Chapter Text
Geralt couldn't remember the last time it had taken so long to get around to properly fucking, or being fucked by, someone he was fucking. Eskel, probably, although they'd hardly known what real fucking even was, and could only steal the necessary privacy in stray moments here and there, between the intensity of training and sharing a room with four other boys every night.
But that had been a long damn time ago. Here and now, he'd been sleeping in Emhyr's bed and getting off with him for the better part of a week. Still, every attempt Geralt made to offer Emhyr something more than Geralt's mouth or hand was met with, "Yes, yes, we'll get to that."
Since Emhyr never left an opening for his opponent to exploit when he could demolish them instead, he usually followed up the deflection with a barrage of orgasms. Geralt inevitably forgot why he'd even been asking by the time that was over.
So it wasn't like Geralt had anything to complain about. It was just strange.
Not a bad kind of strange, though, he thought. Every time Emhyr put him off until later was a reminder that there was going to be a later. Geralt wouldn't finish a contract and move on, never to see Emhyr again; Emhyr had known Geralt long enough to know exactly what he was getting and still, somehow, seemed to want Geralt in his bed and in his palace.
He didn't even seem to mind Geralt wandering around the halls and through the gardens and prowling whichever of Emhyr's offices he happened to be in, making all the scribes and secretaries quake.
"It's good for them," Emhyr said. "And if they start making mistakes just because there's a witcher in the vicinity they certainly don't deserve their positions. I might as well find that out sooner than later."
Geralt couldn't argue with Emhyr's logic, and put a little less effort into not frightening the locals after that. They got very Nilfgaardian at him in return, so Geralt figured they would keep their jobs after all.
And then came the day when Emhyr came out to train with his guards and Geralt and Ciri--Tuesday again, Geralt realized. Tuesday must be the day he found it possible to spare the time. It had been a week exactly since Geralt started all of this by being so obvious about staring at Emhyr's arse while he sparred that Emhyr had thought the time was right to suggest doing more than looking, and Geralt had...
Well, it had all worked itself out within the turning of a day, so no harm done. And now the turning of a week brought them back to the training yard, and Geralt wasn't even bothering to pretend not to stare when Emhyr had a bout. They had quickly given up on attempting to both fight at the same time, as it would have been hazardous to everyone.
Neither of them suggested sparring with each other, which would have been hazardous in an entirely different way.
Geralt thought about what it would be like, if they were alone somewhere more private than the training yard. If he were the one crossing swords with Emhyr...
Ciri elbowed him and Geralt shut off that thought. Ciri watching him watch Emhyr was bad enough, never mind Ciri catching him daydreaming. He didn't have to look over to know she was barely suppressing a giggle, or worse, commentary.
"Glad you find us so entertaining," Geralt murmured, trying for stern and dry, but his lips kept curling up at the corners.
"Not nearly as glad as I am," Ciri replied easily.
Geralt shook his head but didn't even try to argue.
When his own turn came to spar, he was aware of Emhyr's eyes on him, and pushed himself a little harder than he had to, just to make each practice bout something worth watching. He thought Emhyr was doing the same, toying with his opponents in ways he had to know Geralt would notice, showing off in ways Geralt would appreciate.
It was the middle of July by now, and they'd have been sweaty by the end of training even if they'd taken it easy on themselves; as it was Geralt was dripping, and even Emhyr was visibly disheveled. Geralt was mentally plotting the shortest route to his rooms, hopeful that the rarely-seen but apparently all-seeing servants would have intuited that he would want a cool bath this afternoon and he wouldn't have to wait for it to be fetched for him.
But where he expected his path to diverge from Emhyr's, and the main body of the guardsmen, Emhyr said, "With me, Geralt."
Geralt moved to his side without a thought, then looked around at where they were going. He'd had time, wandering with the appearance of aimlessness and Nordling ignorance, to explore a great deal of the palace since his arrival. He had a good mental map of it; even the parts he hadn't yet explored were clearly marked with his best guesses. They were headed toward one of those patches of uncertainty now.
