There are two of them.
The Jaskier Geralt knows stands with hands on his hips and a pinched frown on his face, quietly inspecting the stranger before them. Geralt studies him as well, but the bard does so with greater interest because the person he lays his scrupulous blue-eyed gaze on is—is himself. Someone who stands in his mirrored likeness, with his given name, staring back with equal scrutiny to detail.
They are not entirely identical. His Jaskier does not wear a hat, for one. Nor does he bother with carefully groomed facial hair. The trimmed tufts over and under shined lips do make a dashing picture with the feathered hat, Geralt admits to himself.
In every other way—face, height, bearings and mannerisms, even the narrow end of hips framed by high-waisted trousers—they are the same. And when Geralt calls Jaskier’s name in utter bewilderment, they both respond with the same tilt of the head, the same musical pitch of voice.
Geralt’s eyes cross, because they’re even wearing the same damn shade of purple.
“Yes yes, how interesting.”
The three of them are gathered in the privacy of the witcher’s one-night rented room, away from prying eyes who would no doubt start a rumor about the famed troubadour’s apparent twin or cousin or scam double artist. Geralt can already imagine Jaskier’s miffed tirade should that happen. He cannot fathom two simultaneous tirades.
Jaskier—his Jaskier, specifically, heaves out a long breath before talking to his mirror image. “Well, since some complication is bound to arise, I will take the title of ’Jaskier apparent’. It is only reasonable. You are, after all, the stranger here.”
“That’s quite alright with me. I’m more of a dandelion fellow myself, buttercup.”
Jaskier’s eyes narrow at his counterpart. At Dandelion. It is not an amiable stare. The grin that splits Dandelion’s face in provocation reminds Geralt of a cheeky fox stealing hen eggs right in front of the hen’s farmer.
Geralt rubs his face wondering why Jaskier has to size himself up. There is no need for it. If Dandelion is who he says he is—a wayward Jaskier from an otherworld, caught on the periphery of a portal spell gone wrong—then they can trust him. No matter their differences and their arguments, Geralt will always trust Jaskier.
But of course they have to stand face to face, filtering through various expressions of visible hostility.
“Whatever it is you two have going on, stop it.”
At his command, Jaskier and Dandelion turn their matching blue eyes on him.
“This is not the time for pettiness,” Geralt continues, but it’s obvious that their little staring contest has been put on hold and he’s wasting his breath chastising them. They’re focused on the witcher now, sparing quick glances at each other that turn into sharp, knowing smiles.
It takes a brief moment for Geralt to recognize that smile, as it is usually shared with him, not at his expense.
“Ah, for you I’ll give it a rest. Just this once.” It’s Dandelion who speaks, taking his hat to fold it against his chest, as if Geralt doesn’t know he’s not scheming something by his lilting tone. “The question is if our dear, uh, if Jaskier feels the same way.”
“Don’t you paint me as the unruly one.” Jaskier thrusts an accusative finger at Dandelion’s face. “You’re the one with a, what is that, a beard? Are you a sleazy banker where you come from?”
“It’s a style, dear. Though looking at the cut of your fringe I question if you know what that is.”
“Jask—Dandi—” Geralt isn’t sure who to scold again. But they’re both smug as cats, neither taking insult to heart. It’s a tease, a play fight. He frowns when he hears the Jaskier he does not know laugh behind his hand.
“Well isn’t he just precious, your witcher.”
At that, his Jaskier does huff. “Leave him be, we’re confusing him.”
Dandelion doesn’t stop. He changes tactics with a sly, “But confusing him is so fun.”
Geralt is lucky he’s seated on the bed, still trying to make heads or tails of their unique predicament, because the edge that colors Dandelion’s voice is—familiar to him. It’s an edge that shows up in parties and banquets, when Jaskier contemplates fun of a different kind. A more physical kind.
And right now, it’s directed at him. And at Jaskier himself.
Dandelion steps closer to his counterpart, trailing curious fingers over the fabric of Jaskier’s doublet. “I wonder what’s going on in his head, with the two of us. I bet it’s not as scandalous as what’s going on in mine.”
A surprised laugh bubbles out of Jaskier. Geralt—blinks. Scandalous?
“Oh yes, I can just imagine what you’re cooking up in that head of yours.”
“Ours,” Dandelion corrects. “Our head. I know you must be thinking it too.”
They’re standing so close to each other. A pair of elegant hands glide over Jaskier’s back, down to his bottom. The move looks practiced. Deliberately forward.
Jaskier’s grin turns wicked and mean.
“Hmm, let me guess.” The hat gets dropped somewhere as Jaskier hums, unaffected. “‘How wonderful to finally learn what my tight ass feels like from an outside perspective.’”
Geralt doesn’t choke, but his thoughts fizzle to a halt and everything refocuses around the two men before him. That’s—Jaskier is not actually serious, is he? But then again, it’s Jaskier. It’s Jaskier doubled.
“Crude,” Dandelion scowls. “And horribly on the nose.”
Just like that, Dandelion pulls Jaskier by the neck and joins their lips.
The kiss turns fierce the instant it begins. Grasping hands trace purposely over Jaskier’s backside, wandering the expanse of covered skin. They knead restlessly, pulling the fabric tight around muscle. Something in the fidgety touch coaxes a soft sound out of Jaskier, the groan smothered against an insistent mouth.
It’s Jaskier who parts first with a harsh sigh blown out through his nose.
“Are you liking the show?” It takes a second for Geralt’s eyes to flicker up from reddening lips. Worse is that he’s not sure who asked him the question.
“I am,” says Dandelion in the silence, smirking a bit lewdly in the witcher's direction.
