bestdressed | (geralt) the sorcerer's soulmate

(geralt) the sorcerer's soulmate

Geralt of Rivia,
I write to you with utmost urgency, and so will not waste time with pleasantries. Witchers care little for smalltalk anyway, or so I hear. The kingdom of Temeria once again has need of a witcher, and none but you will do.

Some unknown creature has slaughtered a local lord and the entirety of his entourage of knights and servants on the road near the capital, and the squadron which was sent out by the king to find and kill the beast has not returned after nearly a week. One must assume they have met the same fate. The monster left prints of remarkable size in the ground near the site of the first attack, so it would belie that it likely did not take the travelers by surprise. But it is strange that so many of its victims appear to have died without so much as drawing their weapons.

The king is understandably cautious of mysterious and cursed creatures, considering his history. I request that you travel to Vizima with all haste, before more lives are lost. There I will meet with you to discuss the situation, as well as the matter of your payment. Be cautious of the southern road.

Yours,
Dorian Pavus, Magical Advisor to King Foltest of Temeria

-

It has been nearly two weeks since Dorian dispatched the letter by raven, and in that time, the road from Maribor to Vizima has become nigh impassable. Warnings have been issued to take a different route when approaching the capital from the south, but even so, there have been more victims. It is, therefore, a relief to be informed by a runner of the awaited arrival of the witcher he had sent for.

Of course, this is not the only reason Dorian's heart pounds as he pulls a heavy, fur-lined cloak over his shoulders and leather gloves onto his hands as he hurries to meet the witcher by the front gate. In fact, it hardly even comes close. The problem of the unknown monster no doubt requires the attention of a professional, it's true; but that it be Geralt of Rivia specifically is entirely Dorian's design. There is only one reason that Dorian is grateful to have ever set foot in the kingdom of Temeria: it is here that he has finally learned the identity of the man he's been aching to know all his life.

That he is a witcher comes as no surprise. Dorian determined as much himself years ago, given the rate of injury and recovery, and the severity of the wounds that he has apparently lived through. But that he would happen to be the witcher known for lifting the curse on Foltest's daughter five years past--Ada; a sweet girl, if still a bit skittish at times--had been a shock. Dorian had known from the moment the story was related to him; he remembers well the pain of teeth ripping into the tender skin between his neck and shoulder. And so he finally had a name for the man connected to the unseen hurts that have plagued him all his life--pain he's come to both resent and adore. (Though if he's being entirely honest with himself, it's more the latter, if only because it means he exists somewhere: someone just for him. A man who, if soulmates work for sorcerers the same way they do everyone else, is meant to love him.)

"Geralt of Rivia?"

Clutching his cloak around his shoulders, Dorian speaks the name aloud across the quiet courtyard, a note of hopeful anticipation in the inflection of his voice. Several yards away, a man stands beside his horse, armored and broad-shouldered with a shock of white hair and a pair of swords on his back, facing away from Dorian. Already, Dorian knows it must be him, as he feels an ebbing of the pain he has lived with for decades. It fades more with each passing moment, the dull aches and strains and old, smarting hurts that accompany years spent in the dangerous monster-hunting trade. Dorian knows them intimately; knows this man intimately.

He could trace the scars on his body from memory, though he has never seen his face.

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Geralt seems to consider Dorian for a long moment, but his gaze is warm.

"Are you asking me to?"

Might as well be clear on the matter before he sticks his foot in his mouth. He's been alive just long enough to know that sometimes it's easier and more effective to be more blunt.

Somehow he hadn't expected Geralt to respond so bluntly. Clearly a miscalculation on his part, given how straightforward the witcher has proven to be so far. But he hardly seems opposed to the idea, at least.

The silverware scraping his plate seems too loud in the quiet room. He puts down his fork and knife, regarding Geralt carefully. Has he been too forward?

"I am," he admits, and hopes that he's reading the look in Geralt's eyes correctly. "Though I did prepare a room for you, if you'd prefer that."

A smile ticks the corner of his mouth and something in his gaze warms. "Then I'll keep you warm," he answers. "Be rude to refuse the hospitality."

