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fangirleaconmigo · 2 months

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Lambert and the Tribute

Ok. Hear me out. You know how there is the porny/smutty trope of the witcher who saves a family/town from a dangerous beast? And the towns folk are like, well, we don't have (or want to spend) money, so, here is our young sexy innocent but eager son/daughter as a tribute? *cue porn music*

So as usual last night, I was thinking about blorbos and shit instead of sleeping, and was like...how about we turn that trope around a bit? (not that there is anything wrong with it, I just like fiddling with tropes)

I present to you my concept, and I'm using Lambert for this because as I thought of it, I could hear his voice in my head.

...

So, Lambert comes back from the hunt, exhausted, out of breath, bruised, cut up, but triumphant.

He stands in front of the penniless farmer with the gnarly severed head of a beast. He has saved all of their lives. Because of him, life continues.

But the poor farmer is clearly distraught. He is a young man, early twenties, and is like...thank you so much Mr Witcher sir, we are mighty obliged. But sadly, tragically, we have no money. The harvest was lost, and we are hungry as it is.

The poor farmer tries to explain. Sir, I would gladly offer you my sexy and eager but wide eyed and innocent daughter as tribute, but tragically, my kids are too young to be sexy tributes. Mr. Witcher, they simply aren't reproductive age yet.

And the farmer is standing there, just anxious as hell about what the witcher will demand instead, like, will it be his young bride? His beautiful raven haired wife? They're basically newlyweds still and so very much in love. He can't abide the thought! He's racking his brain, is there anyone young and nubile and teen of aged in the next town???

And then he realizes fuck, WORST OF ALL, I hope this fucker doesn't want the law of surprise because that never ends well. Inside, this man is screaming, please do not take my kids in any capacity.

But isn't that what witchers ALWAYS want??? Children to make into MUTANTS????

So this poor (in every sense of the word) guy is stammering and angsting, but Lambert isn't paying any attention to him. He literally has not said a single word to him. He's not even looking at him. He's leaning a little to the right and looking past this guy, over his shoulder.

The farmer starts to get annoyed. Mr. Witcher, he thinks, I'm struggling here, help me out a little.

Lambert drops the nasty monster head with a thunk and turns back to the guy. Lamb is not particularly put out. He knew this family was poor. But still. This doesn't have to be for nothing.

He wipes the bloody sweat off his forehead with his arm and nods behind the man.

"What about him? He game?"

The farmer looks like his brain has just blanked out. He stares in silence. He slowly turns and looks behind him. Then he turns back to Lambert, waiting for him to laugh or to clarify. Lambert just stares at him expectantly.

"Well?" Lambert asks.

The penniless farmer is like.. "You---you want...m-...m-"

The young farmer doesn't wanna say it because that can't be right and he doesn't wanna embarrass himself. But Lambert is not helping him out at all. He's just looking at him like he's an utter dumbass, just waiting for him to get his shit together. "Spit it out, man."

Farmer tries again. "Mr. Witcher, sir. Are you saying that you want...my... FATHER?"

Lambert looks back at the object of his fascination. An older man is working, hauling bales of hay, loading them up in a wagon. And this man is like, mid-fifties, barrel chest covered with gray hair, full beard, inhospitable expression, overalls, dusty boots. He's thick, muscled and hard, he's covered in sweat, he's got calluses, he looks exactly like a man that's been busting his ass in the fields for more than a few decades.

As Lambert stares at the father, his expression starts to look a little hungry. "Is that your pops?"

"Uhhh yes?' The farmer's voice kind of screeches into a higher register.

Lambert shrugs. "Ok, well yea, your pops then. Ask 'im if he's game. Go ahead. I ain't got all day."

The young farmer just swivels, his eyes still in disbelief, still thinking he's going to humiliate himself. He wants the ground to open up and swallow him. He is starting to think maybe his youngest kid would make a good witcher after all. But Lambert is waiting and doesn't look perturbed. He doesn't look like he's kidding.

"Uh, dad?" The farmer is well, well into adulthood but his voice still cracks. But his dad hears.

The big older guy drops his bale and turns around. His eyes are sharp and hard. "Yep?"

The young farmer swallows. "Yes, um, father, the witcher here saved us."

"Obliged." The older man's voice is low, gravely, and he sounds like a man who does not suffer fools.

Lambert nods, an eager twinkle starting to gleam in his eyes. "Glad to help. It's what I do."

The young farmer continues, "And well, you know, we don't have any money to pay him. What with the bad harvest and all."

The dad nods, waiting. He's quiet too, not helping the young farmer out at all. So the younger farmer soldiers ahead. "So, father, he, the witcher that is, was wondering, um, if you would, um, want to be the uh..." he takes a breath and tries to say it fast, "tribute."

The young farmer almost faints from mortification. He's waiting for his dad to laugh at his idiocy. To shout at him. To kick his ass.

But what the Dad does is slowly raise his eyebrows. Then he turns purposefully towards Lambert. He switches his weight a little to one of his hips, and just quietly begins to look Lambert up and and down, assessing him with extreme interest. He is silently just raking his eyes from the top of Lambert's head down to his toes.

Lambert's grin gets wider, like it gleams, because at this point, he knows he's in. If the man is checking whether he is his type, then well, he's good with men. And Lambert just knows he'll be this man's type. Why wouldn't he be for fuck sake?

When the older man's gaze gets to his crotch, Lambert gives his prick a cocky little squeeze and licks his lips.

The older man grunts, and if the young farmer didn't know it was an interested noise, he certainly does when his father gives Lambert a wink. "Name's Abe, young buck."

The young farmer whispers several prayers for the gods to deliver him from this moment.

"Hi Abe," says Lambert, just eager and smug sounding as shit.

Abe takes his gloves off and hands them to his son as he passes him. He only says three words. "Don't wait up."

Lambert chuckles to himself, and there is a little hop in his step as they walk off together, since he is already anticipating the cock in his ass and could not be more overjoyed. Abe slides his hand down Lambert's trousers and squeezes his ass possessively.

The younger farmer just stands there with his jaw dropped. He had no idea whatsoever that his dad has this side to him. That man silently and stoically raised a family of seven children with his dearly departed mother, rest her soul. All his father ever did was work. You think you know a person. Honestly.

Lambert and Abe are long gone, and the son is still standing there in shock, when his beautiful young bride comes out of the house with a toddler on her hip. "Where did father go?"

The young farmer always likes that about his bride, she calls his dad father. "Yes. Heeee, um, went to pay the witcher for his services."

The young bride is surprised, she didn't know that father had money after the poor harvest they'd had, what with the locusts and all that. But oh isn't that a nice surprise, she thinks. "Well how generous of him. What a kind and giving man father is."

The young farmer puts his arm around his beautiful bride and pulls her in tight. "You know what my darling," he says, "it didn't seem like he minded in the least."

