

"Yes." He dove in to bite Jaskier's neck, to palm at his backside.

The bard shivered. But, a moment later, a little of the mirth drained out of him. He sighed, looking guilty.

Then he turned, abruptly, to Geralt.

The witcher froze, as though caught in a basilisk's stare.

"I'm sorry, I know I promised you," Jaskier said, face flushed, pupils blown wide. "But how could anyone be expected to resist?" Jaskier pulled Dandelion up by his hair and pressed their cheeks together, so that they were both looking at Geralt with half-lidded eyes, both panting out over parted lips. "Could you?"

Geralt's cock throbbed, strained. His sac tightened.

Fuck. Why did they have to be so beautiful?

In his mind, he growled, "No, I can't resist," and dove forward, taking hold of both of them, joining in their messy kissing.

In reality, he clenched his jaw, ground his teeth, and maintained his steady stance.

He knew what Jaskier really meant--he did.  He wasn't asking if Geralt could resist Dandelion--if he could resist them.

He meant, could Geralt resist the temptation?  The thrill?  The utter narcissism and wild-abandonment of it all, if their situations were reversed?

"Will you let me indulge?" Jaskier asked breathlessly. He was searching, sincerely, for an answer. For Geralt to tell him this was okay.

After all, he'd promised him the day. Promised him they'd spend time together. Promised him they didn't have to go whoring.

And yet, here they were.

The witcher swallowed harshly.

"Be a good friend," Dandelion said--the brat. "Let him indulge."

"I know you said you're not in the mood," Jaskier went on. "But I'll...I'll get you someone after, if you'd like," he assured him. "Did you see someone you wanted?"

There was a strange sort of hope in his eyes.

Geralt barely stopped himself from laughing wildly, hysterically. He felt like he was going mad. Inside, he was a raging mess.

Outside, he still managed to hold himself like a rock.

A slightly trembling, over-heated, exceptionally aroused rock.

A rock that, like most rocks, could not speak.

Dandelion, at the very least, saved Geralt from having to answer. "Look at me," he whispered sensually in Jaskier's ear, all while keeping his own eyes focused on Geralt. "I know he's pretty," he echoed, "Painfully pretty. But look at me."

Torn between his need for an answer and the heat of Dandelion's tease, Jaskier hesitated.

"Take me to bed, Jaskier," Dandelion insisted, nipping at his ear. "They all want you.  Let me have you." He kissed his cheek softly, took one of Jaskier's hands in both of his, and began to walk backward, toward the bed.

Still looking at Geralt, Jaskier stumbled after.

When the backs of his calves hit the mattress, Dandelion dropped onto the bed, spreading his legs again for Jaskier to stand between.  "Let's get you out of these trousers, shall we?"

Finally, Jaskier looked at the courtesan again, and Geralt drew a life-saving breath.

Setting his hands on Dandelion's shoulders, Jaskier let the whore reach around and undo the ties on his breeches. Then Dandelion smoothed his palms over the globes of Jaskier's backside, pushing his trousers and smallclothes down together, making sure the fabric settled just beneath his bum, framing it obscenely.

Geralt nipped his own lip so hard, so swiftly, he drew blood. He had to dig his fingers into his biceps to keep his arms crossed, to prevent himself from reaching for his cock.

He'd seen Jaskier naked plenty of times, and each one had been a thrill.  But this was different.

This time, there was Dandelion.

Dandelion grabbed the meat of Jaskier's glutes, tugged at them, as though simply enjoying the heft.  But the movement also revealed the tight pucker of Jaskier's entrance--for Geralt's benefit, and no one else's.

Part of Geralt roared at him to look away, while the rest of him pragmatically insisted that if Jaskier didn't want him to look, he would tell him so.

So, he kept looking.

The bard made no complaints, pushing back into those hands, letting them spread him further. But his attention was fully fixed on the man touching him.

From this angle, Geralt couldn't see Jaskier's cock.  But, judging from how wide Dandelion's eyes went when he glanced down, it had sprung free from its confines.

Jaskier didn't have a witcher's cock, but on a scale of witcher to blacksmith, it was definitely closer to the witchery end.

Dandelion ducked his head immediatly, face disappearing behind Jaskier's pelvis.

The bard moaned, rising up for a moment on tip-toes before leaning forward heavily, bracing himself against Dandelion.

The slick sounds of a very wet cock-sucking reverberated through the room. The scents soon followed.

"Oh fuck," Jaskier said, voice strangled.

Fuck, Geralt answered internally, a savage growl in his own mind. Fuck. Ohfuckohfuckohfuck. Fuuuuuuck.

Once again, Geralt considered fleeing.

He could hear his blood coursing through his veins, feel his pulse pounding between his legs and in his ears and behind his eyes. His dick was painfully heavy, choked by the tightness of his leather breeches.

And there was absolutely no blood left for the higher processing centers of his brain.

He could think no rational thoughts.

Dandelion pulled back with a wet slurp, his chin shiny with a slick of his own saliva.  He removed one hand from Jaskier's backside to fist the bard's cock while he looked up at him, expression wanton. "Can't wait to get you in me," he said.

"Then don't," Jaskier said happily. "Let's not wait. I usually like a bit more foreplay, but..." He cupped Dandelion's chin.

"I feel like I've had months of foreplay," Dandelion said, voice molten, hand still working Jaskier's shaft. "I've been teased with little tidbits about you, little fantasies, little desires.  Sweet kisses meant for you." He leaned forward and kissed Jaskier's stomach. "Fingers on my tongue and cocks up my arse, and tight, when cunts on my cock--all for you."

Geralt might have felt ashamed if Dandelion had only been talking about him. 

But as it was, his blood boiled.

There were so many others.  Others that wanted Jaskier.  Others that had had Jaskier. Dandelion was reminding all three of them just how desired he was, how sought after. Jaskier really could get his dick wet when and where he pleased.

He's a slutty little shit...slutty for everyone but you.

"I've had to imagine you," Dandelion whispered. "Pretend to know you, pretend to be you."

Jaskier slid his thumb over Dandelion's bottom lip, pressed the pad just past his teeth to touch the tip of his tongue. "I hope the real thing doesn't disappoint."

Dandelion closed his eyes, sucking Jaskier's thumb further into his mouth before releasing it. He leaned back on his elbows, spread his legs wider. "Fuck me, Jaskier," he ordered.

Geralt wanted to tear at his own hair, to rip off his own clothes.  His shirt and his trousers clung in all the wrong ways, made him itch, made him feel raw.  Something crawled just under the surface of his skin, and he could sense himself spiraling.

Jaskier fell to his knees, yanked Dandelion's smallclothes down, off. Tossed them away. He plunged his face forward into Dandelion's groin, just breathing him in, appreciating him. Dandelion moaned as the bard's hands wandered up his legs, caressed his calves, his thighs--as he slid gentle, ticklish fingertips up the seams of his hips.

Fuck. 

This wasn't a nightmare. 

It was a wet dream. 

And any second Geralt would wake up and be forced to face reality. He was sure he'd be torn from the scene at the most inopportune moment, and would wake up hard and sweating in the Kingfisher.

Hopefully next to Jaskier.

No... Hopefully not next to Jaskier.

Because, at least then, he could touch himself.

"Gods, you are so perfect," Jaskier praised, hands trailing down between Dandelion's cheeks, landing on his copper plug.

Dandelion lifted his legs, and Jaskier made quick work of the toy. Then he stood for the briefest of moments to kick off his boots and divest himself of his remaining clothing.

Now they were both naked. Ready. Bare. Opening to each other like two flowers seeking out the sun--their eyes entirely fixed on one another. Focused.

Geralt felt forgotten.

He wasn't sure if that was a relief or a disappointment.

Dandelion scooted back on the mattress as Jaskier crawled onto it, and they fell into each other, arms wrapping around one another tightly, mouths clashing, hips rolling. Their frotting was unrefined, desperate. They both dropped their showmanship in favor of pure feeling--chasing sensation, tossing each other about, giggling as they went. 

Jaskier began on top, but Dandelion pushed him over to straddle him.  A moment later, Jaskier reversed their positions once more, pinning Dandelion beneath him.  They wrestled, truly playing as they sought friction.

Geralt was captivated.

This was the sweetest torture, the worst kind of gift.

He would never be able to scrub this scene from his mind, and, gods help him, he knew he would replay it again and again until the end of time.

And then, finally, Jaskier dominated Dandelion--a predatory gleam in his eye.  The prostitute tried to sit up again, but Jaskier kept him on his back, both hands pressing firmly down on his biceps. The bard leaned forward, whispered--voice rich and husky--into his ear, "Spread your legs for me."

Dandelion immediately complied.

Jaskier frotted his cock along Dandelion's in reward, and the courtesan moaned, arching up. When Jaskier sat back, kneeling between Dandelion's legs, Geralt got a glimpse of the full length of the whore's cock, all flushed red and shiny at the tip.

He remembered the taste of it on his tongue, the heft of it in his mouth.

Jaskier's hand smoothed sensuously down its rigid length before petting lower, over Dandelion's sac, to his perineum.  His fingers disappeared into the furrow of the whore's backside, and immediately there was a wet sound.

"You're dripping," Jaskier cooed.

"Like to be ready. Don't want to waste time prepping."

"Some of us enjoy the prep time," Jaskier said softly. "Maybe you've never had a lover ease you open right."

"Most aren't interested."

"I would be. I'd love to stretch you."

"I'm plenty stretched."

"Not the point," Jaskier said, adding in a suave wink for good measure.

"Maybe next time," Dandelion replied--but then his cocky smile wavered. The implication of a next time--or lack thereof--pulled him out of the moment. 

But Jaskier, of course, knew just how to reel him back in. "Maybe you should try me on for size before you decide to keep me," he said, forearm flexing as he curled his fingers inside Dandelion, quickly locating his prostate and clearly stroking it with the practiced deftness of a long-time lover.

The whore writhed, pressed down into the touch. "Who wouldn't want to keep you?" he asked, breathy.

Jaskier made a small, abortive turn of his head. As though he wanted to look over his shoulder.

Geralt's chest tightened as he anticipated meeting Jaskier's gaze.

But the bard refocused on Dandelion.

Without answering, Jaskier retrieved his fingers and moved forward to line up his cock. Dandelion wrapped his legs around Jaskier's waist, encouraging him.

The bard leaned down, whispering against Dandelion's mouth as he ran his clean hand through Dandelion's hair, "I've never wanted a man more."

The whore smiled softly, adoringly. "Liar."

Jaskier thrust forward.

They both gasped as Jaskier sank inside.

Geralt bent forward--curling over, heaving for breath.  He hunched his shoulders and clawed at his own biceps, hugging himself as though defending against an onslaught of wind or rain.

But he couldn't keep his head down, keep his eyes turned away.

He watched--wide-eyed, slack-jawed--as Jaskier rolled his hips back, then thrust forward again.

Everyone in the room groaned whorishly.

Soon, Jaskier found his rhythm. He took Dandelion long and deep--sensuously. When the courtesan arched his back, Jaskier rand his hand down his sternum before leaning forward to lath his tongue over one nipple. Every move they made was deliberate--executed in such a way that Geralt could anticipate each moment, could see everything coming before it happened, before it hit and the eroticism of it all washed over him.

The witcher's lips tingled, his head buzzed.

His pulse thumped in his cock, and he could feel himself dribbling precome into his undergarments.

They smelled magnificent. Looked magnificent. Sounded magnificent.

Their coupling was long. The minutes trickled away. Geralt lost track of the hour, lost all sense of himself in time and space.

Had he ever been anywhere but in this room, watching the two men he yearned for please one another?

Eventually Jaskier's thrusting became harsher, more frantic. The witcher could sense his pleasure building, could see the muscles of his back contracting.

Dandelion leaned up, threaded his fingers through Jaskier's hair and pulled him close.  His lips grazed the bard's ear as he mumbled encouragements with each thrust.

Geralt saw Dandelion's expression tighten, saw him bite his lip and close his eyes, and Geralt knew what was coming--knew what Dandelion looked like in the moments before his orgasm.

The whore's body shuddered, and he said one more thing, directly into Jaskier's ear--so quiet, Geralt couldn't hear over the roar of blood pounding in his own head. 

Whatever it was, it made Jaskier gasp, made him yank away from Dandelion's grasp.

As he sat up, it gave Geralt a perfect view of Dandelion's cock, flushed and spurting--hot and wet--over his own stomach. 

And then Jaskier was slipping out of him, moving to straddle the whore's hips while he stroked his own cock with a fury, crying out as he added to the mess on Dandelion's belly. A lone droplet of sweat rolled down the curve of his spine as he shook with the force of his orgasm.

And Geralt really, sincerely, thought he was going to die.  He was so hard, and they were both so beautiful when they came, but he couldn’t touch himself.  He couldn't even loosen his breeches.  He could only stand there and watch them tremble through their own little deaths as he slowly lost his mind.

