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“I’m quite serious,” Istredd said. He hadn’t meant to get into this topic tonight. He’d told himself he’d wait until tomorrow at least, so as not to seem overeager. But his experiments had been set in motion, he was warm and comfortable, and Geralt’s polite questions about his studies had been too good an opening to pass up.
“But… you can’t possibly want to.” Geralt stared at Istredd over a third goblet of wine. “Why would you?”
“Sorcerers undergo a great many discomforts in the service of the arcane arts.” Istredd tried to look mysterious and alluring, but he’d also had several glasses of wine himself, so he wasn’t certain he was getting it right.
“What, like a crick in the neck from bending over old scrolls in the library?” Geralt scoffed.
Istredd pressed his lips together so he wouldn’t snap back an unwise answer. An image surfaced of his mind of being on his knees for Yenna, holding perfectly still as her graceful fingers trailed lightning down his chest, enough power to kill him if her control slipped. Alright, that hadn’t been strictly for scientific purposes, but it did prove he wasn’t the delicate hothouse flower Geralt saw him as. “You don’t think I can do it.”
“No, I don’t.” Geralt took another sip of his wine.
“You—” Istredd glared at Geralt. Such a casual, blunt dismissal. “I can do a great many things.”
“But you don’t have to,” Geralt shrugged. “I’m a witcher. I deal with monsters. That’s how I make a living. So maybe you could harvest arachas eggs on your own, but I doubt it. You sorcerers prefer to pay someone else to do your dirty work.”
“Not all sorcerers are alike,” Istredd protested. But Stregabor came too easily to mind—his lectures about wizards not wasting time with any tasks they could fob off on “lesser beings.” Istredd threw back the rest of his wine, placed the goblet decisively on the mantle above the massive hearth, and turned to Geralt. “Show me. How you prepared yourself for the arachas.”
Geralt shook his head. “Witchers recover quickly, but I’d rather not—”
“No.” Istredd held out his arms. “Show me how to do it.”
Geralt’s face drained of all expression. Then his eyes grew dark as his pupils expanded to their limit. “You want…”
“I want to prove you wrong,” Istredd said firmly. “I’ll demonstrate that I’m as devoted to my work as you are to yours.”
Geralt drew in a ragged breath. “You really don’t have to.”
“But I will.” Istredd straightened to his full height and raised his chin. “You’ve awakened my competitive instinct. Now, are you going to help or will I need to work out the procedure on my own?”
“You need…” Geralt began faintly. He cleared his throat and tried again. “To accommodate the spawn of the arachas, you must be sufficiently prepared to provide a hospitable vessel,” he said, in a cadence that suggested he was reciting from a book. “As with other creatures whose instruments of mating exceed human dimensions, diligent effort is required to stretch and lubricate the anus in order to avoid injury.”
“Other creatures,” Istredd said. If Geralt was quoting from a book, did that mean witchers had instructional texts on these topics? “Do witchers–”
“You want to know about the arachas or not?” Geralt snapped.
Istredd swallowed back his questions. There would be another time to coax an answer out of Geralt on that front. For now, he needed to focus on his goal. “Yes.”
“You need slick.”
“Fine.” That seemed straightforward enough. Istredd strode over to his work bench and plucked from a shelf a small bottle of oil he hadn’t used in some time. Not since… well, it had gathered some dust. He carried it back over to the hearth and set it down on the table by his chair. “What next?” he demanded.
“Istredd.” Geralt looked over at the fire. “I didn’t mean to insult you. You don’t need—”
“I’m going to see this through with or without your assistance,” Istredd informed him, making an effort to sound matter-of-fact. “I would prefer to have your help, if you’re willing.”
“I’m willing,” Geralt said immediately. “I’m—” He drew in a slow breath, let it out, and looked back at Istredd with a tight smile. “That is, as long as you promise not to pass on any trade secrets to the rest of the Brotherhood. Wouldn’t want to take custom away from my guild.”
Istredd returned the same polite smile. “Strictly for my personal use, then.”
“Fine.” Geralt waved his acquiescence.