---the end

(and if any of you talented writers out there wants to write the sex scene, I would pledge my eternal friendship and love to you)

#the witcher #the witcher fanfic #lambert #this is for my lambert loving homies #you know who you are #descarada writes

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creativityexplored · 5 years

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Poetry Workshop with Leticia Hernández-Linares ~ Taller de Poesía con Leticia Hernández-Linares

During two warm August days, Ana Teresa Fernández and poet Leticia Hernández-Linares collaborated in leading multidisciplinary workshops with CE artists. Ana Teresa led artists in making molas, traditional Panamanian textiles with animals figures depicted on them. CE artists created their own molas by drawing on felt with markers. After drawing for a while, Leticia guided artists in a poetry workshop. Since artmaking at Creativity Explored focuses primarily on visual art, many artists leapt at the opportunity to try out a new medium.

A poet, spoken word artist, and educator based in San Francisco’s Mission District, Leticia developed a workshop to make poetry accessible and engaging for CE artists. Equipped with giant Post-It papers on the walls, markers, Lotería cards, and her own voice, Leticia inspired CE artists to get creative with their words.

Before beginning the workshop, Leticia performed a couple of her own “poemsongs” from her book Mucha Muchacha for the entire studio, which involved elements of song, instruments, and choruses of call-and-response. Once artists were in the expressive spirit, groups of artists joined her to write their own poetry. Ricardo Estella, who frequently narrates his artmaking aloud in the studio, said he “always wanted to do something like this.” Ricardo participated in the first group, which was conducted in both Spanish and English.

By using different poetic techniques, Leticia guided the groups in thinking of colors, animals, places and people they felt connected to. Inspired by the Lotería cards and their molas created with Ana Teresa, artists began writing lines of poetry: “Black panther in the blue trees, the white monkey hangs over the rainbow.” The first poem of the day at CE1 read:

Bidi Bidi Bom Bom

Butterflies fly flower to flower Mariposas vuelan de flor a flor

Smelling flowers Oliendo flores

Black+ white wings Smelling flowers Oliendo las flores

At CE2, our Potrero Hill studio where another group of artists work, a group of 6 artists participated in the workshop. This group enjoyed embodying the sounds of words; many poems had an element of “sass,” and particularly sassy words were often accompanied by gestures like a hand on the hip, or two hands in the air. CE artist Ada Chow enjoyed showing off her sassiest poses as Leticia recited the poems. Even Kaocrew “Yah” Kakabutra, one of CE's resident abstract expressionist painters who is also nonverbal, participated in the workshop by pointing to colors and listening to poems being recited aloud, laughing at the theatrical movements.

Poem topics ranged from fruits, to whales, to societal issues. After writing the poems as a group, Leticia would read the poems aloud, encouraging artists to repeat after speaking each line.

Leticia spent some time with Kevin Roach, who asked her if poems could be revolutionary. “Absolutely,” she said. Together, they created a poem about violence, discrimination, history and compassion based on Kevin’s experiences growing up in San Francisco.

When I was growing up there was Martin Luther King Violence against people of color of course People were getting shot who spoke up for the right cause Even though, San Francisco was still more calm you could go anywhere Today, I want to go to Washington D.C. chain myself up, when are you gonna wake up? Rough neighborhoods can be rough, but violence can be anywhere Madness happens It isn’t one neighborhood, 6th street, the projects, people can be nice as can be You just have to be street smart in every culture

The poems written during the workshop will be transcribed and added to the digital media library to be used in the final installations. Stay tuned to see how all the artistic elements produced in these workshops weave together to tell the stories of CE artists!

This project is generously funded by Kenneth Rainin Foundation, National Endowment for the Arts, and California Arts Council.

Scroll down for photos!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Durante estos dos últimos cálidos días de agosto, Ana Teresa Fernández en colaboración con la poeta Leticia Hernández-Linares, impartieron unos talleres multidisciplinarias con artistas de CE. Ana Teresa invitó a los artistas a hacer molas, textiles tradicionales panameños con representaciones de animales. Los artistas de CE crearon sus propias molas dibujando en fieltro con marcadores. Después de dibujar por un tiempo, Leticia guió a los artistas en un taller de poesía. Ya que el arte en Creativity Explored se enfoca principalmente en artes visuales, muchos artistas aprovecharon la oportunidad para probar un nuevo medio.

Poeta, artista de la palabra hablada y educadora, basada en el Distrito de la Misión de San Francisco, Leticia desarrolló un taller para hacer la poesía accesible y atractiva a los artistas de CE. Equipada con papeles gigantes de “Post-It” en las paredes, marcadores, tarjetas de Lotería, y su propia voz, Leticia inspiró a los artistas a ser creativos con sus palabras.

Antes de empezar el taller, Leticia representó para todo el estudio unos de sus “cantapoemas” de su libro Mucha Muchacha. Estos cantapoemas estaban formados por canciones, instrumentos musicales, y coros de llamada y respuesta. Una vez que los artistas estaban en modo expresivo, un grupo de artistas se juntó con ella para escribir sus propios poemas.

Ricardo Estella, quien frecuentemente narra su proceso creativo en voz alta en el estudio, dijo que “siempre había querido hacer algo como esto.” Ricardo participó en el primer grupo, que Leticia condujo en español y ingles.

Usando diferentes técnicas poéticas, Leticia guío a los grupos a pensar en colores, animales, lugares y personas con las que sintieran una conexión. Inspirados por las tarjetas de Lotería y sus molas creadas anteriormente con Ana Teresa, los artistas empezaron a escribir líneas de poesía: “Pantera negra en los árboles azules, los monos blancos cuelgan del arco iris.” El primer poema del día en CE1 se leyó así:

Bidi Bidi Bom Bom

Butterflies fly flower to flower Mariposas vuelan de flor a flor

Smelling flowers Oliendo flores

Black and white wings Alas blancas y negras Smelling flowers Oliendo las flores

En CE2, nuestro estudio en Potrero Hill, otro grupo de seis artistas participó en el taller. A este grupo les gustó personificar los sonidos de las palabras; muchos poemas eran un poco atrevidos, y las palabras más descaradas eran acompañadas por movimientos corporales, como una mano en la cintura o los dos manos en el aire. La artista Ada Chow disfrutó demostrando su postura más atrevida mientras Leticia recitaba los poemas. Incluso Kaocrew “Yah” Kakabutra, una de las artistas expresionistas abstractos residente en CE que es no verbal participó en el taller, apuntando a colores y escuchando los poemas recitados por otros compañeros, y riéndose de los dramáticos movimientos de los demás.

Los temas de los poemas variaron desde frutas, a ballenas, o cuestiones sociales. Después de escribir los poemas en grupo, Leticia leyó los poemas en voz alta, alentando a los artistas a repetirlos después de cada línea.

