Eyes wide smut

[antimonyschnuck]

Eyes wide smut

Fandom: The Witcher

Ship: Emhyr/Geralt

Rating: explicit

The anonymous public sex at a masquerade Cinderella fic.

Nilfgaardians now throw masquerades - they must be orgies, right?
Geralt and Emhyr are masked and costumed and don't know who the other person is, respectively.

There are 8890 words masked by the following cut:

Eyes wide smut

Chapter 1

Nilfgaardians. They preferred to do everything by stamp and label, under controlled conditions, ritualised. If it was a designated party, they drank and laughed. Their jokes weren’t even funny – didn’t have to be: the merriment was scheduled and got executed accordingly.

When Geralt had been told about their “masquerades”, he wasn’t overly surprised: Thoroughly organised they required a complete disguise that actually anonymised the attendants – not in the silly pretend way of the flimsy face decors worn at the Vegelbuds’ festivities or at Beauclair masquerades, but with artfully manufactured masks covering almost the full face, only leaving out mouth and chin so the wearers could eat, drink and do whatever else they wanted to do, using their mouths. The masks were worn together with lavish costumes and billowing hooded dark cloaks.

Morvran had described it to him in a lot of detail and then had been very vague about the entertainment itself, except for using words like “frivolous” and “uninhibited” and Geralt could take a hint as blatant as that; they were orgies. Of course they were.

And now he was going to attend one. In order to listen in on the private conversations of one notoriously plotting baron who allegedly used the anonymity of those parties to find equal-minded future co-conspirators; de Rideaux’ plants had been unsuccessful so far but Geralt’s enhanced senses would cover more than one direct conversation at a time.

“Good evening, your pass, please?”

Geralt showed the livreed servant Morvran’s carved ivory token and entered the huge mansion the event was hosted at.

---

Emhyr was sipping from a goblet of wine while being slightly bored. He always had to arrive early in order to greet the host and a handful of his cronies in person – proof of his attendance – before he could discreetly slip his mask on and spend most of the evening lurking. The emperor’s presence at the masquerades lent them the reputation of a cultural event; somehow they were not seen as your average undignified brothel romps. And although no-one ever knew if it really had been the emperor they’d personally socialised with, the possibility alone was exhilarating and everyone always insisted they’d definitely talked to him this time.

He didn’t even detest it all that much; being treated as a person, not an institution, was somewhat grounding; of course everyone here was nobility or filthy rich (or both), so it wasn’t too grounding, either. The eventual evening entertainment was indeed also something he always awaited with some reluctant curiosity. If he indulged in epicurean debauchery like that at the palace he’d soon have an infamous reputation; a weakness; presenting his enemies a reason for contempt and upheaval. He didn’t like to be touched anyway and rarely had been tempted by any of the entertaining personnel to do more than look – but it had happened and that was sufficient for him to pretend he had something close to a normal outlet for personal desires; well, it was better than nothing.

He looked up and frowned behind his mask. Something about the person just entering the salon was different. Maybe because they moved with the lithe gracefulness of a panther. Maybe Emhyr was thinking of a panther because their mask was made into the intricate face of a golden cat complete with ears poking up in front of the fur lined black cloak’s hood; even the eyes weren’t just holes cut into the thin metal but seemed to have been made of painted glass. Maybe something about that guest was familiar – maybe one of the generals or the captains…? It was irrelevant. Emhyr sighed and went out into the garden to resume his lurking there.

---

Geralt decided he liked wearing a mask because that way he didn’t have to fake a polite facial expression. Everything here was ostentatiously expensive and the mansion was clearly part of some old family estate – but the interior design was trying too hard to look 'opulent'. The party guests, still wearing their cloaks, looked like very polite wraiths; their gaudy masks didn’t convey extravagant exuberance as much as an eerie sense of surrealness. Some of them were framed by large, colourful feathers fanning out over the wearers’ heads, others had animal features and fur trims such as Geralt’s cat head, some of them wore grotesque expressions of exaggerated mirth, shock or malevolence. The servants’ uniforms, on the other hand, were rather conventionally flimsy and reminded Geralt of the Passiflora.

