The moon was high in the sky. The ink-black forest lay in silence, no owls hooting in the darkness. Not even the wolves were stirring, seemingly having chosen to call it a night and mercifully letting their prey enjoy its sound sleep. At this hour, most reasonable people would long have gone to bed. Of course, few of the residents of Toussaint could be called reasonable.
Geralt of Rivia, witcher by trade and knight for a day, had spent the last hours of the day drinking and flirting with whoever was willing. It was custom to celebrate heartly after winning a tourney, after all, and he had done just that. Be it archery, riding or man-to-man combat, nothing could quite beat the training you got on the Path.
Outside Geralt’s tent, Roach was lazily grazing on a patch of flowers. Her fur gleamed in the torchlight. She looked exhausted, her flanks being splattered in mud and dirt after having been forced to gallop through rivers and fields at full speed. Geralt patted the horse on the back on his way past her, silently thanking her for her involvement in the tourney. They were a team, after all. Roach whinnied softly and shook her head happily in response.
The tent had been unexpected. Geralt would have assumed that after the extensive digging the organizers had apparently done into his backstory, they would have come across the documents signing the rights to Corvo Bianco over to him, and denied him free lodging on account of his own vineyard being just around the corner. Plus, witchers didn’t need to sleep like normal humans and as such didn’t really need a proper place to stay at night, especially not one with a bed. But he didn’t complain. Having a place to rest after the tourney had actually proven to be quite convenient. Now that he had partied his way into the night, thanks to the tent he didn’t have to drunkenly climb up on his horse and make his way over crummy roads and unlit paths back home. Roach probably appreciated that, too.
Geralt lit the candles in the tent with a quick gesture. The igni-induced flames spilled a warm, cozy light all over the room while he closed the tent door. Enough for tonight, he decided, he was just going to sit down, meditate for a couple of hours and then make his way back home when the morning sun had risen.
He had to admit that the tent was a good place to relax in. After the amount of shit he had been put through recently, a small room away from everybody else, in a new country, surrounded by people who barely knew him seemed like heaven. He hadn’t had much chance to rest, with Ciri, Eredin, the end of the world looming.
Strangely enough, even after his dealings with the Wild Hunt and his seemingly never-ending quest to find Ciri, the one recent event that seemed to have stuck in his mind the most was his adventure with Master Mirror, merchant of looking-glasses and devilish contracts. O’Dimm should have long since left him alone but he had turned out to be surprisingly stubborn. Geralt kept encountering him in his meditations. O'Dimm snuck into his dreams at least once every few days, sometimes more than that, sometimes even invading his more erotic fantasies, which for Geralt usually killed the mood instantly. It was like O’Dimm was still lurking in the shadows, usually just out of sight yet always there. Like O'Dimm's arm was outstretched and always just a little bit too short to reach him, but if Geralt moved just an inch to the right, or maybe leaned back a little bit, then his fingers would touch him. All that was missing was an inch, nothing more.
Geralt dropped his laurel wreath on the table and placed his newly-won ceremonial sword on one of the sword racks. Passing by a shelf, a few letters that hadn’t been there before caught his attention and he gladly took the opportunity to stop thinking about the Man of Glass. Taking off his steel gauntlets and stretching his fingers, aching after the tourney, he lazily read through them.
Disappointingly, there were no surprises to be found in them. All three letters were filled with run-of-the-mill adoration, something Geralt received his fair share of. Nothing that made his heart skip a single beat. On a fairground like this, there was no shortage of swooning ladies and flustered maidens as well as, as one of the letters proved, nervous men. One of the letters was even perfumed profusely. The scent clung to his fingers and stung in his nose, an overpowering odor that surely was not even pleasant to normal human noses. Most countesses, it seemed, tried to cover up their age and, in these times of war, ever-dwindling financial security with lavish gowns and perfumes that could be smelled from three miles away. At least, Geralt thought and smirked, that made their trail easy to follow when they inevitably got themselves kidnapped and/or eaten.