Not as lewd as Jaskier who grabs Dandelion by the front of his trousers in a merciless grip. The strangled sound he causes isn’t as pained as Geralt would have expected. Then again, Jaskier jokes about receiving gratifying punishments from upset lords and ladies, so in hindsight, he shouldn’t be surprised he likes his pleasure tinged with a little pain. The bard attracts trouble as frequently as he attracts lovers.
“If you’re going to fondle me like that in front of company,” Jaskier murmurs sweetly with a squeeze that startles a gasp out of Dandelion. “Then I deserve the right to open your pert little bottom up first.”
A blush climbs quickly over Dandelion’s cheeks. It looks rather pretty on his dumbstruck face. “My bottom is not little. And, um, I’ve no issue with that. You don’t happen to have any oil on you, do you?”
“Who do you take me for, an inexperienced chap? Of course I do. What, you lose yours in world-transit?”
When they separate for the search, Geralt freezes in place. He feels like he’s stumbled upon a scene he has no permission to be seeing. And yet Jaskier doesn’t urge him to leave. He goes to his pack to recover a phial of scented oil, moving around the seated witcher.
Their eyes meet for a heart-stopping second, a strange light in the bard’s lowered gaze, before it passes just as quickly, and everything continues the way it’s had so far.
Geralt has walked in on him in the middle of a passionate embrace many times, but this is different. This is the beginning unfolding right before him. He has no place here. Except with Dandelion things seem to go—well, differently.
“Geralt,” the bearded bard croons, “Would you be a darling and give us some room?”
Geralt, at a loss once more, blinks. “You sure you don’t mean give you the room?”
“I was sort of hoping you would stay.” Dandelion throws that into the air as he starts to remove his clothes piece by complicated piece, facing away to sit on a corner of the bed.
The ease with which he undresses baffles him. But—and this is a leap his thoughts make as he stares at unveiling skin—but if Dandelion wants him to stay, does that mean that Jaskier does? They are both the same and yet different, and Geralt isn’t quite sure where the differences lie. He thinks Dandelion is more flare, more push. Maybe more dare.
It certainly feels like he’s daring Geralt to speak his mind.
The witcher doesn’t rise to the bait, lips firmly shut. That he doesn’t get up and leave but sits further back in the ample bed is answer enough, more of an honest answer than he’s willing to put to words. He hopes Jaskier doesn’t put too much thought to it, because Geralt certainly isn’t.
Dandelion notices immediately, though his reason is surprising.
“You’re a bit more quiet than I’m used to, from you.” The bard turns to lay on his stomach over the plush bed cover, and it’s then that Geralt realizes the bard is very much stripped bare.
And so is Jaskier when he comes into his line of sight.
“He’s more a man of action.” Jaskier shrugs behind Dandelion. He runs light fingers through naked skin, dipping into Dandelion’s curved spine before stopping at the swell of ass.
A smile graces Dandelion’s face, his back arching even further under the delicate touch. “I like a man of action.”
“Is that so? Allow me the pleasure of action then.”
Geralt hadn’t yet noticed the slight sheen over Jaskier’s hand, but as his hand sinks lower, hooked in a way that startles an obscene sound out of the bard on the bed, the witcher understands he found the oil alright. And Dandelion, Geralt discovers, is an extremely vocal lover, directing Jaskier with both body and voice over how deep and how fast to work.
Geralt spares a moment to wonder how did he get to be in this situation, watching his unspoken best friend-plural fuck himself open for the simple reason of ‘I can’. This is more like an involuntary sexual fantasy more familiar inside fever dreams than in reality, and he as a witcher lives a very strange reality. But there’s no laying the blame on his tired and frustrated mind for creating such a lustful scene here. This is no dream. This is actually happening. And he is watching. He is witness to one of the universe’s stupid whims.
When he finally comes back from his reverie—thanks to a very low, very throaty groan—his yellow eyes meet Dandelion and the three fingers working him open, slowly, pulling muffled groans out of the bard.
“None of that now, I want to hear you,” says Jaskier over the shell of red ears, twisting his wrist in a subtle way. The noise that comes from Dandelion then is much louder, even bitten through the sheets. “Better.”
Geralt can only stare, wide eyed and lips pressed tight, as Dandelion raises his hips to meet that questing hand. The bard spreads his thighs urgently, inviting as much as Jaskier is willing to offer. Which is another finger at the rim. Just pressure skirting the edges where the rest stretch and slide.
“Oh fuck, oh yes.” Dandelion’s legs tremble as he keeps himself stiff and bent. His neck is flushed red down to his chest. His expression is hidden by the angle and his hair, which falls longer than Jaskier’s, around his eyes.
Geralt wants to push it back so badly. But his hands don’t dare venture out of his lap for a second. They’re safer there, away from intervening on—whatever this is. He is witness, but he yet doesn’t know if participating crosses some unmentioned line.
Dandelion had said he wished for the witcher to stay. Was that permission to join them?
Geralt’s vision blurs again as he keeps the urge to touch controlled. It’s just—Dandelion, moaning with that voice so very familiar to Geralt’s ears, and Jaskier’s own wordless panting as he is both stretched and stretching, caught in a cross-legged, twist-armed embrace that only makes sense to him—to them. It slips by his notice how Dandelion cranes his neck to suck at a pale collarbone, dragging his hips away from seeking hands. Jaskier makes a disapproving sound. He can’t reach Dandelion’s ass anymore. A gasp later their positions are switched, all in the blink of an eye.
An impressive move by one red blushing—bearded—bard. “I think you deserve a turn now.”