The lighting was sparse and grew ever gloomier with the receding light of the setting sun and Geralt went on a prowl around the premises, listening in on people’s conversations.

---

Emhyr was using the marble circumference of a fountain as a bench. The garden – more like a small park – was illuminated by torches and fairylights and those with elaborate costumes had either started shedding their cloaks or had simply pushed them back. It was the usual mix of flashy, colourful robes and the occasional attempt at clownery. When Emhyr looked up from another sip of wine, the flickering torch light reflected off the hammered gold mask of the large cat standing right next to him.

“Waiting for someone?” the cat said with a voice that sounded affected, like this was part of a role.

Emhyr huffed quietly. “How do you wait for anyone if you cannot recognise them?” Hearing himself talk while wearing the voice rendering charm was always odd but necessary to ensure his anonymity; quite a few of the nobles had enough dealings with the emperor to know his voice – especially since it wasn’t average.

The cat laughed. “You can always inform someone in advance about what your costume looks like.”

“Ah. Indeed,” Emhyr admitted.

“You don’t happen to know Baron var Fjogof’s whereabouts?” The cat continued to be annoying.

“No, I’m afraid not,” Emhyr said, trying to make his company as boring as possible.

The cat sighed and then chuckled. “Oh, look at the fox over there: the whole costume matches the mask.”

Emhyr hmned.

“Must feel rather stifling, wearing all that fur,” the cat continued.

“Should be fine, as little as it actually covers,” Emhyr huffed and the cat sniggered. The cat was wearing a teal brocade doublet, but unbuttoned, and the thin white silk of the shirt underneath clung to his chest in a way Emhyr rather sympathised with.

“And what are you?” the incessant cat asked.

Emhyr looked back up at the cat mask. “You are not Nilfgaardian,” he stated.

The cat was taken aback for a few seconds. “I’m from Vicovaro, here with a friend’s invite.” The cat hesitated. “Is it the accent?”

Emhyr snorted. “Do you not have mummers plays in Vicovaro? I am one of at least fifteen sad clowns here today.” It made him a little apprehensive to be inspected like that but the cat’s gaze slowly wandered over his mask – half of the face a black-and-gold chess board, a single black tear drop painted on the porcelain white left side. His clothes underneath the cloak were rather plain, a little outdated and of an unadorned black. Most people would think he was one of the impoverished nobles who still had their privileges but no money to spend on something they couldn’t wear at court.

“Hrhm,” the cat purred a few pitches lower than the previous speaking voice and Emhyr felt a little dizzy.

---

Geralt hadn’t had any success overhearing something worthwhile. That must have been the reason why he had addressed that man and then delved into making small talk with him; not because for one hot second he’d thought it was Emhyr sitting there on the white marble of the fountain. It was just the way he held himself, rigid and yet casual, the breadth of his shoulders – there wasn’t much more to go by, it was silly. So the man had two (strong, elegant) legs and that reminded Geralt of Emhyr, eh? The voice was all wrong: higher, not very remarkable. Emhyr wouldn’t be able to change the pitch like that without making it nasal, his voice always reverberated through his chest and filled large rooms without effort.

(Geralt had been modelling his own voice after how Vlodimir had used it when he’d been in charge of Geralt’s vocal chords. The smug, theatric twang was also part Dandelion; he thought he made quite a good insufferable noble.)

The garden had slowly filled with more and more people and a few cloaked figures were stepping onto a small stage built along the outer garden wall.

“Did you claim this seat because you knew it has a good view?”

The elegant stranger snorted. “Of course.” He pointed with his chin at the large braziers at each end of the stage. “Also: in case of an accident I prefer to be close to a sizable amount of water.”

It sounded like something people called ‘overthinking’ until their clothes were on fire and they suddenly regretted their life choices. Geralt nodded. “There’s only one entrance and exit point to the garden.”

The man hummed. “Apple tree to the east is close enough to use for cresting the wall if necessary.”