According to Geralt's best guess, Emhyr was leading him toward the baths used by courtiers and particularly favored servants. It was, difficult though it was for Geralt to imagine, probably where Mererid went to unwind and let his hair down.
It was also, therefore, full of people Emhyr probably wouldn't be casually naked around. They were definitely not the kind of people Emhyr would want himself and Geralt naked around at the same time, unless Geralt had missed a lot about Nilfgaardian bathing customs.
But just as the air began to turn steamy and filled with the smell of astringent herbs, Emhyr turned aside, clearly not moving toward the entrance to the baths. They headed down a short corridor to an unassuming door, and once Geralt passed through he knew why they didn't bother to post a guard outside; he could feel the press of protective magic on his skin, layers upon layers of wards sunk into the stones and the foundations, maybe all the way down to the spring that fed water to these baths. This was ancient stuff, gods ready to wreak vengeance on those who broke the laws of hospitality.
Emhyr didn't seem to notice it. Geralt wasn't sure if that was because Emhyr wasn't as sensitive to magic as he was, or because Emhyr was used to moving through a world criss-crossed with invisible lines and layers of power, and this was just another version of the same thing.
In any case, Emhyr led him along another plain corridor, passing two closed doors on the right side, until he reached a doorway covered by a heavy drapery, and drew it aside to step through. The steamy bath smell rolled through, though more hot water and minerals than any perfume smell of soaps and oils.
Geralt stepped through the doorway on Emhyr's heels, and stopped dead.
They were in a large bathing chamber with various pools and tubs of water, but Geralt almost couldn't see anything at all for a moment because everything was shining. Even when his eyes adjusted to the brilliant golden light he was a little dazed by all the things there were to see.
The room was tiled, floor and walls and ceiling and down into all the pools of water, in shades of blue and green laced with gold. The tiles seemed to be fitted into a framework of gold, like the glass panes of the conservatory into the iron that supported them. There were designs--mostly suns, of course, but also a huge mosaic design covering two walls that seemed to be some sort of story about how life flourished only where the sun met water: rain, or rivers, or the sea.
He thought to look up, finally, because there were no torches or lanterns, and he discovered that among the tiles of the ceiling were crystal slabs that glowed with something he would swear was sunlight, though he also would have sworn there were a few levels of palace above their heads.
"It's done with mirrors," Emhyr said, and Geralt finally focused on the man who stood there watching him take it all in. Emhyr was smiling very slightly, but it was an expression Geralt had seen a lot in the past week and tentatively identified as enjoying Geralt enjoying something.
"The crystals," Emhyr said, gesturing upward. "They let in sunlight during the day, moonlight and starlight at night. There is some arrangement of mirrors to bring the light down here, and the crystals strengthen it. When one bathes at night, the room looks much more blue than gold."
Geralt just stared around, feeling freshly bewildered by everything around him. He'd been in the palace for nearly a month now, and this was the first time he'd realized how much he had started to get used to it. The rooms that had seemed bizarrely opulent had become just rooms, and the Emperor of Nilfgaard had become someone very human, who Geralt shared a bed with.
This jewel box of a bathing room brought the absurd wealth of Nilfgaard into focus again, and Emhyr was just... casually stripping his shirt off in the center of it, like it was nothing. Like having some elaborate arrangement of mirrors and crystals to light this room was no different from having a sufficient number of candles around.
"They did all that for baths?"
Emhyr dropped his shirt on a bench and came over to tug at the hem of Geralt's shirt. Geralt didn't know what to do but raise his arms and let Emhyr take it off him.
"Not for baths, as such," Emhyr said. "They did all that for the glory of the Great Sun and the purification of the High Priest of the Great Sun." Emhyr gave a little shrug, a wry twist to his mouth. "Many generations ago; all that comes down to us after all these years is to enjoy it."
Geralt raised his eyebrows, recalling what little Emhyr had said of his High Priestly duties. "Except for a week in the winter?"
"Indeed," Emhyr said. "And quite a bit of ritual purification before the equinoxes, but this is one of the many weeks of the year in which it's just a very well-appointed place to bathe--if you care to join me?" He dropped Geralt's shirt over his own on the bench and sat down beside the heap of sweat-soaked linen to take his boots off.