Jaskier squirms, his expression downturned in displeasure. Now he lies with his chest pressed on the soft mattress, his thighs pinned under Dandelion’s weight. It’s only when Dandelion shifts to lift one of Jaskier’s leg to the side and expose the cleft of his ass that Jaskier struggles to toss the infuriating man off of his back.
It is the weakest, most unenthusiastic attempt Geralt has ever seen to break free.
“Oh, give me a second, buttercup.” Dandelion leans to grab the tossed vial of oil. “You didn’t share a drop of your oil and now I need it for you.”
Jaskier grumbles, but relents all the same, and in the next instant Dandelion’s poured a generous amount of scented oil over his fingers, spreading it thoroughly with a bright smile. He moves so fast, and between the chorus of groans and shouts, Geralt loses track of things. It’s Jaskier rubbing himself on the bedspread, panting for air. It’s Dandelion leaving red kiss marks on Jaskier’s back, high against his shoulder blades.
And Geralt? Geralt is hard as stone, guileless as ever.
The words snap him back to the present, whenever that may be, to the sound of Jaskier’s low, drawn out moan, familiar as if in pain, and his witcher’s instinct practically leaps to the forefront. He’ll stop whatever’s happened, damned if Jaskier’s gone and hurt himself for sex—
It’s not pain. He’s—Dandelion is fucking him, thrusting slow and unhurried, and it is obviously driving Jaskier to a fit of ferocious anger. That’s why he sounds pained. He wants to throttle the furry-lipped bard burying his cock in him at an infernally lazy pace.
“Fuck me proper you rat bastard,” he croons, throwing his hips back with more force.
Dandelion takes none of it. His grip turns bruising on the meat of Jaskier’s thighs instead, and it draws another irritated groan out of the fucked out bard. “Brats don’t get what they want, buttercup.”
“Call me buttercup one more time—mm.”
Say what they will about Jaskier’s penship for trouble, but his many sexcapades have taught him the fastest, most effective way to bend a lover over with pleasure. Dandelion, it seems, shares in that knowledge and experience by how quickly he shuts Jaskier’s ire down to bleary eyed compliance.
But of course, Jaskier would know himself and what he likes best.
Between the two of them, the room becomes so hot that Geralt starts panting with sweat himself. His heart rate has been spiking since the doors were locked, first in nervous apprehension and now from the erotic display.
They could really do with opening a window. It’s growing dark. The candles fix that issue, but a nice cool breeze billowing in as the last rays of sunlight streak across the wall would clear the room of its heat. Whatever helps center the witcher’s mind.
It would also distract from pulling his cock out of his now-uncomfortably tight breeches to beat the frustrating pool of arousal gathering behind his crotch. He’s dealt with ill-timed erections. Battle adrenaline sometimes works him up, and there’s no better time to go into a brothel than right after a hunt. He’s gone to a few with Jaskier too.
For separate rooms and partners, of course.
This, though. This has never happened—getting hard in the presence of Jaskier. Getting hard because of Jaskier, hazy dreams not counting.
Geralt bites down on his tongue to silence a growl, as he presses a flat palm over the swelling tent of his breeches. He can’t make himself leave—or even walk to a damn window to breathe—he can’t make himself invisible, and he can’t stop staring.
Dandelion catches him watching. The knowing look in his eye makes his heart practically jump up his throat.
“Would you like a turn there, Geralt?” His dulcet voice does not mock. It is genuine in its question. “We’re such great lovers, though perhaps I’m biased.”
Jaskier makes himself known with a gasped, “You’re absolutely biased.”
“Hm. What does he like, you think?” His hips slow further to a dragging push. “Just to watch? I know I would love to watch me—us. You. You make such a pretty picture like this, blushing right up to the tips of your ears. What do you say, should he touch?”
Jaskier can’t do anything but moan pitifully in answer. It does not deter Dandelion at all.
“He has such rough, calloused hands, too. Bet they would feel divine in my place.”
Geralt’s hands twitch where they sit on his lap, itchy to reach forward and fulfill the image Dandelion provides.
And the bard just doesn’t shut up.
“Look at him, he’s so hard my cock aches in sympathy.”
Geralt looks down at himself with an almost detached realization that he is harder than he’s ever been in his life, actually. More than after a hunt, more than with an extremely enthusiastic prostitute. And it’s with a belated clench of his fists, rubbing accidentally where the fabric of his pants hugs him too intimately, that heat spreads up from his crotch to his chest, to his face. He thinks he could feel his pulse against the trappings of his breeches. He could see his pulse by the timed twitching of his cock.
“I—” Geralt’s voice scratches rough, dry like sandpaper, and he stops speaking to swallow.
What can he possibly say to that? That he’s hard because of them, and it’s strange because he’s never thought about him—about Jaskier—in such a wanton way before, not really, but now it’s so easy to see it that he cannot unsee it, him and them, naked on a ratty old bed in a rented hole, partaking in man’s oldest known pastime?
“Oh you dear.” Dandelion’s gaze turns soft. “Don’t think too hard. It needn’t be complicated. How about we do this?”
Dandelion moves up to his knees, slipping delicately out of Jaskier. His blue eyes don’t leave the witcher’s as he sneaks forward towards him. Only when they’re at an arm's distance does he glance down where Geralt cringes his own knees up as if to back away, even though the bed frame won’t allow for it. The motion pinches him inside the breeches so he quickly unwinds his legs back flat and spread open.
Dandelion takes his wrist, and the sudden touch—and heat—makes him jerk in place. “If it’s not what you want, you just say so, hm?”
Then he strokes his wide palm where Geralt’s just was and keeps it fixed there, pressing down.