Geralt grinned and looked at his interlocuter’s mask, which gave away nothing. The performers on stage weren’t wearing much anymore and had started juggling with torches, and Geralt thought that since there probably wouldn’t be a proclamation about the official start of the orgy, he might as well take the initiative here – even if he hadn’t originally planned on joining in with that part of the evening. But whoever the man next to him was, he was pushing enough of Geralt’s buttons to make him very attractive right now; and since Emhyr despised him so much he never even acknowledged his presence when they were in the same room, he might just as well… distract himself? Delude himself? Pretend this very fine, haughty stranger right there was what he wanted and go for it.

“You could always just climb me instead,” he whispered at the presumed location of the man’s ear, which got him his full attention.

The stranger drew a sharp breath and seemed to stare at him – very much not a rebuke. Geralt put his hand on his inner thigh, just above the knee, and used the leverage to scoot closer to him. The masks made everything clumsy and he had to abort an attempt at nuzzling the man’s neck when their masks bumped into each other; his mask also made it difficult for him to smell anything – but the masks also enabled him to have his little fantasy in the first place, so the benefits balanced out the disadvantages. He chuckled. “Well?”

“Yes,” the stranger hissed, more intensely than Geralt would have expected, and he felt a hand on his chest, large and warm, slipping under the loose fabric of his shirt, struggling with the lacing.

The performers on the stage seemed to have done something spectacular because the other party guests oohed and applauded and Geralt used the noise to moan; as an incentive, but also because that hand felt really good on his skin, felt like everything he’d ever wanted, in fact – arousal made him a little single-minded sometimes and he was definitely getting there.

He slowly felt his way up the stranger’s inner thigh and found out that he was very much not alone at being aroused by this. The stranger groaned quietly and pressed himself up into Geralt’s hand; then Geralt’s shirt tore in the man’s grip, providing further access to Geralt’s chest, which Geralt approved of.

“Eep, so sorry,” said someone behind Geralt and scampered away. Geralt did not care. No-one knew him and also: wasn’t this supposed to be an orgy? Some people were weird.

The stranger’s hand was unerringly on its quest down Geralt’s naked torso, his other arm around Geralt’s back, holding him close.

There was applause and then music, so probably the stage act had changed. Geralt ignored it and swiftly slipped from the stranger’s arms, sinking down between his legs.

Chapter 2

Emhyr was not sure how… if this… well it was definitely happening. And it was very much happening to him and he… really wanted it to keep happening. Although he was very aware of how inappropriate this was, not just for him as emperor but in general. This was what the private rooms were for, and it usually involved making use of the hired personnel, not getting handsy with another guest. But here they were.

The cat had been smooth. He’d first thought he was some obnoxious noble fop – although the way he moved and held himself wasn’t the gauche demeanour of a courtier – but there was a quick intelligence behind his odd theatrics. When he’d laughed about Emhyr’s snide remark it had sounded genuinely gleeful; and not only had he not dismissed Emhyr’s concerns regarding the event’s safety, no: he had already assessed the premises himself for emergency mitigation. (The emperor had ordered Lord da Sipario – the host – to improve safety measures after he’d started hiring the fire acrobats, but nothing had been done about it yet; Lord da Sipario obviously overestimated his own personal safety, too.)

And then. Yes the cat was smooth. ‘You could just climb me’ – oh how he wanted to, and then the stranger had more or less climbed him and Emhyr’s hand was allowed to slip under his clothes, over his skin, his chest, his stomach, smooth and hard and sculpted and soft and warm and scarred… Emhyr wanted to touch, to touch more, to take it all in – he was pulled into a maelstrom of longing. To feel, to be touched, to be perceived, to be wanted. He’d always felt he’d been forged of iron: hard, sharp. A threat to flesh and not fond of flesh’s stifling touch either; but this stranger was a loadstone and Emhyr was letting himself fall towards him.