Suddenly, the line of Jaskier's shoulders changed.  Instead of becoming loose, relaxed, he stiffened.  He swiped his hand through the come on Dandelion's torso, scooped it up on two fingers, and flew off the bed.

Geralt hardly had time to register what was happening.  Jaskier was stomping over to him, anger clouding his features, the scent of fury rolling off him in waves.

The witcher stood up straight. He jerked his head to the side as Jaskier's wet hand came up, was shoved into his face, against his lips.  Jaskier smeared his come-soaked fingers over Geralt's mouth and across his cheek--messy and unkind--and Geralt was too stunned to do anything about it.

He simply stood there and took it.

Gods, the smell.

The feel of it.

Their come on his lips.

When Jaskier's hand dropped, Geralt wiped the smear away, feigning disgust, doing his best not to immediately lap at it--to lick it up like a dog.

Jaskier's entire body vibrated, but not with pleasure.  His breaths were ragged, his face flushed.  He seethed as he shoved Geralt into the wall.

Geralt let himself be shoved.

"You fuck him, don't you?" Jaskier spat, clearly hurt. Enraged.

Betrayed.

"You come here and you fuck him," he accused.  "You pay to fuck a man who looks like me.  How long? How long have you been doing this behind my back?"

Panic rose in Geralt's throat. "Jaskier, I don't know what--?"

"Don't you fucking lie to me." There were tears budding in his eyes. The bard grabbed Geralt by the chin, looked him dead in the eye as he pressed in close and raged through his teeth, "He said your name when he came, Geralt.  How did he know your name?"

The witcher felt his eyes go wide.

He had no answer.

So he sniffed dryly, looked away, unable to meet Jaskier's condemning gaze.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," Jaskier sneered.

With one more angry shove, Jaskier released him, backed away. "After...after everything," he said, voice thick.  "Fuck you, Geralt. Gods damn you."

The bard started gathering his clothing, darting about the room with coarse, quick movements, putting too much force into every action.

Geralt wanted to say something, but he knew whatever words flew from his mouth would only make things worse.

Roughly, Jaskier pulled on his clothes. He wouldn't look at Geralt anymore.

This was it: the disgust and hurt that Geralt had feared.  He'd known that if Jaskier ever discovered his dirty secret--that Geralt wanted him--he would hate him.

Right now, Jaskier had to be revisiting every time Geralt had ever touched him, ever pulled him close.

Now he knew none of Geralt's soft caresses had been innocent, platonic. Now he knew Geralt wanted to do filthy things to him.  He'd been naked and alone with the witcher more times than either of them could count, and now he knew Geralt had longed to put his hands on his body, his tongue in his mouth, his cock in his--

Geralt's panic rose, and he turned, curling half-way into the wall, resting his temple against the plaster. 

He'd been so close--so close to leaving Jaskier happy. So close to ending the pain without causing this kind of hurt, this kind of disgust. But now, everything was ruined. Jaskier's memory of Geralt would always be tainted.

He'd always see Geralt for what he really was: the monster who stalked him, rather than the friend he'd thought he'd had.

Once he was dressed, Jaskier paused, stood perfectly still for half a moment.

Geralt looked at him, held his breath.

Jaskier's eyes finally met his again, and they brimmed with pain.

Jaskier swallowed thickly, then said, voice shaking, "You made me think... You made me believe you didn't want..." He shook his head, looked up at the ceiling to keep his tears from falling, gritting his teeth. With a deep breath, he steeled himself, eyes snapping back to Geralt's. "How could you?"

Face contorting, the bard looked away, rushing out of the room.

Jaskier slammed the door behind him, leaving Geralt stunned and absolutely devoid of all thought and feeling.

Moments later, he shook himself, turned to where Dandelion was still stretched out on his back on the bed with one knee raised and one arm flung over his eyes.

"Why the fuck did you do that?" Geralt barked at him.

"To put us all out of our misery," Dandelion said without moving.  "I saw the way he looked at you, Geralt." He laughed dully. "Gods, how can such a brilliant man be so utterly oblivious?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Perhaps I should count myself lucky.  If you weren't so dense, you never would have come to me.  I never would have had you."

"Speak plainly."

With a frustrated sigh, Dandelion threw his arm away from his face, propped himself up on his elbows, and gave Geralt a pointed look. "He's in love with you, you great oaf."

Chapter Text

"N-no. That's not... He's not," Geralt insisted. 

"He is. He's in love with you. I told you: I can tell a lot about a man by the way he fucks. And--gods damn it, Geralt--he was trying his very best to make this just about me and him, but he wanted you with us." He flopped back, swallowed sharply as he looked at the ceiling. "And now I am utterly fucked."

"You're fucked?" Geralt asked incredulously. It wasn't his life he'd upended with one perfectly-timed word. "You're--"

"Yes," Dandelion said, voice shaking.  He rolled his head a little in Geralt's direction. "Because now I want you both, but I don't think... I don't think you'll forgive me for what I just did."

Geralt didn't say anything. He just stood there--angry, drained, and inept.

Shit. Shit. How had this all gone to utter shit?

"Geralt?" Dandelion asked after a moment.

"What?" he barked.

"What the fuck are you still doing here? Go after him, you idiot."

"But, he doesn't--"

"Melitele help me. Get out."

"I--"

"Out!  Now!"

"Dandelion..."

"Don't make me scream, Geralt.  Just..." He cringed, pulled the pillow out from under his head, and threw it at the witcher. 

It hit Geralt's shoulder with the lightest thump. He didn't even bother to deflect it.

"Get! Out!" 

Dandelion rolled onto his front, hid his face in his hands. His shoulders started to shake.

The damp scent of melancholy filled the room.

Worse than anger, worse than fear--it smelled like mold. Like rot.

Dandelion had smelled so warm and welcoming when they'd first entered the room.

Now...

Geralt wanted to go to him. He took two steps toward the bed, but then turned toward the door, feeling stretched--caught between two strings tugging at his heart. He looked to Dandelion again.

"Go, Geralt," Dandelion said, voice muffled. "I'm asking you to choose him. Please. Just go."

The witcher retreated toward the door, keeping his gaze locked on the courtesan. He wanted to tell him...to tell him...

He didn't know.  He couldn't put his feelings into words. He didn't know how to eloquently define this nebulous longing, this strange sense of comradery and fondness.  It was some kind of love, but he didn't know how to say it.

So he went silently--leaving everything he couldn't articulate unsaid. Feeling like a fool, he let the door latch softly behind him.

He allowed himself a brief pause--a single deep breath--before he raced down the stairs, bounding across the foyer once he reached the bottom. He felt Amrynn's eyes track him all the way to the door, but didn't acknowledge her.

There was no time.

He'd already wasted so much time.

He stumbled out into the street, the dirt and gravel between the cobblestones crunching under his boots as he skid to a halt, scanning--looking for signs of his bard, trying to figure out which way he'd gone.

After a moment, he took off toward the bridge, figuring Jaskier would utilize the most direct path back to the Kingfisher.

Only by chance did he catch a snatch of color heading down a back alley.

"Jaskier! Jaskier, wait."

The tense line of Jaskier's body went utterly rigid as he stopped, spun.

He opened his mouth to speak, anger curling his lips, but at the last moment he looked lost. As though whatever he'd been about to say had fled him.

The shadows from the tall buildings made the thin street feel dark, closed.  Intimate.

Geralt entered the alley slowly, moving carefully. He didn't want to spook him.

And now that he'd caught Jaskier, Geralt realized he was supposed to say something. To explain. Apologize. To try to make it better.

How could anyone make this better?

He stopped within arm's length, keeping a respectful distance between them.

The bard looked at him with wary, needy, anguished eyes. They were red, his cheeks damp.

Geralt swallowed thickly, let his lips part, let the words start spilling of their own accord. "I... I did go to Dandelion," he admitted. "But, he's just a--" a friend, his brain supplied, but he knew he couldn't say that. And what am I? would be the bitter reply. 

Geralt swallowed once more, tried again. "Just a...just a whore." His stomach soured the moment he said it. That sounded so much worse, so much more insulting--to them both. But he barreled on, "You and I go whoring all the time, how is this any--?"

"Don't--!" Jaskier bit out, starting to shout. But then he stopped himself, gritted his teeth. He lowered his voice, but a hot force still thrust each word harshly past his lips. "Don't. Neither of us are stupid, Geralt.  Don't play dumb and don’t take me for a fool. You know I don't care if you go whoring.  But he's not just a whore.  And he's not just a whore who happens to look like me. He's a...a...a--" he threw his arms wide as he landed on the right word-- "a fucking proxy, Geralt."

He closed the distance between them, snarling in Geralt's face. "How would it make you feel?" he demanded. "How would you feel if I led you to a man with white hair and pale skin and golden eyes?  How would you feel if you took him to bed and then he called out my name?  How would you feel if you found out I'd been fucking him--for what, months?--instead of you? Huh?"

Geralt said nothing.

Jaskier inched closer, forcing Geralt to step back, crowding him into the nearest wall.  "Answer me." He gave him a bitter shove, but Geralt held steady, set his jaw.  "How would you feel? Answer me, you bastard."

Geralt's skin prickled.  Heat wafted off Jaskier, and he smelled angry and bitter, anxious and lusty, and Geralt couldn't stop himself.  Jaskier was too close--too fucking close

Jaskier went to shove him again, and Geralt reached for the bard, caught him cruelly by the back of the head, yanking his hair so that he had to pull up short and expose his throat. 

"Gods damn it, answer me," Jaskier hissed through clenched teeth, body bent back.  His hand went to Geralt's in his hair--fingers curling over his fist, but not trying to claw free. "How would you feel, witcher? Everyone else thinks you're heartless, but I know you have feelings, you prick, so how would--?"

"I'd hate it," Geralt barked. "I'd fucking hate it, alright?"

But then Jaskier's words truly landed.  The weight of them hit Geralt square in the chest.

Instead of.

What if you found out I'd been fucking him...Instead. Of. You.

There was only one reason to say it that way.

No. Dandelion was wrong.  Jaskier couldn't...he couldn't...

Geralt's fingers started to tremble as he realized how soft Jaskier's hair was in his hands, as he realized the bard wasn't trying to pull away, as he realized Jaskier was looking at him with darkened eyes.

Geralt bent close to Jaskier, his lips a whisper away from the bard's neck. He snaked his other arm around his waist, pulling Jaskier close. "I'd hate it," he said again softly.

He wanted to put his mouth on the soft column of skin stretched out before him.  He wanted to taste him. 

Him.

Finally, him.

"And I do hate it," Jaskier said, swallowing harshly, adam's apple bobbing. He batted roughly at the hand in his hair, forcing the witcher to release his hold, lest he hurt him. But Jaskier didn't yank himself out of the curl of Geralt's arm. If anything, he settled closer.

His hands went to Geralt's shoulders, not pushing him away, but not gripping him tightly, either. "I hate it so fucking much, Geralt. And I hate you for it. I hate you for keeping this from me. I hate myself--" he let out a self-deprecating laugh-- "For being such an idiot."

Moving cautiously, Geralt encompassed Jaskier's waist with both arms. He let himself lean back against the wall, let his shoulder blades take his weight. And if that pushed his pelvis forward, into Jaskier's, well...

The bard's voice fell to a whisper. "I kept telling myself, You don't even know if he beds men. He shies away when you get forward. And he flinches when you touch him. Maybe you should stop. You should just stop..."

He slipped one hand onto Geralt's cheek.

Out of habit, Geralt did flinch.

And he watched Jaskier's stomach drop, his eyes going sad. The bard swallowed harshly, retrieving his hand, curling his fingers in a frustrated fist--a fist which came down hard against Geralt's shoulder as Jaskier's voice became darker, meaner. "You flinch when I touch you. You back away from me when I get close. You yell at me when I try to help you. And when you said asking for a kiss made you uncomfortable--" he spat the word-- "I thought that was it. The final nail in the coffin. I knew then, for certain, that you could never want me, so I'd resolved to stop making stupid advances.

"But then we came here.  And you...you just stood there.  You didn't leave, you didn't drag me away.  You watched us. You watched me fuck him. And I got my hopes up. I thought maybe you'd--you'd finally seen me. Seen me in that way. But this...?" He pursed his lips, shook his head. "To know you've seen me that way this whole time--to know you've wanted my body, but not...not me. To know that you would fuck me, but don't want me..."

Geralt's heart plummeted. "Oh, Jaskier, no, I--"

"Whores are easier, aren't they?" he snapped. His lip trembled, his voice shook. "They don't talk back.  I bet he shuts up when you tell him to shut up. He must just roll over for you, must have no needs of his own. You don't have to offer him anything but coin and you can take and take and take. He'd never get in the way on a hunt, or buy the wrong kind of oil for your sword, or accidently spook the game you're stalking for dinner, or pinch too roughly when sewing up your wounds, or--"

"Enough," Geralt grumbled, a bitter taste fanning out over his tongue. "Stop, please."