Geralt sighed and shook his head as he sat down beside him, still looking around at all the gleaming... everything. He grabbed their shirts to move them out of his way, and the touch of the damp cloth, the body-warm brush of his arm against Emhyr's, made him abruptly aware of a scent his nose had gotten accustomed to and then ignored, sometime in the last hour.
He could smell Emhyr, warm from training in the summer sun. Emhyr had sweated off any trace of soap or scent he'd carried before his hour with a sword, and now he just smelled human and present. It was something Geralt usually only got to enjoy after they'd had sex, and not even always then, not to this degree; Emhyr got him off plenty, but didn't even attempt to keep pace. Geralt was a lot more likely to break a sweat in bed than Emhyr was.
Geralt slid off the bench, twisting as he hit his knees; Emhyr's thighs parted for him, and he let out a little amused puff of breath, nothing Geralt bothered to notice while he was burying his face against Emhyr's groin and breathing him in. Emhyr's cock twitched and his thighs tensed, though he wasn't hard yet--which was fine, because Geralt didn't even know if he meant this to be a sex thing. He just craved the reality of him, the taste and feel and scent of Emhyr's body, the animal ruled by the man buried under all the imperial everything.
If it felt particularly urgent right now, surrounded by all this gleaming evidence of the centuries of wealth and power that flowed down into Emhyr to make him what he was, well. Maybe that was no surprise. For all that Geralt followed Emhyr around during his working days, there were places he didn't follow: throne rooms and formal dinners and audiences, all the places where Emhyr was The Emperor at full force.
That was the opposite of what he was here, now, warm and nearly bare under Geralt's hands, alone with him. His alone, just for this hour carved out from all the rest.
Emhyr's hand came down on top of his head, fingers ruffling his hair and rubbing at his scalp. His voice was warm, despite the heavy dose of irony in his tone, when he said, "I begin to suspect that I've had entirely the wrong end of the stick in my thinking about witchers' senses and personal hygiene."
Geralt tipped his head back--Emhyr let him, but kept his hand where it was, resting on his hair. Geralt frowned up at Emhyr for a few seconds, thinking of just how much like nothing Emhyr tended to smell, the sharp mint taste that was nearly always in his mouth when they'd been apart for a few hours, or when Geralt woke in his bed to watch him dress and interrupted him for a kiss.
He snorted, relaxing into a smile as he realized that Emhyr was going to indulge him--that he'd been trying to, the wrong way around, and now was simply accepting that his attempt had failed.
Well, if Emhyr couldn't recognize when he'd made a mistake and change tack accordingly, they wouldn't be here. Still, it was a strange thrill to see him doing it again, now, for this, which plenty of less fastidious humans found unpleasant. Yen--but Geralt wasn't going to think of her here, now, when he could be enjoying what he had in front of him.
"If I minded the smell of unwashed men," Geralt pointed out dryly, "I'd have choked to death on it before I ever had a chance to die in the Trials, and I wouldn't have gotten laid anytime before the age of nineteen."
Something flickered in Emhyr's eyes at that, but it vanished into a fond expression as he said lightly, "You did get an early start, didn't you?"
Geralt realized that Emhyr had either gotten a pretty early start himself and then spent years and years alone with his curse before he dared to try again, or he'd been a virginal boy at thirteen, and still a virgin until whenever he got enough control over the curse to dare to seek someone out. Until Pavetta?
He couldn't think which would have been worse, and pushed the whole thought away, as deliberately as Emhyr had set aside whatever had flashed through his eyes a moment ago. Geralt said calmly, "Earlier than some, yeah. How early depends on what counts as starting."
Emhyr's eyebrows twitched up. "First kiss is a common milestone. I had mine... not far from here, when I was twelve."
Geralt dropped his gaze, trying to make that fit in his head with what he thought they'd been talking about, which was sex.
But that was how other people worked, wasn't it? That was why you weren't supposed to have sex with someone you thought of as a brother--because sex was supposed to go with love, or at least the possibility of it, and love, as Emhyr had put into words for him, required a separateness. Reaching out to someone new, bridging a distance.