Touch. The man’s hand was cupping the hard bulge in Emhyr’s trousers and the whole world stopped – there was only his wild, pulsing want and the stranger’s sure touch. And then the man was down on the ground, kneeling between his legs. Emhyr gasped and helplessly witnessed a group of party guests furtively avert their eyes as he felt cool night air and the gaze of countless spectators on his twitching cock. He closed his eyes to not accidentally make eye contact with any of the more shameless onlookers and then almost stopped caring when something hot and wet slowly slid along the whole length of his cock in a sweet, teasing caress. He’d never had anyone do this for him – it felt too vulnerable to allow a stranger access like that. But this stranger didn’t know who he was and the tongue on his cock felt so incredible… “Please!” he rasped helplessly, his hips thrusting up with the urge to be fucking. The cat obliged, took care of him, took him in, gave him exactly what he’d ached for, sucked him hard, took him deep, was so hot and wet and sucked him tight and gave him a rhythm to climb and gave him everything and kept sucking him when he fell deep into his bottomless need, plunged into it like into molten stone, let himself be devoured by his lust and only the pressure of the stranger’s tongue kept him from being dissolved by it. He’d come embarrassingly fast but as he was already riding a tidal wave of shame, it didn’t matter.

The cat now actually climbed into his lap, straddling his legs, holding himself steady with one hand at the nape of his neck. Emhyr’s hood had been pushed back and the stranger’s fingers were kneading idly into his hair, soft and curly without the usual straightening pomade. “Give me a hand?” he groaned and Emhyr untied the flap of his trousers with something close to reverence, after having set up a privacy screen around them with the stranger’s cloak.

The cat huffed and mocked. “So thoughtful after I just pulled you out into the open.” Then he twitched and moaned when Emhyr ran one hand down the long strip of exposed skin from his neck over his chest, down to his stomach, down his straining prick, and massaged the base of that cock with a lazy thumb.

“This is all just for me,” Emhyr said and tightened his grip around his hips. The man moaned and bucked into Emhyr’s hand. “Such a pity I cannot slip my other hand down your trousers,” Emhyr whispered, “slip my fingers into you; too tight. Your trousers. Such a shame.”

The cat in his lap managed to moan and chuckle at the same time, and had started to ride Emhyr’s legs in a desperate attempt to get more stimulation.

Emhyr hummed and closed his hand around him. Making that exquisitely delicate skin glide over a cock so hard it twitched in his grip – Emhyr sighed with new arousal and granted the stranger the dexterity of his hand. A pearl of sweat was slowly rolling down his bared chest and Emhyr licked it off once it was in reach of his tongue.

“More,” the cat begged, panting, and came with a pained gasp and a desperate sounding whine when Emhyr sucked on the taut flesh of his chest.

There was some applause, probably directed at the stage act.

Both of them tucked themselves back, fixed their clothes as best as they could – the cat’s shirt was torn and he had come all over Emhyr’s doublet.

The performers on stage were dancers artfully covering each other’s nakedness with nothing but handheld fans.

Emhyr cleared his throat. “I will be here again next week.”

The cat drew in a breath and huffed it out, half surprised, half amused. “I’ll find you.”

Chapter 3

“You are going to wear my shoes!” Morvran was beaming.

“I am?” Geralt narrowed his eyes. “Why, and what kind of abomination are they? I’m not going to wear some foppy pumps that look like they’ve been made of spun glass.”

“Ah, Geralt!” Morvran chuckled and gave him something large, golden and glittery – which was also a boot. “Those are part of a general’s parade armour,” he explained. “Everyone will think you’re a general!”

“And then?”

“And then var Fjogof is going to try to find out if you might want to join the conspirators; recruiting a general must be tempting!” Morvran emphasised the validity of his plan by bringing his right fist down on his left palm.

“Why aren’t you just doing that yourself then?” Geralt frowned. “I thought you only needed me for my enhanced sense of hearing.”

Morvran shook his head, enthusiastically. “He would recognise me. I always get recognised somehow.” He flapped his arms in an exaggerated shrug. “I do not know how.”

“Does this idea have de Rideaux’ stamp of approval?” Geralt was not keen on wearing those… things.

“Ah, but of course, of course!” Morvran bounced on the balls of his feet. “Do not look like a kicked dog, you cannot deceive me! You’re looking forward to attending the masquerade again, of course! They are very piquant…” He winked. He actually winked. How did Ciri put up with him? But she did. Geralt sighed. He also was looking forward to the next masquerade. He sighed again and tried the golden boot on for size. It fit. Damn.