The only letter that gave him even the slightest of pauses was the fourth, placed slightly apart from the first three. At first glance it seemed just like any other message, written in the same hasty, nervous type of handwriting as the others and including the same standard adoring pathos tangled up in fumbling attempts at poetic phrases. The only thing that was different was that it was signed with not a name or a moniker, but what sounded like a cypher: “I move when you move”. If it hadn’t been for the adoration heaped in the rest of its text it would have almost sounded like a warning.
Putting the letter on the table in front of him, Geralt sat down. His heavy armor, a bit dusty but not much worse for wear after the tourney, made him long for a hot bath. He gazed at the writing but found that his thoughts wandered off, mind still muddled after all that wine. His eyes drifted away from the letter and into the distance as he picked up some of the complimentary delicacies.
The bread was delicious. Only the best for the champion, he assumed. The bottles of wine waiting for him had thankfully been left corked so he didn’t feel too compelled to get any drunker. Maybe he could look into stocking the Corvo Bianco wine cellar. Or he could have a wine break if his next contract allowed. Reaching for another slice of bread, Geralt looked off into the distance, getting lost in his thoughts. Maybe Yen would come visit him – unexpectedly and invigoratingly as always, sweeping through his life like a sudden summer thunderstorm – and they could break out the finest of wines, sit in front of the fire together, fool around a bit...
Geralt’s hand stopped. Didn’t his medallion hum just now? No, surely the exquisite wine selection must have gone to his head. He had scanned the fairground thoroughly beforehand, as was his routine, and apart from the two lovebirds’ magical affair had discovered nothing out of the ordinary. Caution was nevertheless a virtue Geralt possessed in spades. He looked around. Nothing. Paused, listened intently. Still nothing but the hooting and hollering of the people involved in the festivities outside, the neighing of horses, the crackling of fire. A panther or two in the distance. Nothing to indicate anything that should cause him to tense up.
“Greetings, Geralt,” a voice said behind Geralt. He sprung up from his chair like a startled cat, whirling around and drawing his silver sword in one fluid, yet visibly surprised motion. What he saw did not make his racing heart slow down. In front of him, on the bad that had been prepared for him, sat a man he had most decidedly not wanted to see again.
“O’Dimm,” Geralt replied. There was nothing pleasant in the word. If O’Dimm had expected a friendlier welcome, he didn’t let it show. The sword raised against him seemed to bother him much. Not even the corners of his mouth twitched out of that eternal smile. “Didn’t expect to see you again so soon.” O’Dimm’s eyes narrowed slightly, a change of less than a millimeter, yet amplified by not only Geralt’s heightened senses but by the tension in the room.
“Didn’t I tell you I’d be back?” O’Dimm asked. There was something dark in his eyes. Geralt couldn’t tell if it was menace or if that was just what O’Dimm looked like.
“I had hoped you had meant in a few decades,” Geralt said, nose wrinkled into a snarl. That was what he had hoped, yes, but something in him had already known that this had been coming. He had been on the Path for long enough that he knew that if someone refused to leave your thoughts, it was time to either buy some flowers or sharpen your sword.
Geralt was starting to feel slightly self-conscious about still standing in a fighting chance, the shining blade of his sword, raised and ready to strike, in such strong contrast with the happy noises drifting in from outside. At the same time the images of Master Mirror shoving a spoon into an innocent man’s eye socket, of poor Iris, of the incident on the moon, were still way too clear in his mind for him to truly consider lowering his guard. The man’s mere presence made him feel unsafe. He felt like the floor had suddenly and inexplicably tilted and he was just about to lose his balance. In fact, O’Dimm kind of reminded him of Yennefer in that respect, there was something about him that Geralt just couldn’t grasp, something wild and unpredictable. But unlike with Yennefer, Geralt would much rather have never dealt with O’Dimm again.
