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don't need your heart, just need your hands

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Geralt knew that this job was too easy. Something had to go wrong.

Things have cooled down in the years since Toussaint since Syanna’s death, and Geralt isn’t trying to stir up any trouble. It’s easier to avoid Beauclair, take some easy contracts for some vintners outside the capital and enjoy the Toussaint sun. The Ducal Guard gives him a pass, so long as he stays away from the Palace, and he’s so tired of nobles and their politics that that isn’t much of an ask.

It’s a strange realization that with Corvo Bianco, Geralt no longer needs to fight for every coin he gets. At the end of the day, he’s always got a roof over his head, food for himself and for Roach. He takes contracts to keep himself from getting rusty, but honestly, it’s got a lot to do with not being bored. There’s only so long he can lie around in the sun and drink wine.

Which is why he’d agreed to get rid of the archespores infesting one of the fields near the Belgaard vineyard. The sun was setting and it had taken too long to find the infestation. They’d taken over a little cave beside a pond, big leaves fluttering as he stepped closer. He doesn’t recognize the coloration, but he’s not very worried. Archespores are more irritating than anything.

He slicks another coat of oil onto his silver blade and walks towards the cave. The archespores are startled into movement, unfolding long stems to open large carnivorous flowers. Geralt traces his fingers through the sign for Igni, a burst of fire making the plants shrink away and let out a ghostly shriek. There’s a series of blueish spore caps blossoming next to him, and Geralt rolls away, landing on his feet only to lunge forward and slice into the thick stem of the plant.

It’s tough, tougher than the normal breed that pops up around Toussaint, and Geralt grits his teeth, tugging his blade free and swinging away from the retaliatory blast of poison it sends his way. He tumbles to the ground, too close to the spore caps, and they pop, showering him with blue dust. Geralt coughs, pawing at his face and blinking furiously to clear his eyes. He expects it to burn, but all he tastes is sweet on the back of his tongue.

While he’s lying on the ground, choking on the blue spores, he feels a sharp burn as another blast of venom grazes his face. He rolls again instinctively, stumbling to his feet and spinning his sword in his hand. He won’t let a couple of plants knock him down.

With one last swipe at his teary eyes, Geralt swings his fingers through the sign for Aard, stunning the blossoming head of the flower and dashing in towards it. This time, he puts his might behind the sword, hacking at the tough stem with heavy swings. He thinks grimly that maybe he should have brought an axe. He’s going to have to sharpen the hell out of his sword after this and he likes this blade.

More of the spore pods snap open behind him, but Geralt ignores them, taking a quick step to the side to avoid the lash of the half-cut plant. “Come on,” he mutters, and he takes his sword to the plant again, again, and one more time. The plant lets out another of those pseudo shrieks and he flicks his fingers through Igni, stepping back to watch it burn.

It shrivels up almost immediately, the plant rapidly shrinking back and folding itself back up into its complex root system. Around him, the burst open remnants of the spore pods litter the ground, wisps of blue floating through the air around them. Geralt wipes his blade clean on his sleeve and frowns. He’s covered in spores, blue dust clinging to his clothes and his skin. He should be in agony. He should be poisoned. But he’s not.

And he’s far too old to believe that he just got lucky. He coughs, watching his breath make eddies of the blue spores in the air. He’s got to get out of here.

He gets maybe another half dozen paces away from the clearing before he’s clearing his throat again, pulling at his collar. The summer afternoon was warm, but he’s starting to sweat. It trickles down from his hairline, makes his shirt stick to his chest. “Shit,” he mutters. The trees around him swim in front of him and he can’t keep his feet underneath him, so he doesn’t. Safer to let himself fall here, where he knows the soil is loamy and he still has the presence of mind to catch his head from cracking off anything.

He drags himself towards the nearest tree, an old one with a wide, sturdy trunk and he leans against it, his chest heaving. His head is spinning, and he feels so hot. He’s got no idea where his swords have gone, but he can barely muster up the interest. All he can think about is getting out of his armour, peeling all of these layers off.

It takes him until the last piece of armour is shed to put his finger on what he’s feeling. His fingers skate across the exposed skin at his collar and his breath catches, his cock twitching painfully in his trousers. An aphrodisiac. Geralt snorts. He supposes he should be thankful that that’s all it was. Could’ve been paired with an amorous plant. Dandelion would never let him live it down.

It’s not the first time that Geralt has been drugged like this. There was one memorable occasion with a Leshen, a few decades back, but he doesn’t know what to do this time. He peels out of his scabbards, out of his shirt, each drag across his skin torturous and so good. Squirming, he reaches down to rearrange his cock, pressed uncomfortably against the seam of his pants. He’s dangerously close to getting indecent in the woods. He laughs a little to himself, then coughs. At least it’s Toussaint. Nobody would bat an eye.

