Chapter Text
Geralt watches the festivities from outside the Alderman’s house. The sun warmed breeze carries with it the scent of spring/summer flowers, gathered in abundance, tied together in thick wreaths, bracelets, crows, and anklets. The men wear mostly grasses and herbs with spots of blue forget-me-nots and white clover, only permitted to carry the wreaths around their shoulders and no more. The women, however, are flooded with color, waiting for a man’s wreath to complete their collections.
There’s a group of young girls all sat in a pile still braiding together the remaining flowers. He watches them for just a moment, long enough to catalogue the flowers used, lingering for just a second longer to see the way they braid the stalks, before turning away. He knows how it looks, what they fear, just his presence makes their levity a little more distant. He keeps his eyes on the move, soaking up the groups of men building the bonfires, women setting the tables. The sun is low in the sky, turning it the most gorgeous shade of pink and orange, the clouds a pale blue, and he’ll have to leave the moment the Alderman returns with that purse.
He doesn’t want to leave. He’s drenched to his elbows in gore, boots thick with it, and he hasn’t had a bath for a week before today regardless. Coated in sweat, dirt, and gore, with his eyes an unnatural color and their strange shape, and his hair a matted silver, he knows what he is. And he is not welcome in their festivities. He never has been, it’s not a surprise that the town would want to be rid of him so soon. He will not fault them for it.
He takes the purse and goes without even a pause to hop onto his horse. She’s been snuffling at him lately, anyway, probably as tired of his scent as he is.
He retraces his steps, through the thin woods separating farming property, to the rocky edge of another property, where three lands boarder eachother, far enough way from town that he can hear them, and see a blot of the flames on the horizon. There’s a lake there, he’d smelled it earlier when he tracked down the beast, and finding it again is no trouble. He takes his time, turning his ear for the town, listening to the music and cheering while he cleans himself. Scrubbing the blood clean, picking it out of his hair, tugging and pulling until it’s less of a mess. He can smell the food, pigs on a spit, smoke and char. His packs are light, his stomach empty, and the festival will be going on all night. When they’ve sent the children to bed, and are pliant and relaxed from their drink, he may return. Pack up what food he can, linger in the shadows for just a moment longer than strictly necessary. They paid him well, but he will only take what would have been wasted, ritually buried at the edge of their crops in the name of whatever goddess they serve here.
Clean, fingers pruned, skin softer than it has any right to be on a witcher, despite the scars, he brushes Roach down. Going slow, spoiling her, thanking her, as the sun sets and the stars begin to shine. Filling his time until his hair dries, until the bonfires get low, and he knows he can catch a peek of the festival still in full swing despite the hour from the shadows.
He’s always loved Belleteyn. Livelier than Imbaelk, an entire night of dancing and drinking, lovers falling into one another’s arms in piles of late spring early summer blooms. A festival for love, for sex, the scent of it in the air, mixed in with the sweet florals, smoke of the fires, and rich wine. It’s life. Everything his meagre existence was created to protect. He carries his swords, but tucks his armor away into his bags, blocks it from view with rocks and leaves, and keeps Roach on a long lead, tied to a low branch so she can indulge her appetite for the sweet grass that grows here.
Making his way to return to the town, slow and careful and quiet, he berates himself for his weakness, but moves his feet all the same. He can’t deny himself this taste of it, the pull to their revelry too strong. He wants to see it, to hold it in his hands, to remind himself why he continues along his path when there are so few left.
He hoists himself up the side of the first building he comes across that’s close enough to the small square where the festival is focused. He sits on the edge of the roof, legs swinging, and watches. He’d timed his arrival right, no child in sight. The only light comes from the fires, one bonfire still burning bright, several smaller fires smoldering along, and every candle and torch in the town is set out on the porches of each home and business, burning bright, smoking, casting their bright orange glow and throwing even longer shadows.
Someone in pale blue silks twirls around, lute in hand, crooning and stumbling around, his voice sweet and raw as he plays along with the band. He dances around men and women alike, matching their drunken steps and laughing along.
Two lines of dancers, line up on opposite sides of a low fire, holding hands and jumping in place, cheering and laughing, near falling in their revelry. There are small groups of people lounging around who clap and cheer in time with the drums, who gasp and whistle when someone from the lines breaks free to jump to the other side. They collide into a body of their choosing, and if found acceptable, they tumble to the grass, or break free to dance around, or simply join in the line of dancers, jumping along. The formal time for this dance has long passed, but they continue to indulge, jumping on unsteady feet, glasses and bottles lifted into the air.