Leticia pasó algún tiempo con Kevin Roach, que le preguntó si los poemas podían ser revolucionarios. “Absolutamente,” le respondió. Juntos, empezaron a crear un poema sobre la violencia, la discriminación, la historia y la compasión basado en la experiencia de Kevin creciendo en San Francisco. Se lee:

Cuando yo estaba creciendo había Martin Luther King Violencia contra gente de color, por supuesto La gente era disparada por hablar por la causa correcta A pesar de todo, San Francisco era más tranquilo Se podía ir a cualquier lado Hoy, quiero ir a Washington D.C. encadenarme, cuando van a despertarse? Barrios ásperos pueden ser ásperos, pero la violencia puede estar en cualquier parte La locura sucede No es solamente un barrio, Calle 6, los proyectos, la gente puede ser amable como puede ser Solo hay que tener sentido común, en cada cultura

Los poemas escritos durante el taller serán transcritos y añadidos al archivo de digital media para utilizarlos en las instalaciones finales. Sigan en contacto para ver cómo todos los elementos artísticos producidos en estos talleres se entrelazan para contar las historias de los artistas de CE.

Kenneth Rainin Foundation, El Fondo Nacional para las Artes, y el Consejo de Artes de California han apoyado generosamente este proyecto.

¡Mira hacia abajo para las fotos!

Images:

1. CE artists Quintin Rodriguez and Peter Cordova creating molas with Ana Teresa Fernández and Leticia Hernández-Linares 2. José Nuñez looking at an animal oracle card 3. Kevin Roach, Camille Holvoet, and Andrew Bixler creating molas with Ana Teresa and Leticia 4. Kevin Roach, John Iwaszewicz, and Quintin Rodriguez writing poetry with Leticia and Ana Teresa 5. Kevin Roach writing a revolutionary poem with Leticia 6. Ada Chow, Allura Fong, Makeya Kaiser, and Kaocrew “Yah” Kakabutra making molas and writing poetry at CE2

Imagenes:

1. Artistas de CE Quintin Rodriguez y Peter Cordova creando molas con Ana Teresa Fernández y Leticia Hernández-Linares 2. José Nuñez mirando a una tarjeta de oráculo animal 3. Kevin Roach, Camille Holvoet, and Andrew Bixler creando molas con Ana Teresa y Leticia 4.Kevin Roach, John Iwaszewicz, and Quintin Rodriguez escribiendo poesía con Leticia y Ana Teresa 5. Kevin Roach escribiendo un poema revolucionario con Leticia 6. Ada Chow, Allura Fong, Makeya Kaiser, y Kaocrew “Yah” Kakabutra haciendo molas y escribiendo poesía en CE2

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fangirleaconmigo · 1 year

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Geraskier

So you know how Jaskier (Viscount Julian) left home and changed his name and since he’s always short on cash, one would assume he was cut off (or cut himself off) from the family fortune?

So what if when his parents finally pass away and and he comes into a substantial amount of money, it is right about the time Geralt is really starting to feel the wear and tear on his body and wonder whether he can be a witcher for much longer, and he’s feeling anxious and melancholic about it but hasn’t admitted that to anyone.

But then he gets an invitation from his dearest friend Jaskier to join him on the coast at a cottage for some rest and recovery.

And when he shows up and drops his bags, he is instantly in love with the place. It seems like something he would build himself. Its decorated with items from their many years of travels. Ciri’s first wooden sword is hung on the wall. There is swallow imagery reflecting her as well, in the paintings and etchings. There are buttercups interwoven with wolves.

When Jaskier takes his things, there are hooks and contraptions that are perfectly shaped to hold his swords and armor without scratching or damaging them. The table and chairs are his perfect height. There is even a fireplace styled just like the one at Kaer Morhen, evoking the memories of many nights drinking with Eskel, Lambert, Coën, and Vesemir.

Jaskier hugs him so tightly he coughs, but it warms his heart and he forgets about his melancholy. Then Jaskier leads him by the hand and takes him to the back garden and his brothers and friends and most thrillingly of all, his daughter, are all sitting around with ale and they shout and toast him.

After he is kissed by Ciri and squeezed in many strong arms, he takes Jaskier aside. By then it is dark and the candles and torches are twinkling illuminating the tables where all the war stories are being told with laughter and copious amounts of swearing.

“What is the occasion, Jaskier? What’s going on? When did you buy this place?”

Jaskier looks at him with so much love and fondness, Geralt’s knees feel weak. Its getting harder and harder to hide these damndable feelings for his dearest friend.

“I didn’t buy it.” He says. “I built it.”

“You built it.”

“Well. I paid someone to build it. Obviously. The important question, though, is whether you like it.”

“I do,” says Geralt. “I love it.“

“Good. Because I built it for you. And the occasion is your retirement, or semi-retirement, if you desire it.”

It takes a good half hour to convince Geralt that Jaskier is not joking with him or teasing him. Jaskier places a key in his hand with a wolf etched on it. Geralt walks around the house in a daze. Jaskier follows behind with a gleeful smile. Like Geralt imagines mothers look on their children’s birthdays and they’ve given them the pony they’ve aways wanted. When the tightness has cleared from Geralt’s throat and he isn’t afraid he’ll sound emotional, he speaks.

“Jaskier,” he says, “why? Why would you do this for me?”

“Because,” Jaskier answers, “you deserve it. You’re always doing for others.”

Geralt feels the tightness in his throat again. He looks into his dearest friend’s eyes and his hands stray to Jaskier’s hips of their own accord.

He has never touched him this way. But he is overcome. Not thinking.

Jaskier smiles. “And because I love y—-“

He does not finish the word because Geralt is kissing him.

Ciri and Zoltan have wandered into the kitchen to look for another barrel of ale and the see the two of them kissing.

Ciri whoops and starts clapping. Zoltan mutters “its about godsdamn time.” Geralt’s ears turn red. Jaskier grins proudly.

Geralt has never felt more content. But he still teases Jaskier relentlessly before he invites him to move in with him.

“Its pretty lonely in this place.”

“You know, no reason I bring this up, but I have always wanted to live on the coast…”

“Maybe I should hire a butler, so the house isn’t so quiet…”

“I loathe you, witcher.”

“Actually, I have it on good authority that you love me.”

Geralt does that for a day or two, teasing between kisses, pretending he doesn’t understand what Jaskier is hinting at in the afterglow, for Geralt to invite him to move in.

They set up two chairs on the porch where they can see the waves and sit next to each other, Jaskier fiddling with his lute and notebook, Geralt nursing his wine.

And it is more than he had ever dared to dream.

#the witcher #geraskier #jaskier #geralt of rivia #descarada writes #my geraskier headcanons

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fangirleaconmigo · 19 days

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Pssst friends. Guess who finally updated Posada Remix? (My inter dimensional cross over book/show Witcher fic.)

Do we have any Book!Geralt/Jaskier fans still out there? 👀

#the witcher #jaskier #geralt of rivia #geraskier #descarada writes #descarada writes geraskier #posada remix

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fangirleaconmigo · 2 years

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Noises

“What.” Geralt burrowed deeper into the blanket.