Dandelion’s hand is a forge. It’s smelted iron. Geralt thinks he might just melt under his unmoving palm, but then Jaskier—Jaskier who will not be second fiddle in anything, not in sex and especially not to himself—lays his own palms against Geralt’s stomach, trailing his fingers up and lifting his dark shirt, and his whole body lights up like wood struck by lightning. Those clever hands leave trails of fire on the expanse of his scarred skin. They dip down just as unforgivingly slow, to the seam of his breeches, at the ties just above a prominent tent.
It’s overwhelming. How Jaskier picks the tie apart. How his lips are just slightly parted and breathing over the rise of black fabric. The outline of Geralt’s cock is so clear, with Dandelion nudging the bulge. Just a prodding touch, no more, like a test—almost innocent in intent.
It becomes not-so-innocent by the wide grin that overtakes his face, and really, terribly direct when he hinders Jaskier’s attempt to slip the breeches down by clasping Geralt by the base through the exposed underclothes.
Geralt sucks a deep breath in, feeling his entire body seize up. Dandelion must feel how his cock throbs at the attention. The blue of his eyes disappears, swallowed by endless, smolten black. His own pupils must be blown wide, the yellow in them smothered to a hairthin band.
“Oh,” the bard breathes—sighs hot against the treasure in his grip. He sounds like he’s undergoing a new religious experience.
“Dearling, let me work here,” Jaskier says quietly into Dandelion’s dark hair.
Geralt tries to remain still as the grip on him slackens. He misses the strong pressure instantly, as that hand reluctantly pulls back to allow Jaskier the privilege of freeing his cock.
“Oh,” Dandelion groans at the sight of him unclothed, hard and twitching against a pale hip.
Jaskier hums. “And to think you were teasing me of wanting his touch when you’re the one drooling for a taste of him.”
Geralt wants to squirm under their combined gaze. It is not unlike when people in the streets stare at him, an unusual witcher among unusual witchers. A sight to behold. His cock still stands proudly seeking attention, undeterred by the brief discomfort, maybe even bolstered by it, as a bit of moisture gathers in the slit.
If his face could blush, he would be red as a beet.
“I just—hmm.” Dandelion’s fingers lace around the base of Geralt’s cock again, unimpeded by the breeches now and even then his fingertips just barely meet around the width of him. “He’s so much. There’s so much of him.”
They hover over him, Jaskier practically glued on his double’s shoulder to pay just as much close attention.
They’re all so close now, sharing breaths, and it relaxes Geralt some. This is just how their time together will progress, with two bard’s staring at his fat length like a new wonder of the world. Which is flatteringly ridiculous. But that’s Jaskier, who always gives him weirdly-worded compliments.
He might find a new appreciation for them, after this.
Heedless, Geralt threads his fingers through Jaskier’s hair, mussed now with a little sweat on the ends of his fringe. His other hand comes up at the needy whine crawling out of Dandelion’s throat. Though with Jaskier he keeps a loose grip, with Dandelion, he gathers a good fistful of his hair to tug at. It’s—he doesn’t know why he does it. A compulsion? A fixation he’s yet to scrutinize? But the way Dandelion tenses and relaxes immediately under his clutch is an encouraging sign.
If Jaskier is fun to tease, Dandelion is exhilarating to bully. He arches like a cat, and he is just as noisy for it by the warbling caught in the back of his throat. Geralt clenches his fist tighter just to see his face pinch and his bottom squirm. It’s a marvelous reaction. He wants to see more of it.
Of course inciting the little devil means Dandelion swoops down to lap at the tip of his cock.
A quick lick, at first, eyes drawn to Geralt’s face. Neither of them breaks the contact until that wicked tongue flattens over the head and spit-slick lips curl around him, sucking softly at what he can.
Geralt can’t keep staring at him then. Not as Dandelion continues to lavish his cock with his skilled mouth. His pulse pounds like a drum where that tongue strokes him. A noise, like storm clouds, rumbles in the witcher’s chest.
His yellow eyes drift up until he can barely keep them open. He feels like he’s going to burst.
“Are you going to leave room for me?”
Jaskier’s voice draws his attention, but he’s not addressing his good witcher friend busy melting into the pillow.
Dandelion can’t answer beyond a hum that vibrates straight to Geralt’s head.
Jaskier huffs, and the air caresses Geralt’s thigh. “Don’t be greedy.”
There’s a lot of movement between the two bards, a lot of pushing and shoving, even involving Geralt’s legs, and all through it Geralt burns like a furnace. He was very much enjoying Dandelion’s mouth, and he would like to return to that, but Jaskier won’t have that just yet.
Not until Jaskier can lean forward comfortably and in time with Dandelion, lean their chins to either side of Geralt’s hips. They share a silent look, then, together, they kiss at the tip of Geralt’s cock, tongues meeting over the crown.
The deep moan it pulls out of the witcher is just as obscene as them.
“The two of you are just,” Geralt stops, nearly swallowing his tongue when they suck on either side of him, like they’re trying to leave lovemarks. On his cock.
Dandelion slips off to say, “We’re what, hmm?”
The deceptive innocence begs the witcher to tighten his fingers on Jaskier’s head so he does just that, earning a low rumble.
Jaskier is just—he’s just—he gives his everything to romance and pleasure and there’s no reason for them to be doing this other than it feels good. No reason to include the witcher in their fun. And yet he's been granted the chance and Geralt—he likes that they’re doing this, not an awkward pause of hesitance between them.
He almost wonders why they haven’t done this before, if not for the briefest thought of sex ruining what they’ve built together after years learning each other’s ticks and tricks. A heart like his can only take so much rejection before it cracks open, scarring in the shape of a person he cares for but does not care for him back.
But that has never been a threat coming from Jaskier—not really.