Geralt feels through his pockets, digs out a vial. White Honey. It’s worth a shot. The potion cuts the sweetness on his tongue, but his world only clears a little. It looks like he’s going to have to ride this out. He tips his head back against the broad tree and stares up at the branches around him. There’s a raven perched above him. A raven… “You wouldn’t happen to know a vampire, would you?” he rasps. The bird cocks its head. “Because I could really use someone who knows about plants right now.” The raven doesn’t answer. It simply flies away again. “Good talk,” Geralt mutters. He clenches his hands into fists and sighs, trying his best to ignore the ache of his cock and the sweat on his skin. Who knows how long this will last? He lets his eyes slide shut.

When he opens them again, the sky is dark and his pants are shoved around his knees. Geralt groans as he rises into consciousness again, the heat hitting him with a vengeance. There’s a part of him that’s concerned that he just passed out for several hours without any clothes on, but he’s more focused on how the cool night air makes him shiver and his cock bob and jerk. His thighs ache with tension and he grits his teeth, shaking his head. His head doesn’t feel any clearer with the time, which is concerning. If it doesn’t wear off, it’s like to burn right through him. That’s not good.

It takes him a good few seconds to realize that there’s something approaching. He straightens futilely, listening to the hiss of wind through the air. There’s something familiar about the scent through the trees. He finally places it when smoke coalesces in front of him, taking the form of a broad-shouldered man with dark hair and piercing eyes. “Dettlaff?” Geralt asks hoarsely. It seems unreal.

Dettlaff drops to his knee next to him. “You called,” he says, looking everywhere except at Geralt’s aching cock. He presses a hand to Geralt’s knee, as though in comfort, and Geralt’s body arches in response, lightning pleasure skittering through his veins. Geralt clenches his hands in the dirt and watches the bob of Dettlaff’s throat hungrily. “Regis, he - he was too far. He sent me.”

“Sent you,” Geralt echoes. His voice sounds ragged. He kicks off his pants and drags his hand down his chest, the night air making him shiver and sweat. The time for propriety is long past. His head is swimming, and if he doesn’t get off soon, he’s not sure he’ll be able to think at all. “That’s nice. Glad the birds are listening.”

Dettlaff’s eyes are hesitant, but he leans in closer, jaw set, determined. “I know what you need,” he says. He smells like arousal, hot and wanting, and Geralt growls, cupping one pec in his hands and digging in his nails. “This archespore - it is not unknown to us. I can help.” He rests his hand on Geralt’s knee again, and the contact between their skin feels like fire. Dettlaff is a handsome man, and Geralt has never had him this intimately close, his cool fingertips skating up his thigh, making his cock leak. “Let me.”

It takes all of Geralt’s self restraint not to take Dettlaff at face value, not to surge up and take, and take, and take. They’d fallen into a kind of truce since they’d settled things after Syanna’s death, and Dettlaff had accompanied Regis to stay at Corvo Bianco more than a few times in the years that followed. It’s a friendship, of sorts, though Geralt never quite knew what to do with Dettlaff, his long silences and the intense way he stared at Geralt and Regis, unrepentant and unreadable. “Do you know what you’re offering?” Geralt asks. He’s managed not to touch himself yet, and it’s sweet agony. He’s not sure he can stop once he starts.

Yes,” Dettlaff says, voice low and fierce. “So take it.”

Geralt doesn’t need to be told twice. He grabs the dark, heavy lapels of Dettlaff’s jacket, hauling him in for a hasty, messy kiss. It only takes a moment of Dettlaff’s lips on his (wet, hot, hungry) before Geralt’s crying out, heat surging through his core as he comes against his belly, completely untouched. Dettlaff leans back as Geralt gasps for breath, chest heaving, head singing with it. The need is still there, still burning through him, and he sees the echo of it in Dettlaff’s eyes as he yanks off his own clothes with brutal efficiency. Geralt watches through eyes half-lidded, and his mouth waters at the size of Dettlaff’s cock, jutting before him. “Shit,” Geralt groans. His hands shake as he pulls Dettlaff to him again.

They don’t waste any time. Geralt’s got no coordination, drunk on arousal and aching for it, but Dettlaff turns him over easy enough, gets him on his hands and knees in the dirt. Come, still cooling, drips onto the ground beneath him, and he goes easily when Dettlaff presses a hand between his shoulder blades, pushing his body into an arch. “C’mon,” Geralt growls. He can taste how badly Dettlaff wants it too, overpowering the sticky sweet aftertaste of the archespore on the back of his tongue. “Come on. Don’t make me wait.”

“Settle,” Dettlaff growls, amused, and his too-sharp teeth dig into the taut skin over his ribs. “Be patient.”

Geralt groans as Dettlaff mouths down his spine, over the curve of his ass. Gods, he needs it. This is too much. He tries to push back against Dettlaff’s touch and he scowls as Dettlaff holds him steady, but doesn’t do anything more, humming curiously. “What?” he snaps.

