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It takes everything Geralt has to stay put instead of turning on his heel and walking out of the room, out of the palace, and to the stables to saddle Roach so he can ride far, far away from here.
Here presently being Emhyr’s private office, with Ciri and Morvran present because Emhyr has the sort of sadistic streak that makes him say things like “Geralt, you’ll be shaving your beard” and “Geralt, there is an assassination plot aimed at Morvran and I. Therefore I will need to bed you” to him in front of their daughter and her fiancée.
“Why do you need to,” Geralt grinds his teeth around the next word, “bed me?”
“It makes a serviceable veneer to keep you by my side during times I would not typically have a guard about,” Emhyr says, with a look that says come now, we both know you’re not stupid.
But Geralt is nothing if not stubborn and he doubles down by saying, “Why don’t I have to fuck Morvran then?”
Morvran looks incredibly alarmed at the prospect, and then his eyes go vaguely hazy and the scent of his arousal curls through the air, and then he goes back to looking alarmed, all in the span of several seconds. Geralt generously doesn’t call Morvran out on it, but he’s pretty sure Ciri’s noticed - she has the look in her eye that says she’s going to be poking fun at Morvran for contemplating fucking Geralt at all.
“Cirilla’s powers will be more than enough guard for any sort of danger posed to Morvran,” Emhyr says loftily. “There will be an announcement in the morning, at which point Morvran will be moved into the quarters next to Cirilla’s.”
“Why isn’t anyone after Ciri?” Geralt asks. He isn’t even playing at stupidity this time; he hasn’t quite figured out why Morvran is a target but Ciri isn’t.
“They require Cirilla alive. The motive behind this assassination is to place her as a figurehead on the throne. By removing Morvran and I, they’ll have removed any political advice she can trust implicitly, leaving her to flounder. As powerful as Cirilla is in combat, I believe we can all agree that she would drown in the morass of political affairs before the week was out without the counsel of Morvran or I,” Emhyr answers.
Geralt stays silent out of sheer stubbornness and Emhyr either misinterprets his silence or purports to get a rise out of him and says, “The hang up cannot be an aversion to the act itself. I have it on good authority from Dandelion— “whom Geralt is going to fucking dangle off of a cliff side for this “—that you quite enjoy it.”
Geralt crosses his arms and does his best to glare at Emhyr, who remains as unimpressed as ever, and says, as evenly as he can in front of Ciri and Morvran, “Yeah, I like getting fucked well enough.”
Emhyr raises a brow and Geralt growls out, “Fucking hell, I’ll do it. But I get first crack at the assassins when we find them.”
“An agreeable compromise. Now come, we will be acting upon this immediately.”
***
Immediately apparently actually meant right now and not in a day or so like Geralt had assumed it’d meant. They’re out on a more closed off courtyard, a smaller one that’s hardly more than fifteen feet in any dimension. There’s only one path into it and a neat border of flowering bushes alternated with flowering trees around the edge, with just enough of a gap that if one were to, say, be peeking from one of the other paths that run by at exactly the right angle, they’d be able to see the going ons in the courtyard.
There’s also a fine, sheer layer of cloth spread across the awning, anchored at each corner and on the center point of each side with a thick sturdy pole, to provide shade from the more glaring afternoon light. There’s a large lounging couch on the far side from the path that, in any other scenario, Geralt would have been more than happy to take a nap on.
Emhyr settles himself onto the couch and crooks a finger at Geralt. Scowling at the gesture, Geralt clambers on top, settling himself into as comfortable a position as he can on Emhyr’s hips. Begrudgingly, he allows that the thickness of Emhyr’s thighs and the rope of muscle covering his hips isn’t the worst thing to rest on. He lets his gaze roam across Emhyr and even more begrudgingly concludes that if he’d met Emhyr in a tavern while on the Path, he would’ve made at least a base effort to pull him in for a tumble. Emhyr will never be beautiful, not by any means, but he has a wide jawline that’s just a bit softer than the preferred Nilfgaardian sharpness. It’s nicer this way, Geralt thinks, it balances the steep slopes of his cheekbones and nose, all topped off by deep set eyes for a regal look. His lips aren’t plump, but they’re well-formed and lush looking, cared for in a way Geralt’s are not. Geralt rather thinks he’d like to kiss them but that seems almost too much for something as clinical as fucking to prevent assassination.
“Shall we begin?” Emhyr asks, reaching down to unlace his pants.
“Yeah alright,” Geralt sighs. It’s not like there’s any gain in putting it off and he gets up just long enough to shuck his pants off entirely. There’s a tray by the couch, oil in an ornate bottle on it. He grabs it, popping the cap, and is pleased to find that it only has the faintest scent of chamomile.