It’s the wrong time to be having an intense moment about how much he appreciates everything Jaskier does for him, how the bard’s always believed in the good inside the Wolf, but he can't help the heavy feeling manifesting when there are two same-named bards in front of him, and they both choose to rope their witcher into their impulsive screwing.
His cock throbs at the reminder of present events yet unfolding—of Jaskier thumbing the leaking slit with even, confident strokes. Dandelion’s head droops a breath away from the hand, lips parted slightly as if lost in thought himself.
“If I could suggest something, dearling.” Jaskier’s free hand sweeps up a dark head of hair, urging the furry-lipped bard down. “Stop thinking about it and do it.”
Even with the encouragement, Dandelion does not ‘stop thinking about it’, as he hums distractedly to himself a few seconds later. What’s done is by Jaskier’s hand pushing Dandelion’s head down to take the hard, apparent target of his distraction into his mouth, and that seems to startle him as he chokes with taking in more than half of Geralt in one breath.
Jaskier pets his messy brown locks out of his blinking cornblue eyes. “You can take it, can’t you?”
Dandelion’s moans cut straight through Geralt like heated knives, and he takes him all the way, until his nose is puffing warm air onto Geralt’s belly, his mouth a tight vacuum struggling to fulfill the bard’s wish. His efforts are rewarded as Geralt swallows back another gasp and comes, his entire body coiling taut like bowstring. He can’t help the minute twitching of his hips, seeking ever more pressure from that devilish mouth, but Dandelion just takes it, takes all of him without a whiff of complaint.
When the bard sits up, a fat tear falls down his cheek from the strain.
Jaskier wipes it away with gentle fingers. For a minute, the only sounds occupying the room are heavy, shaky gasps. Mostly from Dandelion, but even Geralt, who feels like he’s just broken through the surface of a lake after spending an age underwater. His lungs burn.
“You swallow it all?”
Dandelion nods as he slumps onto Jaskier’s shoulder, which wins him a good couple of gentle pets over his head.
“Good boy. Geralt?”
“Yeah.” Geralt takes deep, even breaths. “Yeah I’m here.”
He’s here and still asking himself just how it came to this. It is definitely Dandelion’s fault. Him and his trimmed fuzzy hair. He’s changed everything.
But Geralt doesn’t have the will to complain. Not as the bard in question looks up at him with beautiful, watery eyes.
“My dear friend,” Dandelion smiles as he speaks, his voice a raspy thing now. “I know you’re just recovering from my fantastic mouth, but,” and for this he rises to his elbows, tugging at Geralt’s breeches where they still cling to his thighs. ”Will you let me?”
Geralt stares a bit confused. “Let you what?”
“Well,” he says with restless fingers over Geralt’s pants. “Your bottom, it deserves a little worshipping too. And I adore it so. You wrap it in tight leather like a present to the world. How does anyone let you walk around like that?”
Geralt scoffs through his nose. His flirting needs work, but then again it’s Dandelion—it’s Jaskier. His choice of romantic utterings has always been either heavy-handed, borderline lewd, or a nonsense cobbled together in panic. He’s much better at singing and writing poetry where he can think for long bouts of uninterrupted silence.
But then he pours some more oil into his palm and it snakes its way under Geralt’s backside and into the clinging trousers. It moves Geralt to push them all the way down and off, shoes and socks and all, hungering for what the bard offers readily. At the tentative prod of a finger yet waiting for affirmation, Geralt drives himself to the point of shouting, “Yes, alright. Yes. Just hurry up and do it.”
“Ah,” Dandelion sighs, “Your eager wiggling is encouragement enough. Now sit back. And hold your leg up, just like that please. As comfortable as you like.”
Geralt does get comfortable, and fidgety. One might even say nervous.
No one’s ever wanted him like this. People look at him and his size and see a beast in human skin. Always something in his inhuman eyes that sows mistrust. Whores are more discreet with their distaste. They have to be. But even paid, they cringe at the feeling of his scarred hands over their skin. Geralt’s learned to endure. A bed in a brothel is cheaper than a room in an inn after all. Less likely to bar a witcher from entering too.
But he’s not with a pair of paid prostitutes here. There’s no loneliness in their touch. No forced interest.
Dandelion treats him like any one of his many lovers. Maybe with a bit more fervor than necessary, and Geralt doesn’t know what to do with that so he just lifts his one leg higher and lets the musical master delve where only he and very few trusted others have ventured to in curiosity.
He feels—he doesn’t know if there’s a word for it. He’s only just met Dandelion, but he trusts him, a stranger that wears his one good friend's face. Dandelion smiles in that familiar, soft Jaskier-y way as he urges one finger in him, rubbing very close to something that makes the witcher’s cock swell dizzyingly fast, and Geralt, embarrassed by how easily he’s worked up, throws an arm over his face to hide his expression.
A soft touch at his elbow makes it lift an inch.
It’s Jaskier, lying right next to him, shoulder to his shoulder.
“Don’t hide, you’re beautiful.”
Beautiful. His first instinct is to scoff—nothing about him is beautiful—but Jaskier stops him with the hard press of his lips.
Jaskier kisses him so naturally, even though right then is the first time they’ve done it.
From anyone else, Geralt might think the gesture put on as a charity. A performance expected of coupling. But it is not at all awkward. Jaskier’s mouth seeks him out with enthusiasm genuinely felt. He doesn’t flinch when Geralt tries to kiss him back. He rocks forward with a soft hissed sigh. Like relief.
With Dandelion pressing in a second finger, it’s almost unbearable. Jaskier is so much on his own—with two of him, it makes Geralt’s head spin. He’s so driven, so honest in his affection, even with Geralt, a witcher who by no rights deserves it. They both could have anyone, anyone in the world. And they’re choosing to have him.
