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The Upper Hand

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Geralt jerks awake, startled from his doze as a heavy door slams open, and he hisses as the rough ropes that bind his wrists and ankles drag across already abused flesh. Squinting at the sudden bright light that fills room, Geralt is greeted with by the upside down view of Emhyr. As Emhyr’s closes the distance between them, Geralt quickly takes stock of his surroundings, the richly appointed decor, the decadently soft bed that he’s tied to, the way that he’s naked and spread eagle, his head hanging off the end of what was certainly Emhyr's bed. “Truly Emhyr sending a battalion to capture me was a bit much. You could have just requested an audience.”

Emhyr is dressed in the same finery he always favors, not a hair out of place, but his eyes burn with rage. “Did you truly think I would not find out?

Geralt’s smile is slow and smug, all sharp teeth as he drawls, “And here I thought you didn’t wish to see me. Ever again.”

The fist that snaps Geralt’s head to the side painfully is not unexpected, but the force behind it is. Emhyr shakes out his hand and barely seems to notice the blood that Geralt spits at him, likely ruining his lavish garments. “Stooping low. Getting your hands dirty. So unlike you, Emhyr.”

Knotting his fingers harshly into the length of Geralt’s white hair, Emhyr jerks his head up, forcing their eyes to meet. “This is personal and as such, requires a personal touch.”

Underneath Emhyr’s rage is a hunger, and upon seeing that Geralt can’t help but smile again, his teeth bloody. If this is the game Emhyr wants, Geralt is happy to play.

“So proud. Long have I looked forward to teaching you your place.”

As Emhyr’s hand trails across Geralt’s jaw in some semblance of a caress, Geralt refuses to give into the shiver that threatens to shake him. Reaching down beneath Geralt’s field of view, Emhyr’s hand returns with a loop of rope that he wraps around Geralt’s neck before securing it, forcing his head to remain lowered lest he choke himself. The rope is tight enough that Geralt can feel it when he swallows, and he knows that it will not be long before his muscles protest the strain of the position.

“You will bring her to me.”

“I won’t,” Geralt denies, unfazed by Emhyr’s arrogant confidence.

“You sound so certain now.”

“Nothing you do to me will me will change that.”

“We shall see.”

When Emhyr moves out of sight around the side of the bed, his fingers trail down the sensitive flesh of Geralt’s side, and this time he can’t help but shiver. “You won’t break me.”

There is a smile in Emhyr’s voice as he says, “Oh, my dear Witcher. There is more than one way to break a man. Pain is clearly a dear friend to you.” He prods at a particularly nasty knot of scar tissue, a touch that Geralt can barely feel, before his fingers trail lower, nails skimming over the muscles of Geralt’s lower abdomen causing them to flex. “So we will try a different route.”

When Emhyr’s fingers wrap around Geralt’s soft cock, he freezes, waiting for pain.

The seconds tick by, and Geralt barely dares to breath.

The breath leaves Geralt in a harsh whoosh as Emhyr’s fist tightens around his length before it begins sliding up and down. Geralt can’t help the way his cock hardens, not when Emhyr’s other hand cups his balls rolling them around gently in their sac before dropping to press lower behind them. He bites his lip to prevent the moan that threatens to escape his throat as his hips attempt to raise off the bed, seeking more. “If you wanted to fuck me, all you had to do was ask.”

Emhyr’s laugh is wicked, and it seems that that is all it takes to set Geralt off, striping his chest with his release. He tries to tell himself that he’s been too long with only the pleasure of his own hand, but he’s never been one for lying to himself, knows that he’s always found the pompous git attractive.

“How crude,” Emhyr says. “I will do so much more than ‘fuck’ you.”

 


A week later finds Emhyr sitting on his throne, fully clothed, his cock the only part of him exposed, a cock that Geralt eagerly bounces on before the empty throne room.

“You wish that we were doing this during the day, that my entire court could see just how much of a whore the great White Wolf really is,” Emhyr whispers in Geralt’s ear.

In response Geralt can do little but moan as he comes untouched, again adding to the puddle on the floor, a puddle that he’ll have to later clean up with his tongue.

 


A week later finds Emhyr waking tied in much the same position that Geralt had found himself in two weeks prior. Seeing Geralt fully dressed for the first time since he’s been brought here, hiding the marks that covered his body and lounging careless in a plush chair pulled close to the end of the bed, Emhyr’s voice is calm and steady, belying none of his rising anger. “You’ll regret this.”

“I think not,” Geralt replies with a smirk, rising to his full height, the stiffness of his shoulders the only tell of his discomfort. “As fun a distraction as this little affair has been, I’m starting to get antsy. I think it’s time for me to find another contract.”

When Geralt turns towards the door, in desperation Emhyr demands, “Wait!”

Geralt pauses and turns back, brow raised in question.

“What of Ciri?”

“She is none of your concern.”

“She is my daughter!”

Closing the distance between them Geralt crouched until he is eye level and snaps, “Then treat her as such! She will not be bought or won over by trinkets. She will not sit content to be your pawn or plaything. If you care for her as a daughter, act like a father, not an emperor.”

Emhyr bites back the snarl, the denial, the anger that prices, and instead closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, lets it out, and opens his eyes once again, focusing on Geralt’s face. “I will pen a letter for you to pass on to her?” The approval on Geralt’s face means nothing, Emhyr tells himself.

“If I approve of the content.”

“I would expect no less.”

Geralt rises and strides towards the door once more.

“Wait!” Emhyr repeats. “What of the ropes?”

Pausing with his hand on the door handle, Geralt turns again, eyes raking hot over Emhyr’s prone form as a smirk tugs at his lips. “I got out of them. I would expect no less of you.” Giving a mocking bow, Geralt adds, “Your majesty.”

Emhyr struggles wildly against the ropes, and Geralt laughs as Emhyr's furious shouts follow him down the empty hallway.