"No, I'm not done." There were fresh tears in his eyes, close to falling. "We have a life, Geralt." He dropped his chin, focusing on Geralt's medallion. Gently, he traced the circle of it with one finger, keeping his eyes lowered as he spoke. "One where I darn your clothes, and you cook our meals, and I sing your songs, and you save my sorry arse. And I'd imagined, that if you could ever want me the same way I want you, that we could...that we would be happy--or some such stupid nonsense. "

He took a deep breath, suddenly becoming more composed. Disturbingly composed, as though he'd locked his pain away. The hurt in his eyes was replaced with a stony anger as he met Geralt's gaze once again. "But I understand," he said flatly. "You were just looking to get off. And even if you wanted to fuck me, you didn't want to have to deal with me. With whatever I'd ask of you in return. With what demands I'd place on you.  It's complicated when you want to stick your dick in someone who won't just shut up and behave, isn't it?

"So you hid your desires from me and found someone easier to sate you. All while making me believe my advances were unwanted--that I was doing something wrong. And that fucking hurts and I gods-damned hate it."

Geralt didn’t know how to explain to Jaskier that he had it all mixed up--wrong, backwards--when so much of what he'd said was ultimately true.  He had hidden his desires. He had looked for an easy way to slake his lust. He had flinched at Jaskier's touch, and he had pushed him away.

But he couldn't let Jaskier think he didn't want him. Not when he loved everything about him. Not when he loved him so much it hurt.

"I never meant for you to feel like you'd done anything wrong," he said, fanning his palms out over Jaskier's back, letting his hands splay wide, touching every inch of him he was able. "You did nothing wrong. Nothing. And I need you to understand: I do want you. You Jaskier. I've wanted you--" His voice wavered. His tongue felt thick. His eyes grew hot. It felt so strange to own his feelings out in the open like this. "I've wanted you so badly for so long. I want you for all the reasons you said: we have a life. And I didn't want to ruin it. I didn’t... I didn't want to burden you."

"Burden me?" Jaskier scoffed.

"If you didn't want me," Geralt explained. "I didn't want it to scare you.  I didn't want to make things awkward between us because you knew I wanted to bed you. That I wanted more from you." That I'm in love with you. "I didn't want to burden you."

"Have you ever known me to burden easily?" Jaskier asked. "Oh no," he said mockingly, "The White Wolf wants to bite me, whatever shall I do? Please. I might not apply the skill all that often, but I do know how to let a friend down gently if I'm not interested."

"You were afraid," Geralt countered, trying to take the wind out of Jaskier's bravado. This was not as simple as all that. Jaskier would not have let Geralt's confession roll off lightly if he didn't want him back.

"What?"

"When our lips touched in the dark, you were afraid of me. You stank of fear. And you think I should have simply pushed through that?  You expect me to tell you I want to sleep with you when I'm already holding you and you're afraid of me?"

"I wasn't afraid of you, you idiot.  I was afraid of losing you. You'd already barked at me not to touch you. I was afraid--"

"So was I," Geralt snapped. "I didn't want to drive you away. I was afraid, Jaskier." He dropped his voice to barely a whisper, "You make me so scared."

Leaning forward--pulling Jaskier into a tight, real hug--he hid his face in the bard's neck, closed his eyes. "I'm not supposed to be scared of anything. But every time I touch you wrong--" He let out a shaky breath, lips lightly brushing over soft skin as he bunched his fingers in Jaskier's doublet, fisting the fabric-- "I'm scared."

Jaskier's hands slowly moved around him, to hug back. "You don't touch me wrong," he said meekly, posture softening. "You don't touch me enough. Never enough."

They held one another for a long moment.

"I'm sorry I hurt you this way," Geralt said. "You have to know, I didn't seek him out.  I didn't hear rumor of Dandelion like you did.  I was playing Gwent. It was pure accident. He was there, and I wanted...I wanted you and thought I couldn't have you, but I could have him, and...the first time was impulsive. I'm sorry."

Jaskier's stance hardened again. He seemed to have forgotten, for a moment, how they'd ended up here. Why he was so angry. But now he'd been reminded. "And the second? The third? How many times did you see him?"

"There were many times. I have no excuse."

"Just tell me you weren't one of those awful people who used him and...and called him by my name. Tell me you didn't treat him like that. Like he was a doll. A plaything instead of a person."

Geralt said nothing.

"Tell me you didn't."

Geralt still couldn't bring himself to answer.

"Did you call him by my name?" Jaskier demanded.

"...Yes."

The bard went rigid in his grasp, jerked back.

Geralt held him all the tighter. "I pretended he was you. I did, I admit it.  Toward the end--and there was an end. I stopped, Jaskier. I never meant to go back. But... At the end, I had to pretend that the only place you'd let me bed you was in the Passiflora. I was confused, and I was terrible, to both of you, and I... I just...gods, Jaskier, I want you, so much. And I couldn't..."

He leaned up, away from his neck, but didn't pull back. Their mouths were a hair's breadth apart. His hands were trembling, and he was holding him so close.  Any moment now he was sure he'd lose control, sure he'd crush his mouth against Jaskier's.

But Jaskier was angry. He didn't want to kiss him while he was angry--and certainly not while he was the cause of that anger, that hurt.

So he released him, shoved him away.

"This is exactly what I didn't want," he shouted. "I didn't want to destroy us, Jaskier.  I didn't want to upturn our lives because I'm in--" he cut himself off, swallowing the word. "I didn't want to lose you."

Jaskier's lip trembled.  He looked stunned, like he'd just been slapped.

"I never thought I'd say this," Jaskier said darkly.  "But, Geralt of Rivia, you are a fucking coward."

The bard turned on his heel, stomping off into the city.

Chapter Text

Jaskier was right. 

Geralt had thought he liked challenges.  He thought he sought them out.  But when he'd been challenged by his own feelings, he'd backed down, looked for the easy path, the coward's way out.

And what had it gotten him? He hadn't spared anyone any pain, any awkwardness.  He'd only caused more.

He thought about chasing after Jaskier again, but that was twice now that the bard had walked away from him. Clearly he needed space.

So Geralt strode once more toward the Passiflora.

But he couldn't make himself go in. After all, Dandelion had yelled at him to get out, and Geralt didn't want do disrespect him further by bursting back through the door.

So he went to the docks.

He stared at the ships.

Saw them without really seeing.

At one point, the sounds of a tussle caught his attention, and he swiftly stopped a pair of thugs from robbing a woman. He barely felt their noses cracking beneath his fists, barely heard her as she thanked him before running off.

He was in a daze, functioning on muscle-memory alone while his mind and his emotions were dulled.

The day dragged on.  Night fell.

He stayed away from the Kingfisher as long as he could--until a terrible dread seized him.

What if he returned to their room, only to find Jaskier gone?

What if the bard had gathered his things, shirked his last few performances, and left?

The instant panic that swarmed through him--taking hold of his feet and rushing him back to the inn--was proof he'd been lying to himself. Again. He never could have kept himself away from Jaskier. Not after this week, not after this season, not after another decade. Not in a million years.

And if Jaskier had decided to leave, now, Geralt was surely hours behind. Jaskier knew all of the witcher's tracking techniques, knew how to avoid leaving traces if he didn't want to be found. Geralt had taught him how to avoid detection for his own safety, but he never thought the bard might see fit to use those lessons against him.

Geralt took each corner at a sprint, ignoring the late-night beggars, ruffians, and prostitutes who either cat-called or yelped at him as he flew by.

It was well past midnight when he reached the Kingfisher--bursting through the door like he was trying to get the drop on a foglet.

He was not surprised to find the dining area mostly dark; the inn catered to a more sophisticated crowd who tended to covet their beauty sleep, so most nights found the ground floor emptied by ten.

No one was behind the bar, but a lone figure sat at a table in the middle of the room, illuminated by a single candle. 

Jaskier.

Relief flooded through Geralt, even as the bard's gaze--sharp as flint, with his face just as stony--snaped to him.

A small spread of food--bread, cheese, olives, olive oil, and a mug of mulled wine--sat before Jaskier. From the look of it, he'd barely picked at the meal and hadn't touched his drink. A garland of evergreen branches graced table as center piece, and several other unlit candles stood scattered about the planks.

Geralt took careful steps toward the table as Jaskier's eyes dropped to his plate. The bard rolled an olive around with the tip of his finger, but didn't pick it up.

Geralt was at a loss for what to say. He hadn't really expected Jaskier to be here. Plus, he'd already apologized, and still gotten everything wrong.

Was there any coming back from all this? For the two of them?

Or had his feelings ruined everything, just as he'd feared?

"Did you perform tonight?" he asked dully.

 "Yes. Because I'm a professional," Jaskier replied sharply, not looking up. He moved to fiddle with the mug's handle--tensing for a brief moment, as though he considered picking it up and chucking it at the witcher. But instead he shook his head, scoffed at himself. "I'm so professional, I sang The Vampires' Kiss three times and cried all the way through.  Jury's still out on whether or not the innkeeper wants me to play again tomorrow. A blubbering bard doesn't tend to draw a large crowd."

Geralt came to stand directly across from him, using the table as a temporary buffer. "The Vampires' Kiss...the end of the song...it's about us, isn't it?"

"Yes, Geralt," Jaskier said, looking up pointedly. "It's about us. It's about all of my fucking pining and my gods damned longing and my--" He braced his elbows on the table and sunk his head into his hands. After a beat, he ran his fingers up through his hair to clutch at the back of his head. "My aching stupidity, apparently. 'For want of a kiss.' Fuck. I'm such a fucking fool."

"No." Geralt rounded the table quickly, going to Jaskier's side.  He moved to lay a hand on his shoulder, but thought better of it. "You're not a fool."

"Oh no?" Jaskier sat up, ran a hand over his face before flinging his legs over the bench, standing, confronting Geralt. "I'm not a fool?" he challenged. "Me, sitting all alone in a backwater tavern night after night, composing a sappy song, thinking about your gods damned mouth? About how I'd die for simple kiss? While you--" He gritted his teeth. "While you're balls-deep in another man with my name on your lips? How am I not supposed to feel foolish, Geralt?"

"Then we're both fools," Geralt said firmly. "Because I never would have gone to bed with him if I'd known you'd allow me so much as a simple kiss."

"I was right there," Jaskier cried, gesturing sharply. "I was right there, wanting you the whole time. I would have allowed you so much more than a mere kiss. Why couldn't you...why couldn't you see that I was right there?"

"How was I supposed to know?" he countered. "How was I supposed to know you wanted me too?"

Jaskier's eyes went wide. "How were you--?" He cut himself off, palms coming together in front of his face in a mockery of a prayer. With a deep breath, he closed his eyes, steeling himself.

"Geralt," he started again, pinching the bridge of his nose for a brief moment, wincing as though having to explain was headache-inducing.  "I get frightfully hard just about every time you draw your damned swords.  Just a few months ago I sat astride you with my hard cock pressed against yours in the woods. I have invited you to share a whore with me on a number of occasions.  I've--I've come to bed in nothing but your shirt when we've had to share a mattress, for gods' sake.  I couldn't have been more obvious if I'd--if I'd--" He cast about, trying to find an example.  He threw out a hand, gesturing wildly at the table, shouting, "I couldn't have been more obvious if I'd said, Geralt, I want you to bend me over this table and fuck me!"

They both stood perfectly still as his words echoed through the darkened dining hall. 

And, slowly, it clearly dawned on Jaskier that, yes, that was exactly how much more obvious he'd needed to be.

"I don't know how to play these games, Jaskier," Geralt said meekly, regretfully. "You can't expect me to understand what you want if you don't tell me."

Jaskier's eyes flickered back and forth, searching Geralt's gaze.

Geralt wasn't sure what he was looking for, but knew all he'd find was honesty.

"You never said," the witcher whispered. "You're never at a loss for words when it comes to what you want, and you never said you wanted me."

Something in the bard shifted then, as though a final piece had fallen into place. As though he saw everything clearly for the first time. "You're a man of deeds," he said quietly. "So I didn't bother with words."

Geralt nodded. "And you're a man of words, so I never let myself do anything."

"So what you're saying is, we know each other so well, we got in our own gods damned way?"

Geralt allowed himself a small, hopeful smile.  "Seems so."

"Reminds me of a fable. Something about a hair comb and a silver chain..."

"What?"

"Nothing."

They fell quiet. But this silence felt different. It wasn't tense with anger or unshed tears. It was burgeoning with potential, with promise.

They stared into each other's eyes, both seeing one another--understanding one another--in a way that had eluded them before.

Gods, Jaskier was so...

He was beautiful, and thoughtful, and creative, and annoying, and just a gods-fucking terror unleashed upon the world. Unleashed on Geralt's heart.

And he'd been trying to show his witcher what he wanted. He'd been trying to speak to Geralt--to his baser instincts--in a way he thought Geralt would understand best.