Istredd began stripping off his clothes. First his belt, which he let fall to the floor. The shirt he pulled off over his head and tossed over the back of the chair. He might not have a witcher's physique, but the preserving effects of chaos meant his chest was as firm and well-muscled as it had been at age twenty. His body was certainly nothing to be ashamed of, however, he had neither the physique nor the endowment of the witcher; he’d had ample opportunity to assess the man’s merits that afternoon. So, as he reached for the fastenings on his breeches, he couldn’t help but glance over at Geralt.
The witcher still sat in his chair, clutching his goblet of wine with his eyes fixed on Istredd. When Istredd met his gaze, Geralt raised an eyebrow, as if to remind him that he’d seen quite a lot of Geralt’s naked body a few scant hours ago, and fair was fair. In any case, this was only a friendly demonstration. Nothing to get worked up over. Istredd shoved down his breeches and braies and stepped out of them.
“What now?” Istredd forced himself to meet Geralt’s eyes, as if he were merely asking about the next step in an experiment protocol. Which he was, really.
“You really want to do this?” Geralt asked.
Istredd gestured impatiently to his nudity.
Geralt sighed and said, “Wait.” Then the bastard stood and walked out of the room.
Istredd gaped after him for a moment, then felt blood rush to his cheeks—and elsewhere. Yenna had done this more than once: kept him waiting on her pleasure. He curled his toes into the rug and tried not to think about how long he would be willing to stand here in obedient vulnerability until the witcher’s return. He was a little afraid of the answer.
To his surprise, however, Geralt returned before long holding a wide-mouthed jar sealed with a cork that appeared to contain some greasy-looking substance.
“You’ll start with this.” Geralt’s voice sounded calm and measured. Not the battleground bark of a drill sergeant, but a gentle kind of instruction. “And your fingers.”
Istredd grabbed for the jar—some special witcher-made slick, presumably?---but Geralt pulled it out of his reach and held up a finger. With a frown, Istredd watched as Geralt removed the cork and made a gesture over the jar, after which steam wafted out along with a slightly herbal smell. When Geralt handed it over, it felt warm to the touch, perhaps a few degrees shy of body temperature. Istredd stared down at it, wondering if there was some reason heating a lubricant would render it more effective, or if it was merely a matter of comfort. And if the latter, why would Geralt bother?
Istredd raised his eyes to Geralt with a quizzical frown, but Geralt merely motioned to the floor and returned to his chair.
Well then, Istredd wouldn’t question the expert on this point. He settled himself on the finely woven rug in front of the fire, giving absolutely no thought whatsoever to the angle that would show him at best advantage.The jar Geralt had given him did indeed contain a wonderfully slick substance that clung thickly to Istredd’s fingers. He ended up on his side, extending his well-greased hand back over his hip to reach his entrance. He took a moment to be grateful that he’d taken time for extra thorough ablutions before retiring to the study with Geralt.
As he began, he did his best to ignore Geralt’s presence. This wasn’t about Geralt. He was simply trying to learn a new technique for specimen collection. If he closed his eyes, he could breathe in the familiar alchemical scents from his work and almost believe it. He eased his fingers inside with confident pressure. It wouldn’t do to appear at all unsure. And he wasn't, not entirely. This was a pleasure he regularly allowed himself. When possible, of course, he preferred to amuse himself with company. But in all the years since his parting from Yenna he still hadn’t found a lover who fully satisfied him in this way. He was well accustomed to taking care of himself.
One finger wasn’t painful, but neither did it feel particularly pleasurable yet. Which was fine, as this was a purely mechanical exercise meant to demonstrate a collection technique. However, as Istredd dragged the slick finger out and pushed it in again, he reflected that the procedure might in fact be expedited if he were aroused. Muscles tended to relax with arousal, after all.
However, there was the witcher to consider. What would Geralt think to see Istredd becoming stimulated by this procedure? Well, Geralt had been quite obviously aroused as he took those arachas eggs. In fact, he’d left quite a quantity of his spend in the clearing, so Istredd imagined he was unlikely to be scandalized by Istredd enjoying a similar experience. Arousal might be beneficial, or even required, for this procedure.