Kissing was the first little step toward that. It was a step you could take at twelve and not have to carry it further, or not right away, any more than he and Eskel had gone from curious touches to fucking all at once.
He tried to imagine if his first time getting laid outside Kaer Morhen--a friendly professional woman not quite twice his age in Ard Carraigh--had been his first time. It would have been a lot more nerve-wracking that way; he wasn't sure he'd like sex nearly as much as he did if he hadn't had years of it with Eskel, and others who were equally a part of his home even if he wasn't as close to them.
He didn't know how anyone would try it out if right from the earliest beginning it had to mean something more or less opposite to you're safe with me, we're safe at home, we're both so safe we can afford to be distracted and defenseless for the sake of something that feels good. How could the risk possibly be worth the reward?
"A more complicated question than I realized," Emhyr said, rubbing his fingers against Geralt's scalp again, reminding him of the hand still resting on his head. It made him aware, too, of where he was--not just in the Emperor's gold-tiled bathing chamber, but at the center of the power of the most powerful man in the world, who had told him in so many words, You're safe with me.
They were both very safe here; he could afford to be distracted with Emhyr.
Geralt looked up again, smiling crookedly. "Just one of those things witchers do differently. Didn't have my first kiss until I was sixteen or so, but I'd already tried all the sex things we could think of by then."
Emhyr's expression didn't change, that time, and Geralt suspected that that was because he was bracing himself for it--but then if sex was a dangerous thing you did with strangers, it would be pretty disturbing to think of someone doing it very young. He'd never really felt Ciri was old enough to be trying it, certainly.
"What made you try it then?" Emhyr sounded genuinely curious. "Was it the last new thing you could come up with?"
Emhyr's you was plural; Emhyr thought his first kiss must have been with Eskel, because most of his first sex stuff was.
Geralt shook his head slightly. "Not Eskel, another witcher. It was his idea. Eskel and I didn't kiss then, not at Kaer Morhen. Not until..."
Geralt wrinkled his nose, trying to remember. There had been a few different times that had all felt like the first time after, because they'd kept meaning to stop and be proper adults, only to give in and go to bed together again some time later. It had been one of those times, but he couldn't remember which--not the first-first, he didn't think. That time they'd still been insisting to themselves that it was only for the winter, only because they were stuck at Kaer Morhen with no women for a hundred miles.
"After we were out on the Path," Geralt said with a shrug. "I don't remember how long exactly, but it had been years by then. But it's nice, and we'd gotten used to kissing going with sex with other people, so after that we did, when we were together like that."
"Mm," Emhyr said, smirking a little. He closed a hand on the back of Geralt's neck to keep him still and leaned in for a kiss, so light and teasing that Geralt automatically tried to chase the contact when Emhyr pulled away, only to have Emhyr's grip tighten sternly, keeping him in place. "Something you've gotten used to, is it? So good of you to indulge your partners."
Emhyr wasn't even pretending to be offended, just parroting the lines, so Geralt relaxed into it, letting himself be thoroughly kissed.
He was feeling a little dazed with it when Emhyr pulled back; Geralt drew a deep breath and was overwhelmed all over again with the smell-taste of Emhyr's body curling down over him. He felt his mouth fall further open, and Emhyr's gaze dropped to it, his eyes dark with hunger.
"Since, as we've established," Emhyr said, and Geralt could only gaze at him and let the multi-syllable word wash over him, Emhyr's voice gone a little deeper and rumblier than usual, "I have had things a bit backward, I believe an amendment to the order of events is called for."
Geralt blinked at him for a few seconds, finally separating meaning from the sound of Emhyr's voice that he could only hear at first as sex sex sex yes now yes, throbbing in time to the beat of his heart, the growing stiffness in his cock. "Is there an order of events to amend, then?"
"Naturally," Emhyr murmured, twining his fingers into Geralt's hair to get a firmer grip. "You didn't think I brought you down here without a plan, did you, my dear witcher?"
"When you put it like that," Geralt said, tilting his head back into Emhyr's grip, showing his throat and letting his eyes sag nearly shut, letting Emhyr see exactly what he did to him, with his grip and his particular endearments, "it does sound pretty unlikely."