“Hand,” he says and Emhyr obligingly puts his hand out. Geralt pours oil over his fingers, far too much of it, and feels a mild vindictive glee at the face Emhyr makes when the excess drips onto his shirt. He pours a measure out into his own hand and sets the bottle back down before moving back on top of Emhyr.
Even though he’s expecting it, he still twitches when Emhyr’s hand moves between his legs, thighs resisting the urge to clamp together. Geralt sighs at the first breach of a finger and sits back to angle it in better. For all his complaints about this setup on the whole, he really does like getting ploughed and thus far, the methodical surety of Emhyr’s fingers is promising a very good time.
Geralt dips his right hand into the oil he has cupped in his left and reaches for Emhyr’s cock. He grips it as firmly as he likes it for himself and when Emhyr makes no indication of discomfort, he starts stroking, long movements from root to rip coupled with a twist at the head that pulls a pleased rumble from Emhyr. The first time it happens, Geralt stops out of shock and stares at Emhyr, who stares back with an expression that says he hadn’t actually meant to make the sound. Geralt feels a leer spreading on his face and Emhyr decides that the best way to head that off is to add a third finger in and curl all three up hard, sending lightning crackling up Geralt’s spine.
“Oh, that’s fucking good,” Geralt says, and doubles down on his efforts to get Emhyr hard, which apparently means they’re competing now because Emhyr is putting more effort in as well, deep strokes that skate around the exact spot that feels the best. Geralt moves to try to get that ember of pleasure back and growls when Emhyr’s fingers move with him, staying just shy of where they should goddamn be.
“You’re not very patient,” Emhyr remarks, the fucking bastard.
“Not a virtue most Witchers have,” Geralr says and proves his point by pulling Emhyr’s hand out and replacing it with his cock. He tilts his head back, luxuriating in the hot slide as he sinks down to the hilt.
“Perhaps it’s one you should learn,” Emhyr says. He sounds strangled and looks a bit glazed, like someone who’s just bitten into something and found it better than they’d dreamed.
“Eh, better things to do,” Geralt shrugs and then widens his knees for a bit more stability and sets to work extending all the way up before sinking back down. Emhyr’s hands fly up to his waist, gripping bruisingly hard and Geralt moans at the flash of pain just skirting around the edges. Moments later, Emhyr is matching the pace, fucking into Geralt that much deeper and making it all that much better.
Geralt gets a hand around his own cock and starts up an almost harsh rhythm. He uses the same twist at the head he’d used on Emhyr and the sparks that sends skittering behind his eyelids has him tossing his head back again, letting his head loll heavily as he pants. Emhyr’s hands are moving up his body and his fingers - clever fucking fingers, Geralt thinks - press into a nipple, following with a sharp tug that links everything together and has Geralt’s toes curling as he comes.
He rolls his head back around to look at Emhyr and is about to remark on the come on his cheek when Emhyr manages a smooth move that Geralt’s fucked out brain doesn’t quite comprehend and flips them. He sets his fingers back into the groove of Geralt’s hips and starts up a pace that’s toeing the line of brutality. It’s almost too much for Geralt and he whines as the last waves of his orgasm start building into another tide.
“Fuck, Emhyr,” Geralt gasps out. “Emhyr, bite me.”
Emhyr obliges, a raspy noise escaping him as he bends over to put his teeth to the crook of Geralt’s neck. Geralt tilts his head back to offer better access and the sound Emhyr makes is little better than a growl. The bright burst of pain as Emhyr bites down is enough to send Geralt over the edge again and he clutches at Emhyr’s arms as his back arches, taut as a bowstring. Emhyr’s hands tighten painfully on his hips for a long moment and then slowly, very slowly, let go. He pulls out and gets off the couch, and Geralt turns his head to watch Emhyr reassemble his mask, the face of an emperor shifting neatly back into place.
“You will meet me in the smaller library adjacent to my chambers in two hours and we will discuss the state of the rumors.” Emhyr says and takes Geralt’s lazy “mm” as agreement enough. He stalks out of the courtyard and Geralt decides that two hours is more than enough time for a nap.
***
In two hours, it turns out that the state of the rumors is nothing. Emhyr frowns when Geralt tells him that he hasn’t heard a single whisper of them fucking on his meander up to the library.
“That courtyard is near a path well traversed by the gardeners. It should have been as good a spot as any to be caught,” Emhyr says.
“Probably not the right time of day,” Geralt shrugs.
“Yes, of course, we will need to continue on then,” Emhyr says.