He doubts he'll be missed in his room, unless Foltest does find out that he's here. All the more reason to accept Dorian's invitation: privacy as well as a warm bed and an interested partner.

"It would be," Dorian agrees, letting his gaze drift to the ghost of a smile on Geralt's lips and back up to his eyes. He's deeply relieved, but doesn't reveal it, all coy smirks and a confident tilt of his chin. "It isn't the sort of reception I offer every passing witcher."

"But some passing witchers?" he asks, brows lifting slightly. Now he's curious.

"Your bed's probably nicer than the guest suites, anyway. Unless you put me in the barn with Roach."

The way he says it suggests that it would not be the first time, nor he suspects the last, that the hospitality he's offered is less than generous. Sometimes the barn is all folk have to offer, in which case he gratefully accepts. He doesn't mind sharing a space with Roach, anyway.

"You can't blame me for being curious," Dorian breaks character to laugh, looking bright-eyed and mirthful at Geralt. "School of the Bear, I think. He was built like one, anyway." The memory is clearly a fond one, but his smile thins. "But he didn't have the right scars."

He sets his hand on the table, palm up. "May I see yours?" His hand, he means, but it wouldn't be wrong to interpret it the other way. It is the scars he wants to see.

Geralt finds himself wondering if he knows the witcher in question. He looks at Dorian's hand, then pulls off the gloves he'd been wearing in the laboratory. He sets them aside and offers one hand to Dorian.

His palms and fingers are calloused, despite the heavy gloves he often wears. He has scars even on his hands - this one features a cut across the back, possibly from a glancing blow or blocking something.

"Here I thought that was a ploy to get my shirt off," he admits.

"I hardly need a ploy for that," Dorian says with smirk. Now that Geralt's agreed to go to bed with him, it seems he's quite confident.

He takes Geralt's offered hand in his. He feels that rush again, that certainty, like a warm sunrise. His thumb brushes slowly across Geralt's palm and the callouses there. Dorian's hands are smooth by comparison, manicured, the nails painted with black lacquer. The flips Geralt's hand over slowly so that they're palm to palm, and traces the long scar across the back with the fingers of his other hand. His expression softens.

"This one is old, isn't it? But I remember. I couldn't move my hand for days while it was healing."

"I blocked a sword," he says as Dorian recounts the pain. "It was early days, stumbled into a bandit camp and they weren't interested in letting me leave."

Being outnumbered is nothing new, but he'd still been relatively new to the Path.

Dorian's hands are soft compared to his own. Geralt takes care of himself, but luxuries always seem pointless, unless it's a hot bath and a bed. His nails are neatly trimmed and clean, that's as luxurious as he gets.

"I thought I might lose the hand," he admits. "The gloves were thick but the cut was deep. Even with swallow, it took time to recover."

"I thought I might lose the hand, and I wasn't even the one injured," Dorian snorts. He looks at the scar again, traces a finger over it. "It healed so well." Touching Geralt's hands--touching the marker of an injury he vividly remembers feeling--is just this side of surreal. "I've noticed you aren't blocking swords with your hand any longer. I'm glad you learned that lesson quickly."

He's silent for a moment, just looking at their hands together--both of his around one of Geralt's. That scar.

"It really is you," he murmurs.

"Got better gloves," he quips with dry amusement. That is more or less true - he's still blocking with limbs, but he's been able to invest in better gear.

Something in him softens at Dorian's gentle awe. Geralt shifts his hand so he can brush his thumb over Dorian's.

"I'm sorry for your pain," he says after a moment. He feels like he should offer some sincere apology, even if it's not his fault that Dorian has been matched to him. But he can offer his sympathy, his empathy. "I can't have been easy to live with."

"You weren't," Dorian agrees. "And you will never be, I expect. But don't apologize. It isn't as though I'm easy to live with either." One side of his mouth pulls up at that. A joke, but one he clearly thinks is true. He's been told often enough how difficult he is. Watching Geralt's thumb stroke the back of his hand, gentle and soothing, is odd. Until today, the only thing that's connected them is shared pain.

"For a long time, I tried to rationalize what I was feeling," he explains quietly. "I thought that perhaps I had to suffer more than most to have someone who would truly understand me. It seemed a rare enough thing. I thought that if I could meet you one day, everything would have been worthwhile. And," he adds, "I wasn't alone. If I was in pain, so were you."