The bard made a nervous, uncertain noise. He shifted and the floorboards creaked softly. “Uhhhhh.”

“Spit it out.”

Jaskier cleared his throat. “There are noises, Geralt.”

“No there aren’t.”

"Um. What? Yes there are. There are so. Why would you say that?"

Geralt flopped one arm over his face. "Witcher senses. I can hear everything. It's quiet out there. So what do you want, cuddles? Go back to bed."

Silence.

There was silence. And then more silence.

Geralt had only known Jaskier for a short while, but he had never known him to be silent.

Then there was the sound of bare feet padding back to the other bed.

Fuck.

He had wanted cuddles. The sunny, handsome, famous bard wanted to cuddle. Him.

Fuck.

Now Geralt was stone cold awake. Now he stared at the ceiling in silence.

"Geralt."

"What."

"I can practically hear you thinking. Stop it. Just leave it."

"But."

"No, just forget I ever-"

"No but I think you're right. There are noises. Now that I'm awake I can hear them."

A pause.

"Is that so?"

There was hope in the three words. A smile, even.

"It is so."

Then Jaskier was standing next to his bed again. "And are you frightened, dear witcher? Do you need protection?"

Geralt had to remind himself sometimes that while he could see people in the dark, they could not see him. Jaskier was probably staring down into what looked like a dark gloom, whereas he could clearly see the bard's shit eating grin and bright eyes like a beacon.

"Geralt, I asked--" Jaskier's teasing voice broke off into a squeal and an 'oof' noise, as Geralt dragged him into bed.

"Jus get your ass down here."

Geralt pulled Jaskier into his arms. He slung a leg over him, and burrowed into his neck. "You're gonna regret this though. I kick in my sleep."

Jaskier laughed and softly stroked his hair. "Somehow, I don't think I will."

#the witcher #geraskier #descarada writes geraskier #jaskier #geralt of rivia #descarada writes

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fangirleaconmigo · 2 months

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Hello dear! i asked this once but it was as a chat response so asking here just in case it got lost, no hurries! Bookverse! Dandi and geralt, Geralt gets turned away at the brothel (again) and Dandi decides if no one is gonna treat his witcher like he deserves, he'll have to.

(plz ignore if this is not relevant to your interests!)

Pan, my dear. I know you sent this almost a year and a half ago. I ADORE getting prompts, but inspiration strikes when it strikes, the fickle ho.

Geralt x Dandelion. Rated Explicit. Bottom!Geralt (first time bottoming).

Geralt is turned away from a brothel, and Dandelion takes care of him. This is porn with feelings. Love and smut ahoy. 7k words(ish)

-----

The woman at the door whispered something in Dandelion’s ear.

In other circumstances, Geralt might have heard what she said. He was standing only a few feet behind the poet, and his witcher hearing was certainly capable of it. But he didn’t hear, because he wasn’t paying the least bit of attention. His mind was occupied.

He and Dandelion had been drinking in a nearby tavern. When Dandelion suggested a brothel to relax him, Geralt happily trailed after him like a trusting pup. On the way, the witcher let his mind wander in and out of a series of increasingly vivid, sexually charged visions. He was already aroused and bristling with excess energy when they arrived at the door.

Dandelion tilted his head towards the girl. “Milady,” he responded, “why are you telling me this? Are you proud or something? Are you also proud when you get a canker on your ass? It’s a personal situation if you ask me.” He glanced back at Geralt for support, laughing haughtily. “It is lucky that my erection is more insistent than my convictions, and that I have already promised my friend an unforgettable night in your establishment which I am loathe to renege upon.”

Geralt was at a loss, trying to put together what was happening with context clues. He didn’t need to wait long. The woman looked desperately at Geralt and leaned closer towards the poet. “I said. Humans only.”

Geralt heard it that time. His stomach sank. He felt a familiar mix of humiliation and anger, which he promptly suffocated until he felt nothing. He tugged on Dandelion’s sleeve. “Come on, Dandelion.”

Dandelion ignored him. He threw his arms out. “And? We are men,” he said to the girl. He looked around melodramatically and declared a bit too loud, “I didn’t bring my horse to partake!”

The girl at the door nervously avoided Geralt’s gaze. “Master Dandelion,” she whispered strenuously, “the witcher cannot come in.”

Sometimes the ‘humans only’ rule applied to Geralt. Sometimes it didn’t. Clearly, at this place, it did. He tugged again on his friend’s sleeve, to no avail. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

To his frustration, Dandelion ignored him yet again. The poet drew himself up to full height and stuck his nose in the air. “I pity your lack of education, dear girl, but witchers are human beings. That is just a fact. But luckily for you, I am feeling generous. If you let us in right now, I will not alert your madam to this offensive gaffe.”

“Shut. Up. Dandelion,” gritted out Geralt. This time he grabbed the poet’s arm.

Dandelion yanked his arm free. He briefly glanced at Geralt. “Let me handle it. I understand these types.”

Geralt groaned and looked around desperately. A few men were wandering up the footpath towards them, customers, no doubt, who would be witnesses to the whole ordeal.

The madam appeared next to the girl at the door. She was an older woman in a lovely burgundy gown. Dandelion brightened and leaned forward conspiratorially. “Oh, I am so happy to see you, my dear lady. I hope you can clear up this misunderstanding. My friend is 100% human, I assure you,” he glanced back at Geralt. “He was born to a woman, magic though she was, and a man. Well,” he corrected himself, “we don’t rightly know who his father is.”

Geralt cringed.

“But,” the poet lifted a finger, “if you required confirmed paternity for everyone in this establishment your building would be empty as a pair of testicles after they’ve had a run at the place. You’d be in the poor house by Thursday.” The poet was picking up steam. “Half the nobility in this town claim to be descendents of great emperors, but they were secretly sired by a particular beefy blacksmith who lives two doors down, or a certain wiry goatherd who is quite randy, and one count I know of personally,” he leaned in even closer, “was sired by an actual goat, I can tell you that story…”

“Master Dandelion,” the madam hissed through her teeth, “I would if I could, but it’s a party for the warden and half the security forces will be in tonight. I’ll be shut down! You can see he’s…different!”

“What?” yelped Dandelion. Turning and looking at Geralt, pretending to be gobsmacked, then returning to the madam. “Because of his mutations? Why, that’s sheer ignorance. Mutations are endemic to life itself. We’ve all got them!” He batted his unusually blue eyes. “Some find mine quite charming.”

The madam was not nervous like the door girl. She looked straight at Geralt, though she had the goodness to be apologetic. “I’m sorry.”

Geralt dragged Dandelion away successfully this time, but the troubadour did not go quietly. One of the men coming down the path caught his attention. “Duke Heyward has a third nipple!” He shouted over his shoulder. “That’s a mutation! Can’t have that! Better turn him away! Errant nipples might ruin the mood!”