If only Geralt hadn't been so caught up in his own feelings, perhaps he wouldn't have been so completely oblivious to what was right in front of him.

If only. If only.

If only...

The scent of the air changed. Became sweet.

Arousal-sweet.

And Geralt's worry--his fear, his shame--all tilted quickly into excitement.

"Geralt," Jaskier whispered, licking his lips, settling his palms lightly on the witcher's chest as he spoke slowly, giving each word weight and emphasis.  "Listen to me very carefully, because this is important. I want you--"

He poked Geralt in the pectoral--

"to bend me--"

He pointed that same finger at himself--

"over this table--"

He gestured emphatically--

"and fuck me."

Geralt closed his eyes briefly, hands turning into fists at his sides as he savored the words. "Jaskier--"

Gods, he'd waited so long--

"Is that explicit enough for you, witcher?" Jaskier asked, voice breathy. He bunched his fingers in the other man's shirt, tugging firmly. "I want you.  So please, fuck me."

Chapter Text

Such an open invitation spurred Geralt forward. He growled hungrily. Before he could consciously weigh his actions, he pushed firmly into Jaskier's space--grabbing the bard's biceps, yanking him forward.

At the last moment, Geralt caught himself. Took a deep breath. Forced his passions to cool. He held Jaskier tightly, but leaned back, did not swoop in for the kiss.

For a moment, Jaskier looked lost, confused. He'd been expecting the pounce.

But Geralt needed Jaskier to feel not just his lust, but his love.  He had to show him he didn't just want his body.

This was about more than itching a scratch.

Cautiously, Geralt slid one hand up the back of Jaskier's neck, into his hair, curling his fingers. Petting lightly. He caught Jaskier's gaze, held it. "Do you know what you mean to me?" he asked, voice filled with heat, with sincerity.

"No," Jaskier said softly, an edge of sadness in his voice. "I don't." He licked his lips, glancing at Geralt's mouth. "So show me." Jaskier's hand came up to cup the witcher's jaw, to thumb at his cheek. There was something sentimental in the gesture. "Please."

And then Geralt realized: it wasn't just his feelings for Jaskier that were old, ran deep.

How long had Jaskier...?

How long had they both felt this way?

Geralt closed his eyes, lowered his forehead to Jaskier's.  "You're everything to me," he breathed. "Before you, the Path was nothing but cold and bloody and lonely. Simple--like it's supposed to be. And after... Now..."

"It's still fucking cold and bloody," Jaskier said with a small laugh.

Geralt smiled. "No.  It's messy, but it's not cold.  You make it warm.  You make me warm. You make me..."

"Yes?"

"You make me want things," he confessed. "Want more."

"Like what?"

With a sigh, Geralt tilted his head. Pressed his mouth tenderly to Jaskier's.

His heart threatened to beat itself out of his chest.

Their lips tugged lightly at one another's--Geralt kept it that way. Chaste. Even as Jaskier pressed forward, trying to deepen the kiss. Geralt wanted to make sure their first kiss was soft. Poignant. He wanted Jaskier to truly feel his affection--genuine and familiar, even in the newness of its display.

When he pulled back, he licked his lips, chasing the sensations, savoring the moment. "Jaskier," he whispered, eyes still closed. If he opened his eyes, tears would fall. "I...I'm in--" His voice broke as he tried to say it, as he tried to tell him.  Even now, with the echo of a kiss still on his lips, a part of him feared it could all be taken away. That if he crossed that final line, opened himself up completely--

Geralt shook himself, opened his eyes. One small tear brimmed over, but he ignored it.

Jaskier was looking at him with such anticipation, such vulnerability.

Geralt took Jaskier's face in both hands. "I'm in love with you," he whispered. "I love you, and every day I thought I had to hide it from you, I broke a little more." He took a shaky breath. "And now...now I'm in pieces."

A gentle thumb came up to wipe his tear away, then a hand pressed on the back of his neck, pulling him forward, bringing their lips close.

"You don't need to be broken." Jaskier said softly. "I'll fix you," he promised, letting his hot breath roll over Geralt's mouth. "Let me fix you," he mumbled against his lips.

And then Jaskier kissed him again. 

Not gently.

Fiercely.

The bard let out a muffled, needy whimper as he deepened the kiss, as he prodded at the seam of Geralt's lips with his tongue, begging to be let inside.

Geralt didn't want to keep him out.  He didn't think he could deny him anything, now that he knew they both wanted the same things.

That they'd both been aching for this for a long time.

He parted his lips, moaned as Jaskier's tongue slid sensuously over his.

Finally--finally, he was tasting him for real.

Him. Jaskier.  Jaskier was really here, and Jaskier was kissing him back.

Geralt felt so full.  His heart fluttered, swelled.

Jaskier was here with him, wanting him, pulling him close and begging for Geralt to fuck him.

"I don't know what I'd do without you," Geralt admitted, only breaking the kiss for half a second.  He pushed at Jaskier, walking him backward, until the bard's calves hit the bench.

"You've never been without me," Jaskier said, their one kiss now becoming a series of frantic kisses. "I've always been here. I will always be here. Even when you're stubborn and stupid and scared, I'm here." He pulled at Geralt's shirt, sliding the hem free from his trousers.

The witcher moaned into Jaskier's mouth, and the bard gasped back.  Every move they made was frenzied, firm, like they were both afraid this sudden pleasure would prove an illusion if they didn't hold onto it violently.

Jaskier hands fluttered to the buttons on Geralt's breeches, popping each free with expert fingers.

"Jas-Jaskier," Geralt gasped, hands covering over Jaskier's to still them. "We have a bed. Upstairs."

"Don't want a bed," he laughed against his lips. "I told you what I want."

He had.  He'd told him. 

He'd said.

Jaskier half-turned, scooping up the cruet that held the olive oil.  Holding it between them, he raised an eyebrow at Geralt and flicked his chin over his shoulder at the table.

Swiftly, the witcher lashed out behind Jaskier, stiff-arming the table settings, sweeping everything but the lit candle to the floor in one go. Cheese and olives went flying. The evergreen sprigs muffled the sound of the plate hitting the floor, and Geralt hoped the innkeeper wouldn't notice the new wine stain on the lacquered boards.

Dipping low, Geralt cradled the bard's arse in both hands, lifting him up, then plunking him down on the now-clear table.

Jaskier hummed happily, setting the cruet down so he could throw his arms around Geralt's neck as the witcher crawled up on the bench, kneeling between Jaskier's spread legs.

They kissed with a vengeance as Geralt got his hands beneath Jaskier's doublet, then his chemise.

Jaskier's bare skin was so warm, soft. Geralt ran his hands over the bard's sides, his back, just feeling. Marveling that he could palm at him so thoroughly, so intimately. That he could splay his hands wherever he wanted.  Jaskier leaned back, bracing himself, and Geralt brushed one hand up his chest beneath his clothes, coming to rest on his breastbone.

Here he could feel how rapidly Jaskier's heart beat beneath his ribs. How steadily his chest expanded and contracted with each breath.

Jaskier's head rolled back, and he groaned, clearly appreciating the exploratory touch.

He was so alive, so vibrant.

Geralt retrieved his hand, bunched the hem of the chemise in his fist. "Take this off."

"You too," Jaskier ordered, quickly shrugging out of his doublet and whisking the chemise over his head.

Geralt mirrored him.

Once they were both bare-chested, Geralt pushed once more into Jaskier's space, making him lay back on the table.  Geralt still knelt on the bench, and it gave him the perfect angle to mouth at Jaskier's belly, his chest.

He had to force himself to go slow, to be gentle. To make sure his lips and teeth trailed lightly.

Dandelion had been right.  Geralt did want to make love to Jaskier, not just fuck him. But now that he had him, he was desperate, frenetic. His instincts pushed him to be wild--to take what he wanted as quickly and greedily as possible.

He was a starving man finally offered food, and the temptation to gorge himself was real.

Jaskier ran his fingers through Geralt's hair, twisted thick locks of it around his fist--yanked.

Geralt growled, and Jaskier bowed his back, pushing up into Geralt, demanding more. "Bite me," he breathed.

"Jas..."

"Please. Please, Geralt. I've fantasied about all the marks you'd leave on me..." He pulled him up by the hair, made him look him in the eye. "Please, love."

Geralt's breath caught in his chest.

Bastard, princess, cockslut, sweet little thing: Geralt had imagined Jaskier calling him a number of names.

But not love.

Never something as wonderful as that.

An overwhelming wave of affection hit him, and he surged up, kissing Jaskier, chasing that word, trying to pull it form his lips once more.  He settled himself on top of his bard, pressing their chests flush together.  He fumbled for Jaskier's hands, holding them above the bard's head as he threaded their fingers together.

"Call me that again," Geralt pleaded.

"What? Love?"

The witcher purred.

"Mmm. Love. Are you going to bite me, love? Pretty please?"

"Only if you keep talking."

"Oh-ho-ho." Jaskier seemed particularly smitten with that request. "Never would have imagined you were one for mouthy bed partners."

"Only when it's you," Geralt admitted, tucking his face into the crook of Jaskier's neck. "You make such sweet noises while you fuck."

"Why do I get the feeling this isn't a discovery you made today?"

"Inn walls are thin," Geralt said dismissively.

"Especially when you press your ear against them--oh!"

Geralt bit down on the taut tendon between Jaskier's neck and shoulder.  A happy sigh escaped his chest, and he made no effort to hold it back.

He couldn't get past how firm and real Jaskier was beneath him--as though part of him thought this was a dream. Some beautiful phantasm his mind had cooked up.

Jaskier bucked upward, the hard line of his cock pressing flush against Geralt's.

Geralt released the bard's neck with a gasp, then rolled his hips to meet Jaskier's.

The friction was perfect, the zing of pleasure intoxicating. 

Geralt removed his hands from Jaskier's wrists to wrap around his hips.

For long minutes they humped and scrabbled at each other like fumbling teenagers.  

"Fuck me," Jaskier pleaded, after a particularly good thrust that left them both keening. "Geralt, I need you.  I'm begging.  Please. Pleasepleasepleaseplease--"

Geralt dropped a swift, harsh kiss onto his lips. "Call me love again," he demanded.

"I'll call you love anywhere, anytime. I will declare it your name while on bended knee for the Emperor of Nilfgaard. I'll swear it before the priests of the Eternal Fire while tied to one of their fucking pyres. I'll go find Filavandrel and he and I can sing a duet dedicated to--"

"How about you just say it right here, right now?"

Jaskier smirked. "Please, love. Make me the happiest man on the Continent and fuck me this instant."

Geralt leaned down close to his ear and rumbled, "Turn over."

Jaskier scrambled to comply.

Geralt stood back, letting Jaskier take his place. The bard knelt on the bench and bent forward over the table, spreading his legs. Waiting.

Swiping up the cruet with one hand, Geralt let the other trail lovingly over the curve of Jaskier's clothed backside.

Despite Jaskier's impatient wiggling, Geralt took his time pulling at the ties on the back of the bard's trousers.  He let the fabric slip down of its own accord, gradually revealing that Jaskier wore no smallclothes beneath.

Had he taken them off when he got back to the Kingfisher, or had he neglected to pick them up off the floor in the Passiflora with Geralt too dumbstruck to notice?

Didn't matter.

Fuck, he was gorgeous like this.  Laid out--bared.

Geralt kissed him tenderly at the base of his spine, then dragged his lips along one cheek. 

He smelled fresh, like he'd bathed before his performance this evening.

Geralt was a little sad that he couldn't smell Dandelion on him, but he quickly shoved the feeling aside.

And, after setting the oil down next to Jaskier's knee, Geralt shoved his tongue somewhere else entirely.

Jaskier jerked and cried out in surprise as the witcher thumbed his cheeks apart, tongue instantly darting forward to swipe wetly over his entrance.

"Fuck. Fuck.  Oh love, yes.  That's so good, tha-that's so--ngh." Jaskier's fingers clawed at the tabletop, and his words dissolved into those delicious mutterings Geralt had so longed for.

This was what he'd truly wanted.  To please Jaskier. To be the cause of his pleasure, the reason for his happiness.

Geralt thrust his tongue forward, deep, then pulled back to flick it teasingly over Jaskier's rim.  He worked him thoroughly, kissing and licking him in his most intimate of places--enamored of the bard's taste, scent, and sounds.

Every mewl, every whimper, every shuttering gasp from Jaskier sent a ripple of pleasure through Geralt's cock.  Satisfaction pooled in his belly, and everything between his legs throbbed.

He could be perfectly happy just like this. Truly. Jaskier could give him no more and Geralt could be content with his bard's ecstasy alone.

But the Master Bard himself clearly wasn't having that. "Fuck.  Deeper.  Gods, Geralt. More. I need you deeper."

With one last filthy kiss of his pucker, Geralt drew back, working the rest of the buttons open on his breeches before pulling his cock free of its confines.  It felt hot in his fist, hot against the cool air of the dining hall.