If so, there could be no harm in visualizing a few things that might stoke his ardor. Istredd meant to imagine Yenna, but instead his mind supplied the image of Geralt sitting in his chair here in this room, where he’d so often sat and talked with Istredd late into the night, now watching Istredd with an unimpressed expression, his yellow eyes fairly glowing in the firelight, his fingers tapping against the arm of the chair impatiently. Perhaps he would come kneel next to Istredd for a better view.
Istredd imagined Geralt’s hands on him, firm and confident, holding him in place as he squirmed with impatience. That dryly sardonic voice asking, Is that the best you can do? He wouldn’t defer to Istredd out of fear or respect. Instead, he’d expect Istredd to do as he wished, to live up to Geralt’s expectations. And Istredd would try. He would try.
“Once that’s comfortable,” Geralt instructed, sounding much closer than Istredd had expected, “you can add another.”
Istredd’s eyes snapped open to find Geralt crouched at the edge of the rug, observing him critically, amber eyes just as sharp as Istredd had imagined them.
“What?” Istredd’s mouth was quite dry.
“When you’re ready.” Geralt inclined his head towards where Istredd’s finger breached him.
“Of course.” Istredd knew how to finger himself. That bit could hardly be called closely-held arcane knowledge. He withdrew his finger, refreshed the grease, and reached again for his entrance. The angle wasn’t particularly comfortable, nor dignified, he reflected as he pressed his finger back in. On his side like this, it was a bit awkward to reach, but shifting now would be as good as admitting he didn’t know what he was about. He hadn’t done this particular thing while being observed, nor personally observed anyone else doing it to themselves. He suspected he might look a bit foolish. He could still feel the weight of Geralt’s attention.
“Are you just going to stand there and gawk?” he snapped. As it was, he had not enough leverage to do anything more than slide his finger gently back and forth, the feeling more of a tease than a pleasure—and of course, more importantly, less than effective at preparing him as this procedure was meant to do.
Geralt leaned back on his heels and raised an eyebrow at Istredd. “What else would I do?”
“Help me, damn it!”
Istredd swallowed, and his eyes widened in alarm. He hadn’t quite planned to say that. But Geralt’s participation would make this procedure much more efficient and also… it would ensure Istredd was performing the technique correctly. Yes, that was the priority. He decided to not be embarrassed that he’d blurted it out. It had been on purpose. He raised his chin and looked to Geralt for his reaction.
Geralt drew in a sharp breath. He didn’t move any further for a moment, then said, “Help how?”
Istredd plucked the jar of warmed grease from its spot on the floor and held it out. When Geralt cautiously lifted it from his hand, he turned onto his other side, presenting Geralt with his slicked entrance. His cock, which had hardened considerably, brushed against his belly. He resisted the urge to give it a friendly stroke while he waited to see what Geralt would do.
“Fine,” Geralt croaked. He dropped to his knees at Istredd’s back. His hand landed on Istredd’s hip, and Istredd stared at it. It was a witcher’s hand all right, broad and brawny as the rest of him, decorated with nicks, scars, and discolorations from the demands of his profession. Compared to Yenna’s dainty hands, Geralt’s looked massive, so huge that Istredd’s eyes widened as he imagined all of that inside him. He lifted his knee to give Geralt more room.
Geralt’s other hand stroked down Istredd’s spine. It disappeared for a moment, then a thick finger circled lightly around Istredd’s hole. Istredd’s eyes drifted shut for a moment at the gentle touch against where he’d already slicked himself. He opened them again when Geralt’s movements progressed no further.
“Witcher, I’ve told you, I’m not some delicate–oh!” Istredd’s words cut off as Geralt’s finger breached him, knuckle catching briefly against the rim before pushing in. Then he was in all the way, his other fingers resting lightly against Istredd’s taint, a startlingly intimate feeling. It wasn’t really more of a stretch than what Istredd had already taken, but somehow he felt much more full.
“There.” Istredd felt proud of how little his voice shook. “It’s much more convenient with some assistance.”
“Mm.” Geralt twisted his finger as he slid it in and out at a maddeningly slow pace.