The man steadfastly ignored him and bowed to the madam. He was granted entrance, nipples and all.

“They’re all such tiresome, small minded, unimpressive donkeys,” Dandelion seethed as they walked back to the tavern. “Count Vamonet can’t tell a sonnet from a scrotum. Prince Galino farts when he comes, and he has to pay the girls extra for it. And the Algloval family are a bunch of inbred--”

Geralt’s attention turned inward as Dandelion ranted about the wretched local nobility and their many failings. The witcher returned to his thoughts as they made their way through the streets.

These kinds of rants usually made him feel better, and it did, somewhat. But there was still that tension, that pent up frustration. He was still rock hard in his trousers.

“Pathetic, the lot of them. Pox on them all,” finished Dandelion, waving at dismissively at the air. He stole a look at Geralt. “You’re awfully quiet. You haven’t told me to shut up yet. Do you feel quite alright?”

Geralt sighed. “Fine. It’s fine.”

“Well, your face still looks sour.” Dandelion brightened. “Do you want me to see if Helen is interested? I can make myself scarce.”

That was the second time that night that he’d offered the same. “No!” Geralt almost shouted it. Dandelion stopped in the street. Geralt took a few steps before he realized it and he turned to face his friend.

Helen was the server girl at the tavern, who had set the night in motion. Dandelion first performed a set, then sat down, damp curls stuck to his forehead, open tunic flaunting the dusting of blonde hair on his chest. Helen, who he’d been winking at during his performance (along with every other person in the audience), informed him that she was off work, and plopped right down his lap. The poet happily spread his thighs to give her a better seat, and wrapped his arm around her waist.

Geralt had been enjoying the evening, but at the sight of the two of them together, was seized by a growing frustration. Helen’s breasts spilled nearly out of her top and hovered near Dandelion’s face. His friend leered at them, lips so close to their gentle swell. She ever so delicately opened her legs under the table.

She wasn’t wearing anything under her skirt, and Geralt watched Dandelion’s hand creep up her thigh. Her cunt was probably hot and wet, just waiting for him to--

“Geralt?” Dandelion had abruptly asked, stopping what he was doing. “What is the matter?”

Helen looked up. When she saw Geralt’s expression, she visibly shrunk away.

“Oh pet,” Dandelion protested, turning his attention back to her, “he isn’t angry, please, that’s just his face. He’s a big pussy cat, really.”

Geralt, realizing he was scaring her, forced a smile. It only made matters worse. She scurried away.

Dandelion seemed to be conveniently forgetting that fact at this very moment. They faced one another on the dark street.

Helen is terrified of me, Geralt thought of saying. That was what Geralt meant to say. But something else came out of his mouth. “I don’t want you to make yourself scarce. I don’t want you to go anywhere.”

Dandelion looked surprised, and then intensely interested. He shoved his hands on his hips and looked down at where Geralt’s trousers strained to contain his cock. His tongue darted out and wet his lips before making eye contact with some effort. “Well. What do you want, Geralt?” He asked it casually, lightly. “There are other girls that don’t work in brothels. The night is young, yet. Tell me. What were you imagining for tonight? Talk to me.”

What were you imagining?

Geralt tried to remember the thoughts that excited him on the way to the brothel. Why had he been so very distracted that he’d missed the door girl’s whisper?

They were visions of pretty girls servicing Dandelion, right? Perhaps those visions should have been of the girls servicing him. But...Geralt stood, taking a moment to recall his fantasies. Well, pox on it. Fuck. The girls weren’t even in them.

It was all Dandelion sprawled out in bliss, with his trousers shoved down to his ankles. It was Dandelion with his head lolling back, eyes half lidded, lips open. It was Dandelion thrusting languid and whining up into welcoming lips.

Surely, he, Geralt of Rivia, didn’t want his friend that way. He didn’t think he was that kind of man. True, there had been youthful experimentation at Kaer Morhen, but it was all boys there, what else were they going to do? When he’d fallen for Yen, he thought....well he thought that was that. But now. Fuck. He was beginning to doubt.

Geralt looked into the quizzical eyes of his dearest friend. Then he turned on his heel and fled. He could hear Dandelion chuckling and calling out to him. “Geralt, come back! Blast it!”

But the witcher made a beeline to their shared room at the tavern. He was dressed for bed and under the covers with the candles out by the time Dandelion returned. Dandelion came in humming, carrying a lantern, and two glasses of wine.

“Good evening, Geralt.” Dandelion said loudly, shutting their door with a graceful tap of his heel. “I see you are already in bed for the evening.”

Geralt didn’t know what to say. “Helen wouldn’t have you?” He muttered bitterly. “She looked so eager.” But he dragged himself up to lean against the headboard. The covers fell around his waist, so he grabbed them and clutched them to his chest.

Dandelion set the lantern and glasses on the side table, and shrugged off his coat. He was still humming to himself. His lightness of spirit was slightly insulting, when Geralt was so obviously set on brooding.

The poet came to sit on the edge of the bed. Geralt’s heart raced as the mattress dipped and the warmth of Dandelion’s body filled his space.

It all felt different now, the shared room, the shared bed. All of it. The air crackled. The witcher was terrified. That was why his pulse was racing, right?

His friend sat in uncharacteristic silence for a few moments, contemplating the bedspread and then Geralt. After a moment, he spoke softly. “Geralt, those idiots were pricks to you tonight.”

His compassion caused a warmth to blossom in Geralt’s chest, but that was the kind of thing that makes a man lose control. So he shoved it down and avoided his friend’s eyes. “It’s fine.” “No, it’s not,” said Dandelion. “But well,” he smiled, still looking softer than usual, “you’ve always got me, and about a thousand other friends, to whom you are as ordinary and human as a person can be. Boring even. And the whores at that place are rubbish anyway.”

Geralt half smiled despite himself and looked up. “You said their advanced techniques would change my life.”

“I lied to make you feel better.”

Geralt gasped in sarcastic shock.

“You know,” said Dandelion. Now he was the one looking down. “I haven’t told you this yet Geralt. But I was once a harlot myself.”

Dandelion raised his eyes and for a brief moment, they looked into one another, trying to read what the other was feeling. The air between them was fragile, as though a wrong word could shatter whatever was changing between them.

Geralt wanted to be sensitive, but he was overcome with images of Dandelion naked and in compromising situations. It was the same images that had plagued him earlier in the day. “Did you... like it?”

It was the right thing to say, at least for now, because Dandelion relaxed. “I did.” He shrugged. “Most of the time anyway. Like any other job in that regard. I don’t want to brag,” he said, in his characteristic way that indicated he very much did want to brag, “but I was too popular. I got too successful. And I preferred to be famous for my music. So gradually, I-” he picked at the bedspread, “-stopped.”