What he means, of course, is that he summons a servant and tells them they’ll be requiring dinner in the library and then gets to business fucking Geralt against the wall as soon as the servant leaves, timing it such that they should be en flagrante when the servants deliver dinner.
Geralt, for his part, can’t really find much to complain about as Emhyr’s cock works into him at just the right angle. He has his arms up by his head to pillow it and stifles his moans in the meat of his forearm. Emhyr gets a hand under his right thigh and pulls up meaningfully and Geralt hauls his leg up to plant his foot on the low shelf next to them and, “Fuck, that’s better,” Geralt lets Emhyr know and then proceeds to be very noisy as Emhyr mouths at the bruised bite from earlier.
Emhyr gets a hand around Geralt’s front to wrap around his cock and grips tightly, long hot pulls with the writing callus on his forefinger scraping the vein along the underside of Geralt’s cock in a way that makes him shudder.
“Fucking hell, Emhyr,” Geralt manages before he comes. Emhyr thrusts another few times and then stills, half collapsing against Geralt’s back as he comes.
It takes a lot more coordination than Geralt has to stay up against the wall like this and he says, “I need to sit,” and Emhyr peels them away from the wall to flop onto the oversized armchairs not five feet away. Geralt is looking over his spend on the wall, vaguely thinking he should feel bad for whatever servant has to clean it up, when Emhyr says, “A failure again.”
Geralt looks up and it takes him a moment to realize that there’s no tray of food waiting for them, which means no servants entered the room even though it’s been well within the time frame food would have normally been delivered. He’s also suddenly voraciously hungry and thirsty and he can feel the mix of oil and come slowly dripping out of him.
“Maybe tomorrow,” Geralt suggests, not entirely opposed. “I’m going to use your bath.”
Emhyr’s resigned sigh is all the answer Geralt gets before he’s through the doors that connect the library to Emhyr’s room, beelining for the giant bath.
***
They don’t get caught the next day when Geralt finds an alcove near the servants’ halls and drops to his knees to let Emhyr fuck his face.
***
They also don’t get caught that evening when they slip away from the ball to fuck in the hallway one over from the ballroom.
***
Emhyr is visibly frustrated by the third day, frowning enormously as he pores over a map of the castle to try and find a better spot to be caught in that isn’t just them outright fucking in the main hall. There also haven’t been any assassination attempts and while Geralt can’t complain about eating probably too many white fleshed nectarines and getting off twice a day the last two days, he’s been getting rather bored in between without at least being able to go train.
“My office,” Emhyr says triumphantly. “I have all manners of meetings here, with the sort of break in between that would be ideal for a quick bit of entertainment that could just…happen to run over.”
Geralt’s already standing to lean over Emhyr’s desk even before he’s finished talking. Emhyr’s fingers are as good as ever, unerring as they reach deep inside and spread him.
“Come on,” Geralt says when he’s just about had his fill of Emhyr’s fingers being not enough. Emhyr complies and works into him with a low groan. He stills there for a long moment and Geralt looks back at him to see — “Are you looking at the clock??”
“It wouldn’t do to finish too early and eliminate the possibility of being seen,” Emhyr says, entirely too put together still and Geralt grinds back in a way that’s always made Lambert clutch at him and swear and he’s pleased to find out that Emhyr’s reaction is similar.
“You,” Emhyr says, sounding rather strangled now, “do not respect the strategy required in this sort of tactic.”
“You have your cock up me and aren’t doing anything with it,” Geralt points out.
“You’re a menace,” Emhyr tells him, but he starts fucking Geralt in earnest, deep hard strokes that shove Geralt across the desk. Geralt tightens his hands on the edge of the desk to raise his hips up and push back and that’s even better because it gets his cock sliding over the desk instead of trapped against it. Emhyr bends over to put a new bite into the back of Geralt’s neck, just below the base of his skull, and there’s a very loud cracking noise as Geralt shudders through an orgasm, Emhyr only moments behind.
He slumps to the floor, Emhyr following him down, and they land in a half-seated heap, Geralt with his forehead pressed against the side of Emhyr’s desk and Emhyr heaving for air messily against Geralt’s shoulder.
They stand shakily several minutes later, Emhyr looking at the clock and disapprovingly saying, “They’re late,” as Geralt looks at the desk and realizes he’s cracked the top in half.
“You’d think that loud of a sound would be reason enough for the guards to barge in,” Emhyr says angrily, eyes flashing in a way that definitely does not make Geralt’s cock decide to rejoin the proceedings.
“If they’re already late,” Geralt starts and then Emhyr is saying, “Excellent idea,” and Geralt finds himself on his back, probably getting rug burn from the carpet in Emhyr’s office as Emhyr fucks back into him in hard thrusts.