At a third finger, Geralt squirms, hips tilting up and jostling Jaskier some from his spot. It disturbs their kiss, regretfully, and at the bard’s retreat, he wiggles more in place to take those deft fingers deeper and fit Jaskier closer.
Dandelion does the opposite and pulls out, and it’s such a devastating loss he just about whines, if not for a hot tongue that licks a stripe up the path of withdrawing fingers.
“I think he’s ready for more, hm, buttercup?”
The idea of more sends a pleasant flash of heat down his stomach. He would like more. He would like anything they give him. Consequence and fear have long left him.
As it turns out, Jaskier has a problem with Dandelion’s greedy disposition. “You’re not fucking my Geralt, not before me.” At Dandelion’s lopsided grin with a matching raised brow, he draws Geralt tightly into his arms. Geralt follows without a second thought.
“Oh he’s yours now is it?”
“He’s always been mine.” There’s a touch of admonishment overcoming Jaskier’s frown. “Ours,” he relents.
“Ours.” Geralt misses the nod they share. He’s very much taken by the dips and curves of Jaskier’s muscles shifting so close to his face. “Alright. What are we to do with our witcher?”
Whatever they want to, Geralt thinks, if only to just move things along. He doesn’t say as much, but he does groan.
Jaskier cups his face. It’s—so easy an intimate touch, that his heart hammers against his ribcage like it’s anticipating a threat to suddenly appear. He's not used to affection.
“Geralt, will you have me?”
Those light blue eyes shimmer into a deep sea color. They’ve always darkened when meeting Geralt’s unnatural ones, but now Geralt understands it’s because want and desire hides in their depths. Desire met with patience.
Gods—and Geralt doesn’t know how he’s held out for so long. Their kiss is barely over and Geralt is going mad wishing for another. If he just asks, he’ll get it, he’s sure, but it would also delay the answer Jaskier seeks.
Silently, though it draws him away, Geralt turns on his stomach. One knee bends to raise his ass, the other nudges at Dandelion who lounges naked to his other side. He feels his ears burn as he brings a hand back to hold himself open.
He spies through the tangles of his long hair how the blue in Jaskier’s eyes turns into bottomless pits.
“What about me then?” Dandelion peeps, distractingly whiny, “Am I to watch and wait my turn?”
Geralt closes his eyes briefly, not willing to let show that the thought of Dandelion fucking him right after Jaskier, that to be so thoroughly used and split by two enraptured lovers, affects him. His pupils shifting wildly would give it away.
His cock jumps flattened as it is against the bed, but no one but himself is aware of that.
Jaskier, however, has another, equally enthralling idea in mind because his indulgent smile and hungry eyes turn hungrier.
“You can sit there and take him just fine, can’t you? I stretched you well enough for his thick cock.”
“Ah. I suppose you’re right.” Without prompt, the reclining bard sticks four fingers into himself and groans at the biting stretch of tucking his thumb so very briefly along with the rest at the rim.
Geralt growls, taking that wrist and pulling those fingers out before Dandelion goes and fucks himself shamelessly anyway. “Stop that.”
“Ah, come on then, Wolf. If you’re so jealous of my hand why don’t you gmnn.”
He needn’t say more. Pulling the stubbly bard under him, Geralt wraps those squirmy, fuzzy legs around his waist in perfect alignment against Dandelion’s slicked hole.
“Fu—hahck.” Dandelion wiggles more in his grip, but all it does is grant the witcher more space for the head of his cock to breach him. Just the head. “Why—are you so stupidly big, I’mmm.”
“What’s that, Dandi?” Jaskier’s teasing tone is heard over Geralt’s ear, “I couldn’t catch that either.”
“Shut up, I’m being split in half. Oh, oh this cock is going to kill me. This is how I meet my end.”
Geralt isn’t even moving. He’s trying to breathe so he doesn’t finish prematurely because Dandelion, even stretched, squeezes him like a vice.
“Don’t pay attention to him, Geralt, he’s just being dramatic.”
“That’s—that’s rich," Geralt humors, "You saying that about yourself.”
Their current position, however, leaves awkward room for Jaskier to nestle close, so Geralt surges forward until their bodies squeeze together, using his greater weight to his advantage.
It’s a bit cheeky but the witcher shifts so his butt hangs just so, in Jaskier’s line of sight. The deep intake of breath he hears just behind him puts a grin on his face that only Dandelion can fully appreciate, but even then the bard is more focused on the cock sliding slowly into him.
A hand taps his right buttcheek and he jerks, driving him just a little more forward, into a warbling Dandelion.
“Ready for me?”
“Hold on.” He doesn’t want for their third partner to cramp up under their combined weight, so he leans up on sturdy elbows and, for a better angle, rearranges Dandelion’s legs until he’s practically folded in half, knees up to Geralt’s ribs. He sinks easier into him that way too.
The ankles that lock behind his back agree by how they dig into his back.
“Alright,” the witcher hums into a shoulder, nosing a sensitive, scruffy strip of skin that shivers with every huff of hot air.
Jaskier wastes no time hugging his hips, and at the touch, Geralt’s cock twitches inside Dandelion, which leads him to squeeze again and—fuck, he’s just realizing there’s no escaping either of their judging gazes and touches like this, with him in the middle.
No, not judging. They tease and play but they won’t judge.
“Come on, together, Geralt.”
The first push of his hips rocks Geralt deeper into Dandelion, down until skin slaps together and with just enough time to register the impact before Jaskier is pulling back again to repeat the motion.