“Too successful,” Geralt asked, unable to keep the curiosity from his voice. “Were there enough women to keep you busy?” he asked. “Seems like they wouldn’t have to pay for services.”

“You’d be surprised,” the poet answered. “They don’t pay you to fuck, Geralt. They pay you to leave without a fuss.”

Geralt nodded. He supposed that made sense.

Dandelion picked up his wine glass from the side table. He took a sip and swallowed primly with pursed lips. Geralt watched his throat bob with fascination. He realized that he was staring, so he picked up his glass to give himself something to do other than gape.

“But truth be told,” Dandelion’s voice lingered on the words casually, “my specialty was other men.”

Geralt should not have picked up his glass. It was a mistake. He was taking a sip the moment Dandelion said ‘men.' He coughed, and pounded his chest.

Dandelion chuckled richly. “Are you alright?”

His friend was laughing at him. Geralt was a mess of righteous indignation, hope, and desperate desire.

“‘M Fine,” he said, putting down the glass. He wanted to avoid his friend’s gaze, but that would be admitting defeat. He met Dandelion’s mirthful, predatory eyes. He immediately lost composure.

He was looking at the poet’s lips. His collarbone. The way his shirt was slightly transparent, and how every time the poet took a deep breath, his chest rose and Geralt could see his nipples.

“You’re blushing.”

“No, I am not,” mumbled Geralt defensively. “Witchers can’t blush.”

“Sure, my darling, if that is the story you prefer.”

It was the first time Dandelion had ever called him darling. He called him my dear all the time. Geralt loved it every time, but darling was just a little more...romantic.

Geralt had no idea what to do with his face, his hands, or his rebellious cock, which was every bit as hard as before.

“What are you thinking about Geralt?”

Why did Dandelion sound so blasted smug? The prick. Geralt’s fingers trembled, his pulse raced. He decided to just let his body speak for him, without thought. “If I came to your brothel. In those days.” He tried not to stammer, but he sounded halting. He decided to just push the words out. “Would you have serviced me? A mutant.”

He was staring at his own hands now. He almost jumped when Dandelion’s hand covered his own, warm and tender.

Geralt looked up, relaxing into the touch.

Dandelion looked amused, but fond. “That depends.”

He was toying with him, the fucking bastard.

“On what,” Geralt asked flatly.

“I’d ask to take a look at your cock.” His eyes sparkled. “To see if it is mutated of course.” He moved his hand to the side of the sheet and pinched, as if ready to pull it aside.

Geralt tried not to smile. A smile would be an admission that the charms of his friend had vanquished him yet again.

“Well, go on,” teased Dandelion. “Answer me. Will you let me inspect your prick to see if it is too mutated to fit in my mouth?”

“You’ve seen my cock,” Geralt grumbled, wriggling, trying to hide how the aforementioned anatomy twitched at the forthright, confident manner of his friend.

“Yes, but I don’t remember what it looked like,” said Dandelion with faux innocence that did not suit him. “I’ve only seen flashes. In and out of baths, that kind of thing. And of course, I have always been too gentlemanly to sneak a peek.”

“Liar.” Geralt bit his cheeks. He nodded at where Dandelion’s hand held the corner of the blanket. “Well, go ahead.”

Dandelion’s face broke into a shit eating grin. He took the edge of the sheets and pulled them aside. Geralt inhaled fast and held his breath. He had on a flimsy undergarment with an opening at the front. His excitement was extremely apparent.

Geralt wriggled a little again, repositioning himself. He felt utterly exposed. Why was it making him more aroused than he had ever remembered being in his life?

It was Dandelion’s reaction to his body. Geralt could smell lust, and the wave of it that came off his friend was so powerful, the witcher was instantly intoxicated by it. Furthermore, the poet was looking at him with such a ravenous expression that Geralt blinked. It called to mind a wolf staring at a cut of raw meat.

Geralt was used to being the hunter. He had never been the prey. A thrill ran through him the likes of which he had never experienced.

“Geralt.” The poet was suddenly earnest, tight, and controlled. The switch made Geralt dizzy. His friend pulled his hands back, and squeezed his own thighs.

“Yes?” Geralt rasped.

“I cannot restrain myself any longer.” His voice trembled. “If you want me to stop now, you’re going to have to throw me out on my neck”

Geralt tried to respond, but only an airy squeak of nothing came from his mouth. He tried again. “Good. Don’t. Don’t restrain yourself that is.”

“Fucking hell. Sweet Melitele’s milky tits.”

Dandelion scrambled to straddle Geralt’s lap. Eyes shining, he cradled the witcher’s face in his hands. Geralt’s arms, of their own accord, wrapped around the poet.

Dandelion kissed him with such ferocious tenderness, Geralt felt his eyes prickle. That ferocity...Dandelion had wanted to do this for a very long time. Maybe years. And the tenderness. Dandelion kissed him like he was the most fragile, precious creature in all of creation.

The thought that Dandelion might have been harboring a hidden love for him was a shocking revelation. But Geralt could not fully grasp it. Not when his body’s reaction to Dandelion’s tongue and his weight on Geralt’s lap was leading him to yet another shocking revelation.

“Dandelion,” he cleared his throat and tilted back just enough to leave a sliver of space between their lips as they panted.

“Yes, Geralt.”

“Am I...this kind of man?”

Dandelion threw his head back and laughed. It was a bit rude actually. He ground his hips ever so slightly on Geralt’s hard cock. Geralt made an aborted noise of pleasure.

“Oh, I quite think you are darling,” Dandelion said smugly. “Wait. Does that vex you?”

Once again, Geralt didn’t want to think. He just wanted to respond. “I don’t think so,” he said. Then he realized the truth. “No. Not a bit.”

“Ah, well then. Shall I proceed?”

“Please do.”

Dandelion slipped off of his lap. Geralt found it difficult to abide the loss of his body. “Wait.”

Dandelion’s response was muffled by his shirt slipping from his head. “Apologies, my dear, but I must make haste, in case you change your mind.”

His dearest friend was pulling off his clothing at a blinding rate, vibrating with an air of disbelief and excitement.

“I won’t change my mind.” After it came from Geralt’s mouth, he realized that it was true.

Dandelion flashed him another smile. “Still. I won’t take any chances.”

Dandelion was quickly naked and scrambled back onto the bed without much grace. “Hips up.”

Geralt lifted his hips. Dandelion stripped away Geralt’s underclothes. Then, they were naked together.

What shocked Geralt the most was that it felt like the most natural thing in the world. He felt nothing but pleasure at the sight of Dandelion’s full erection, nestled in a puff of blonde curls. He felt nothing but excitement when the poet straddled him yet again, his solid but soft torso in Geralt’s grasp. The witcher groaned at an embarrassing volume when Dandelion wrapped his nimble fingers around his cock.

“May I, love?” Dandelion licked his lips.

Geralt’s heart almost stopped. “Say that again,” he whispered.