***
It turns out the meeting a half hour after that is with Ciri, which Geralt finds out about when she portals into the room, shrieks in surprise, claps her hands over her eyes, moans - deeply aggrieved - “This is worse than being put in a room for my safety,” and portals back out.
“She’s early,” Emhyr assesses after a look at the clock and then derails any sort of protest Geralt’s about to make by doing something spectacular with his hands that has Geralt’s vision whiting out.
***
By the fifth day, Geralt has a rising suspicion that there isn’t any sort of assassination attempt to be had and that Emhyr is simply incapable of asking for a lay like a normal person. But, you know, on the chance that there is actually an assassination, it would be highly remiss of Geralt not to continue having very good sex with Emhyr in the name of protecting him. It’s not like there’s any other Witcher around to throw themself onto that hill, so it’s entirely up to Geralt for that reason, and that reason alone.
A week after that, it turns out that the actual explanation for why they haven’t been getting caught having sex all over the palace is because Mererid has some sort of chamberlain superpowers or something that he’s been using to clear the area around them when they fuck, out of a sense of duty to protect Emhyr’s privacy.
They find this out when Geralt comes back from a contract.
His armor is covered in blood, though he’d done his best to pick off anything more solid, and he wanders down to the imperial baths. He has a bath in his own room, but the imperial baths are just better. They’re situated a floor below the main level, to take advantage of the natural mineral springs. Geralt sheds his armor as he goes, leaving a trail, and inhales the slightly metallic sulphury scent of the springs deep into his lungs. There are buckets of warm water placed in the antechamber and Geralt uses almost all of them to scrub the grime from himself before entering the baths themselves.
“Oh,” he says.
Emhyr cracks one eye open and waves Geralt in.
“It’s not an executable offense to use the emperor’s baths, is it?” Geralt asks as he gets in. The water temperature is just shy of scalding and Geralt groans as the heat beats back the ache in his body.
Emhyr snorts. “You have many other offenses I could execute you for otherwise.”
“Oh?” Geralt says, interest piqued. “How many?”
“At least four major offenses, another six more minor infractions, and an uncountable number besides that should have resulted in you spending the next half year in the stockades,” Emhyr says, leaning back on the ledge of the bath.
He looks broader like this, arms laid out on the ledge eating up the space. Geralt traces the rise of one of Emhyr’s shoulders and follows the line down to the forearm thick from years of swordplay and rests his gaze on Emhyr’s fingers where they lazily swirl in the water.
Emhyr opens his eyes again when Geralt doesn’t respond. Whatever he sees prompts him to say, “Perhaps another attempt at being seen.”
“Have to keep trying,” Geralt agrees and stands up, water sluicing off him. He settles himself into Emhyr’s lap and tells himself it’s the heat muddling his head when he leans down to kiss Emhyr like he’s been wanting to since the very first day.
Emhyr makes a small, pleased noise and lets Geralt explore his mouth slowly for a good long while. He reaches the end of his patience eventually though and sets a hand to the back of Geralt’s head to press him down to introduce a bite to Geralt’s lower lip that has him purring. Emhyr’s other hand wanders down, briefly playing at Geralt’s nipple before continuing its journey. He does give Geralt’s cock a few solid tugs before skimming across Geralt’s waist and reaching to tuck his fingers in. The hot water’s made Geralt pliant, muscles soft from it, and Emhyr’s fingers enter him easily.
Emhyr breaks off the kiss to reach for a small tub of cream nearby. He scoops out a generous amount and it melts to liquid as he rolls it across his fingers.
“Stand,” Emhyr orders, breathing heavily from the heat and steam in the room. Geralt obeys, bracing his hands against the ledge and curling forward. He noses into Emhyr’s hair, inhaling the scent of vetiver and citrus, and shudders as Emhyr swaps hands, the unoiled one going to pull languidly at his cock.
“Sheiss,” Geralt swears when he feels Emhyr tip his head up to mouth at his chest, teeth scraping electrically over a nipple. It’s all spiraling him higher, the heat of the room taking him further and further out of his head - he vaguely hears little breathy sounds and suddenly realizes they’re coming from him, and he’s teetering on the edge of making it when Emhyr suddenly stops.
“What the fuck,” Geralt whines.
“Sit,” Emhyr orders, and he sounds immensely wrecked in that singular word. Geralt slides back down, letting Emhyr guide his cock in, and he catches Emhyr’s mouth in a bruising kiss.