Uncorking the cruet, he dribbled some of the oil down the cleft of Jaskier's backside, then poured a generous amount in his own left palm.

It had been a while since he'd had to open a man properly. He might have given Dandelion his fingers to make sure the copper plug and his clients' cocks had stretched him sufficiently, but the witcher had never needed to start from scratch with him.

Geralt paused. He almost asked Jaskier when he'd last taken a cock, but found he couldn't bring himself to form the words.

Not in the last week, at least.  That he knew.

The bard wiggled his backside. "C'mon."

Geralt swallowed thickly.

What did it matter? He knew Jaskier--knew he sought company often and openly. Would still, after this.  Geralt knew he couldn't ask for Jaskier's fidelity.  He wouldn't.

He might feel possessive, but be damned if he would be possessive.

"I hear the gears seizing up again," Jaskier mumbled.

"I'm sorry, I just..."

Jaskier looked over his shoulder. "Are you alright?"

"I want to make sure I don't hurt you," he said, uncertain if Jaskier would realize he meant it in more ways than one.

He'd already caused him so much unnecessary pain.

Jaskier gave him a soft smile. "I trust you," he said, before turning back around and pillowing his head on his crossed arms.

"Sometimes I don't trust myself," Geralt admitted. But he pressed on, reaching forward to gently swirl the pad of his middle finger over Jaskier's entrance.

Despite the way his trousers pooled around his knees, Jaskier widened his stance. A wanton keening emanated from the back of his throat, and he pushed back into Geralt's touch.

Geralt let Jaskier spear himself on his finger.

They both gasped.

Geralt expected Jaskier to take it slowly, to ease down onto the digit, but instead he shoved his hips backward, taking Geralt up to the third knuckle in one swift go.

"Another," Jaskier demanded.

The witcher easily slid a second in beside the first.

"Fuck, your fingers are thick."

"You'll need four of them before you can take my cock."

Jaskier pushed himself up on his elbows, muttering a litany of fuck fuck fuck under his breath.

Geralt spent many minutes opening him up--making sure he was relaxed and loose--while Jaskier peppered him with praises and endearments. After he'd filled him with all four fingers, Jaskier insisted, "I'm ready. I'm ready."

"I'll say when you're ready, bard," Geralt chuckled. "Be patient. You've never been fucked by a witcher before."

"And how would you know?" Jaskier shot back.

Geralt stilled. Held his breath.

"Sorry, sorry," Jaskier said swiftly. "Bad joke. But, honestly, the way you froze there has me wondering..."

Well, maybe Geralt could be a little possessive. "No witcher rides this arse but me," he said darkly.

Jaskier shivered. "Then you better hurry up and claim what's yours, love. Before I try to figure out exactly which other witchers you thought I might have taken a tumble with."

"Such a brat," Geralt grumbled--loving every second of it.

He retrieved his fingers and poured more oil in his hand, then slicked up his cock.

Gods, he was inches from bliss. The mere sight of Jaskier all oiled and ready had his pleasure spiraling higher and higher.

He climbed up on the bench, bracketing Jaskier's legs with his own as he nudged the crown of his cock against his glossy entrance. They both shuddered as Geralt lined himself up. "Are you ready?" he asked.

"Geralt, I've been ready for years."

Moaning, Geralt pressed forward.

The head of his cock squeezed past the ring of Jaskier's tight muscle, and he paused, sucking in a deep breath as his sac tightened.

Fuck, he was inside him.

He was fucking Jaskier.

Gods.

Fuck.

He took several deep breaths through his nose to calm himself.

"You alright?" Jaskier asked.

"Letting you adjust," he said, though his voice cracked.

Jaskier wasn't fooled. "On the edge already? I thought witchers were famed for their stamina."

"We're famed for our control," he countered. "And you make me lose control. Everything about you makes me lose my mind. It's taking all I have not to spill in you this instant. Could fuck you so full, come so deep..."

"Fuck, you can't just say things like that." 

"Why not?"

Jaskier thrust his hips back.

Geralt let out a strangled groan as he sank further into Jaskier's warm, willing body.

"Because when you say things like that," Jaskier said, the smirk evident in his voice, "I want things like that."

"Jaskier..."

"I bet you could stay hard, even after." He shoved back again, taking another inch.

"Jaskier," Geralt warned. His cock throbbed.

"Bet you could fuck me so good, and come a second time." The bard pushed back again.

Gods, Geralt was about to burst. "Jas--"

"Will you, Geralt? I want it. Will you come for me, now?"

Geralt gritted his teeth, legs trembling. Fuck, he was so close.  "J-Jas--"

"Please, love, fill me up."

"Fuck. Ja-Yes." Geralt ploughed forward, pulling Jaskier's hips tight against his own.  Their sacs smacked together as Geralt's drew tight and he immediately came.

His entire lower body tingled as pleasure tore through him.  His cock pulsed in Jaskier, shooting hot and hard. And even as his mind whited out in a buzz of bliss, he jerked his hips back and thrust in again.

"So good for me," Jaskier praised, meeting him, setting the rhythm--steady, but gentle.  "Wonder if you always come on command," he teased.

Geralt panted, open mouthed. Most of his thoughts had fled.  There was nothing but a haze of ecstasy and a lazy repetition of Jaskier Jaskier Jaskier running through his mind.

Fuck, he was so tight. So wet.

After their first few minutes of firm fucking, Geralt looked down between their bodies, saw the evidence of his orgasm being worked out over Jaskier's rim with each thrust, and he nearly came again.

Breathing heavily, he braced his clean hand between Jaskier shoulders and pushed, encouraging him to lay flat against the table.  Once he'd complied, Geralt leaned forward himself, grasping at Jaskier's wrists to pull his arms wide--as spread-eagle as he could make him. Then he lay himself out over the top of him, like they were both bowed in benediction.

Burying his face in Jaskier's neck once more, he worked his hips hard, tight--giving to Jaskier, rather than taking for himself.

Jaskier moaned, sighed. Geralt discovered the bard made a special kind of whimper when his prostate was grazed just right and he grew dizzy with the flush of power that knowledge gave him.

Everthing about Jaskier was perfect.

Gods, why did he have to be so perfect?

Growling, Geralt bit him again, thrusting harshly, clenching his own arse as he tried to hit that sweet spot again and again.

For a long while, they rutted.  Caught up in each other's heat and nearness.

They'd both waited so, so long.

"Geralt," Jaskier gasped eventually.  "I'm close, love.  Just need a hand--your hand."

Geralt sat up, reaching under Jaskier--under the table--to where his cock lay, hard and throbbing and so fucking wet from all the precome dribbling from his slit.

With one hand on the bard's prick and the other on his hip, Geralt fucked into him long and deep, grunting. 

His second orgasm had been steadily building, and he knew that as soon as Jaskier tumbled over the edge, he'd tumble right after.

So he surprised himself by coming first.

Jaskier tensed beneath him, made the most contented sigh, and said, "I'm so stupidly in love with you, you big sexy brute."

And that was it.  Geralt was done for.  His heart melted and his mind went blank and his body tensed and he came furiously hard a second time.

Jaskier shouted, clenching around Geralt, and liquid heat gushed out over Geralt's knuckles while he was still soaring high.

Shivers wracked them both.

Geralt's lips and fingers tingled. The blood sizzled in his ears.

When he started to come down--started to truly level out again--he realized he didn’t feel empty after his orgasms.  He didn't feel sad or adrift. 

For the first time in a long time, he was happy.

He half slumped over Jaskier, and they lay like that for a few heart beats, before the bard wriggled out from underneath him, laughing in a tired, satisfied way. They both rolled onto their backs on the table top, staring up at the ceiling--its details lost outside the halo of the candlelight.

It took a long while for their breathing to even out, for them to both find words again.

"Did you mean it?" Geralt asked, trying to be gentle with his inquiry. Lost of people said things in the heat of the moment. It was okay if Jaskier hadn't meant it.  Really.

"Mean what?"

"When you said you love me."

Jaskier propped himself up on one arm, leaning over Geralt, looking him in the eye. "I have never been more sincere in all my life. I should have said it sooner. I'm sorry I never told you I wanted this."

"And I'm sorry, for going to Dandelion. I never should have slept with him."

Jaskier shook his head. "I'm not mad you took another lover, Geralt.  I was mad you never came to me and I had to find out about everything like this. But... Do you want to know what he whispered in my ear? It wasn't just your name."

The witcher raised an eyebrow. "Oh? What did he say?"

Jaskier smiled. "'Come for Geralt.'" He trailed a finger down the side of Geralt's arm. "He told me to come for you."

 Geralt's brows bowed in sad surprise.

Oh.  

Oh, Dandelion...

"Back in the alley," Jaskier said, "after you told me you'd called him by my name, I thought he'd said it to hurt you. To get back at you for using him. But the way he said it--it wasn't spiteful. It was...caring. Like he knew us. Knew what this was between us, even before we did. After the Kingfisher cleared out tonight, I realized he'd been trying to help us. And he did." He leaned down to kiss Geralt's shoulder. "He wouldn't have wanted to help you if you'd hurt him."

"But I did hurt him," Geralt confessed. "Every time I went to him. And I think...I think he's in love with me."

 "Of course he's in love with you," Jaskier said lightly, as though it were the most natural conclusion, the most obvious thing in all the world. "Anyone who's seen you be soft for ten seconds falls in love with you."

"You're just saying that."

Jaskier shrugged in acknowledgment. "Because I'm in love with you," he said frankly. "So I think I know what I'm talking about. I will admit, though, I am still a bit mad at you. I'm mad you left that poor man all by himself to chase after me. Did you go back to him after the alley?"

Ashamed, Geralt shook his head.

Jaskier sighed. "Well, we'll make it right tomorrow."

"Make it right?"

"Geralt," Jaskier said bluntly. "You clearly have feelings for him." 

The witcher opened his mouth--not to protest, exactly. Because that would be a lie. He did have feelings for him, but he didn't want Jaskier to think... to think... "No, I..."

"Yes, you do. I'm not stupid. And he has feelings for you," Jaskier went on. "So we're not just going to abandon him.  I know what it's like to pine after you, and I will not have him suffer that way."

 "I--I do care for him, yes--but I love you," Geralt said quickly. "I don't want you to think... I wasn't trying to replace you, I--"

Jaskier set a finger on his lips to quiet him. "Shh. I know. Geralt, it's okay. There's room in a heart for so much love. You can love me and still want him.  You can love us both.  And I think I could love you both. Now we’re just left to see if he could love us both."

Geralt blinked at him disbelievingly.

Jaskier smiled knowingly. "It might have been difficult to see before--you might have been overwhelmed by your feelings for me--which I can understand, I'm an overwhelming person--but you know I don't love singularly, and I don't expect you do either."

Geralt had just accepted it when Dandelion told him he loved Jaskier too much to let anyone else in. And while his want for Jaskier was overwhelming, leave it to the bard himself to really see through him.  To see that a heart stomped on and mutated and forced to take new shapes still had the capacity to be open and welcoming, warm and caring.

And worthy of love. The love of two men.

"So, tomorrow, we'll do what people do when they want to get to know someone better," Jaskier said definitively.

Geralt pulled him down for a quick kiss. "What's that?"

Jaskier smiled, then tapped Geralt on the nose. "Invite him out for a drink."

Chapter Text

That night, they spent long hours naked, wrapped in each other's arms. 

On their thin mattress, under their light blankets, they frotted and kissed--not to chase after additional orgasms, but to learn each other's bodies in new ways. 

Geralt mapped the contours of Jaskier's spine with the very tips of his fingers, memorizing each dip, each swell--reveling in the way it curved down into his backside, the way his fingers could so easily trail from the tip of Jaskier's tailbone into the cleft between his cheeks. The swell of his bum fit so perfectly in his palm, and he could sweep his hand so smoothly over the curve to grip the back of Jaskier's thigh and draw him near.

Jaskier held Geralt's hips as though he meant to leave permanent indents--places for his hands to fit again and again and again. He traced the scars on Geralt's chest, face, and shoulders with his lips--touching them with a reverence he'd never displayed before.

Their cocks were flushed, hot, and rigid between them--pressed tightly between their bellies, leaving wet trails of precome smeared over their abdominal muscles--or hips, or groins--whenever one of them pulled back and pushed forward with a lazy thrust.

Eventually, the day's stress caught up with them.  Sleep came.  Geralt wasn't even sure when he'd succumbed.  One moment it was pitch black--with Jaskier idly peppering kisses on his chin--and the next, the sun was up and the bard was laying with his head pillowed on Geralt's pecs, snoring away.

Geralt pulled on Jaskier's waist, easing him closer, so that one of the bard's legs slipped down between his.

 Jaskier mumbled dreamily and rolled his hips in his sleep. 

Geralt was hard again in an instant.  But instead of thrusting back, he petted Jaskier's hair, kissed his head--simply savored his presence.