There's a tightness in his chest that Dorian is determined to stop from escaping. He shakes his head slowly, forces a smile. "I haven't even asked what you think," he points out. How typically selfish. "Do you believe in any of it? That this connection means that the two of us are...uniquely suited to one another?"

"Destiny and fate get thrown around a lot," he says after a moment. "I believe in them, I think. But I never thought witchers could--have bonds like this. We aren't human anymore. Not entirely." But then, he supposes, neither are sorcerers to a degree. They've given up something as much as witcher candidates do to become what they are.

Granted, as far as he understands, there might be some level of volunteer for the Brotherhood. But he's also heard that anyone with power might catch their attention, and sometimes those are not always interested in leaving their homes for the unknown.

"I don't know what I think," he admits. "I only know that I feel... better. With you close."

Dorian's presence doesn't soothe all of his old aches and pains, but it does do something.

Dorian is a talker. Geralt very much is not, as had become clear extremely quickly. It's funny, really, how opposite they are in a number of ways--appearance, personality. Dorian can't help but find it strangely fitting. So when Geralt speaks, Dorian listens, wholly and intently. The witcher has such a nice voice; low, rough, rasping, but in a way that sinks down through Dorian's body, settles warmly against his spine.

"Ah," he breathes out. That's as close to an admission as he's heard Geralt make. "Well that's something." He doesn't know if he believes in destiny either. But he's believed in the validity of this bond for most of his life. He believed that on the other side of it was someone who would understand him and care for him in a way no one else could. And now that he's met him, he's beginning to think he could be right. His smile softens. "So do I."

Geralt squeezes Dorian's hand before gently letting go. The rest of the meal is pleasant. The witcher doesn't talk much, if only because he seems focused more on eating. He's polite, though, he has respectable table manners. Vesemir would be proud.

When they finish eating, it's back to the laboratory. Geralt answers any questions Dorian has as they work, and it goes faster with two sets of hands. All that's left is to let things sit overnight to steep or solidify or whatever needs to happen to finish.

And as they leave the lab, Geralt turns his full attention to Dorian. "Is your room here int he tower or do we need to walk?"

There's something immensely pleasing about spending the next several hours working side by side in the lab. They do so almost seamlessly, in a way that Dorian's rarely been able to do with others. And best of all, Geralt knows what he's doing. Perhaps a bit crude, given that he normally does alchemy over a campfire, but his knowledge is sound, and Dorian is pleased to learn how to make a few of his decoctions.

By the time they're ready to move to his room for the night, Dorian's chest feels warm and full with an almost tangible feeling of fondness. "It's here," he answers, "just upstairs." Near the door to his study is a stairwell, narrow but well kept. He leads the way up, and with a spell unlocks a heavy door several flights up. Has he ever been so simultaneously nervous and happy to be taking a man to bed before?

His room is, as expected, cozy and richly furnished. A large hearth, a four-poster bed covered with thick blankets and an array of pillows, and a wall of floor-to-ceiling bookcases (as though all of the books in his study weren't enough) are the most prominent features. A small writing desk in the corner is significantly messier than the one in his study. An empty bathtub takes up more space on the opposite side of the hearth. This room has the sense of being far more intimate than either downstairs.

The witcher takes note of everything as they enter Dorian's private quarters. The messy desk, the luxury, the stacked bookcases, the tub. A smile tugs the corner of his mouth and Geralt sets down his saddlebags and swords. He'd left them leaning against Dorian's desk downstairs while they worked, but he prefers to have them close at hand.

"At least Foltest is keeping you well," he says, and it almost sounds like he's teasing. Geralt moves closer to the fire as he starts undoing the ties and straps of his armor, looking forward to having it off for the night.

"At the Brotherhood's behest," Dorian counters just as playfully, following Geralt to the hearth. "Foltest takes my advice, but I'm no Triss Merigold." He watches Geralt for a moment as he begins to unstrap his armor. It looks like a complex process. He's never had cause to wear anything like it, and on the occasions he's had lovers who have, he's never interfered with the removal process.