“May I....love?”

“Please. Yes. Anything.”

Dandelion scooted back and dragged his warm tongue up the entire length of Geralt’s erection, lingering on the tip, kissing it messily.

Geralt writhed. “Please.”

“Please, what?” Dandelion batted his lashes then sucked Geralt’s entire cock into his mouth. Geralt almost shouted, but managed to clap a hand over his mouth and turn it into another moan.

He wanted a release. He wanted to explode.

His mind may not have realized his feelings for his friend, but his body was certainly aware that this was something he’d been holding in for a very long time.

But Geralt didn’t just want to cum. He wanted to do it on his friend, in his friend, it didn’t matter how.

“Let me. I wanna.” He gasped. “Fuck.”

Dandelion looked at him with soft but hungry eyes as he bobbed on his cock. At the sight of the poet’s expression, the way he looked stuffed with Geralt’s cock, the witcher thought he would lose it. But his friend expertly stopped just before Geralt’s peak.

He toyed with the witcher like that for some time, bringing him to peak, then pulling away. As he did, he ran his hands all over Geralt’s body. He murmured sweet nothings to him.

“You’re so gorgeous like this love. Look at you. Oh, fuck you’re stunning. I can’t believe I get to look at you like this.”

Geralt melted. He melted into his mouth, he melted against the bed. He became a blubbering, begging mess of a man.

“Please, oh, please. Just let me. Just. Oh, fuck.”

Just when he thought he had reached the height of pleasure, Dandelion began to use his fingers.

“Spread your thighs, darling.”

Geralt thought to protest. He felt self conscious. But he had said that Dandelion could do anything, and he’d meant it. Allowing himself to act without overthinking it had gotten him here, so the strategy was clearly working.

He spread his legs obediently.

Geralt fell apart when Dandelion cupped him, caressed him, and massaged him firmly in places he’d never even seen.

Vaguely, he thought that the room next to them could probably hear him whining. If he were allowing himself to think about it, he might have been embarrassed. But he wasn’t.

When Dandelion returned his lips to his cock, he also grasped his shaft, moving both his hands and his mouth expertly, Geralt came. His body locked up and his moans were silent and airy. He covered Dandelion’s head with his hands and thrust into the eager lips of his dearest friend. He shoved and shoved until he released in a haze of animalistic desire.

Then he fell back, slackened and panting.

Dandelion kissed his softening cock. He licked up all of Geralt’s spend and made a show of swallowing it for him.

Geralt stroked Dandelion’s damp locks lazily. “Fuck.”

“Fuck, indeed.”

Dandelion crawled into his arms, placing a sweaty kiss on Geralt’s temple. They were both damp, from sweat and tears. Geralt squeezed him tight, waiting for the thudding of his heart to subside.

“Fuck.”

When Dandelion’s erection brushed his thigh, Geralt wanted to kick himself. He had been so wrapped up in his own pleasure, he’d been selfish. He needed to make sure Dandelion got satisfaction as well.

“What can I--” the witcher stopped, realizing he had little idea what the fuck he was doing. What could he even offer? Back in Kaer Morhen in his teen years, there had mostly been furtive yanking and sucking in closets and dark dormitories. And here he was with a proper expert, a former professional. What skills did he really have? How did you fuck a man without hurting him? Shit, he couldn’t fuck anyone right now anyway. He leaned forward and kissed Dandelion. “What do you want, poet?” He figured that was a better question, instead of promising something he couldn’t deliver, at least not in a competent way.

Dandelion had a half smile, like he was up to something. “Well, since my wildest dreams are coming true today, I’m just going to ask for it.”

Geralt barked a laugh, and felt slightly, deliciously self conscious. “Alright. Spit it out.”

Dandelion leaned closer, kissed Geralt’s cheek, and whispered provocatively in his ear. As he did, he traced languid circles on Geralt’s chest and stomach. This, Geralt thought, was what made Dandelion so popular. That and the expert cock sucking.

“Witcher mine, I have been following behind you for years,” he murmured sensually. “And do you know what has always confounded me?”

“What?”

“Having to stare at your round, juicy looking, perfect peach and never being invited to fuck it.”

Well. Geralt hadn’t expected that. He’d never really thought of himself that way. As an object of such fervent desire.

“My. Ass?”

“Oh yes, love. You’d better believe it.” Dandelion’s eyes fluttered closed and he hummed in bliss, like one did after taking a big bite of a pastry fresh out of the oven. “The shapeliest ladies have nothing on your delicious plump looking posterior. Has no one told you?”

Dandelion had called him love again. Geralt was beginning to understand that every time Dandelion called him love, the witcher felt willing and able to scoop out his own organs and gift them to the poet if he so desired them.

"No."

“That is a tragic story indeed.” Dandelion ground his rock hard cock into Geralt’s thigh. “How someone with such a perfect ass has never been told about its charms.”

Geralt allowed himself a slightly smug smile and he squeezed Dandelion tighter. He kissed the side of the poet’s head and hummed into his hair. “Really? That good, huh?”

The poet growled and rolled his hips again. “Please, Geralt. Don’t make me beg.”

Well. Shit. Geralt’s heart beat faster. “I want to, but. I don’t. I’ve never.” Then he just blurted it out. “Does it hurt?”

Dandelion stopped what he was doing and rolled over, propping himself on arm. He looked absolutely gleeful. “You mean I would be the first? Me?”

Geralt looked away and flushed a bit. He hummed his assent.

Dandelion practically whooped. “I will be taking Geralt of Rivia’s virgin ass? Have I died? Is this heaven?” The poet caught himself. “I mean, of course, only if you want to.” He tried to sound sexy and soft again, but his leering smile looked ridiculous.

It was a pathetic effort, but it still pleased Geralt for some reason. He was doomed, wasn’t he?

“I’m not a virgin. Obviously.”

“Still. May I?”

“Just. Be careful. You will, right?”

Dandelion took one of Geralt's hands and nuzzled it. Managing to find gentle sincerity within himself, he said, “Of course I will, love. I will be gentle. I will be tender. I will make it so very lovely for you.”

Geralt nodded. “Alright. What do I do?” He felt a bit moronic asking, but he would feel worse if he did something wrong.

“Well, I was rewarded by the sight of your handsome face in ecstasy. Now, since for all I know, this could be my only chance, I would be honored to enjoy the sight of your perfect, round ass jiggling as I fuck it.”

Geralt swallowed. “So, I turn over?”

“If you please.” Dandelion scooted back on the bed, kneeling, watching rapturously as Geralt agreeably turned over. The witcher was rewarded with a low whistle. “Oh, yes. Sweet mother of mine, what a specimen of a posterior.” Geralt could feel Dandelion’s soft, strong hands gliding over his body and squeezing his ass. The effect, along with Dandelion’s evident enthusiasm made him prickle with pleasure.

“Shut up.”

“I will not. I am already writing the ballad as we speak.”