“Why, Geralt,” O’Dimm said and got up, prompting Geralt to tense up and retighten his grip on his sword. In this small a tent O’Dimm’s dramatic gestures seemed loud and over the top. His hand movements were those of a merchant specifically designed to draw a crowd, to sell wares on a loud market. Yet so close to him Geralt couldn’t help but instinctively feel like there was something off about them, about O’Dimm in general, about how he moved and talked and felt . “I heard Toussaint has some truly extraordinary wines. Do you really mind if an old friend joins you for an evening?” O'Dimm was seemingly entirely undisturbed by the silver blade pointed at him. Its tip was now mere inches from his chest, yet he brushed past it as if it was made of wood. He walked over to one of the chairs and let himself fall into it with a satisfied sigh. Acting like he hadn’t just appeared in the tent entirely uninvitedly, he examined two of the wine bottles on the table and unceremoniously uncorked one. Soon, two silver chalices filled with wine stood on the table. He gestured towards the other chair, motioning Geralt to sit down. After a few moments of contemplation Geralt begrudgingly sheathed his sword and did as he was told, body still tense, ready to spring into action at his visitor’s first misstep.
“So why are you really here?” Geralt asked, his hand tight around his cup, watching O’Dimm’s every move like a hawk. O’Dimm took a sip of the wine.
“This wine is truly extraordinary. Perhaps I should start selling it along with my mirrors – after all, one’s reflection is always much more beautiful after a few glasses of wine.” Without much further ado or commentary, O’Dimm reached across the table. Geralt wanted to flinch away but found himself frozen in place. Time stood still and he was trapped in it, being given no choice but to wait and see what O’Dimm was planning.
O’Dimm’s fingers reached Geralt’s cheek and then he leaned forward over the table, coming closer and closer until his mouth was right next to Geralt’s ear. His breath was hot against Geralt’s skin.
“I’m disappointed, Geralt.” Geralt could hear the smirk in O’Dimm’s voice. Finding that the touch of O'Dimm's hand had unfrozen him, Geralt reached for his silver sword, only to find thin air where its hilt should have been. “Here I thought you were good at seeing through my riddles.” Geralt’s left hand shot upwards, fingers bending to form the sign Aard, ready to blow O’Dimm out of his tent. Much to his chagrin but at this point not really to his surprise, no shockwave blasted out of his palm when his arm came to a halt in front of his chest. “This one wasn’t even hard. A child could have solved it.” Geralt threw his right fist forward – O’Dimm could take many things from him, but he couldn’t take his muscles. O’Dimm’s hand dashed upwards. With a thud, Geralt’s fist connected with O’Dimm’s palm just before his fist could connect with his jaw.
“Get the fuck out of my tent, O’Dimm,” Geralt growled. His muscles were straining, arm shaking, one last attempt to overpower O’Dimm. Geralt’s glare could have cut a cockatrice clean in half. After the shit he had to slog through after his last encounter with O’Dimm, he was nothing if not tired of his antics.
“Come now, Geralt. You must have recognized who my letter was from,” O’Dimm said as his hand steadily held Geralt’s fist in place. His face continued to be as telling as a mask. The enigma of his smile hid his emotions, if he even had any. “As I wrote, you fascinate me.” The word sounded foreign coming from O’Dimm’s mouth, like an alien concept he didn’t quite understand. “Yet you weren’t the reason for why I came here in the first place. I was just dropping by to join the festivities. Many roads cross here, you see. So many desperate lovers, so many broken hearted younglings desperately seeking a way to win back their rejected love, their lost honor, their wasted money – really makes for a lot of fun. But then I saw your name up on the scoreboard...” He smiled a bit wider, or maybe that was just Geralt’s eyes playing a trick on him. “Seeing you kneel on the podium to receive your prize made me think… I’d love to see that up close.” Geralt couldn't help but recoil at O'Dimm's inflection. His fist slid out of O’Dimm’s palm. “From what I have seen when I walked in your dreams, you don't seem too disinclined towards that either.”