“You’re wet,” Dettlaff says, and Geralt’s ready to roll his eyes, because of course his cock is wet. He’s been hard for hours. Then Dettlaff slides two fingers into him, the noise humiliatingly loud, and Geralt gasps and clenches down around them. He can feel something slick and warm drip down his balls, puddling on the ground beneath him. “That’s -” Dettlaff’s voice is strained, and Geralt can feel the twitch of Dettlaff’s cock against his thigh. “Gods.”

Geralt grunts, digging his fingers into the ground, and Dettlaff gives him no room to ease into it, just fucks him hard and fast with his fingers. “I thought you said that you knew about these things,” Geralt gasps, and his voice trails off increasingly loudly as Dettlaff pushes a third finger into him, spreading his fingers and then bending to lick between them. The stretch and the hot trail of Dettlaff’s tongue makes Geralt’s thighs shake.

“Hands on experience is different,” Dettlaff rumbles. He curls his fingers down insistently, his other hand still flattened over Geralt’s ribs as he fucks him deep and hard. “One more. You can.”

He’s right. As Dettlaff bends again, mouth wet and obscene against the stretch of his rim, Geralt shouts, white hot pleasure making him tense against Dettlaff’s grip as he spills into the dirt beneath him. His breath shudders in his chest and he’s still hard, but Dettlaff pulls his fingers away, leaving him aching and empty. “Mmn,” he says. “It just keeps going.”

“Yes,” Dettlaff agrees. He slides closer on his knees, and Geralt arches into the warmth of his thighs, savouring the sticky slide of Dettlaff’s sizeable cock over his skin. “You have to fuck it out of your system. Ready?”

He’s been ready for hours now. “Just put it in -” he growls, and Dettlaff laughs, low and hot, and pushes in.

Geralt’s no stranger to this, he hasn’t spent a hundred years on the Continent not to explore everything his body can do, but right now the slick, inexorable push of Dettlaff’s cock feels better than anything he’s ever had. He groans and sags beneath Dettlaff, his body shaking with each forceful thrust in. He feels thick and hot inside him, and and he flattens himself over Geralt, fucking into him slowly, shallowly, firmly. “Fuck,” he grits out.

Yes,” Dettlaff agrees. His mouth is wet against Geralt’s neck, the points of his teeth skating over his skin. His voice is strained, his fingers digging bruises into Geralt’s skin, and Geralt loves it all. “May I?”

It takes Geralt a second to realize what Dettlaff’s asking for. His cock bobs beneath him, utterly untouched, and he doesn’t want to touch it. There’s a dazed part of him that wants to find out if he can come again, just like this. Dettlaff’s teeth drag against him again, more insistent now, and the thought sends a thrill through him. He’s experiencing all sorts of firsts today. “Yeah,” he gasps out, and Dettlaff grunts. Geralt can feel him jerk inside Geralt’s body. It’s incredibly hot. “Do it.”

It’s startling when Dettlaff’s teeth slide into him, the pleasure-pain mix making Geralt dizzy and hot. His cock jerks again and his orgasm hits him by surprise. Dettlaff drinks from him in long, intense gulps, pulsing with each thrust of his hips, and when he finally pulls away, Geralt can feel the blood trickle down his neck as Dettlaff groans and shakes, coming hard inside him.

They still together for several long moments, Dettlaff’s cock still thick and hard inside him, his mouth pressing shaky kisses to the curve of his shoulder. As Geralt’s head clears, just a little, he can feel something at the back of his mind. Deep satisfaction, pleasure. “What is that?” Geralt asks.

The pleasure shifts to confusion, clarity. “It’s me,” Dettlaff says slowly. There’s something settling between the two of them as the blood and sweat dry on Geralt’s body. The heat still burns under his skin, but it’s easier now, and beneath it, he feels something surfacing. That deep satisfaction resolves into something physical - he can feel the echo of Dettlaff’s thoughts, the way he feels around Dettlaff’s cock. It’s a strange pleasure loop that makes Geralt’s head swim all over again. “It was the bite. It should not linger. I didn’t know witchers could - it is a vampire trait.” He sounds hesitant, uneasy, but Geralt can feel something below it, too. Hopeful.

Geralt’s barely got enough brainpower to muster up the words he needs. “Mutagens,” he says. “Probably got a little vampire in me.” There’s no way of knowing what the sorcerors pumped in him during their tests.

“A little?” Dettlaff asks, and Geralt huffs out a laugh.

“More than enough,” Geralt amends, and he pushes his ass back into the cradle of Dettlaff’s hips. “Thought you said you were going to help,” he reminds Dettlaff, and when Dettlaff presses his open mouth to the line of Geralt’s shoulder, he lets his pleasure ease through to meet Dettlaff’s.