There was no use telling him to shut up again. Geralt closed his eyes and reveled in the sensation of being caressed. His scars were particularly sensitive, and Dandelion was sliding his hands over every last bit of him.

“Hands and knees, my dear witcher.”

Geralt obediently rose onto hands and knees. Dandelion moaned, gravelly and wanton. Geralt could hear him stroking his own cock as he squeezed one cheek then the other. Experimentally, Geralt arch his back, and enjoyed the strangled groan-laugh behind him.

If he had felt exposed before, that was nothing compared to what he felt now. Now he felt completely, utterly vulnerable. And yet? His body buzzed with pleasure low in his abdomen.

Geralt could hear Dandelion shift. Then he felt a kiss, followed by a playful nibble the back of his thighs. Dandelion leaned away to reach for something.

“Relax, love.”

Geralt heard Dandelion remove his rings, and then he heard a tin of something open and close. Then Dandelion’s fingers were at his entrance, slippery and wet. Geralt shivered. He flinched.

“Shhhhh,” Dandelion quieted him and patted his haunch as though he were a skittish mare. Geralt relaxed.

“It’s alright,” cooed Dandelion. “The famous poet Dandelion will be your first. Think of the stories you will be able to tell your grandchildren.”

“You’re an idiot.” Geralt chuckled but his laugh turned into a drawn out ‘oooo’ as Dandelion entered him with a finger. “See, that’s nice isn’t it, Geralt?”

It took Geralt a moment to answer. It was a new feeling.

“Y-y-yes?” he said.

“Is that a question or an answer, my witcher?” Dandelion asked playfully. He slid further and Geralt released a sigh. His body wanted to scoot away, and shove backwards at the same time. But Geralt decided not to do either. He just held still and allowed himself to feel.

“Yes.” He answered breathily, but with more confidence that time.

Dandelion scooted closer. Geralt could feel the warmth and the softness of the hair on the poet’s legs as they pressed against his. How his friend managed to slip in a second finger at the angle, Geralt wasn’t sure. But the tightness, the fullness, made him whimper.

“Oh, that sound,” growled Dandelion. “I cannot wait another second, Geralt, my dear, I am going to fuck the sense out of you.”

He could hear slippery noises as Dandelion quickly slicked his own cock. The poet grasped him with one hand. Geralt stole a glance back and saw his friend’s ravenous, predatory face. He saw the blonde poet grasping the base of his cock, lining himself up. The tip of his tongue was stuck out, and he was lost completely in the moment.

Dandelion felt Geralt’s attention and he looked up. They locked eyes right as Dandelion pushed. Geralt whimpered and his body jerked, but Dandelion held his hips stock-still with surprisingly strong hands as he pressed inside with an excruciatingly slow gentleness. “Here you go, love. You can take this, can’t you?” he purred.

Geralt sensed that taunting Dandelion right now might yield some interesting results. “I won’t break. Fuck me already.”

Dandelion’s eyes ignited and he squeezed Geralt so hard, he knew he would be bruised. “You want me to fuck you?”

“Yes. Fucking do it already.”

It was daring talk for an amateur, Geralt knew. But he had stopped thinking. He was just spouting off now.

Dandelion bent over him and wrapped his arm around his hips like a vise and thrust. Geralt could tell his friend was still holding back, but the motion made him feel such shocking fullness, that it chased all rational thought away, emptying his mind.

Dandelion pulled back then. Right when Geralt thought he would slip away, Dandelion thrust again. Geralt marveled at how tight he could feel, the sounds the poet could punch from his throat. The sounds were cut off every time Dandelion’s hips made impact, but grew louder and more frantic with every stroke.

Dandelion’s hair brushed his back. He could feel his friend’s lips by his ear. “You love it, don’t you. Your ass is the perfect vessel for my cock, isn't it?” he whispered, his necklaces slightly grazing Geralt’s shoulder blades. The poet was beginning to sweat and his chest dragged down Geralt’s back.

Geralt nodded. It was difficult to manage while bouncing on another man’s cock.

“Say it,” Dandelion challenged him.

“Yes. I’m yours.”

Dandelion tenderly brushed Geralt’s hair away from his neck, and kissed the back of his neck as he fucked into him.

As the witcher’s body became more lax and able to accept the intrusion, Dandelion thrust with more power. Geralt had to brace himself against the wall to keep from slapping into it.

Dandelion was no longer treating him with kid gloves. Geralt had no idea that his body would allow anything inside that deep. He bounced and shook and cried out. He felt like some kind of rag doll.

“Dandelion,” he whispered into the dark.

“Say that again,” came the response from behind him.

“Dandelion.”

Dandelion’s pace grew more furious and punishing. Geralt was shocked by what his body could take. Dandelion began to sound like him, grunting, and moaning.

But right when he thought Dandelion would peak, he stopped and pulled out.

“Don’t stop,” Geralt begged. He writhed and reached back, grasping to pull his lover back.

“Be still,” Dandelion chided.

Geralt obeyed. He quieted himself and became still, waiting on hands and knees. His thighs trembled. His hair stuck to his sweaty, sticky body.

Just when he was ready to ask Dandelion what the fuck he was doing, he felt the poet grasp both sides of his ass and part him. The cool air caressed Geralt on his sensitive skin and he shivered.

Dandelion swore a filthy oath in several different languages, only some of which Geralt understood.

“I’m going to watch myself cum in you, witcher.”

Dandelion leaned forward and pushed down on Geralt’s back. The witcher wasn’t sure what the poet wanted, until his elbows buckled and his face was smashed against the pillow.

Dandelion hummed, ever so pleased with himself. He whistled. “That’s better. What a view.” He grasped the witcher, trapping his hips.

Geralt closed his eyes, determined to feel everything, to remember everything. The fat head of his dearest friend’s cock nudged him. By now, Geralt was fucked, slick, and ready.

Now it was the poet’s turn to whine like an animal when he slid inside Geralt.

“Look at you, swallowing my cock. You were made for me to fuck.”

The pillow under Geralt’s face grew damp, and he groaned into it as Dandelion took his pleasure.

The poet shoved as deeply as he could when he came, and the sound he made was cathartic. He held Geralt still, draped over his back, as he rode out his pulsing orgasm.

“Oh, Geralt. My darling.” He whispered it so quietly into Geralt’s back, that if Geralt were not a witcher, he might not have heard it.

Dandelion collapsed next to Geralt and pulled him close. They held each other in the dark, by the flickering lamp. They lay intertwined, clinging to each other, allowing the enormity of what they had done to settle over them.

What if everything changed.

What if nothing changed?

“Geralt?” Dandelion’s voice was surprising small. “Kiss me?”

Geralt ran his fingers through Dandelion’s hair. And he kissed him.

They would start there.

#the witcher #geralt of rivia #dandelion #gerlion #geraskier #book!verse though #these are book boys #descarada writes

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