His attention is caught by the sound of bodies landing on the hard ground, met with groans and laughter and shouting. Over on the other building, near opposite his own perch, is a small group of girls, waving their crowns and their bracelets, untied so they form long chains of flowers to taunt the pile of boys below. They run and jump, fingers scratching at the uneven rocks to try and climb up to catch their favor. It doesn’t take long for them to be noticed, for their mothers and fathers to wave and shout them off to bed, and the boys chased off.
The figure in pale blue has paused in his merry making to watch the scene with interest, mouth hanging open in a wide smile, eyes crinkled. It’s sweet, and joyful, watching the subtle rebellion of younglings with nothing but enthusiasm for their gall. His eyes linger on him longer, the easy confidence about him, as he slides his lute to his back and finds a goblet full with wine. He saunters around, wrapping his arm around the waist of someone pretty and twirls around with them for some time, drinking his wine and whispering in their ear, making his partner laugh.
It’s beautiful. The fire casts a warmth over everything, even if the scent of the flowers has mellowed out, turned sweeter from their wilting.
Eventually Geralt carefully hops from his perch, landing near silently. He can’t justify encroaching on their merriment any longer. He quickly walks over to the table that’s been mostly abandoned, the bonfire set up beside it nothing more than smoke and ash, and begins to fold the leftovers into the thick cloths left under the plates, tucking the bundles into the bag he’s carried for this purpose. His excuse for returning, necessary but thin all the same. He goes as unnoticed as he can, moving quickly, keeping an eye on the merrymakers, careful to stay in the shadows.
“Interesting that a witcher would waste his time on such frivolities.” Geralt experiences a few different things at that particular sentence. Something about the wording of it just, bothers him. Makes his spine shock straight. He hadn’t heard anyone walking up to him, hadn’t kept track of the young man in pale blue silks, but the scent of honey and lemon, subtle, mixed in with that heady scent of sweat and sex and musk, convinces him that it must be the man in blue. His voice is quiet, near, and his accent not quite capable of hiding the posh education he’d received. His hesitation, caught with a bag full of food meant to be offered to the gods, and his silence, caught by the distant familiarity of that sentence, combined to allow the man behind him to close the distance between them and rest his elbow on his shoulder.
Geralt’s shoulder sparks with electricity from the touch, and he turns to stare at it, glaring, caught by the familiarity of the touch. He’d been right in his guess, he can see the fire glistening off the lute at his back, and sparkling on his silks. He’s careful not to look at his face, to only continue glaring at the offending appendage, tongue heavy in his mouth. He had no intentions of ruining the festivities, just a peek, just a few moments to forget himself in their life, before he continues on as expected for his kind.
He still turns the sentence around in his mind, chasing after that feeling of the familiar, trying to understand why. It distracts him, demands his attention. He’s missing something.
“Care for a dance, Witcher?” Geralt’s eyes snap to his, finally meeting his imporing gaze. He hasn’t had the opportunity to experience this amount of surprise in a long time, especially not from human hands. He takes in a long, deep breath and finds none of that familiar acrid fear. Just honey, lemons, sweat, and musk.
“Don’t touch me.” His voice is gruff, unused. He hasn’t spoken since he named a price for the contract two days ago, and even then he’d kept it to ten words or less. He swirls the saliva in his mouth, swallows it purposefully to try and soothe his throat. A desperate attempt to ease his words despite his intention to not speak another one.
The man’s eyes widen, pupils blowing away that icy blue. His body heat spikes, pouring off of his skin so quick and so strong that Geralt can taste it. He takes in a sharp breath, mouth falling open, widening in slow smile and it just deepens Geralt’s confusion. Geralt can feel the heat on his shoulder, where they touch, and the electricity, blooming over his skin.
“Oh, that’s very interesting.” Geralt frowns. That’s why he knew those words, that sentence. Why the cadence of it had so distracted him.
A soulmate.
He can feel the growl in his chest beginning to rumble, almost like a purr. That desperate beast in him rising to stake it’s claim, beating itself against the walls he’s built. The years and years of training holding against it so well that he doesn’t even flinch. How long has it been since those words on his shoulder changed? Seventeen years, eighteen? Everytime the script moves he can feel it, like fingers gliding over his skin, delicate, just enough to almost tickle. He’d never gotten a good look at what they said this time around, the scar on his shoulder healed poorly, marring the words.