It doesn’t take much more to get the lightning in Geralt’s nerves coming back, his toes curling as Emhyr fucks him in short deep strokes that have him over the edge in an amount of time that would be embarrassing if Geralt weren’t high out of his mind from the heat. Emhyr is clearly similarly out of it because he pulls Geralt tight, stealing his breath with a searing kiss as he comes. They sit there, panting into each other, and it isn’t even a minute before Geralt thinks about going again. He circles his hips speculatively, feeling Emhyr start to harden again - not even all the way soft yet, and then Emhyr’s hands are tight around his hips.
“I am no longer young enough for that,” Emhyr says, still heaving for air.
Geralt grinds down again, smirking triumphantly as Emhyr’s cock gets that much bigger, and says, “Dunno, feels like you’re doing alright to me.”
Emhyr growls out something in Nilfgaardian that Geralt translates to roughly mean insatiable minx before his attention is being drawn to the teeth setting into the underside of his jaw. Geralt groans, presenting more of his neck, and is rewarded by Emhyr placing more bites that flush up red on his pale skin down the length of his neck and onto his chest.
The bloom of his second orgasm is lazier, more a slow current than the all-consuming fire of his first one, and Geralt goes over easily, panting and huffing into the crook of Emhyr’s neck. Emhyr leans back, chest rising and falling rapidly as he gasps for air, one hand fitted possessively over the back of Geralt’s neck.
“There are towels available if your majesty and the gentleman are ready to exit,” Mererid’s voice says some undefinable time later.
Geralt jolts up, still seated on Emhyr, and whips around to see Mererid standing a couple feet from the edge of the spring, looking studiously at the ceiling.
“…Mererid,” Emhyr says, voice still rough.
“If I may offer a suggestion,” Mererid says blandly to the ceiling, “it is much easier to keep your majesty’s…activities…in quiet if the gentleman does not insist on dropping his armor in a blatant trail.”
Emhyr frowns and slowly, like he’s still working through a thought, says, “Have you been ensuring privacy when I’ve been otherwise engaged with Geralt?”
“Of course, your majesty. It is one of my duties to protect your privacy and it is one I take very seriously.” Mererid looks down just long enough to give a slight bow before returning his eyes to the ceiling.
Emhyr grits his teeth and says, “Your service, as always, is appreciated.”
“Certainly, your majesty. Would your majesty like a towel then?”
There’s a long pause before Mererid finally says, “And for the gentleman as well,” like it’s being forced out of him by torture.
Emhyr just nods and waves at Mererid in dismissal. Geralt waits until Mererid’s footsteps fade before he snorts, snickers bursting out of him.
“Do not,” Emhyr says in warning, but it’s too late, Geralt already shaking with laughter against his shoulder.
“So,” Geralt says once they’re back in Emhyr’s chambers. “Your plan to get us caught is failing because you forgot to tell Mererid?”
He sniffs at the sideboard, scenting out a bottle that smells complex and sharp, and plucks it out of the array while he waits for Emhyr’s answer. He pulls two glasses off as well, cradling them easily in one hand. When he turns back around, Emhyr looks mildly chagrined.
“I did not forget,” Emhyr says, and holds out a hand for a glass.
Geralt hums, prompting for more explanation as he sets a glass into Emhyr’s hand and pours a generous measure of the liquor into it.
“I merely underestimated Mererid’s ability to divert attention away from me when he presumed such attention unwanted,” Emhyr admits after taking a long drink.
“You’re going to have to tell him,” Geralt says, putting his own glass to his mouth and drinking. He hums appreciatively at the taste, it’s a rich, amber liquor with a satisfying burn in the back of his throat: smoked wood and an undercurrent of peat like breathing in at the edge of a swamp and a number of botanicals all rounded out by a sweeter, almost vanilla note. He flops back into the opposing chair, bottle dangling loosely in his hand.
Geralt takes another generous swallow and points out, “He’s just going to keep doing this otherwise.”
Emhyr taps his fingers against the armrest, expression thoughtful. He leaves the silence hanging as he mulls over whatever particular play he’s thinking through, and Geralt takes the time to finish his glass and refill it.
“No,” Emhyr says eventually. “I do not believe informing Mererid to be a wise choice.”
“Doesn’t look like there’s really another option,” Geralt says and squashes further into the embrace of the armchair.
Emhyr looks at him, that you are cleverer than this look that Geralt hates because it irks him that Emhyr sees him for more than the facade of the empty-headed monster hunter Witchers encourage, that he has expectations of Geralt. He thinks wistfully of the Path where everything is out in the open and straightforward and there’s none of this bullshit secrecy—
“You want to tell the court we’re fucking?” Geralt says in disbelief.
“Of course not,” Emhyr says. Relief washes through Geralt, just in time for Emhyr to say, “I intend to introduce you as my consort.”