It’s too much, too much sensation between the two of them. One at his front, the other draped on his back, every move projected through him like he’s a hammer in the hand of a carpenter to drive the nail home. He is but an instrument, with no will of his own, just following the hand that guides him—the cock that guides him.
They’ve been playing with him and around him all night, and while normally Geralt has hard-to-beat stamina, he’s been wired taut for release since Dandelion took up the task of spreading him open. It relaxed his body far too much. Already he’s teetering on the edge.
“Jasker, I’m not, I’m not going to last—”
“It’s alright. You can come.”
It’s not the permission what does him in. It’s the soft, following, “You’re safe with us,” what bursts the dam. Because he is, he feels so safe and full, sides bracketed by Jaskier’s strong grip. He feels secure, with how Jaskier’s thighs almost hug him when he drives into him to the root, and how Dandelion’s own thighs hold him, tensing when Geralt's cock brushes somewhere that makes him gasp high. He comes while Jaskier molds himself to his back, rocking in slow circles like he wants to fit himself inside Geralt and never come out.
“J’skier,” he groans loud into Dandelion’s hair, who for all his previous posturing, doesn’t say a peep while Geralt is still being relentlessly pushed into him. He looks to be in his own realm of bliss.
In two thrusts, Jaskier stops, hands formed into tight balls over Geralt’s hips. He’s shivering. Faint strands of his hair tickle Geralt’s neck. His cock pulses hot where it’s buried in the witcher, and when the bard slips free, something wet drips down Geralt's right thigh.
Jaskier combs through his fringe. A few hairs refuse to part from his eyes. “I hope that was alright, dear.”
It was more than alright. Geralt is still hard, but such is his fate with a witcher’s endurance. He hums in what he hopes is encouraging form.
“Yes, very good, you two,” Dandelion quips a little breathless. “Now please, some space?”
Their combined weight must be beginning to cause aches, so Geralt draws out of him carefully, surprised to see the sticky streaks of completion decorating Dandelion’s skin. He hesitates to mention the fresh mess they've made of him.
Dandelion, on the other hand, runs his damp fingers through the mess on his stomach, later tracing the other mess between his legs, completely unperturbed. “I need...a thorough scrub, actually,” he goes on to say with a grimace. Sitting up has them all groaning, especially as Dandelion knocks his heels into Geralt’s chest. “Hhm, if you wouldn’t mind missing me, darlings, I’ll be back in a bit. The washroom calls me.”
In the time Dandelion leaves to the adjacent room, Jaskier sits himself happily in the witcher’s lap, legs spread around his waist. It’s the first time since meeting the otherworldly bard where Geralt and Jaskier are alone, and the first time since quite a few realizations that blindsided the witcher. The contact and shared silence is nice. Their hands slot perfectly together. For once, Geralt wishes he could blush, just so Jaskier could see that the simple gesture drives his heart to a wild frenzy.
It goes from nice to intense as Jaskier, without pause, aims Geralt’s cock up to his slicked ass, and it’s both too soon and exactly what Geralt's been yearning for this whole time. They’re both tired by now, Jaskier more so, but by the gods does Jaskier’s body welcome him like home.
When the bard pushes, Geralt slips in so easily, after all the work Dandelion put in, that half of him is already buried in unresisting warmth. Geralt closes his eyes, trying to calm his oversensitive nerves so they can give it one more go.
And how Jaskier can still go, Geralt can’t fathom. It’s incredible seeing him, obviously starting to flag but rocking with gusto onto the witcher’s cock.
“Well well, I was only gone a second and you’re starting again without me?”
From anyone else, the words would have annoyed him to a growl, as he’s in the middle of an intimate moment, rare as those moments are in the witcher’s life. But really, there’s a soft spot growing in his chest in the shape of this second Jaskier. Geralt finds he’s already forgiven the bard for teasing.
And Jaskier may be too out of it to care.
“Fuck me. Fuck me too.”
Too out of it, or desperate, as a needy sound claws out with the words. Geralt can only stare up at him in awe.
“Oh, buttercup,” Dandelion cuts through from the private washroom’s doorway. “Are you so cock-hungry that even dear Geralt can’t satisfy you? You need me to help?”
Jaskier nods, his face red like he’s ashamed to ask. It’s shocking to see—Jaskier, ashamed? But whatever the reason, Dandelion understands. It’s good that he does. Geralt feels so lost now, driving into the bard like it’s all he knows how to do.
“Just keep going, darling.” In a moment’s notice, Dandelion sits with them at the bed’s edge, close enough to pet the pesky sweaty locks from Jaskier’s face. “He just needs you and me both. But he’s not prepared for it yet, right buttercup? Don’t worry, I know you can take us,” and he accentuates the point with a wetted finger nudging at the bard’s rim, starling him and Geralt both, “Together.”
“Oh fuck, oh—Geralt, please.”
He’s not sure if it’s good, if it’ll work, but Geralt desperately wants to try and apparently so does Dandelion, by the absolutely entranced look in his eye zeroed in on Jaskier’s well-stretched hole, and still stretching.
The problem is he’s already so big that he fears bringing Dandelion into it will be far too much, that it will push Jaskier to a limit neither of them wants to discover. Pain can be its own fun, when applied right, but pain like this would be counterproductive. Geralt wouldn’t be able to live with himself, if he hurts Jaskier for a hair-brained horny scheme to shove his cock in him alongside Dandelion’s—a perfect copy of Jaskier’s ruddy length hanging ignored between all three of them.
He slips a daring finger in alongside himself and Dandelion’s own testing touch.
“Fuck.” Jaskier’s voice cracks and his eyes go a little wild blinking away a tear. “More.”
More, he begs, and Geralt isn’t about to tell him no without first trying.