"Just so," Emhyr agreed. "Thus I believe I'll fuck you first, and then we'll enjoy the baths afterward, hm?"
Geralt shuddered, and the room seemed to brighten as his cock reached full, nearly painful hardness; Emhyr's lips quirked up--he'd mentioned before how obvious it was, when a witcher's pupils widened. Geralt had to lick his lips and swallow before he could manage to say, "Yes. Please."
Emhyr's grip on his hair tightened just a fraction further, tilting Geralt's head back to a sharper angle, baring his throat yet more thoroughly. Geralt was dimly aware that he was breathing through his open mouth, staring up at Emhyr's dark eyes staring down just as intently at him. The hot human smell of Emhyr was thick with arousal now, his body temperature rising again when he'd started to cool down from training. Geralt breathed it in eagerly, something between a perfume and a drug.
"Clothes off, then," Emhyr finally said, and all at once he released his grip and stood, stepping nimbly around Geralt and away.
Geralt knelt there staring at the wall and the bench and the place where Emhyr wasn't even though his scent still lingered in Geralt's nose. His brain spun for a moment like a mill wheel come loose from its stone, until Emhyr said from altogether too far away behind him, "Geralt. Take your clothes off so I can fuck you, if you please."
Emhyr's tone was stern, but concealing humor, not irritation. Geralt grinned and jumped up to his feet, bending at the waist to tug his boots off rather than sitting down again. At long last he knew Emhyr would be looking properly, so he wouldn't miss any opportunity he got to put on a show before Emhyr took over entirely again.
He heard an appreciative little noise from Emhyr, and grinned to himself as he continued stripping with his back turned. He only looked back over his shoulder when he was entirely naked, his clothes all neatly piled on the bench, his boots tucked just under it.
Emhyr was also naked, one hand shamelessly curled around his cock as he leaned against one side of an archway leading to some other room. When Geralt met his eyes, his appreciative look warmed into amusement, and he tilted his head through the archway. "Come. Bath or no, I don't intend to fuck you for the first time on the floor."
"Well, we could always use the bench," Geralt pointed out, though he was already moving in Emhyr's direction as he said it; it would be less precarious than a lot of places Geralt had fucked, but he knew Emhyr would insist on both of them being comfortable.
Emhyr turned away before Geralt reached him, leading the way into another chamber, lit with the same impossible sunlight as the bathing chamber, but also supplied with a hearth that ran nearly the entire length of one wall--no fire, just now, but Geralt could see it would be welcome on any day cooler than this one.
A broad couch in front of it was covered with cushions, all in shades of blue and green and embroidered in gold. It wasn't quite as formidable as the great golden bed in Emhyr's rooms, but it wasn't as comfortably almost-ordinary as the bed he--they--actually slept and fucked in, either.
Emhyr didn't seem to see the difference; he walked right over to it and started rearranging the coverings as casually as he did the sheets and pillows on his bed. Geralt followed, stopping just at his flank, and Emhyr reached back for him without looking, keeping him close so that they brushed against each other as Emhyr turned to face him, and Emhyr's scent and the heat of his skin and his knowing smirk wiped all other considerations from Geralt's mind again.
Who cared what the damn couch looked like: Emhyr was going to fuck him on it. Finally.
Emhyr's gaze raked up and down Geralt's body, but he still barely touched, just that hand on his arm keeping him still. When he met Geralt's eyes again, he said, "I suppose I needn't ask whether you can hold any particular position for as long as I wish you to?"
Geralt snorted and shook his head. "At your service."
"On your back, then," Emhyr said, twisting out of Geralt's way and giving him a little push toward the couch.
Geralt went, draping himself over the cushions in the way Emhyr seemed to have intended, his head and shoulders propped against one of the curved-up ends of the couch, his hips propped up on pillows. He let his legs fall wide open, propping a heel on either side of the couch's frame, and tucked one arm behind his head as he looked up at Emhyr with what he was pretty sure was his most obnoxious attempt at an innocent expression.