---

“What is he doing here?” the emperor muttered with contempt, quietly enough he hadn’t straight-out addressed Geralt but loud enough he had of course heard it.

“Father, don’t.” Ciri looked tired. “I’ve been so busy I haven’t seen Geralt in days; he’s having dinner with us tonight.”

Emhyr gave the nearest wall a long-suffering look and walked up to his seat at the head of the table, not even acknowledging Geralt any further. Ciri gave Geralt a tight smile and made him take the chair next to her.

She wasn’t doing any of them a favour with her occasional attempts at wearing her father’s attitude down with some carefully monitored exposure to the witcher – but she had to try. It was like introducing two feral animals to a shared enclosure. She was still considering pouring a bucket of water over her father if he became outright hostile again. Geralt at least had been behaving more or less civilised lately; he’d stopped barking at Emhyr and mainly communicated with mysterious little grunts in his presence. That, however, seemed to confirm her father’s impression of Geralt being dull and coarse. “I was genuinely grateful he saved my life and then the churlish wretch claimed my unborn child. How much would you appreciate having an uncouth yokel under the delusion of being some kind of knight repeatedly ruining your life?” he had explained to her, and she couldn’t blame Geralt for choosing to avoid the constant barrage of cold hatred. Oddly enough he’d been taking to observing Emhyr from afar, probably a version of “keep your enemies closer” – but as long as he was still staying in Nilfgaard, Ciri wouldn’t complain or question his agenda.

“How are your preparations progressing, luned?” Emhyr asked, a little patronisingly.

Ciri sighed. “Almost finished. I’m still completing my notes on Metinna.”

Emhyr hummed benevolently. Geralt was eating.

“I’m still saying it would be faster, less effort and much less expensive if I just portalled in on all the empire’s capitals instead of travelling on horseback with a retinue,” Ciri insisted. Geralt was drinking from his wine.

“It is your Grand Tour, luned.” Emhyr never called her luned that often if Geralt wasn’t present. Her bet was on ‘jealousy’. “The journey through the empire is equally important as visiting the regents.”

“You’ve explained this,” Ciri sighed. “De Rideaux thinks an assassination attempt on me, while I’m on tour, is being planned.” Geralt was chewing and watching.

Emhyr hummed vaguely. “Very likely. He will diffuse the threat in time.”

Ciri snorted. She knew he tried to be blasé for her sake. “Geralt, de Rideaux said he wanted to ask you to help, somehow, has he approached you yet?”

Geralt looked up and swallowed. “Hrm.”

Emhyr huffed derisively and sipped from his wine. Ciri massaged the bridge of her nose and emptied her goblet.

Geralt has a witcher mutation that makes his feet change size if needed: absolutely every pair of boots he's ever looted fit perfectly.

Chapter 4

Geralt stepped into the party mansion’s salon and immediately had everyone’s attention. Was it because of the garish splendour of those boots or was it what they stood for: the insignia of a bonafide general, military elite, destiny’s darling and usually rich to… boot.

“It’s that cat,” someone whispered. A hushed murmur of “The cat!”, “shameless”, “bold”, “...right in front of everybody” rippled through the room. Oh. Not the boots then.

He’d come mentally prepared to talk to a few sad clowns who weren’t his sad clown, but he didn’t have to – his mystery rendezvous was waiting for him in the garden. It was early evening, the sun had only just started out to set, and the broad, sophisticated figure at the fountain was unmistakably him. Geralt felt like adhering to the theatrical theme and bowed with flourish and an elegant swipe of his cape. “Well met, beguiling stranger.” He hesitated because he seemed to have given the man a start. “I’m sorry. I never know how to react, either, when people bow.”

The sad clown huffed and sounded a little embarrassed. “It was unexpected. I am not sure what the social convention is for meeting under these circumstances.”

Geralt stepped closer, took the stranger’s hand and put it on his arm. “I think I’ve read somewhere it’s bad etiquette to shed clothes before it’s dark.”