Geralt struggled to keep his face sufficiently angry-looking as his mind raced. Surely he didn’t mean– no, he couldn’t– could he?
“What exactly,” Geralt asked through his teeth, “does that imply?”
“Don’t kid yourself, Geralt.” O’Dimm’s hand reached out and touched the multicolored fabric surcoat that hung from Geralt’s shoulders. His fingers lingered on the patterns for just a few moments too long before returning to their usual grandiose gestures, prompting Geralt’s medallion to sputter a few bouts of offended-seeming vibration as if it couldn’t quite decide what to make of the situation. Then again neither could Geralt. “Something still binds us, every night I hear you call out to me. You might not hear it yourself, but I do. I hear it clear as day.”
“I cut all bonds with you when I fulfilled my end of the pact. I don’t have any business with you and I intend to keep it that way, Master Mirror.” O’Dimm’s head cocked to the side, his eyelids narrowing and his mouth forming into a silent, smiling “ooh”.
“Call me that again,” O’Dimm said. Something lurched in Geralt’s stomach, something hot that made his throat constrict and his heart beat faster. The more he stared into O’Dimm’s eyes, the wider O'Dimm's smile got, the more certain Geralt got that O'Dimm did indeed mean what Geralt thought he meant. If the floor had tilted before, it was now angled so dramatically that he had to lose all hope of staying upright.
This was most definitely not what he had expected. Not from the Man of Glass, who had always seemed more interested in business than carnality.
It wasn’t like he hadn’t gotten personal with an enemy before, in fact Geralt of Rivia had had his fair share of bed-breaking hatesex. But this was different. He didn’t hate O’Dimm. Despite what Geralt was trying to make his own face convey he feared him, he was fascinated by him, he didn’t understand him and that was what had made him a thorn in his side ever since he had last seen him. Geralt felt haunted. As little as he liked to admit it, for the past few months O’Dimm had been such a constant presence in the back of his mind that he had even crept into some of the more sensuous thoughts of Geralt's. The dreams he’d been having in the sticky summer nights of Toussaint had been just as hot and humid as the air itself, and not a few of them had indeed featured the merchant. It seemed that O’Dimm was sticking to him like a fly stuck to spiderweb. Or maybe O’Dimm was the spider, and Geralt was the one caught in his web.
“Few have been branded by me,” O’Dimm said. His voice was low now. The dramatic flourish was gone from his movement, his attention focused entirely on Geralt. His fingers slid over Geralt’s cheekbone, over wrinkles and skin marred by a century of rough weather. They gently touched the scar that had almost taken Geralt's eye and lingered softly where the mark that had signified their pact had been. “Even less have survived.”
“We did not part in peace, O’Dimm.” It took Geralt every ounce of control he had not to react to O’Dimm’s touch even as his fingertip traced the outline of his mark down his cheek. Whatever had lurched in Geralt’s stomach before had taken to settling in his groin, an uncomfortable pressure building between his legs that he tried his very best to ignore.
“I’m not apt to take offence, Geralt. I’m a salesman, and as such I know when to let grievances slide.” O'Dimm's voice got even lower, teetering on the dangerous, titillating edge between conspiratorial and seductive. “And I’m still very much interested in doing business with you.” His gaze never left Geralt’s face, even as his hand finally journeyed on from his cheekbone and into the witcher’s snow-white hair. Had Geralt been able to see himself in a mirror that moment, he would have seen that his yellow eyes looked almost black, his catlike pupils dilated so wide they seemed to swallow up his iris. “Whatever you desire, I can give to you. Whatever you have dreamt of, I can make real.” Close were his lips to Geralts’ now, so close that Geralt could breathe in the air O'Dimm exhaled. A stab of unmistakable arousal shot through his gut at the sensation. “Whatever you dare not even imagine – I can do.”