Emhyr responded with a snort and a headshake, but leaned over Geralt for a kiss before he settled himself on the padded surface of the couch between Geralt's legs. His gaze stayed on Geralt's face, though his hands found the inside of Geralt's thighs and stroked up unhesitatingly. His thumbs brushed just short of where they ought to be and then his hands ran back down, still unhurried, while Emhyr continued to watch Geralt's face.
Geralt cracked first, which he'd known he would. He groaned and tipped his head back, shutting his eyes. "You gonna make me beg, Your Majesty?"
"No, you've already done quite enough of that," Emhyr said dryly.
That wasn't exactly how Geralt would describe his hey you know you could be fucking me right now offers of the last several days, but arguing wasn't going to get them there any faster. "Just gonna make me crazy, then. Got it."
"Mm," Emhyr's caressing hands moved back up, this time coming to rest on his pelvis, on either side of his dick, which twitched at the not-quite touch. "No, if nothing else has succeeded in the last hundred years, I don't imagine I will either."
Geralt bit his lip and didn't say, Are you sure nothing has? or worse, Oh, you could if you wanted to.
Emhyr leaned over him, so near that Geralt opened his eyes, tilting his head up for a kiss--but Emhyr was already kneeling up again, with a beautifully decorated little salve pot in his hand. There was an abstract swirling design of gold on the deep blue shining surface of the pot, and Geralt thought of some artisan painstakingly decorating a pot pretty enough to hold slick for the imperial cock. He had to let his head fall back as he laughed, stopping only when he felt a slick touch just behind his balls, and Emhyr's other hand pressing warm and firm on the back of his thigh, adjusting his position.
Geralt curled his hips up helpfully, letting the leg Emhyr wasn't guiding loll off the couch. Emhyr made a noise that sounded exasperated, belied by the way his fingers clenched on Geralt's thigh and a little shudder ran through him. Geralt smirked but said nothing; Emhyr would find out everything he'd been missing out on soon enough.
Emhyr's gaze ticked back and forth from his own hand between Geralt's thighs to Geralt's face, far too much on his own tempo to ever seem like he was looking away even if Geralt met his eyes every time he looked. Geralt couldn't take his eyes off Emhyr's face; he saw the slight tension of resolution around his eyes just before he felt the steady, unhesitating pressure of a slick finger against his hole.
Geralt exhaled, exerting that tricky bit of muscle control--his witcher's strength extended there too, and made it nearly impossible for anyone else to loosen him up if he wasn't putting some effort into cooperating--and then Emhyr was touching him from the inside. Emhyr's expression went distant, his lips parting, at however that felt from his side; Geralt knew his own expression was more of a smirk, because, really, finally.
Then Emhyr's expression sharpened into something smugly predatory, and Geralt bit back a whimper even before Emhyr started stroking. Geralt didn't think he was doing anything particularly exotic in terms of where and how he touched, except that Geralt was so wound up with wanting this that every nerve was already quivering for it. And then, too, he didn't think anyone had ever watched him quite like that while they did this, entirely intent on his every flicker of reaction, chasing every response to make it better. Emhyr might not have any actual magic to use for this, but there was an unearthly power in the sheer force of his attention.
Geralt couldn't quite track what Emhyr was doing--he was too busy feeling it all, and watching Emhyr watching him. But he was aware of the slight extra stretch of a second finger, and he felt the way his body yielded almost effortlessly. He wanted this badly enough that it permeated through every cell of his body, and he complied with every touch without having to think at all.
"You can," Geralt managed, when he knew it was true and also felt the urge rising to shove his own fingers in alongside Emhyr's to make the point. "It's fine, it's enough, come on."
"Not too tight?" Emhyr said, with no particular emphasis, but Geralt felt a sudden full-body flash of shame and something embarrassingly like delight--because Emhyr remembered what Geralt had said that night, a week ago, a thousand years ago. A witcher's always virgin-tight. Up to you if that's a drawback or not. And so Emhyr was being careful with him.
Geralt shook his head, forcing himself to meet Emhyr's gaze. "It's--ah--easier to relax when..."
Emhyr raised his eyebrows and stilled his fingers, waiting.