Istredd pressed his cheek against the rug, seeking more—something. He desperately wanted to settle a hand around his eager cock and squeeze, not to end things, just to tide him over until the next stage of the procedure, whatever that was. If he was in Geralt’s bed, he would ask permission, maybe—it had been a risk, with Yenna, to do such things without permission. But Geralt wasn’t really his lover. He was merely doing Istredd a favor, and Istredd was loath to betray how little this felt like simple research. If Geralt continued at this creeping pace, however, Istredd wouldn’t be able to contain himself.
“Go on, move.” Istredd pushed back, but Geralt tightened his hold on Istredd’s hip.
“It’s more difficult to judge if I’m not doing it to myself. It’s…” Geralt cleared his throat. “When preparing, one must use ample lubrication and stretch slowly and steadily. Rushing at an early stage may result in pain or agitation counterproductive to the purpose of this exercise.”
“There will be agitation if you don’t get on with it,” Istredd gritted out.
To his gratification, Istredd felt Geralt’s finger withdraw and return with another. He breathed out as the two slick fingers opened him. His cock was fully hard now, and rocked against his belly as Geralt pushed in and out. The pleasure of the motion threatened to lull him into mindlessness. But—pleasure wasn’t the point of this exercise. It was research. He cleared his throat.
“That text you’re quoting, what is it?”
Geralt’s movements slowed for a moment, then resumed their steady pace. “You won’t have heard of it.”
“I am a scholar,” Istredd felt compelled to point out, though he realized his point might be undermined by the fact that he was pushing back eagerly into the rhythm of Geralt’s thrusts.
“This is hardly your area of expertise.”
“I seem to be doing well enough.”
“You—” Geralt huffed out what might have been a laugh. “I mean monsters are not your area of expertise. No idea what use you’d have for The Proper Pacification of Fell Creatures by the witcher Algis.”
Istredd’s eyes drifted closed, picturing the scene in the clearing with the arachas looming large and imagining himself in Geralt’s place, at the beast’s mercy. He shook his head to banish the image. He should be concentrating on learning the technique Geralt was teaching him. “Are witchers just incredibly flexible?” Istredd complained. “How do you do this on your own?”
“I have special equipment,” Geralt said absently. He withdrew his fingers to refresh the grease.
“Like that plug of yours?” Istredd mused. Perhaps that was something Geralt carried everywhere, packed away in his saddlebags with elixir ingredients and spare pieces of twine, just another tool of the witchers’ trade. “What do you—”
“Oh, leave it alone.” Geralt slid two slick fingers into him with no apparent effort, which somewhat impeded Istredd’s ability to pay attention. “Is my assistance not to your taste? I can loan you my equipment or I can help you myself. Your choice.”
“Oh well.” Istredd’s voice sounded weak and thready to his ears. He tried to steady it. “I suppose I would rather have your expert assistance.”
“Would you.” Geralt’s voice sounded unaccountably warm. His fingers twisted inside Istredd until they pressed firmly in just the right spot to make him gasp and squirm, suddenly alive with pleasure. Istredd betrayed himself with a helpless groan, and Geralt immediately stilled.
They both sat breathing for a moment. Istredd waited, wondering if Geralt would be disgusted with him now that he was so clearly enjoying this. As he did, he gathered up tattered scraps of the fiction in which Geralt was simply helping him with a scientific procedure, and tried to piece them together into a coherent picture. It did not work.
Istredd was not brimming with hope for the advance of his research. Instead, he overflowed with pure want. The witcher’s touch felt damn good, and he wanted more of it. Istredd listened to Geralt’s rough breathing and wondered if the witcher might also be enjoying this in more than the spirit of scientific inquiry.
“Istredd?” Geralt sounded uncertain. “If you’d rather I didn’t—”
“No.” Istredd dredged up a smile, which he twisted around to show to Geralt. The last thing he wanted was to discourage anything the man was doing. “Nothing like a hands-on demonstration. Keep going.”
Geralt obligingly slid his fingers further inside Istredd. They were pleasantly big, though only two together did little to tax Istredd’s capacity. He stretched languidly, reveling in the pleasure of a gentle touch holding him in place and letting sensations subsume all thought. He could enjoy this for hours, he felt certain, enough of a tease to get him close to the edge without ever pushing him over. But no—he’d told Geralt this was all for a reason.