Jaskier loved him, and he loved Jaskier.

Two hearts mended. One to go.

"Jaskier," he whispered.

The bard groaned, nuzzled his face into Geralt's chest, then rolled his hips again.  His morning wood was prominent--a hot, heavy line against Geralt's thigh.

"Jaskier," he chuckled lightly, rubbing a circle into the small of his back. "Wake up."

The bard muttered in a way that suggested he was more awake than he was letting on, and rutted again.

"Time to get up," Geralt said.

Jaskier threw an arm over him, holding him close. "I dreamt Geralt let me kiss him.  Don't want to wake up."

"Mmm," Geralt acknowledged, still running his fingers though Jaskier's hair. "I dreamt my bard let me love him, so I understand."

Jaskier tilted his head up, blinked at him.  "It felt so real," he said softly.

"Think maybe it was," Geralt said with a gentle smile.

Returning the grin, Jaskier rose up to kiss him. "We have somewhere to be, don't we?" he asked when he pulled away. "Someone to see."

Geralt nodded. "Dandelion," he said definitively.

"Dandelion," Jaskier echoed.

 

#

 

Standing in front of his door, they both knocked lightly.

Amrynn had not been happy to see them. She'd nearly chased them off the premises before Jaskier had been able to convince her they were here to grovel.

"Out!" she'd shouted. "He wouldn't tell me what happened, but he didn't see another client the rest of the day, and I caught him crying on his way home. So, out."

"We came to apologize," Jaskier had said quickly. "I promise you we didn't lay a single non-consensual finger on him.  Our trespasses were more of the heart, you see, and we just want--"

"Do you have any idea what it takes to make that man cry?" she demanded. "In his time here I've only seen him cry twice." She looked pointedly at Geralt. "Both times after you."

Guilt bubbled in Geralt's throat, made his mouth sour.

Jaskier stepped between them, raising his hands in attrition. "Would it help to admit that my companion here is a blundering dupe when it comes to matters of love?"

Amrynn scoffed. "Ha, love."

"Yes, love," Jaskier said firmly. "I do believe my witcher broke your friend's heart. And what I'm trying to say is, he is a bumbling fool who did not mean to toy with Dandelion's emotions. Let us go to him and make things right."

She'd pursed her lips, tapping her foot as she considered. "Fine.  But if I see one tear after you leave, I promise you, you will not step foot on these premises ever again."

"Understood," Jaskier said with a firm nod.

So now they stood before Dandelion's door, waiting.

When there was no immediate answer, Jaskier knocked once more.

The door opened a crack--enough to reveal one wary hazel eye. "Oh, it's you," he said disdainfully. But his scorn seemed to melt quickly into weariness, and he pulled the door open further. "I admit I thought I'd never see either of you again."

"We're idiots, not swine," said Jaskier. "We've come to talk this time.  Really talk."

"I'd like to apologize," Geralt said, "For all the--"

Dandelion held up a staying hand. "Save it, Geralt," he said sternly, then turned away, leaving the door open. "Jaskier, you can come in.  Geralt, wait in the hall."

That was fair.

More than fair.

Geralt ducked his head in concession, stepping away graciously.

Jaskier put an apologetic hand on the witcher's shoulder before entering the room and shutting the door behind him--leaving Geralt alone with his thoughts.

The two men inside spoke in hushed tones, and Geralt fought the urge to press his ear to the door.

There wasn't any shouting.  That had to be a good sign, at least.

Didn't it?

After a while, Geralt began pacing nervously in front of the door.

He clenched and unclenched his fists as he marched, rolling his head, popping his neck--filled with more nervous energy than he ever was before a hunt.

Five minutes passed.  Ten.

There came a muffled thump that rattled the door, and Geralt froze in his tracks, listening.

A moan.

From Jaskier.

A good moan. 

Geralt inched closer to the door.

More moans.

A distinct slurp.

Suddenly, the door flew open.

Jaskier stumbled backwards into the hall--clearly pushed--with his hard cock and full sac flopping out over the hem of his trousers.

Geralt just barely caught him, kept him from falling heavily onto his bum.

At first Jaskier looked startled--stricken, even.  But as he held onto Geralt and got his feet back under him, he laughed. "Oh, you cheeky little--"

"Revenge is best served cold, darling," Dandelion said, stepping into the door frame, leaning casually against it with one arm propped above his head. "So enjoy the cold hall air on your nice, wet cock." He wiped the corner of his mouth with one finger on his free hand.

"Forgive my inability to read your very mixed signals," Jaskier said, still clinging to Geralt. "But is that a yes, or a no?"

The smirk on Dandelion's lips made Geralt's knees weak.

The courtesan sauntered into the hall, one hand on his hip. He lashed out quickly, grabbing Geralt by the collar before yanking him forward into a sloppy, filthy kiss.

He tasted...he tasted like Jaskier.

Geralt groaned involuntarily.

Jaskier suddenly squeaked, and Geralt broke the kiss to look at him.

The bard's cheeks were bright red. Dandelion had him by the balls.

"Better finish what I started," Dandelion whispered in Geralt's ear, before releasing them both and backing into his room. "I'll see you two at the Kingfisher this evening, seven o'clock," he said, moving to close the door.

Geralt hurried forward, dragging Jaskier with him as he rushed to keep Dandelion from shutting them out. "W-wait, Dandelion. Let me apologize, please, I--"

"I said, save it, Geralt," he said quickly, but not harshly.  "For tonight. Tonight I'll listen to whatever it is.  But right now..." He winked at Jaskier. "I'm working."

With that he latched the door.

Geralt blinked dumbly for a moment before turning to Jaskier, who was panting with his cock still hanging out of his pants. "What was that?" the witcher demanded.

"Well," Jaskier said casually, tucking himself back in. "I explained that things between you and I were much improved, apologized profusely for our behavior, conveyed that you were an utter moron, expressed my deepest wishes to woo him, and then invited him out--just as we'd agreed."

"And?" Geralt raised an eyebrow.

"First thing he asked when I was done pouring my heart out was, Would you like me to suck your cock? And, like an idiot--not thinking he meant right this moment--I said, Who wouldn't? Little prick clawed my breaches down and got my cock in his mouth before I could so much as utter another word. You more or less witnessed the rest. Who only half sucks a man's cock? I'm not used to being teased like that, Geralt." He sighed, looked longingly at the door.

"He has this...way about him," Geralt said. "Bratty bastard."

Jaskier hummed dreamily. "I think I'm head over heels already."

 

#

 

That evening, Jaskier was once again able to work his magic. He convinced the innkeeper that if he was allowed to perform, there would be no repeat of songs or an invasion of tears.

Geralt took up his usual position at the back of the dining hall, opposite the stage, waiting for Dandelion.

The courtesan arrived promptly at seven, dressed similarly to how he was dressed the night before last--white tunic, half-vest, dark tights.  Tonight, he strode to Geralt's side with confidence, leaning against the wall next to the witcher, crossing his arms and cocking an eyebrow in greeting.

"Hello," he said wryly.

"Hello," Geralt replied, proceeding cautiously.

"I'd like to listen to him sing before we talk, if you don't mind."

"Of course."

They enjoyed Jaskier's set in companionable silence. When The Vampires' Kiss began, Dandelion went so far as to lean his head against Geralt's shoulder.

Definitely a good sign.

"He's like a dream with that voice," Dandelion sighed.

"Hmm," Geralt acknowledged with a small smile.

When Jaskier finished his performance, he tucked his lute backstage, then bounded over to them happily.  Together, the trio found a table in the corner of the Kingfisher--away from where Geralt and Jaskier had fucked the night before. Jaskier and Dandelion sat on one side of the table, Geralt on the other. They ordered stew, and bread, and wine, and once the barmaid left them, Geralt was worried everything would be awkward. That they wouldn't know what to say to each other.

But Jaskier always knew what to say. "You, sir, are a remarkably gifted entertainer," he told Dandelion.

"I--uh--thank you," Dandelion said with a slight blush. "No one's ever put it quite like that before."

"Well they should. All art is meant to evoke emotion and the senses and your work is just another type of art. It should be appreciated as such."

"Thank you," Dandelion said again. "I know you don't need me to tell you you're a master of your craft as well, but..."

"But one always likes to hear it," Jaskier replied with a wink.

They smiled sweetly at each other, cheeks pink.

Geralt looked away, feeling heat creep up his own neck.

He didn't know where to begin with his apology. In his head, his I'm sorrys kept spinning out of control, turning into self-flagellation, kept inverting into reasons he should go, reasons he didn't deserve this second chance, reasons the two of them should just...leave him.

But this wasn't supposed to be about his feelings. It was about Dandelion's.  Tonight was about what he wanted, what he needed.

It was about Geralt and Jaskier doing right by this new man in their lives, if he would have them.

So Geralt kept silent for a time, wanting to make sure the words came out right.  Dandelion didn't seem to mind--Jaskier kept the conversation flowing, kept the courtesan grinning and jabbering.

The food arrived, and then it was even easier for Geralt to remain quiet when his thoughts became too jumbled.

The differences between the bard and the courtesan were starker now, with them side-by-side.  When Dandelion spoke, he was frank, direct, while Jaskier made every sentence a production.

They were two people in their own right, and one could never be a substitute for the other.

Geralt couldn't believe he'd ever been enough of a fool to pretend otherwise. 

They laughed easily with one another, and Jaskier was all touches.  Nothing suggestive, just warm and friendly. Flamboyant fingers splayed across Dandelion's shoulder as Jaskier tried to draw his attention to something happening on the other side of the room; a shocked hand landed against Dandelion's chest when the courtesan told a particularly harrowing story from his school boy years; Jaskier's gentle grip caught the edge of Dandelion's sleeve before it could dangle into his food.

They spoke of everything, from drinks--

During which Dandelion confessed that his favorite was, in fact, pepper vodka, which made Jaskier balk and say, "That palate-killing swill is only good for getting downright pissed."

To which Dandelion replied sardonically, "Why do you think I like it?"

--to literature--

Dandelion liked fiction, which had never appealed much to Geralt, but when Jaskier said the same of himself, the witcher raised an eyebrow and pointed out, "Everything you write is fiction."

Jaskier then had the audacity to look incensed and declared, "My epic retellings of your deeds are not fiction." 

"Lies, then," Geralt shot back with a smirk.

--to names.

"Why did you pick Jaskier?" Dandelion asked.

Jaskier looked at his wine, slipping his fingers over the lip of the cup a few times, fiddling idly, before he took a drink. "I like the way it rolls off the tongue," he said. "My tongue, other people's tongues. It is so easy for a lover to slip from Jaskier to Jas to yes in the throes of passion." His eyes lifted and pinned Geralt's, held his gaze. "It's quite the heady experience."

They stared intensely at one another for half a moment before Geralt blinked, looked away.  Jaskier smiled smugly to himself and took another drink from his cup. "And you, Dandelion?"

"It had to be a flower.  At the Passiflora, we're all flowers."

"Ready to be plucked," Jaskier said.

"Exactly."

"Would you have preferred something else, then?" Jaskier asked.  "Should we call you something else?"

Dandelion smiled appreciatively. "No. Dandelion is just fine. Dandelions are...soft. Pretty. Playful."

"Seems you both share a fondness for showy little weeds," Geralt snorted.

Jaskier shot him a glare that said don't be rude, but Dandelion leered and said, "As do you, dear witcher."

The way he said it sent a hot spike down Geralt's spine, straight to his cock.  He immediately looked at his bowl, abashed.

Taken by a sudden impulse, Jaskier leaned in and gave Dandelion a lingering kiss on the cheek. When he retreated, it wasn't far, and Dandelion turned to look at him, eyes hooded. He reached up, cupping Jaskier's jaw, drawing his thumb over his lips before giving him a slow, sensual kiss in return.

At first, Geralt only watched them out of his peripheral, trying to force his eyes to stay locked on his bowl, but he found he couldn't keep his gaze away.

When he looked up, Dandelion's eyes found his, even as he continued to kiss the bard.

Eventually Jaskier pulled back, and he immediately noted Dandelion's gaze--how dark it was, how taunting.  He followed the line of his eyes to Geralt. "You little shit," he laughed lightly, pecking Dandelion on the corner of the mouth again.

"Funny, that's what he called you."

Jaskier's mouth opened, gaped wide as he looked at Geralt in mock shock. "You--" he said indignantly, pointing a firm, chiding finger at Geralt, obviously pretending to be speechless.

"Actually," Dandelion amended. "I think his exact words were slutty little shit. Hmm, yes, and also, fucking cocky bastard?"

Jasker's mouth opened and closed like a fish's. "Well, I-- You know what, witcher? That's two apologies you owe here this evening. The first one for my dear friend here, and now one for me."

The guilt was still fresh in Geralt, and it bubbled up immediately. Jaskier's tone was light and playful, but Geralt knew his apology had to be given in all seriousness. 