"When I want it this bad," Geralt said. "You win, you made me wait and now--" Emhyr twisted his fingers, crooking them just so, and Geralt lost his breath, thought his heart might have skipped a beat. "Fuck me, Your Majesty, if you would be so kind. Please."
"Mm," Emhyr said, grinding his fingers in deep, knuckles pressing against the rim of Geralt's hole. "That does seem like a reasonable request, my dear witcher. And you have been patient, in your fashion."
Geralt parted his lips to ask what his fashion was, but then several strategies occurred to him which he could have used to move things along if he was really determined to, so Emhyr had a point. Emhyr was watching his face; he smiled a little when Geralt shut his mouth, and then looked down to watch his own hand as he withdrew his fingers from Geralt's ass.
He kept his head down, watching with a lot more concentration than could possibly be required as he slicked himself up, and in that instant when he wasn't caught in the white-hot glare of Emhyr's focus, Geralt realized that Emhyr probably hadn't fucked anyone in a long time. Certainly not anyone he... cared about at all.
So maybe he hadn't been stalling only to make Geralt crazy; maybe he'd needed a week--and now, just one more minute--to steel himself.
In the next second Emhyr lunged forward, bracing himself over Geralt just to press a startlingly soft kiss to his lips, and Geralt figured that that meant he was right. Then he stopped thinking about anything at all, because Emhyr shifted position and Geralt felt the thick pressure at his hole, felt Emhyr pushing inside him. Emhyr had pulled back a little but he was watching Geralt's face now, and Geralt had to close his eyes as his mouth fell open.
"Geralt," Emhyr murmured, low enough to be nearly a growl, and Geralt snapped his mouth shut and curled one leg around Emhyr's hips but kept his eyes shut. Emhyr ran a knuckle down Geralt's jaw as he pressed fully inside, and--it wasn't that he was so huge, physically, but still there was something about it that made Geralt feel like he didn't have room to draw a full breath.
"My dear," Emhyr said, and took so long to add the last word to that phrase that Geralt finally did open his eyes, and then Emhyr only smiled a little and said nothing at all.
Geralt felt half hypnotized by his gaze, by the weight of Emhyr over him that was more than just the mass of his body, the press of him inside. "Please," Geralt said, barely more than a whisper.
"Of course," Emhyr returned, and drew back to thrust in again.
It was an effort to keep his eyes open, but Geralt wasn't going to be the first to look away. He reached out instead, cupping one hand to Emhyr's cheek--and Emhyr closed his eyes, turning into the touch to press his lips to Geralt's sword calluses.
"Yeah," Geralt said. "Yeah, come on. I'm all yours."
Emhyr's eyes opened to slits. "Are you," he murmured, and bit lightly at the heel of Geralt's hand as he thrust in again, hard enough to make Geralt tip his head back on a groan. Then again, and again, irregularly at first, like he was testing Geralt's responses, but soon he settled into a rhythm.
When it was predictable, Geralt could just lie back and enjoy it, and even spare a little attention for really watching Emhyr's face. If he was right...
And he was. He watched Emhyr getting drawn into fucking him, losing his perfect self-control. Like this, he couldn't focus completely on driving Geralt out of his mind with terrifying military precision. He was feeling this every bit as much as Geralt was, at the same time, letting Geralt into him every bit as much as Geralt was letting Emhyr inside.
Geralt let his eyes fall shut, let himself make noise the way Emhyr liked, and was rewarded with the sound of Emhyr's own breath going ragged, little groans escaping him when Geralt tightened on his cock. Emhyr's body temperature, which had never fully come down from the practice session, was rising again to a fever pitch, the smell of him filling the humid air. Sweat dripped down onto Geralt and he had to open his eyes again to see Emhyr's face, flushed bright and twisted as he struggled between control and pleasure. A few locks of his hair had fallen down, swinging with every thrust and half concealing his face.
Geralt took his hand off Emhyr's cheek just to catch those sweaty strands and tuck them back, and Emhyr's eyes opened then, glittering dangerously bright.
His ferocity was a part of what Emhyr was forever holding back, even if it wasn't the same kind as a witcher's. Emhyr bared his teeth, and Geralt bared his right back, laughing at the same time as the pleasure wound him up until he felt like he was floating free of anything else.