***
This, Geralt thinks darkly, is clearly what Emhyr’s plan was all along: lure Geralt in with the pretext of an assassination, fuck him until he’s gotten too used to the luxury of good sex to leave for months on end, and then keep him around like a pet, a dangerous one with teeth.
He tells Ciri as much as he unbuttons the neckline of his doublet. She rolls her eyes at him in the mirror as she holds another necklace up and says, “Morvran has had at least three assassination attempts made on him in the last few weeks.”
“Exactly,” Geralt says, “Morvran has. Emhyr hasn’t had anyone try to mysteriously stab him.”
Ciri rolls her eyes even harder. “I think you’re deluding yourself because you’re bored of sitting around the castle when you’re not having sex with my father. Which is something I don’t want to think about by the way. But someone will try to kill him soon and then you can chase them back to their employer to stab the whole lot of them,” she says. “Do you like the blue one or the green one better?”
“Green,” Geralt says reluctantly. “I still think this is one of Emhyr’s plots because he can’t ask for things like a normal person.”
Ciri’s eyes go wide in the mirror and Geralt opens his mouth to backtrack, but Ciri says, “Wait , are you telling me that if my father came to proposition you normally, you would’ve said yes?”
Geralt shrugs, “He’s not bad on the eyes?”
“I’m torn between being grossed out and being very happy for you. You should tell him you want to continue having sex with him even after all this is over. Now button your doublet, the open neckline makes you look like the cover of one of those bad erotic novels.”
Geralt doesn’t button his doublet, but he does consider Ciri’s advice on telling Emhyr. It is very good sex and if there is actually an assassination plot, it would be a shame to stop having such good sex after. He’s plotting how to tell Emhyr as much, half missing the herald’s declaration of Sir Geralt of Rivia, Imperial Consort when he escorts Ciri into the banquet.
“Button your doublet,” Emhyr says when Geralt finally manages to make it around the room.
Geralt finishes a glass of wine while making eye contact and unbuttons the next button down. Emhyr sighs and waves for a refill. He also signals the start of the banquet and then there’s not much talking happening while Geralt inhales an entire chicken, a lamb leg, and a hunk of beef so soft his spoon slides through it like butter.
The wine is flowing freely, as one would expect of one of the first Beltane banquets, and by the time Geralt surfaces from the food, a large portion of the hall is drunk. Ciri and Morvran are gone, likely slipping off to their rooms, and there’s a number of people bumbling off to darker corners of the hall or secretive alcoves nearby to fumble at each other.
A servant refills Emhyr’s cup and the wine smells wrong, sharp and off, and Geralt leans over to sniff it more closely. There’s the scent of— “Etria’s Finest,” Geralt says, with his nose practically stuffed into the cup. “Nasty stuff, would’ve killed you slowly and agonizingly over the course of a few hours before topping it all off with a great foaming at the mouth bit.”
Emhyr nods slightly and motions Captain Felwen over. There’s a quiet order to have the servant taken down to the dungeons and for the removal of the entire barrel of wine besides for Geralt to sniff at later. Geralt downs another full cup and a half of wine in the meantime, the haze of alcohol slowly creeping in. As soon as Felwen leaves, Geralt drains the remainder of his cup and drops it on the ground by Emhyr’s feet.
“Oops,” he says and blinks innocently at Emhyr.
“What are you doing?” Emhyr asks, though realization is starting to dawn, and Geralt figures he has about thirty seconds to put his plan into motion before Emhyr starts lecturing about the dignity of the emperor.
Geralt drops to the ground and crawls under the tablecloth before Emhyr can start. He maneuvers as Emhyr tries to kick at him and then manages to settle between Emhyr’s legs, a knee over each shoulder to keep them from flailing any further.
“What are you doing?” Emhyr hisses, just barely loud enough for Witcher hearing.
“Try to keep your emperor face on,” Geralt says and gets to shoving Emhyr’s robes out of the way and unlacing his pants to pull his cock out. Geralt feels the flinch in Emhyr’s thighs and then he’s bending his head down to mouth at Emhyr’s cock.
A set of boots pull up next to Emhyr and Geralt smirks as whoever it is attempts to engage Emhyr in conversation. To his credit, Emhyr only sounds mildly winded and not at all like a man who’s got his cock in someone else’s mouth. Which, obviously, Geralt has to do his best to remedy.
He lightly runs a canine across the slit, delighting in the jerk of the muscles in Emhyr’s thighs, and then slowly swallows down, tongue pointed into the vein along the underside. That gets a crack in Emhyr’s voice and then Geralt settles in at the bottom, works his throat tight, and gives a low hum. Emhyr’s voice strangles to a halt and abruptly there’s a hand in Geralt’s hair pulling him off aggressively and then Emhyr is rising, heavy robes falling back into place and more than weighty enough to disguise an erection.