A sharp pause hung between them as the last remnants of O’Dimm’s breath brushed over Geralt’s lips. Whether literally or figuratively, Geralt felt frozen in time again. He felt like he was on the hangman’s block with the executioner's blade dangling above him, and all he could do was wait, wait, suspended in time and space and yet bound to suffer a terrible, inevitable, inescapable end. Every hair on hiss body was raised in dread, in anticipation, in longing, in something he could not describe, body straining so tensely it almost bordered on painful.
O’Dimm’s lips met Geralt’s. The blade swung down.
To Geralt’s own surprise, no violent teeth-to-teeth combat followed. O’Dimm’s kiss was slow and gracious. It carried a pious sort of pureness with it that Geralt had come to find in the mouths of virgin maidens, not– not whatever O’Dimm was. Geralt couldn’t help but relish in the strange contrast between the deep, dark pools of O’Dimm’s nature and the simpleness of his affections. His lips felt calm, like a cloudless blue sky. Then O’Dimm’s fingers curled in his hair, gripping Geralt’s head, and the peaceful sky clouded over, a storm growing. Geralt realized that the calmness in O’Dimm’s kiss had not, in fact, been chastity, but cautiousness, and now that he had safely made it past Geralt’s guard O’Dimm pressed on, growing assertive, aggressive even. O’Dimm’s lips grew more forceful, tongue pushing its way into Geralt’s mouth, a hand finding its way beneath the steel backplate of Geralt's armor and clawing at the fabric covering his back, O'Dimm's other hand digging even deeper into Geralt's hair. Geralt, being the man he was, naturally did not relent but pushed back, his hands in turn grabbing at O’Dimm’s bald head, his bristly beard scraping against O’Dimm’s skin, tongue refusing to lose even an inch of ground and instead going on the offensive, the two tongues, as one might say, battling for dominance – one could almost call it a tourney –, neither of them willing to bow to the other’s attack.
Undoing the clasps on the straps that held Geralt’s sheaths to his back was quick and required little attention from O’Dimm, and before Geralt even fully realized that O’Dimm’s hands had moved to open them they clattered to the floor behind him. Next came Geralt’s belt, fastened rather loosely over his armor, more form than function, not much of a challenge for O’Dimm’s fingers. Once that too had fallen to the ground, Geralt instinctively broke the kiss as O’Dimm lifted the colorful (and, from the looks of it, rather expensive) surcoat over his shoulders and tossed it unceremoniously over the chair. Its intricately hemmed edges, surely the result of the careful handiwork of some ancient grandmother sitting next to a fire stitching for days, barely missed the candles on the table.
They halted for a weird, breathless moment. Geralt tried to read O’Dimm’s expression, but there was nothing to be read. O’Dimm was the perfect businessman, probably the perfect Gwent player too, unreadable, his gentle smile contrasting starkly with the ominous glimmer in his eyes and making his entire expression unreadable.
O’Dimm’s fingers made their way to Geralt’s hands and Geralt let him proceed as he took one of his hands in his own. O’Dimm’s movements were slow and deliberate as he gently took Geralt’s gloves off, first the right, then the left, breaking up the leather’s grip on his skin by loosening each finger first, then sliding them off in a controlled, almost reverent manner. Yet always that damned smile was playing on his lips, twisting all reverency into a mockery of itself. Geralt struggled to keep himself guarded as O’Dimm visibly taunted him for it, taking and giving control at the same time and always, always smiling. Not being in control was one thing for Geralt, might even be a titillating thing in the right hands, but not being in control when faced with someone like O’Dimm was an entirely different matter – yet he dared not to act, hoping that giving O’Dimm what he wanted, whatever that was, might make the man finally leave him alone. And he could not deny that after O’Dimm had snuck into so many of his fantasies he couldn’t help but be curious, if not desirous, about wherever this would lead. Maybe that would finally release whatever bindings still kept them together, and he’d be able to continue on his merry way killing monsters and seducing maidens without constantly being disturbed by O’Dimm showing up in his thoughts. And then, of course, there was that pressure in Geralt's crotch that despite his attempts to ignore continued to build.