They start with that, a finger, slowly working in with the help of more oil. The vial empties on Geralt’s hand. It’s a generous amount. Enough to spill down his wrist and stain the sheets, but they’ve already ruined them so one more stain is hardly worth getting upset over.
One finger becomes two, then three, with some pause, as it’s clearly pushing Jaskier hard with how he starts licking the sweat off of Geralt’s shoulder and biting down like he needs the distraction.
“Jaskier, breathe. Relax.” He pulls his fingers free. Jaskier whimpers at the loss, despite himself. “Just another minute, alright? But I need you to relax first.”
The trembling bard follows the order to his best ability, though he still clenches tight around Geralt’s cock every few seconds. When the bard stills, Geralt gives an experimental thrust and discovers Jaskier’s ass can just swallow him whole now. And isn’t that something few people can attest to.
Dandelion’s been hovering over them, waiting for Geralt’s cue. He looks on with a fascinated glint.
“Right, come here, Dandi.”
At the call, Dandelion scrambles to kneel behind Jaskier. “Right here I am.”
“I’m going to pull halfway out, and you,” his hand makes a vague gesture against Jaskier's cleft, “you push in. But if it’s even a little uncomfortable—”
“We all stop, yes, yes, I know.”
“I’m not uncomfortable,” Jaskier croaks with a slow, stuttering rock of his hips. His pupils are wide like saucers. “I’m run-running out of patience. And control. Please, please.”
“He does ask so nicely.”
Geralt expends all his self-restraint in keeping still. He waits, half-buried, still and stiff as stone, for Dandelion to fit himself in the gap behind Jaskier, a concentrated furrow between his eyebrows as he lines up, the tip of his cock pressing harder and harder against Geralt at the rim.
Jaskier’s legs jerk at the new intrusion. The shove that follows is sudden, but once the head pops in, the rest of Dandelion slides home without too much resistance.
What had been a loose squeeze before now crushes him on all sides, and with Dandelion’s cock rubbing him inside the tight fit, Geralt nearly succumbs to the urge to fuck into Jaskier with abandon, though Jaskier himself is dead weight on his lap, his bright red cock twitching in the air with a thick white bead dribbling over the side of it.
It’s—overwhelming—a very new, very strange sensation that leaves him—leave them all—breathless. Geralt barely registers when Dandelion comes, but his quick short thrusts combined with Jaskier’s choked cries and steady squeezing sends him right over the edge. His vision whites out for a blissful instant.
When he comes to, they’re all collapsed on the bed still gasping and slotted together. Geralt pulls all the way out, and Dandelion follows suit with a groan. He’s a sweaty blushing mess but compared with Jaskier, he looks the part of a beautifully debauched lover.
Jaskier pants open-mouthed on Geralt’s neck. A bit of drool escapes him. Even worn down, he tries to lean up on shaky elbows to peck Geralt on the lips. Geralt meets him halfway, kissing him deep and long until Jaskier pulls away, not because he’d rather stop, but because he needs to get air back into his lungs still.
As he lies his head on the witcher’s chest, Geralt runs one thumb over the shell of an ear, and the other under a closed eye. He’s not used to touches like that being welcomed, so part of him wants to clench his hands into fists and draw them away. But all Jaskier does is hum a happy note, so he doesn’t.
“Yeah.” After a moment, Jaskier clears his throat, then smiles. “Yes, better than good.”
His smile is very contagious. Geralt finds it easy to return it.
Their secondary bard makes himself known in a quieter than expected way, scooting up under Geralt's unoccupied arm.
“Was that your first time?” he whispers wistfully.
Though it drains him to speak, Jaskier is the one to ask, “You mean, the two of us? Having sex?” Dandelion nods. “We’ve never... not until now. I guess we wouldn’t have, if you hadn’t shown up.”
There’s a lost look that emerges in Dandelion’s eyes and Geralt doesn’t like it at all. He doesn’t like how he seems to retreat into his head, so he tugs the man in by his shoulder until both bards press snugly onto his chest, their noses smushed on his collarbones.
That’s better. That feels right. A bit stiflingly warm but well worth it as both bards share a laugh at his expense.
They stay like that while the candles burn. It’s not yet so late to sleep. In fact, they would benefit from some washing off to grab some food from their packs. But moving after finding a comfortable lazy spot is such a hassle. Geralt breathes deep and slow like in meditation, almost drifting off into a nap if it weren’t for the ever-boundless energy for conversation that keeps Jaskier awake. Most of the time he's just thinking out loud, no input necessary, but now Jaskier can actually converse with himself.
Geralt manages to drone them out until one of them pokes him under the chin, stirring him from his meditative nap.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Jaskier starts with a confidential tone, “But can we keep him?”
Geralt huffs. “He’s not a pet.”
“But can we?”
“I’m right here.” The bearded bard shifts to level his clean-shaved counterpart with a hard look, the effect ruined by his pouting. “I can hear you—”
“Hush, pet,” Jaskier waves him down, his fingertips a light feather caress on Geralt’s chest.
“Well, I don’t mind if you’ll have me. It’s nice here, and if every day is to be like this, I might grow to love it here.” The bard hums after a second’s pause. “Just make sure to walk me every morning and feed me twice a day, splash some water on me when it gets too hot—”
“Are you a pet, dearling, or a potted plant?”
Now it’s Dandelion’s turn to speak with a confidential hush. “I’m whatever you want me to be and more,” he winks.
Jaskier slaps a hand over his face and groans. “I think I finally understand all the people who want to throttle me.”
Geralt closes his eyes. He, on the other hand, is beginning to see how their future together will look like.
Gods, there are two of them. He’s never going to know peace again.