“Not very talkative, are you?” Geralt shakes his arm from his shoulder and finishes folding up the food he’s held in his hands this entire time and stuffs it into his bag. The sudden, desperate need to leave fills his limbs and he turns on his heel with a snarl and begins to return to his camp. “Oh, no, wait, wait, wait.” Geralt ignores him as he jogs after him, but his hands catch his arm and still his grip is gentle. “Just a dance. One dance. It’s Belleteyn,” Geralt stands still, tense, as he jumps in front of him, his hands resting on his chest, fanning out over his body so one can capture his hand and the other one can grab a hold of his hip, “I won’t even ask for your name.” He pulls him by his hip, pulling him into a step, using his hold to convince him to follow, dancing before he’s even noticed that’s what they’re doing. Geralt’s never danced before, it’s not exactly something they prioritized training for at Kaer Morhen, but it’s surprisingly similar to some of the training circuits and after some fumbling steps he falls into the rhythm easily. He suspects it might also be due to his partner, going slowly and projecting his next steps.
His eyes are bright, and not once has he smelled of fear. How long has it been since he’s been touched by someone who didn’t reek of it?
Maybe it’s the scarcity of his kind now. More than two hundred years on the path, seeing fewer and fewer of his brothers every century, purses getting lighter, monsters even scarcer. There’s no need for him in this world anymore, no purpose. Perhaps he’s become a novelty the way wyverns have, nothing more than a passing toy, no longer feared or respected.
“You look furious.” He whispers, soft, clearly aware that he won’t have any trouble hearing him over the distant drumming. His touch continues to tingle, warm and distracting, and he likes it. He’s never been allowed to enjoy the reward their connection provides this much. Geralt frowns, clenching his jaw, and resists tightening his hold on his mate’s hip. He should leave, let his mate find his peace in softer arms. “Can I tell you my name at least?”
Geralt can’t stand seeing his face anymore, the gentle smile, the wide eyes, the desire edged with desperation. He’s been here long enough, taken enough of his mate’s heart. He uses the grip he has on his hip to pull him in closer, their bodies pressed flush, and tilts his head to scent his long, soft neck. He can smell where he placed a finger of scented oil, hours ago probably since the smell of it is so light, half rinsed away by the sweat that still clings to his skin. Lemon and lavender. The monster in his bones wants to sink his teeth into the skin there, deep enough to scar, to mark, something more personal than his words. “No names.” He can taste the salt on his skin, flicking his tongue out to taste it, drawing out a sigh from his mate’s lips. His hand wraps around Geralt’s hip, fanning his fingers out to press into his lower back, pulling him in even closer.
One night, just one night, on Belleteyn. He can take that, he’s earned that. In the morning his mate will wake up and realize the gravity of his fate, the monster that he’s been tied to, and by then Geralt will be more than halfway to the next town, impossible to find. It’s what he deserves, an easier life, a better life. He’s never faulted this soul before for searching for comfort in another’s arms, no point in faulting them now.
“You make me feel like I won’t be seeing you ever again, Witcher.” His mate releases his hand and before he has a chance to take a step back it’s wrapped around his neck, holding him closer, strong and nearly desperate.
“For the best, youngling.” His throat hurts, sore already from the few words he’s spared tonight. His mate scoffs, shaking his head, and he likes that reaction. He’s got bite, probably stemming from his youth, something that will be taken from him in time.
“Bullshit. This connection goes two ways, Witcher.” Geralt growls freely now, nipping at his neck to make his point clear. It makes his mate gasp and the sound of it makes it nearly impossible to resist sinking his teeth into his skin even deeper, to give into that need to mark.
“One night only.” His mate huffs and Geralt can smell the anger beginning to pool on his skin, pouring out of his pores. Interesting. Intoxicating.
“You won’t give me a chance.” He sounds defeated and Geralt is surprised when his face turns to press his mouth to his temple, hot and wet. It sends a thrill down his spine when he feels his mate scenting him, it pleases the wolf within to feel his mate’s scent being spread over his body. He’ll carry this scent for as long as he can, fold the shirt into his pack and wait until it fades from the cloth before he’ll touch it again. “Fine, I understand. One night or nothing, right?” Geralt kisses the skin he bit earlier, gentle, one after the other, leading up to the sensitive spot behind his ear, reveling in the scent of his sweat pooled there. He can smell the lust beginning to pour from him now, mixing with the anger that’s still there.