“Get on with it,” he said. “Do you take things so damn slow when you’re doing this for yourself?”
“Sometimes,” Geralt said. He drew his fingers out of Istredd and leisurely uncorked the grease. “When I’m not in a hurry, I don’t mind drawing the process out.” The image sprang too easily to Istredd’s mind: Geralt on the bed in the chamber down the corridor, silver hair spread out on the pillow as he lazily opened himself with some of a piece of that equipment he’d mentioned. “As I’m sure you know, it’s not particularly difficult to make a witcher climax. But denying oneself… there can be pleasure in that.”
“Mm.” Istredd remembered Yenna riding him, chanting “Don’t you dare! Not yet!” as she chased her pleasure. The memory sent a delicious shiver through him. “Or in being denied.”
“Is that what you want?” Geralt asked, pausing with his slicked fingers at Istredd’s entrance.
“No! Come on. I can take more.” Istredd tried to push back, but Geralt’s hand held him in place.
“If you want my help, we’re doing this my way. Here, turn over, on all fours. Breathe,” Geralt instructed. When Istredd did so, Geralt spread a generous dollop of grease over his entrance.
It would be so easy for Geralt to fuck him like this. He could shove down his breeches to take Istredd here—surely he was slick and stretched enough. He should tell Geralt that’s what he wanted. But, well, Geralt had agreed to help him try this procedure, not to cater to Istredd’s prurient whims. He spread his knees further apart and waited quite impatiently for Geralt to touch him again.
Fitting three of Geralt’s thick fingers inside did take some effort. Istredd found it increasingly difficult to respond to Geralt’s conversation in any coherent way. Now that he’d opened the door to the idea that his motives might not be purely academic, the stream of distracting thoughts had become a torrent. Arousal surged through him, drowning out any pretense of professionalism. He wanted more of Geralt, wanted him as far inside as the witcher could be. Wanted him to say he could smell how badly Istredd needed him, and was willing to oblige if Istredd would only admit his desire.
Three of Geralt’s meaty fingers together were wide enough that Istredd could feel the ridge of the knuckles each time they slid past the rim of his entrance. The stretch had been uncomfortable at first, but Istredd had grown used to it now. The glide of Geralt’s fingers past the sweet spot had him rocking back to meet each movement. High-pitched, breathy sounds reached his ears, and it took Istredd several moments to understand he was the one making them.
“Hush.” Geralt petted a hand down his back. “You’re doing well. We can stop here. You don’t need to take any more.”
Istredd shook his head vigorously, then groaned as the movement shifted him. “Feels… It feels…”
Istredd gasped for breath. His fingers curled against the rug. Probably he should say something, Preferably something clever. But words felt far away. His body—ordinary human flesh, nothing particularly remarkable—was speaking for him now: his hard cock was hot and stiff against his belly, leaking at the tip; his hips bucked to try to break Geralt’s hold and take more; his breath came only shallowly because it felt as if Geralt was filling up all the space inside Istredd, so large there was room for nothing else.
Geralt kept up his steady movement as Istredd attempted to tame his scattered thoughts into words.
“It’s so much, and the more you give me, the more I want,” Istredd gasped. That was just reporting a result, certainly, and not actually a confession of desire?
Geralt hummed. “Are you sure?”
Something in Geralt’s tone tugged Istredd away from the mire of sensation. “Are you?” Istredd craned his neck to look and found that Geralt’s cock strained against the front of his breeches. A positive sign, but not conclusive, not with someone of Geralt’s physiology. “Is this… Are you only doing this as a favor to me, or are you enjoying yourself?”
Geralt’s expression slid into a frown as he stared at Istredd, but at least he didn’t withdraw.
Istredd waited, stilling his movements to give Geralt his full attention. He found he very much wanted the answer to be that Geralt was enjoying himself. The idea that Istredd was just another imperious sorcerer commanding a witcher’s reluctant service cooled his ardor considerably. “Geralt. Do you want to keep going?”
“We don't have to,” Geralt said gruffly. “You’ve made your point. I apologize for impugning your commitment to your research.”