Geralt waits for the other boots to go away before emerging from under the table. He can’t see Emhyr in the hall anymore and pouts aggressively as he leaves out the side door that’s closest to his chambers. The moment it swings shut behind him, there’s hands in his doublet yanking him sideways into a half-curtained alcove.
“You are a terrible fucking nuisance,” Emhyr growls out. He looks incredibly disheveled, his robes mussed and half open like he’s been—
“Did you pull yourself off?” Geralt asks.
“I couldn’t very well have you continue your ministrations in front of the head of treasury,” Emhyr says darkly.
“Not really sure it’s a punishable offense to suck your cock at a Beltane banquet,” Geralt shrugs.
A gleam comes into Emhyr’s eye, the kind he gets when someone has just offered him a solution a little to the left of his own by accident. It turns out, a few minutes later, that Geralt doesn’t half mind the punishment Emhyr has in store. He’s cuffed to the headboard with sturdy cuffs washed in dimeritium and lined with soft sheep’s skin on the inside and Emhyr is between his legs slicking up a sizeable phallus carved from stone.
“Oh,” Geralt says as Emhyr works the phallus into him and then “Oh,” when Emhyr says “Ymlaen,” and the phallus starts vibrating, deep earth-shattering rumbles that have Geralt writhing on the bed, clutching at the headboard and turning his head to the side to try to muffle his moans into the pillows. He can feel orgasm building in the pit of his belly, an ember growing brighter and brighter until—
“Ymaith.”
The vibrations stop immediately, leaving Geralt strung out a hair’s breadth from cresting over the peak, cock jerking against his stomach.
“You absolute bastard,” Geralt pants out, as much vitriol as he can summon, which at the moment isn’t very much admittedly.
Emhyr ignores him and watches carefully as he comes down, waiting for the exact moments the pleasure fades down to a low burn again before turning the fucking thing on again and stoking Geralt up again. And then he cuts it off just before Geralt cums again.
“I hope a rock troll eats you,” Geralt manages to say after the fifth time, sounding beyond wrecked.
Emhyr looks amused and like he might reply but there’s a knock at the door and he gets up to answer it and leaves Geralt on the bed.
“You’re a godless whoreson of a goat fucker,” Geralt half manages to yell as Emhyr opens the door.
A few things happen very fast after that. A guard falls through the open door, dead, and Emhyr has just enough sense to jump to the side as a dagger comes hurtling through, shooting right through the space he’d been a breath ago. Geralt pulls down hard and while the cuffs hold, the headboard is only wood and breaks. An assassin leaps through the doorway and Geralt grabs the phallus, whines as he pulls it out too fast, and hurls it. It smashes into the assassin’s head, sending them stumbling back and then Geralt’s up off the bed and across the room in a matter of seconds, whirling into a steady roundhouse that sweeps soundly into the assassin, sending them crunching into the wall. Another one jumps at Geralt, and he brings his arms up to smash the cuffs into the side of their face, hard enough to dislocate their jaw. He headbutts a third, feeling the satisfying crunch of a nose breaking, and rolls out of the way of the fourth’s blade, swiping the stone cock as he comes out of it and swings it upwards, cracking the fourth’s head up and back. He hears the clack of teeth hitting each other and then the last one falls to the ground, unconscious and more than likely concussed.
“Maybe you should get these off me,” Geralt says when he determines that there aren’t any more assassins for now.
“Very well,” Emhyr says and touches a hand to the cuffs. They fall away immediately and Emhyr looks rather disappointed before Geralt shoves him down onto the floor and practically rips his robes apart to sit on his cock.
He plants his hands and rides Emhyr for a good solid two minutes, still keyed up fit to burst even after the fight, throwing all his weight forward onto his hands and then back onto his knees to get the full deep strokes he wants. Emhyr pulls him down for a biting kiss and Geralt groans into it, shoving back down and then he’s over the edge, entire body clenching so hard he feels like he’s been hit by a shaelmaar, the air in his lungs leaving like it’s being forced out of him before he comes crashing down in a boneless heap on top of Emhyr, gulping for air. Emhyr fucks into him once, twice, three times more and then shudders as he goes over, teeth worrying at the meat of Geralt’s left shoulder.
They lay there in a panting sweaty mess for how long, Geralt doesn’t know. Time’s gone all syrupy and he doesn’t know if it’s been seconds or hours before a servant is at the door saying, “There is a— by the gods!”
Geralt cranks his head around to see a young maid, hand over her mouth in shock, as she takes in the scene before her.
“I— I—,” she stutters out before falling to the ground in a dead faint.