Geralt’s armor would have proved a challenge to many a man, but not to Gaunter O’Dimm. His fingers slid over the steel with admiring curiosity, a merchant clearly fascinated by the quality of the goods in front of him. With skilfull hands he unbuckled the vambrance that protected Geralt’s lower arms and freed his elbows from their protective couters. The rebraces and spaulders that shielded his upper arms and shoulders from blows were unfastened and placed aside just as quickly. From there it was only a small leap to the breastplate that protected Geralt’s chest.
“You shall wear armor like no other,” O’Dimm murmured. “Steel forged from the entrails of a dying star, from the breath of a fish, from the roots of a mountain,” voice trailing off, speaking more to himself than to Geralt, seemingly getting lost in the fantasy he was spinning as his fingers caressed the decorative golden rivets that adorned the edges of Geralt's breastplate. His nails softly slid over the steel, over the elegant curve of the armor that emphasized Geralt’s upper body and gave the witcher an even more intimidating silhouette than he already had. Finally O’Dimm’s fingers reached the faulds, the overlapping pieces of metal that protected Geralt’s stomach.
In a strangely tender moment, O’Dimm’s hands moved to the side of Geralt’s waist, embracing him like a lover might. O’Dimm’s attention returned from having strayed into fantasy back to Geralt. As they made eye contact again Geralt felt like, for the first time ever, he could see something more in O'Dimm, something behind the facade, something that otherwise lay hidden behind that cryptic smile. Something wild and ancient. A yearning, maybe, a drive, a lust not even necessarily for the carnal passions of the flesh but for humanity, for more than the pitch black inevitable end of every pact. A few moments later, the faulds and culet, their equivalent on Geralt’s back, hit the floor, and O’Dimm’s gaze broke its contact with Geralt’s, leaving Geralt with nothing but the bitter aftertaste of whatever he had spied in O’Dimm’s eyes.
Geralt almost moved to stop O’Dimm when he started undoing the clasps on Geralt’s breast- and backplate. Despite – or maybe because of – all his powers, O’Dimm didn’t seem like someone who had to resort to using his physical strength all that often and the heavy plates of metal that made up the bulk of Geralt’s armor seemed like they might prove a challenge to him. Even Geralt himself struggled to take them off by himself, and he was a witcher.
“Don’t,” O’Dimm said sharply as Geralt opened his mouth, “underestimate me.” His voice was cutting enough that Geralt dared not to speak up. The armor proved to be no problem to O’Dimm, who picked it up and placed it aside as if it was lighter than a feather. Geralt was accordingly intimidated.
O’Dimm’s fingers ran over Geralt’s now exposed padded gambeson. It had kept the armor from digging directly into Geralt’s skin and turned potentially fatal strikes into nothing more than bruises, and O’Dimm’s eyes were fixed on the cloth as if it was telling him about all the hits it had taken, all the wounds it had spared Geralt from, like he was drinking in its stories of pain and suffering and relished in them. He paid special attention to the decorative brown edging, fingers counting every thread. Just beyond those few layers of fabric lay Geralt’s chest, his skin scarred from a century of combat, and despite the remaining padding Geralt felt naked. He was quite uncomfortably aware of the knife hanging from O’Dimm’s belt. It occasionally pressed against his thigh as the man caressed him. If O’Dimm wanted to, he’d be able to stab right through Geralt’s remaining clothes and leave him to bleed out. While that did not quite seem like O’Dimm’s style, the possibility itself was enough to make Geralt tense up.