“Geralt,” Istredd huffed. Well, if he expected Geralt to express desire, the least he could do was confess his own. “You must realize at this point that I'm enjoying it. I find you attractive. Your touch is… very pleasurable.”
“Oh.” Geralt's eyes widened.
“Please,” Istredd said. Yenna had always liked it when he begged. “I would very much like for you to continue, if that’s of interest to you.”
“Istredd.” Geralt looked away. “There are plenty of other ways to get you off. You don’t actually have to—”
“I know that,” Istredd interrupted. “I am not actually so stubborn as to endure this to prove a point if I did not also want to for my own sake. But if this benefits you not at all…” He swallowed, already anticipating the loss of Geralt’s touch. “I’d prefer that you leave me to my own devices rather than feel any obligation to assist.”
“You like this,” Geralt said slowly.
“Yes,” Istredd said, trying not to let exasperation creep into his voice. He thought he’d made that point very clear. “You are very skilled. I’d heard witchers were good with their hands, but I hadn’t realized…” A thought came to him. “You’ve done this before, haven’t you? For someone else.”
“Yes.” Geralt sounded wary.
Istredd wasn’t feeling quite brazen enough to ask if Geralt had done this with Yenna, so instead he asked, “And what is it you enjoy about doing this?”
“Takes patience,” Geralt said after a moment. “Care. You have to go slow, and the whole time, you can feel their heartbeat, not just hear it. You have to be close. More than close. Inside.”
“Yes. Well, you’re doing well there.” Istredd couldn’t help tensing his muscles momentarily to feel Geralt’s fingers still inside him. The feeling went straight to his cock, and he closed his eyes briefly to savor it.
“You’ve done this before as well, had someone do this for you,” Geralt said. It wasn’t a question. “What do you like about it?”
“It takes all my attention.” It was an effort to converse like this with Geralt already so far inside him. Istredd couldn’t shut out the physical world as he usually did. There was his shallow breathing, the prickle of sweat along his back, the soft pile of the rug against his fingers, his cock throbbing deliciously with unrealized need. He was more than just his thoughts, like this. He tried to cobble together the words to explain. “I have to let go. I can’t hold so tight. I’m not supposed to, not allowed to. I can be here, just here.”
Geralt made a rumbling sound that reverberated a very little through his hand, making Istredd shiver and push back.
“If you can talk, I’m not commanding all your attention,” Geralt pointed out.
“Go on, then.” Istredd spread his knees further apart and settled his head down onto his folded arms. “Command it.”
Geralt gave an amused huff, but he didn’t immediately try to punish Istredd for his insolence the way Yenna would have. He turned his wrist, twisting his fingers inside Istredd, and made a considering noise. “As much as I’d like to, I don’t know that we can go much further, unless you’re more interested in pain than I thought.”
“Wait. Just wait.” Istredd closed his eyes and whispered a spell, just a small thing meant to untie knots and sort out tangles, a painfully quotidian spell, but a versatile one. He concentrated on his body as he chanted, feeling keenly where Geralt entered him. He drew chaos into him and bent it to his will. So strong was his intention that it readily obeyed him, even when the purpose he set it to was only tangentially related to the shape of the spell. Istredd could feel his muscles loosening, his body relaxing around Geralt.
Geralt made a startled noise as his hand all at once moved much more easily.
“Better?” Istredd asked, only a little smugly.
“Mm,” Geralt said, sounding pleased. He made no further demur, so Istredd pillowed his head on his arms and breathed, letting the tension flow out along with the chaos. He found conscious thought slipping away as Geralt worked his way inside. There was more grease, and Geralt’s fingers curling inside him sending up sparks of pleasure that warmed him right through. There was the rub of Geralt’s skin against his as he turned his hand this way and that, opening Istredd slowly but surely, pulling out with Istredd pushing back to chase what he wanted, and then in again, further and thicker and more.
Occasionally he murmured encouragement or instruction that sank through Istredd’s haze of pleasure like a drop of honey through hot tea. He moved as the witcher commanded, steadied his breathing, let Geralt in. There wasn’t enough control in him to moderate the sounds he made: uninhibited gasps and groans as Geralt moved inside him. He could feel his hard cock swaying under him with the motion of Geralt pushing into him, but that hot core of arousal seemed a distant thing when his entire body was held in Geralt’s power.