Underneath him, Emhyr sighs enormously, like the weight of the world has just settled on him, and says, “Time to clean this all up.”
***
It takes less than a week for Emhyr to round up and execute the masterminds behind the whole assassination bit and a week more after that for Geralt to realize that there isn’t really any more reason for him to be the imperial consort.
He tells Emhyr as much and gets folded further in half so that Emhyr can say, eyes gleaming, “I have no need for such idiocies while I take you,” and seal his mouth with a kiss. And really, Geralt can’t argue with that, not when Emhyr is fucking him hard and fast and deep and reaching a hand between them to press on Geralt’s stomach, over where the head of his cock is bumping deep inside.
“Hngh,” Geralt says and then throws his head back on a howl when Emhyr leans forward and bites hard into his clavicle.
“But seriously,” he says afterwards when he’s gotten some air back in his lungs and remembered the fine art of language. “I don’t have to be imperial consort anymore.”
Emhyr is flat on his back, staring straight up at the ceiling, chest rising and falling aggressively as he wrestles his own breathing back under control. There’s a furrow between his brows and Geralt reaches out to smooth his fingers against it. They both freeze and Geralt opens his mouth to say something, anything, but finds he doesn’t know what and he doesn’t move his hand away, unsure if he even wants to.
“I,” he says and then realizes he doesn’t have anything he can say. He’s not even sure himself why he reached out but he’s here now and he runs his thumb across the furrow until it relaxes away. Geralt lets his hand drift into Emhyr’s hair and just play lazily at some of the loosened strands.
A long moment later, Emhyr says slowly, “I would very much like if…”
“Hmm,” Geralt hums, low and encouraging. He’s got the faintest idea of what Emhyr is about to ask, but there’s no sense in getting excited before the words are actually in the air. And even then, he doesn’t know if he wants them exposed to the light of day, to become something actualized instead of thoughts hidden away deep in their minds. Emhyr inhales deeply, taking a steeling breath, and then he turns to look at Geralt.
“I would very much like it if you stayed my consort,” he says quietly. “I know I cannot keep you from the Path, but it would warm my heart deeply if I knew you would return to me at the end of each ride out.”
Emhyr’s voice is low and rough, like he’s already prepared himself for a rejection and he’s already readied himself to hold back the emotions such a rejection will bring.
“I could be persuaded,” Geralt says, aiming for nonchalant and ending up somewhere in the vicinity of barely contained happiness. “I mean, you’ve completely fucked me over for sex with anyone else. And, y’know, it would probably warm the cockles of my black Witcher heart to return to you.”
Emhyr reaches out and places his hand on Geralt’s face, warm and broad, his thumb stroking along a cheekbone. “You’ve given me a rare gift,” he says.
“Rarest one I’ve got,” Geralt agrees and leans in for a kiss.
***
“Father, I can’t find Geralt. He’s not in his rooms or anywhere else I can think of, and his stuff isn’t packed and—AH!” Ciri says as she flashes into the room and does a full turn before she sees Geralt seated on Emhyr in the bed. She smacks a hand over her eyes and takes a deep breath and says, “So you’re staying the Imperial Consort then?”
Geralt looks down at Emhyr and grins, wide and predatory and full of teeth, and purrs, “Turns out Emhyr’s got some qualities worth sticking around for.”
“Augh,” Ciri gags, “Gross. I’m happy you’re staying, please never tell me about Father’s…qualities again. Father, I’m happy for you. Love you both, I need to go let Morvran fuss over me while I expire from seeing you both naked again.”
She portals out of the room and Geralt leans down to kiss Emhyr slow and deep.
“Hello,” he says when he pulls away, murmuring against Emhyr’s lips.
“Hello,” Emhyr says back, running a hand down divot of Geralt’s spine, drawing a shudder. Geralt props himself up onto his elbows and rolls his hips a bit, inordinately pleased at the noisy inhale it prompts from Emhyr.
“I was thinking,” Geralt says airily, “if you don’t have anything for lunch, we can try the courtyard again.”
“Oh?”
“To test out its visibility for defensive purposes,” Geralt says, blinking down at Emhyr innocently.
“And no other purposes, I’m sure,” Emhyr says, raising a brow.
Geralt shrugs, “Wouldn’t hurt to make my position as Imperial Consort undeniable by getting caught.”
“Of course, it wouldn’t do to have your presence questioned,” Emhyr says, nodding, and pulls Geralt in for another kiss. “Of course,” he says, moving back just far enough to speak, “You’ll have to tell Mererid of his dismissal from this particular duty.”
Geralt lets out a distressed groan and wonders if it isn’t too late to leave.