Emhyr laughed back, a sharp bark of a sound that coincided with his hips hammering in harder. He had to be getting close, but of course Emhyr was determined to make Geralt come first; his cock was hitting just the right spot at the same time Emhyr's hand closed on Geralt, and Geralt laughed helplessly all the way over the edge.
He kept his hand on Emhyr's cheek, riding out the last few hard thrusts, until Emhyr followed him down.
Emhyr let himself rest on Geralt's chest for a moment, coming down from the particular peak that was fucking a witcher to their mutual completion. It was... at least as intense as he had imagined it might be. Geralt seemed content to lie under him, running his fingers through Emhyr's sweat-damp hair, so Emhyr would take the opportunity to catch his breath and regain some semblance of equilibrium.
The careless affection, like the effervescent joy they shared, laughing in the middle of sex, was something Emhyr couldn't let himself focus on for more than a moment at a time. After a week of Geralt absently doling out this sort of touch, or his blithe happiness, whenever Emhyr was within his reach, it still felt like altogether too much of... something.
Emhyr turned his mind away from that, toward anything else. His drifting thoughts followed the track that had become well-worn in the last few days. When his breathing steadied, and Geralt had advanced to scratching gently at Emhyr's scalp, utterly relaxed under him, it seemed as good a time as he was going to get to actually broach the topic. That had been part of the plan for this afternoon, even if the order of events was being thoroughly rearranged.
"Tomorrow night," Emhyr started, and got no further before Geralt's body under him jolted with a huff of near-silent laughter. It made Geralt tighten around Emhyr's softening cock, still inside him, and Emhyr's breath caught at the sensation.
Geralt spoke before Emhyr could, sounding actually delighted as he said, "That's why! You were saving it up to bribe me!"
Emhyr drew away enough to look Geralt in the eye, letting his cock slip free in the process.
Geralt was smiling, looking as genuinely pleased as he'd sounded; he tugged Emhyr into a kiss and then lay back. He folded his arms behind his head, and curled both his legs firmly around Emhyr's hips. "Tomorrow night? Something's happening?"
Emhyr sighed, shook his head, and lay back down on Geralt's chest. "A ball. I must attend, and Cirilla will be there as well. We will open the dancing, so if that's a scene you care to witness..."
Geralt's fingers stirred through his hair again. "Am I gonna find my clothes for it laid out when I go back to my rooms?"
"Tomorrow night," Emhyr said. "I thought the tailor could call on you today and see if you cared to make any adjustments. Ciri's led a bit of a trend for more colorful formalwear among the young ladies and gentlemen of her age. If you care to be even more ostentatiously Northern, it will not come as a surprise to anyone."
Geralt's hand stilled. "Do people know? Will they..."
"Yes," Emhyr said without hesitation. "Anyone who doubts what you are to me will have it confirmed beyond question if you attend a ball in my company. If you'd rather not subject yourself to gossip..."
"Pff." Geralt's hand resumed its petting motion as if propelled by the scornful sound. "I mean, I assume you're not going to tell me I have to make any of them like me."
Emhyr vented his own snort at the thought. "No. Some doubtless will, or will affect to, but you need not exert yourself to be pleasant. I would appreciate it if you did not exert yourself to be offensive, but I'm sure there will be many attempts to provoke you. If you choose to accompany me, that is."
"Hm. Will there be food? That I can eat instead of just staring at it while people talk at me?"
Emhyr smiled. He could shower all the luxuries he could imagine on Geralt, but his desires were so far imperturbably simple. "I shall make sure one of the servers is assigned to offer you a tray periodically, wherever you happen to be."
"Well," Geralt ran his hand down Emhyr's neck to his back, petting with the whole flat of his hand up and down Emhyr's spine. "Can't see any reason to say no, then. As long as you give me another ten minutes before we go wash up."
Emhyr shifted his position just a little and let himself rub his cheek against Geralt's chest when Geralt resumed the slow petting motion of his hand. "I believe I could see my way to allow you fifteen."
"With bells on, then," Geralt agreed.