When Geralt’s hand finally breached him, Istredd jolted once before settling into the sensation; there was no room for anything else inside him, not thought, not memory, not anticipation. But he could smell the witcher’s sweat, hear his ragged breathing, as if Geralt filled all the room as well as all of Istredd himself.
“Fuck,” Istredd gasped. It was the only word he knew. “Fuck.” He grabbed for his cock—the touch almost painful in its intensity. He writhed on Geralt’s hand as his climax built, steadily rising and bearing him before it, slow and overheated as molten rock flowing from the mouth of a volcano. He could no longer hear himself, though he felt his voice vibrating in his throat, shouting with each involuntary buck of his hips. Geralt’s free hand stroked down his back again and again, tethering him to the world as he spun away from himself.
After a time, Istredd came to realize he was slumped face down on the rug. He made an attempt to force his rubbery knees to obey him, but stopped quickly when the movement tugged against the hand still inside him.
“Relax. One moment,” came Geralt’s rumbling voice. Istredd hissed as Geralt pulled himself free. The sharp pain shot through his nerves and pulled Istredd back into his body, which was wet and open, exhausted and no little bit sore.
“Easy.” Geralt’s warm hand pressed him down when he tried to turn over. “Lay still.”
Istredd did as he was told, and a few moments later was rewarded with the touch of a warm, damp cloth moving over his belly and then between his legs.
“Geralt,” he managed with a scratchy voice.
“How do you feel?”
“No, you,” Istredd protested, his mouth clumsy around the words. “You finish?”
“‘M fine.”
Istredd pried his eyes open and scraped together enough energy to glare at the witcher kneeling next to him.
“Yes, alright,” Geralt sighed. “I did.”
Istredd’s eyes drifted down to see a wet patch growing on Geralt’s breeches, and felt a smile spreading on his face. “Good.” He let his eyes drift closed again.
If he didn’t want to wake cold and sore, he should get up. It wasn’t dignified to lay here insensate while he had company. And what if the witcher left? He could hear Geralt moving around, moving away. He dredged up enough coherence to mutter, “Stay.”
“I could take you to your room.” Geralt’s voice came from quite nearby.
“Here,” Istredd slurred.
“Well, come here then.” To Istredd’s surprise, Geralt settled himself on the rug behind Istredd. His touch felt blessedly warm against Istredd’s clammy skin. Geralt wrapped his arms around Istredd and pulled him snug against his solid chest.
In lieu of anything more eloquent Istredd just made a pleased sound. If he’d have been able to consider his options, that’s just what he would have asked for. Though, now that he wasn’t so cold, his brain seemed to be working again. “Thank you for the demonstration,” he said after some thought.
“Inexperienced practitioners would do well to practice these techniques faithfully before attempting them in the wild,” Geralt recited in a lofty tone.
Istredd snorted, and basked in Geralt’s answering chuckle. He stretched, feeling the soreness in overtaxed muscles that would be there for days if he didn’t heal it. He didn’t intend to heal it. “Next time you’ll have to fuck me.”
“For some scientific purpose?” Geralt did not sound enthused.
“No. Because I think we’d both enjoy it.” Istredd went stiff in Geralt’s arms, suddenly wary. “ I… I’ve no wish to compel you into bed. Did—”
“No.” Geralt sighed, his hot breath puffing against Istredd’s neck. “My devotion to educating others about monsters does have its limits. I was not… uninterested in helping.”
“I see.” Istredd relaxed again. “Thank you for indulging me.”
“I’ll send you my bill.”
Istredd turned sharply to see if Geralt was in earnest, but he found a smug grin on Geralt’s face. “Brute!” he laughed, and wriggled around to face Geralt. “Are you comfortable here, or could I convince you to warm my bed instead of this rug?”
When Geralt hesitated, Istredd added, “I promise not to request any more demonstrations of the witcher’s art this evening. But I would like your company.”
Geralt blinked at him. “If you want.”
“I do want,” Istredd said, tottering to his feet and reaching down a hand to a nonplussed Geralt. “Come along, witcher mine. After today’s work, we both deserve some rest.”