It took just a few more movements of O’Dimm’s fingers, untying laces and opening buttons, until Geralt could shrug off his padded gambeson and all that remained on his upper body was a white linen shirt, sticking to his skin in the places where the armor had pressed it against him in combat, falling loosely in others, always whispering enticing secrets of the sweat and skin that lurked under it. O’Dimm took to Geralt’s freshly revealed neck like a fish to water, one hand immediately scrambling to touch it, pressing against it with a ferocity unexpected after his previously so deliberate movements. Geralt felt his heartbeat quicken, the rhythm in his jugular vein speeding up as O’Dimm’s hand pressed against it, not cutting the blood flow off, just resting against it as his fingernails dug into the back of Geralt's neck. O’Dimm’s mouth joined his hand in caressing Geralt’s neck, kissing quickly up the side of his throat, starting where the medallion lay against Geralt's broad chest and moving up to his ear. Geralt hissed in surprise as pain shot through the side of his head, O’Dimm’s teeth not just nipping at but biting his earlobe, almost hard enough to draw blood.
Geralt steeled himself, expecting the pain to heighten, the bite to worsen, teeth to dig deeper, his mind racing to try to formulate a plan should O’Dimm go even further and go for the jugular, but before he could figure out his defense O’Dimm’s hand had found its way down from his neck to between Geralt's legs. A groan escaped Geralt's lips. Even though several layers of fabric were still separating O’Dimm’s hand from his skin, the touch had sent sparks through him, Geralt's back arching to make his hips roll up into it. All thoughts of escape, of defense, were gone now, wiped out by the feeling of O’Dimm’s fingers against him. He couldn’t deny it much longer – he was hard, and had been for quite a while now.
O’Dimm’s hand rubbed Geralt through the fabric, moving vigorously enough that even though Geralt was still wearing thickly padded riding pants the feeling made him breathe in sharply, his hips pressing forward as if moving on their own. Geralt could feel his pulse pulsating in his groin, cock growing harder by the second. O’Dimm’s eyes were fixed on Geralt’s, watching him pant, visibly enjoying getting an actual reaction out of the usually so stern witcher.
Something mischievous was playing on O’Dimm’s lips, his mouth opened slightly in an open-lipped smile, teeth glimmering just beyond. The more Geralt looked at this smile, and the more the grip and intensity of O’Dimm’s hand working him up increased, the more malicious it looked to him. Geralt decided to perform a preemptive strike and leaned forward, hands that had fallen to O’Dimm’s side rising to once again grip O’Dimm’s head, open lips pressing against O’Dimm’s, tongues meeting in hot, wet unison, then without much warning he backed out of O’Dimm’s hand and slid down, coming to a stop with his face almost nuzzling against the bulge between O’Dimm’s legs. O'Dimm's sharp inhale at this proved that despite everything, he was very much human in body.
The armor still remaining on Geralt’s legs proved to be quite comfortable even as Geralt moved into a kneeling position, his knees safely cradled by padded fabric and metal. He undid O’Dimm’s belts with a few expert movements. In sharp contrast to Geralt’s quick, eager actions O’Dimm took his fair time opening his doublet from the bottom up, slowly opening each fastening while Geralt’s hands sat impatiently below it, yearning for what lay beyond the fabric. It took an agonizing eternity before O’Dimm had opened enough of the fastenings that Geralt’s finger could make their way beneath them, fiddling with knots and laces under the thick woolen fabric until finally the strings on his pants were undone and his underwear was loosened enough for Geralt to, finally, pull O’Dimm’s cock out.
Geralt looked up and felt his own cock twitch at the expression on O’Dimm’s face. Gone was the ever present, ever mysterious smile. O’Dimm’s cheeks were flushed and his mouth was open now, lips swollen and glistening with moisture, eyelids low yet in his eyes a manic, wild look of what Geralt could only describe as hunger . Before he could gaze at this face much longer a hand gripped his hair firmly. Geralt’s head was pulled back for a second, O’Dimm’s expression now having changed into a look of firm want, then pushed towards O’Dimm’s waiting cock.