“Yes,” Dettlaff says, his voice dark, promising. “Oh, I will.”

Geralt’s always been drawn to people who are stronger than him, and Dettlaff is no exception. He’s tired and aching but he goes easily when Dettlaff sits back on his heels and hoists Geralt up. His big hands hook beneath Geralt’s knees and spread his legs wide, forcing his weight down on Dettlaff’s cock. Geralt chokes out a noise. He feels like Dettlaff’s so deep, his cock is in his throat. He can feel Dettlaff’s amusement curl around in the back of his mind. It satisfies something so deep inside him, primal and necessary. Dettlaff drags his hips down and Geralt grunts and reaches back to tangle a hand in Dettlaff’s thick hair. He’s so overwhelmed, overstimulated, pleasure racing through him, he needs to hang onto something.

He’s glad they’re far from any vineyard. The noise they’re making is obscene, Dettlaff’s spend leaking thick and sticky from the place where they’re joined, each short stamp of his cock dragging a helpless sound from Geralt’s throat. Dettlaff noses at the back of Geralt’s neck, teeth skimming sharp over his skin before he digs in. This time, Geralt’s prepared for the almost violent rush of heady pleasure, his hips bucking in Dettlaff’s grip. He can feel Dettlaff’s mind more clearly now, and it’s strange and unreal. He can feel how hot and tight he is around Dettlaff’s cock, how warm he feels against Dettlaff’s skin, and the deep satisfaction Dettlaff gets from it.

“You wanted this,” Geralt grits out, and Dettlaff forces him down hard, his cock dragging over Geralt’s prostate and making him shout. “Me. You wanted me.”

He grunts as Dettlaff pulls his teeth from his neck, lapping at the blood that drips freely from the wound. “Is that so strange?” Dettlaff asks. Geralt knows that Dettlaff is enjoying it, he can feel it in the urgency of his thrusts and the warm satisfaction that pushes at the back of his head, but it’s still gratifying to hear. “You are so -”

Good. Dettlaff clearly hadn’t meant to let that through, but the praise makes Geralt’s cock jerk, and he leans back against Dettlaff’s broad chest, using the grip he has on Dettlaff’s hair to turn his head so he can kiss him. It’s sloppy, uncoordinated, and Dettlaff tastes of his own blood, sweet with archespore.

It’s that, the hesitant hopefulness sifting through from Dettlaff’s mind, and the cool hand Dettlaff wraps around his cock that urges the final orgasm from Geralt. He’s got the stamina of a witcher but he’s so glad to feel the heat crescendo and break finally. He shakes against Dettlaff, tightening around Dettlaff’s cock and making Dettlaff curse in a language he doesn’t understand. “C’mon,” Geralt groans, and Dettlaff needs no further encouragement.

He pushes Geralt back into the dirt, hands viciously tight around Geralt’s hips, fucking him bruisingly hard. It’s too much, it’s not enough, and Geralt reaches back to grip Dettlaff’s wrist. His entire body shakes with each thrust, and he’s helpless to do anything but take it, nerves alight with the best kind of fire. I wanted this too, he thinks fiercely, and Dettlaff sobs out a gasp, pulling Geralt’s body to him once, twice, as he fucks in deep and spills hot inside him.

When the sun rises, Geralt’s whole body aches, but the heat has broken. The spell the spores had on him has burned out of his system. His relief is almost palpable. He leans back against the tree trunk, eyes shut as he cards a hand through Dettlaff’s sweat-damp hair. Dettlaff dozes in his lap, as naked as Geralt is now. The two of them are covered in scratches and bites, and Geralt can feel the slow leak of Dettlaff’s spill from inside him. It’s not comfortable, but he’s been in worse positions.

His back stiffens as footsteps approach. “Regis,” Dettlaff murmurs without opening his eyes.

“Well!” Regis says, and his grin is broad, amused. “I see I missed the fun.” He sounds fond, affectionate, and in the ghost of the tie between him and Dettlaff, Geralt can almost feel him as well. Blood brothers, he thinks. “How do you feel?”

“Like I just got fucked to within an inch of my life,” Geralt says frankly, and Dettlaff rumbles out a laugh. “But I’ll be fine, I think.” He can think now, which is more than enough for him. When his legs work again, he’ll get up and turn in the contract, but right now, he’s happy to just catch his breath.

“Well, I am terribly glad to hear that,” Regis says. He still drops to his knee, pressing a hand to Geralt’s skin to check his temperature, skimming fingers over the minor wounds on his skin. “You had us worried.”

“Mmm.” He tips his head, a smile playing on his lips. “Thanks,” he says. He rests a palm over Dettlaff’s bare chest. “He was just in time.”

Regis nods, still smiling. “But of course, my dear friend,” he says. “Anything for the two of you.” He winks, and Geralt feels something very like happiness echo from Dettlaff.