The hand on his neck curls around to his jaw and pushes his head up until their mouths touch. Geralt sighs into it, their connection making his lips tingle and spark. His mate moans and the sound of it is so delicious Geralt can feel his cock beginning to fill. He’s warm, and sweet, and even in anger he doesn’t smell of fear. It’s heady and he deepens the kiss, holding back everything that he wants to do because it’s too much. The wolf, only getting more desperate and more vicious as the years have past untouched, unwanted, and alone. Rejected by this very soul in his arms not once, but twice already. Their names etched into his memory, haunting him everytime he hears it, even after all these years, even after the mark he carried changed places and words on his skin.
He doesn’t know when they’d stopped dancing, but his body still feels like they’re falling over eachother in circles. He can barely hear the merriment anymore, drowned out by the soft gasps of his mate, the pounding of his human heart, fluttering so quick he fears it might burst. “Please,” whispered into his mouth, inbetween their kisses, and it sets his belly on fire. Geralt’s hands grip his ass and lift, the gasp it elicits loud and delicious. His mate’s legs lift at the silent command to wrap around his waist, his hands scrambling to hold on, scratching at his shoulders, and the trust sets Geralt’s blood alight. He bounces his mate to adjust him in his arms properly, and to make him gasp and moan into his mouth again. When he plops him down onto the table his mate’s hands go everywhere, pulling his shirt from his trousers and running his hands over his chest and all those scars. “Fuck, witcher,-”
“Wolf.” He can’t stand to hear him call him witcher one more time. To be reminded of why he needs to leave tomorrow while he’s still in his arms, his legs still wrapped around his hips, desperately trying to pull him in even closer. The word hurts now, scratching at his throat, feeling raw and dry. His mate smiles, relaxing fully into his arms, spreading his legs even further.
“Wolf.” His voice is so happy, so full, it makes him want to run, to leave before he has a chance to sink his claws in any deeper. He pulls him close instead, grabbing two handfulls of that beautiful ass, and grinding their cocks together through their trousers. The sounds he makes under his weight, chest heaving as he pants, hands wrapping around his waist to scratch down his back, only make his head spin with the speed of his blood rushing to his cock. The scent of his mate’s lust pours out of him, mixing in with his sweat, and Geralt ruts against him, the cloth of their trousers blunting the sensation just enough that this might last forever. “Please, my name, something,” his mate pulls his hair, hard and baring his throat, “to remember me by.” It shouldn’t be so easy for a wolf to bare it’s throat, but the feeling of his mate’s teeth on his skin make his balls ache, his thrusts become desperate, erratic.
“Fine, yes.” A name to drive the knife of the loss of his touch deeper, incapable of saying no that high pitched, desperate pleading. He puts one hand on the table to steady himself, wrapping his other around his mate’s waist to pull him closer, thrusting into his lap with such strength it shakes the table itself, pulls more and more of those beautiful sounds from his pretty, pink mouth. He sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, too hard, enough to break the skin, and his mate only keens, trembling with his lust, and it makes him see white, tasting his blood, as sweet as he smells, coming in his trousers like a horny pup.
“Dandelion.” Dandelion. It’s perfect. A sweet little weed, strong and fertile, spread everywhere, growing in the most unlikely of places. He’ll see fields of them for weeks and everytime he does he’ll think of his mate’s hand scratching at his shoulder, grabbing at his ass and humping into the thigh he offers just for this purpose. The way he groans as he comes, breathing into his ear, loud and desperate and still rutting his way through it, chasing after his orgasm. “Stay. Stay, please, Wolf,” Geralt pulls back, letting his forehead fall to his shoulder, and breathing in deeply the scent of him, of his come already cooling. He wants to rip those ostentatious silk trousers and lick the spend from his cock. To taste him. To carry the taste of him for days later, so strong on his tongue that he’ll smell it in the back of his throat. “One night. Until the sun comes up.” His begging is so sweet, he wants to give into it, wants to stay. He’d promised one night, he’d have a chance to sink his cock into his tight ass and really have something to remember. If the scratches on his chest, the panting into his ear, the smell of his lust, the rabbiting of his heart, and the lack of fear were anything to go by then they’ll both be glad for it. Desperate for it.
“One night, Dandelion.” He can taste the blood on his tongue from his own ravaged throat, the pain of it almost sweet when mixed in with his mate’s mouth on his throat, already halfway through marking him the same way Geralt wants to mark. He’ll only carry the bruise for a few hours, almost wants to tell him to draw blood, to make it last as long as his human teeth can.
He sinks to his knees and buries his face into Dandelion’s lap and sucks in a deep breath, punching a gasping whine from his lover’s throat. Dandelion’s hands dig into his hair and he ruts his cock against his cheek, drawing a smile from Geralt. Insatiable, hungry, wanting.