Ready or not, the time had come. He had to use his words.

"I am truly sorry for how I treated you, Dandelion," he said. And he would keep saying he was sorry for as long as either of his flowers needed to hear it.  "I was callous, and selfish, and even though I never meant to hurt you, it doesn't matter, because I did. I wronged you, and I will not seek your forgiveness--only your well-being."

Dandelion didn't say anything, and, at first, wouldn't meet his eyes. "Thank you," he said quietly. He looked for a moment like he had more he wanted to say, like perhaps he was forming his own apology, but Jaskier spoke first.

"That was lovely, Geralt," the bard said, "However, we both know you're not the most eloquent man, so a verbal apology on its own will never suffice." There was no meanness in his voice, no cruelty to his words--no anger, or irritation. "You're a man of action. So you're going to have to show him how sorry you are. Show us both."

"How?"

"Well, I think it's safe to leave that up to Dandelion," Jaskier said with another warm grip of the man's shoulder.

Dandelion sat silent for a long moment.  He simply stared at Geralt, mind clearly working, contemplating. Considering.

He kept his face inscrutable.

Then a wicked grin broke out across his lips. "I think we're going to have to punish you," he said.

Geralt's breath left him.

Jaskier's lips pursed, one corner of his mouth quirking upwards as he tried to suppress his own joyous smile. "Oh ho-ho, that sounds evil and I love it." Even as he struggled to control his lips, Dandelion reached for him, smothering that smirk beneath a filthy kiss.

The bard did not complain.

"Upstairs," Dandelion said to Jaskier when he broke their kiss, eyes catching on his plush bottom lip. "To your room."

Jaskier nodded.

The two of them stood in an instant, taking each other by the hand.

Geralt's heart fell.

If this was how they wished to punish him, he'd accept it.  They could go off and be together--it was obvious they were good for each other--and leave him out of it. Force him to be alone with his thoughts, his regrets.  Force him to stay cold and untouched while they made one another happy.

He deserved to be abandoned. He did.

As they hurried away, Geralt reached for his wine, resigned.

"Are you coming, witcher?" Dandelion called.

Geralt was on his feet so fast, he nearly flipped the table.

Chapter Text

The bard and the courtesan went up the stairs and down the hall arm-in-arm, with the witcher trailing after, unsure of his position here, of what kind of punishment to anticipate. Jaskier, ever the gentleman, unlocked the door to their room when they reached it and waved Dandelion inside with a little bow.

Dandelion entered with his hands on his hips, surveying the room like a king surveying a new castle. He looked to the narrow bed and frowned. It really only accommodated two grown men when they were wrapped around each other. To suggest it might fit three was laughable. But he made no comment on the matter.

Geralt followed them in and shut the door behind himself, still keeping his distance.

Over-eager, Jaskier pushed into Dandelion's space once the courtesan had made a full inspection of the room, cupping his face and kissing him fiercely. Dandelion made an amused sound into the kiss, but then planted a firm palm in the middle of Jaskier's chest and gently pushed him away.

The bard looked confused, but stepped back.

"There's only one honest way forward for all of us," Dandelion said, "and if neither of you can handle that honesty, I understand. But that means this ends now. I won't be a part of your sex games only to be discarded."

"We don't want that," Jaskier reassured him.

"We don't," Geralt agreed. "We want...we want you, Dandelion.  I want you." He gritted his teeth, hoping Dandelion understood. "You."

The courtesan looked between the two of them, expression grim. "Then Jaskier needs to know everything that happened when you visited me. And what you told me about him. Everything." He turned to Jaskier. "If we're... if you both truly want me, personally, not just as someone you've hired, then I need you to know. I can't have it hanging over us. Agreed?"

Apprehension made Geralt's stomach turn over, but Jaskier didn't share in his hesitancy.

"Agreed," the bard said lightly. "Geralt?"

He wasn't sure why he was so nervous. Everything was fine now, they were here, together. They'd already jumped the largest hurdles. The truth--of both his pining and his folly--shouldn't be able to hurt them. And still, he was afraid.

"Agreed," he said, the word barely choked out past his teeth.

Dandelion nodded. "Do you want to tell him, Geralt, or should I?"

"Oh, oh--no offense, Geralt, but this is a story I'd much rather hear from Dandelion," Jaskier said quickly, draping one arm around the courtesan, letting his body bow against his side. "Geralt would leave out all the best details," he explained, running a finger up and down Dandelion's chest.

Dandelion took that wandering hand and brought it up to his mouth, kissing the inside of his wrist as he curled his other arm around Jaskier's waist, holding him close.

Geralt bit back a groan and leaned heavily against the door.  They were fully clothed, and yet this was the most sensual sight he'd ever seen. They were going to kill him through the sheer intensity of their corporal beauty, he was sure.

"First, my own confession, my own apology," Dandelion said, releasing Jaskier's wrist to thumb at his chin instead. "There's something you mentioned earlier today, when you came to the Passiflora, that Geralt need not take the blame for."

Jaskier's brow furrowed in curiosity. "What's that?"

"He only called me Jaskier because I dragged it out of him. For the longest time, he wouldn't even give me your name, let alone call me by it. Not your chosen name, anyway."

Geralt pursed his lips and looked at his feet for a moment. He'd half hoped Dandelion had forgotten he'd called him Julian during their first encounter.

"I'd deduced he'd hired me because I looked like someone in his life, but he wouldn't tell me who--even though I asked, I pushed. He wanted to protect you, and for good reason. If you'd just been some farm boy, your name wouldn't have meant anything to me, not really. But you're famous.

"With naught but your name--once I had it, from another client--it was easy to learn things about you. Public details that would help me put on a show. I thought to surprise Geralt. I wanted to give him everything he wanted."

Dandelion let his thumb trail from Jaskier's chin up his cheek, then to his temple and back down the curve of his jaw. "I wanted to give him you."

Jaskier's eyes flickered in Geralt's direction, but the witcher swiftly looked away. 

Everything felt so fragile. One wrong word from Dandelion might make Jaskier realize that everything between the witcher and the whore had taken a sour turn, had gone too far. It might have him running for the door, leaving them and their depravity behind.

"So I borrowed a lute," Dandelion continued slowly, "Bought a doublet a few seasons out of style, found your perfumer..."

Jaskier's eyes went wide. "You pretended to be me? Not just in the heat of the moment--you planned it. Staged it."

Dandelion nodded. "I tried to make his fantasy of you a reality. But he didn't want it--"

"I did want it," Geralt countered, throat tight, his voice small. "I wanted it too much."

"--He tried to tell me no, but I didn't listen," Dandelion said. "He didn't want the temptation. Before, it was just fucking.  But when it started to feel too real, he--" Dandelion cut himself off, shook his head. He glanced at Geralt. "I understand, now, that it hurt you. I'm sorry."

Geralt couldn't find any words. He simply set his jaw, nodded sadly in acknowledgment.

Jaskier captured Dandelion's gaze again. "But when it started to feel too real he...what? What happened?"

Geralt's eyes felt hot, his tongue thick. Surely Jaskier wouldn't forgive him for this.

He couldn't look at them while he confessed. He hung his head, covered his face with both hands. "I...I said I love you.  I said it to him, but I meant it for you."

The silence that followed was deafening.

Geralt wanted to curl into himself. If he died on the spot, it would save him from having to face Jaskier's reaction.

The pause was shattered by a sharp, self-deprecating chuckle from Dandelion. "And I knew it was for you, but I wanted so badly for it to be for me that I broke down and spoiled my own illusion."

"Oh, you two..." Jaskier said softly.

Geralt risked a glance up.  

Jaskier's eyes were wide, pitying. Dandelion's expression had gone meek, tight--holding just on the edge of sadness.

The bard took the courtesan's hand, kissed his knuckles. "You two...hurting each other because of me."

"You were like a ghost between us," Dandelion said quietly. "We never would have come together without you, but..."

Jaskier nodded. "I understand. When I realized Geralt had been seeing you, I thought you were a barrier. A buffer. But you're not a wall between us, you're our missing piece."  He smiled warmly, brushed at Dandelion's cheeks, even though no tears had fallen. "So no more sadness," he said firmly. "We're all together. We all want each other. And you promised to tell me a raunchy story filled with Geralt's sexual proclivities."

The bard spared a wink for his witcher, and Geralt felt ten times lighter, as though that simple gesture had...well, not absolved him, but temporarily pardoned him at the very least.  

And then Dandelion let out a genuine laugh and that much more weight lifted off Geralt's shoulders.

The tension in the room shifted, abated.

Perhaps this could work. Perhaps they would all be okay.

"Hmm, what shall I tell him first?" Dandelion asked Geralt as he shook off the last vestiges of melancholy, tone gone silky. "About the shirt? The bed sharing? The blacksmith?"

Jaskier furrowed his brow, looked at Geralt. "The blacksmith?"

Dandelion brushed his lips against Jaskier's ear as he spoke. "Our witcher's quite the voyeur."

Geralt's face went hot again, for an entirely different reason.

Jaskier's eyes sparkled. "Is that why...is that why you left me behind? I didn't see you again for three days. What all did you see?"

"Enough," Geralt said gruffly. "It was more what I heard, what you said, that..." He was too embarrassed to continue.

"What? What did I say?"

Geralt shook his head, unable to force the words past his lips.

"Oh, no, that's entirely unfair," Jaskeir said brightly. "Shoot, what did...what did I say? I remember he had a thing about the size of his cock."

Geralt nodded. "It was...the...the way you spoke to him."

"Did you like it?"

Geralt's shirt felt too tight, the room too stuffy. If he'd had an unmutated man's heart rate, he was sure he'd be flushed from head to toe. "Yes," he admitted.

"Geralt of Rivia," Jaskier said teasingly. "Do you want me to talk dirty to you?"

Geralt gave a little half shrug as Dandelion smirked.

The courtesan leaned in to the bard's ear again. "He wants you to talk dirty to him while you're buried to the hilt inside him."

Jaskier's eyelashes fluttered in pleasure. "Oh fuck."

Utterly embarrassed, and unsure as to why, Geralt hid his face for a moment again, before forcing himself to meet Jaskier's gaze.

The way the bard regarded him sent a shiver up his spine.

"Hmm, what else?" Dandelion asked Geralt. "Should we talk about all the times you touched yourself thinking about him? All the little fantasies you confessed to? Or the time you came to me and only wanted to be kissed?" Dandelion pecked Jaskier's cheek in demonstration, whispering to the bard, "I think you broke him when you told him you wanted to reward your knight."

"That, at least, I'd deduced on my own," Jaskier said sheepishly. "In this very room, no less. Though, honestly, I should have known something was up immediately," he admitted. "You didn't even give me a hard time about it the next day."

Geralt's mouth had gone dry. "If I'd said something, I wouldn't've been able to stop myself from kissing you. Do you know how many times I've had to stop myself from kissing you? I'm doing it right now."

There was a brief pause, a holding of breaths, as something heated and desperate passed between the bard and the witcher, creating a thick tension across the small room. 

Jaskier moved to go to him, to shift away from Dandelion, but Dandelion jerked him back, held him firm. Jaskier gave him a sorrowful look, but the courtesan quickly quailed it with a kiss on the tip of his nose.

"Come to us, Geralt," Dandelion said.

The witcher eagerly pushed himself away from the door, hurrying to stand before them. He wanted to grab Jaskier, to pull him flush against his own body, but he waited for Dandelion's instructions. 

They both did.

"Kiss him," Dandelion ordered, but he did not let go of Jaskier as Geralt moved closer, as Geralt grabbed the bard by the chin and claimed his mouth.

Jaskier let out a muffled, needy sound as their lips moved, as Geralt let the kiss deepen.

The witcher's heart fluttered. He could still hardly believe he was allowed this, to taste Jaskier this way. He tasted like wine, and like Dandelion.

Dandelion made an approving hum as they kept kissing. "Maybe I should tell him about what you wanted most, Geralt," he said softly. "What you kept denying yourself with me, until that last time."

Geralt growled in the back of his throat.

Dandelion's voice was rich and mischievous. "Maybe I should tell him how badly you want his cock in your mouth."

Jaskier dipped a little, lips slipping away from Geralt's as his knees went weak.  Dandelion tightened his grip around the bard, kept him upright.

"Geralt," Jaskier whined, all high-pitched and desperate.

"Did you suck him in the Passiflora, like I told you to?" Dandelion asked.

Geralt furrowed his brow. "Like you...?"

Dandelion sighed, his disappointment clear. "After I pushed him into the hall, I told you to finish what I started," he said plainly. "I made of gift of him for you, but you can't even follow simple instructions.  Whatever shall we do with you?"

Jaskier fisted the front of Geralt's shirt. "Perhaps he needs training," he suggested breathlessly. "Can't expect an old wolf to pick up new tricks on his own."

"What do you think, Geralt? Can you learn to obey like a good boy?"