He steps forward, pressing fingertips to the chainmail links that cover Geralt's stomach. He's just close enough to be able to look into his eyes without their noses brushing. "Show me how it's done," he murmurs. "I'll help you."

Geralt pauses when Dorian makes his request. But then he nods and guides Dorian's hands to the ties holding on the chest piece and pauldrons first. He holds his arms out of the way, and he has to admit it is nice to have the help. He looks at Dorian as he works.

"Didn't help your Bear out of his armor?" he asks. There's no judgement or derision, just a genuine curiosity. Once the chest and shoulder pieces come loose, Geralt helps to guide them off. He sighs and rolls his shoulders.

He shows Dorian the ties that are keeping the chainmail and leather tight around his waist and breathes a heavy sigh when they start to come loose.

With Geralt's guidance, Dorian catches on quickly. He doesn't rush through the removal process, but takes the time to be careful and thorough. This is an intimacy he hasn't shared before, and one he quickly begins to enjoy. The doffed pieces he arranges neatly beside Geralt's saddlebags before he returns to finish the rest.

"He preferred that no one else handle his gear. But it was fascinating to watch him remove it," he explains, undoing the ties as Geralt points them out. "And he did want me to help him out of his breeches," Dorian smirks. "His armor looked nothing like yours. Are the designs unique?"

The chainmail loosens further - Lambert always calls it a corset, but Lambert can go to hell - and Geralt sighs. He gets out of it with Dorian's help, leaving him in a padded shirt. He gets his boots off himself, along with the plates protecting his shins. Once again, he's left in a padded pair of trousers.

He's stiff as they get the shirt off, revealing yet another layer - a simple, thin cotton shirt - beneath it. And if Dorian wants it gone, it's easy to remove.

His torso and arms are covered in scars - some particularly nasty. One of the relatively recent ones is the striga bite on his throat and what looks like a rake of claws across one of his forearms.

Piece by piece Geralt's layers come off, and Dorian assists with each. The close proximity makes him miss the way Geralt's mouth had felt on his earlier, though the kiss had been so brief. But he waits, and when the witcher finally remains in only a a thin shirt and padded trousers, he slides his hands with care beneath the hem of his shirt and helps Geralt pull it up over his head.

The sight that greets him is not surprising, given what he already knows. But he had not expected it to seize him with such a sudden rush of emotion. There, mapped out on Geralt's body, are so many moments he recognizes. He may not know the cause or the circumstances, but he knows how it had felt to receive every one of those scars.

"Oh," he breathes, dropping the shirt to the floor and forgetting it as soon as it leaves his fingers. He touches the bite first, traces the outline with his fingertips; the one that had made him sure Geralt was his. He still stands fully clothed while Geralt is mostly undressed. "It almost feels as though I should match," he says softly, tearing his gaze from the map of scars.

Geralt rarely feels self-conscious, and he isn't sure that is the feeling that washes over him when Dorian sees him bare. He can't quite describe it, especially since he understands that Dorian knows the injuries as intimately as he does. He might not have bled or been broken, but he felt the pain. His hand lifts to cover Dorian's where it is against his neck.

"Not the first time I'd be naked in front of a fully dressed mage," he quips with a wry smile and a bright look in his eyes. "But I won't complain if you want to get more comfortable."

He'll even help.

Unable to resist any longer, Dorian lets himself drift closer as Geralt's hand covers his. His lips slide against the witcher's in a way that feels natural, inevitable. His other hand settles as Geralt's waist, feeling the defined muscle there as well as a deep slash that curls over his hip bone.

He has no interest in being dressed any longer.

"I'd like that," he murmurs, and reluctantly moves a hand from Geralt's skin to begin plucking at the ties around his waist securing the thick belt over the midnight blue velvet jacket he wears. "But I'd like it even more if you did it for me."

"You're gonna have to direct," he teases as he looks over Dorian's outfit, then chooses what he thinks is the best place to start. Some of it is obvious, but he knows mages like fiddly, impressive clothes. Sorcerers are no better than their female counterparts.

With Dorian's help - or at least his direction - Geralt starts working the layers off. Rather than tossing them, he makes sure to drape them over the back of a chair.

(geralt) the sorcerer's soulmate

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