O’Dimm pressed against Geralt’s lips and Geralt gladly opened his mouth, letting O’Dimm push him further, swallowing around him as his cock slid deeper into his mouth. O’Dimm held him there for a few moments, all muscles tight as his hips pressed against his face and the tip of his cock pressed against Geralt’s throat, filling his mouth. Finally his grip on Geralt’s hair loosened a bit and as O’Dimm’s muscles relaxed, Geralt pulled himself away with a deep breath. Only a second later the fingers in Geralt's hair tightened again shoved his lips back on O'Dimm's cock. Searching for something to hold on to Geralt’s hands moved to O’Dimm’s ass, settling there while O’Dimm pushed himself back into Geralt’s mouth.
Before long they settled into a comfortable rhythm. O’Dimm let Geralt move mostly on his own but left his fingers curled up around thick strands of his hair, ready to correct him should the need arise. Geralt let himself get lost in the movement, letting his throat relax to take all of O’Dimm into his mouth, occasionally pausing just long enough for his tongue explore the tip of O’Dimm’s cock in more detail.
Absorbed in the rhythm Geralt lost all sense of time. It may have taken a few seconds, may have taken hours, but eventually his fingers felt O’Dimm’s muscles tense up under them. O’Dimm’s movement grew faster, Geralt’s head bobbing back and forth and barely keeping up, his mouth opening wider to let O’Dimm’s shaft thrust into him as far as he wanted to. Then, finally, after building up to a dramatic crescendo, O’Dimm’s hips jerked forward one final time, muscles straining under Geralt’s fingers, moaning as he came. Geralt swallowed gratefully, his throat constricting around O’Dimm’s cock as O’Dimm’s hips thrust forward again and again, coming for what seemed like ages, his fingers so tight in Geralt’s hair it hurt.
After an eternity, O’Dimm’s grip on Geralt’s hair loosened. Geralt let him slide out of his mouth, saliva and cum dripping between them as he pulled his lips off O’Dimm’s cock. Geralt’s hands shook as he wiped his mouth. Above him, O’Dimm’s stature softened, his shoulders, usually held up tight, slumping over slightly as he tried to catch his breath, panting in empty-headed post-orgasmic bliss, too wiped out to even tuck himself back into his underwear.
Geralt had to brace himself against the table to stand up, the armor still on his legs now seeming heavier than ever, his remaining clothes feeling sweaty and damp. As he stood up, he realized that his entire body was trembling, exhausted from the strain of being so tensely excited. He managed to wipe his mouth again just in time before O’Dimm pulled him into another kiss. This time O'Dimm's hands were soft on Geralt’s head, his fingers, just as Geralt’s, unsteady with exhaustion, his lips still eager but not hungry anymore, his wild lust having burnt out into nothing more than pleasant embers. Even after their final kiss ended they stood still, letting their heads rest against each other’s, calm and tranquil.
“Seems like you owe me now,” Geralt said, his voice hoarse. O’Dimm snorted in response, too exhausted to even laugh.
“That I do, witcher. That I do.” O’Dimm’s voice sounded weak and shaky, but there was a satisfaction in it that Geralt had never heard before; a gentle, warm sort of happiness that went much deeper than his usual sneer. It surprised Geralt how happy hearing it made him. Letting his hand trail over O’Dimm’s face one final time, Geralt stepped backwards on shaky feet and let himself fall onto one of the chairs. O’Dimm tucked himself back into his underwear with as little effort as possible and sat down too, his legs almost giving out under him as he did so.
Outside, the joyous sounds of a happy crowd continued to ring out. A woman’s voice momentarily pierced the noise, clear and clean like a forest spring, singing an old folk song about a knight and the fair maiden he yearned for. A few more voices joined in, male and female alike, and Geralt and O’Dimm sat in silence listening to their song, each lost in their own bliss, until the sound at last faded away.
They shared the bed that night. Despite, as Geralt found out, neither of them having the physical need for sleep, O’Dimm soon drifted off into whatever his equivalent of meditation was. Geralt watched over him as he slept in Geralt's arms.
Beyond the confines of their tent, more wine was drunk, more songs were sung and the festivities carried on. But for one night, maybe the only night in history, no pacts were made, no contracts were written, no souls were sold. For one night, everything was peaceful.