Geralt lapped up the derision just as readily as he would lap up praise. As long as they kept turning those heated gazes on him, they could talk to him however they pleased. "Yes," he hissed through gritted teeth.

"Go to your knees, witcher," Dandelion ordered.

Geralt dropped so fast his entire body jolted from the impact. He stared up at them, wide-eyed and ready to please.

"Take his cock out," Dandelion said.

Geralt's breath left him in a punched-out huff.

"Both," Jaskier gasped quickly, looking first at Dandelion, then at Geralt. "Take us both out."

Fuck.

If this was a punishment, he couldn't imagine what a reward looked like--though he dared not say anything, lest they realize their mistake.

Chapter Text

The air was thick with arousal. It wafted off of all three of them--all the more intoxicating because it was all three of them. Together. Unashamed of their desire for one another.

Geralt didn't have to hide the bulge in his trousers or the yearning in his eyes. He didn't have to temper his neediness or choke back his sighs of pleasure.

He could simply want them. Openly.

His hands shook as he reached out for both men, gently pawing at the growing erections beneath their clothes.

Dandelion seized him by the back of the head, guiding Geralt's face into Jaskier's groin.

Geralt let himself be pushed, purring and breathing deeply, nuzzling against the swell of Jaskier's cock as soon as he made contact.

He held himself there for a moment, content, reveling in the scent of musk, honey, lavender, and cedar wood. Jaskier's hand came to rest over Dandelion's in his hair, and the wet sounds of enthusiastic kissing soon followed.

Their touch was gentle, but firm. Insistent. Clearly, his "punishment" was their guidance, their direction. They would tell him what to do and he would do it. He was an open, willing vessel for their pleasure. Whatever they wanted to spill onto him--their ire, their affections, their come--he would take it. He wanted it. All of it.

As the kiss above him deepened, Geralt parted his lips as well, mouthing at the outline of Jaskier's cock. He'd desired this for so long, he couldn't keep his eyes from rolling back in pure bliss.

Jaskier's prick stiffened quickly under his ministrations, straining in his trousers.

Geralt reached around the bard to loosen the ties on his breeches, just enough so he could pull the front of them and his braies low enough to settle the hems under Jaskier's balls. As he shoved the fabric down, he pressed Jaskier's cock down as well, which meant it bounced deliciously once no longer restrained.

The head was pink and full. The skin of it looked so soft, and a pearl of precome immediately began to gather at the slit.

The witcher's mouth watered at the sight. He wanted to run his tongue over that plush skin, to sink down over it until he'd be gagging if he wasn't a mutated man.

A brief fantasy flashed before his mind's eye: Maybe one day Jaskier would let him sleep with his cock in his mouth. He could suck him off, then drift into dreamland with his mouth full, and wake up suckling at it.

He growled at the thought--but that was a line of inquiry for later.

Before touching Jaskier's prick, he turned to Dandelion. While the whore simply let him advance, Jaskier shoved him into Dandelion's already prominent bulge. Unlike Jaskier's breeches, Dandelion's leggings left nothing to the imagination. Every bit of his heavy cock was outlined in the fabric--the glans easily distinguishable from the shaft, the confined curve of it prominent as it sat pressed atop the roundness of his balls. He clearly wore no smallclothes beneath.

Geralt closed his lips over the contour of the crown, not simply mouthing, but sucking--soaking the fabric through with his spit.

Dandelion gasped and bucked his hips a little. A spurt of precome saturated through the weave, and Geralt purred as the flavor burst onto his tongue.

The witcher allowed himself another cock-warming fantasy as he reached down to adjust his own throbbing prick. He imagined Jaskier and Dandelion chatting away happily, as they had down stairs, but instead of occupying the opposite bench, Geralt was beneath the table, face caged between Dandelion's thighs. He imagined Dandelion barely acknowledging he was there--perhaps petting his hair once in a while, but nothing more--as he lazily sucked at his cock.

Geralt widened his stance, realized he was already leaking so much his smallclothes were clinging to his cockhead.

There were no ties on Dandelion's leggings. He simply had to peel them down. He opted for tucking the hem under his sac, just like he had with Jaskier.

Now both of their dicks jutted out, hot and straining, while both men were still otherwise completely clothed.

Geralt sat back, and both hands slipped from his head. He looked up, saw they were still kissing, eyes closed, tongues sensuously sneaking into one another's mouths. They each had an arm around the other, and Dandelion's newly free hand came up to cup Jaskier's cheek. Geralt let himself watch them for a minute, enwrapped.

Maybe they'd allow him to just watch again, some day.

Could he? Could he be in the same room with them while they fucked and be able to stand not touching, now that he was allowed to?

Maybe they'd have to restrain him.

Tie him down. To a chair.

They could tease him, taunt him, while they ploughed one another.

Geralt gasped at the thought, quickly sliding a hand between his legs, grabbing his bulge, squeezing hard.

He was going to make himself come prematurely if he couldn't keep his head clear.

While Geralt fantasized, Jaskier's free hand had landed on his own cock. The bard's fist now encircled the base, and he gave himself a long stroke before letting go to tap his pointer finger against his slit. The pearl of precome became a thin, sticky thread, caught between his cock and his fingertip.

Geralt shuddered at the sight. If he hadn't already been on his knees, he would have fallen to them.

Fuck, he'd never seen a more beautiful set of cocks in all his life. Jaskier's was over-all larger, but Dandelion's had a slenderness to it that made it look especially long. They complimented one another. 

The witcher spat into each of his palms, making sure they were slick, before reaching up to take both men in-hand.

But Jaskier quickly broke his kiss with Dandelion, looking down and capturing Geralt by the chin--halting the witcher before he could take either of them in his mouth.

The bard scrutinized him for a moment, a thoughtful quirk to his lips. "I know how your mind works, Geralt," he said, a gentle sort of half-chide in his tone. "This isn't a test. If there's something you don't want, you can still say no. You can always say no. I need to know you understand that, first. This is just a game. We aren't going to send you away if we tell you to do something and you say no. You aren't meant to prove yourself here."

Dandelion glanced between the two of them, holding still. He clearly respected the depth of their relationship, how long they'd been together and how well they knew each other.

But Jaskier still looked to him for confirmation. "Right?" he asked the courtesan.

"Right," Dandelion agreed. "The only thing I must have from the two of you is your honesty. I want you to be yourselves, to feel safe with me. And I want to feel safe with you."

Jaskier gave him a light, reassuring kiss, then turned back to Geralt. "Will you be honest? About what you want and don't want?"

Geralt knew that in order for him to be honest with them, he had to be honest with himself, first.

Because a large part of him wanted to give them whatever they asked for, without hesitation. He'd been pulling and pushing at both of them for months (and Jaskier, for years), so it only seemed fair that he pay penance by letting them yank him around in turn. And, in truth, the idea of being unequivocally subservient to their desires sent a thrill up his spine.

But he understood what Jaskier was getting at. They were all equals here. No one's wants superseded anyone else's.

The two of them didn't want him to relinquish his personhood for their pleasure.

"Yes," he said, voice sounding rough and fucked-out already. "I'll be honest."

Jaskier rubbed his thumb over Geralt's stubbled chin and smiled fondly at him. "Then show me how well you suck cock, love."

Geralt tightened his fists around the base of both of them, then glanced at Dandelion. The courtesan gave him a wink and the slightest of nods.

With permission granted, he ran his wet hands up both their shafts, wringing moans and more precome from his new lovers.

As he began to jerk Dandelion's cock in a firm rhythm, he leaned in to swipe the flat of his tongue over the head of Jaskier's prick. Jaskier's dick flexed, and Geralt swiftly covered the very tip with his lips, savoring, tasting. A needy sound rumbled up from the back of his throat as the tang of Jaskier's precome coated his tongue.  

Geralt's sac tightened.

Fuck.

Fuck, how he'd longed for this.

Gods, he was going to come in his pants. There was nothing for it, it was going to happen, he just had to stave it off for as long as possible.

He pulled back and stuck out his tongue, letting Jaskier's cock slide over it and into his open mouth before pulling back to tease the very tip of his tongue into Jaskier's slit.

"Gods above," Jaskier gasped, his hand lashing out to fist at the front of Dandelion's leather vest. The bard's gaze stayed fixed on the witcher.

Dandelion was doing his level best to keep his own composure, but regardless, his hips rocked in time with Geralt's strokes.

Burning under the intensity of their stares, Geralt closed his eyes and sunk forward on Jaskier's cock. He took him all the way to the back of his throat, pushed himself even further, holding his breath, letting his saliva pool.

Jaskier apparently couldn't contain his excitement and bucked forward. It might have made another man gag, but Geralt's reflex had been long-suppressed. Regardless, Jaskier ran an apologetic hand over Geralt's cheek and temple, smoothing wayward strands of white hair away from his brow.

Geralt thought he could stay like this forever, if they'd let him. Just holding Jaskier in his mouth, letting him block his throat, while his hand glided over the silky skin of Dandelion's shaft. It was perfect, all of it--the taste, the scent, the feel. Their surprised gasps and soft sighs.

But Jaskier's hand began to card through his hair, petting it encouragingly. And Geralt began to move.

He pulled all the way off with a little gasp, leaving Jaskier's cock dripping. He fisted it once, twice, before ducking back in to bob his head in time with his hand.

After a few moments, the bard made the sweetest little keening sound, and Geralt pulled away, shifting to turn his attention on Dandelion. The witcher spat sharply onto the whore's glans, making them shiny, and dove in eagerly, hollowing his cheeks as he lathed his tongue along the underside of Dandelion's cockhead, prodding at his taut foreskin. With a muffled growl he took him deep, then matched his rhythm from before, bobbing his hands and mouth in a perfect rhythm, jerking one man while blowing the other.

Dandelion's hand found his hair as well. Each time he moved off one of them to lavish the same attention on the other, their fingers trailed after, skimming through his hair, twirling it, petting it. And each time, they shuffled a little closer together, gradually bringing their hips closer and closer so Geralt wouldn't have so far to go between gasping away from one cock and sinking down on the other.

Geralt's chin and throat were soon sopping wet. Spittle ran down over his adam's apple, then the hollow of his throat, before dampening the collar of his shirt.

And he was absolutely the most content he'd ever been. Even with his erection pressing into the seam of his trousers, even with the hard planks of the floor beneath his knees, he was in heaven.

Soon, Jaskier and Dandelion had pressed so close together as to bring their cocks in line, with no daylight between. 

Geralt sat back, looked up at his lovers with a quirked eyebrow, but didn't say anything. His question was clear nonetheless.

Both?

"Can you?" Jaskier asked.

He was certainly willing to try.

The witcher shuffled himself into a better position, and reached around to grab a handful of each of their arses. In turn, they took hold of the bases of their own cocks, keeping them together, guiding them forward as Geralt leaned in.

Taking them both stretched his lips wide, made his jaw ache. He couldn't sink forward very far, but no one seemed to mind.

He'd thought he'd been drooling before, but now it seeped from between his lips in an embarrassing rush.

Jaskier and Dandelion glanced at one another, seemed to have the same idea at the same time. Each let a fist come around to grip both of their cocks together, to simultaneously tug along their spit-slicked shafts.

And then they were kissing again. Well, nearly. Their mouths were close, lips parted--and Jaskier slung his free arm around Dandelion's neck to pull him even closer--but they never quite met. Instead, their tongues darted out lightly to tease one another, to lick between soft lips before retreating again.

Geralt's cock throbbed, his eyes rolled. He was so on edge, and the barest friction allotted him by his trousers threatened to send him over any moment.

And he wasn't the only one who was close to coming.

Jaskier's entire body tensed, and he made as if to pull back, away from Geralt's mouth, but Dandelion wouldn't let him.

"Don't come," Dandelion breathed into Jaskier's mouth. "Don't come yet."

"But he's so good," Jaskier whined.

"I know, I know," Dandelion purred. "But don't you want to fuck him? Don't you want to come in his tight, needy little hole?"

A harsh whimper clawed its way past Jaskier's teeth and he screwed his eyes shut, throwing his head back, struggling not to spill.

That was enough for Geralt. He pulled off their cocks with a light pop and a strangled shout, flooding his leathers. He spurted again and again into his breeches, too blissed-out to care that he was staining them.

One of his hands flew to his crotch--pressing, shaking--as he rode out his orgasm. The other went to his mouth, and he bit down on his fist as he curled over himself.

Neither Dandelion or Jaskier possessed anything akin to witcher senses, and still they knew full well what had happened.

Before Geralt had fully come back to himself, the pair had dropped down to their knees, crowding into him. Dandelion took his face in both hands, pulled his mouth to his, kissing him breathless, before passing him off to Jaskier and burying his face in the witcher's neck.

"You're so good for us, Geralt," Jaskier praised into his mouth. "So fucking good. Are you going to bend over for me, love? Will you let me take you?"

Still caught in the aftershocks of his orgasm--panting for breath--all Geralt could manage was an eager nod and a high whimper.