The man laughed a little breathlessly. “You seem to have already started though.” The eyes behind the mask were taking in Geralt’s chest – naked and only framed by his unbuttoned doublet.

“Well, you destroyed my shirt, I’m not taking any chances this week,” Geralt exclaimed, a broad grin on his voice.

The man started laughing again but quickly stopped himself.

“What is it?” Geralt felt his grip tighten on his arm.

“I am acting like a fool; I must apologise. I do not do this… often.”

Geralt had a hunch that what he meant was ‘laughing’ and he put his free hand on the stranger’s hand. “I didn’t expect to do anything like this when I came here last week.”

The man nodded; the grotesque mask somehow wasn’t sufficient to keep all of his emotions hidden.

“If it gets too much you can always escape via the apple tree,” Geralt joked.

“I would not have to,” the stranger said, tipping his head into the direction of the furthest part of the garden.

There was a large breach in the wall; jagged edges hinted at an accident, not a planned redesign. The hole was sealed off provisionally with rope, and two large guards wearing executioner masks and axes stood in the way of anyone attempting to join the exclusive festivities without invitation.

“Horse carriage,” the stranger elaborated. “Driver lost control yesterday.”

“Huh.” Geralt blinked. “They should turn this into a permanent back exit.”

“They should,” the stranger nodded, somehow smug.

Geralt looked at him sideways. “I need to ask you something that might sound naive.” There was some apprehension again but the man hummed. Geralt nodded. “This isn’t actually an orgy.”

The stranger stared at him, baffled, then sort of wheezed and pulled at Geralt's arm as to stabilise himself. “You thought it was?” His voice was trembling.

Geralt sighed and touched his mask in an attempt to rub his face. “The complete anonymity? The sleazy aesthetics? I was told the entertainment was daring, extravagant and, oh! ‘piquant’ and I got winked at.”

The sad clown was laughing freely now. It sounded odd, his voice kinda tinny, probably distorted by the mask. He was still tugging at Geralt’s arm in an attempt not to double over.

Geralt sighed and waited until the clown had calmed down. “Why did you go along with it?”

The stranger cleared his throat. “Total anonymity and a very dashing cat making advances: because I wanted to.” He tried to look Geralt in the eyes, which the cat mask design intentionally made impossible. “I still want to, if you’d feel so inclined. But may I suggest looking for one of the private rooms? That is their purpose after all – this is a sleazy event.”

Geralt chuckled and stepped closer, so he could murmur into the stranger’s ear, pulling him in with a hand on the small of his back. “Very inclined.”

“I am glad,” the stranger rasped.

They made their way back into the house against the steady trickle of party guests heading for the garden. The clown huffed. “The interior design is indeed misleading; they put so much effort and square miles of velvet into making it look as disreputable as possible.”

Geralt sniggered. “Sounds like you’d just waited for an opportunity to talk smack about it.”

The stranger hummed and took Geralt’s arm. “I should not be ungrateful, I do appreciate the freedom the masks ensure. I shall have to insist we maintain our anonymity once we are by ourselves.”

“Hmhm, I agree.” It wasn’t like Geralt had a reputation to defend but he wasn’t sure if this escapade of his might possibly be used against Ciri. He also still liked the thrill of the secret identities and that the clown mask made it possible for him to imagine Emhyr’s face hiding behind it.

“Very good.” The clown had steered them to a corridor and cautiously opened one of the doors, entering when it was what he’d been looking for. “I have not been back here very often,” he explained.

The room held a large bed and some comfortable armchairs around a low table with wine and a fruit bowl; there were more velvet drapes and golden tassels and on the bed stand awaited a collection of grease jars.

---

They didn’t dither. The capes came off – the cat general was wearing a black headscarf, emphasising the ruggedly mischievous character of his costume – and Emhyr’s hands were under his rakishly worn doublet and on his belt buckle, while the stranger was peeling him out of his simple black garments.

“I want you to fuck me,” Emhyr pushed out, almost an order, greed and desperation bleeding into his voice. Just as with getting close to anyone’s teeth, allowing random strangers to do that to him – allowing them to know he’d let them – had been off the menu for him, part of the strict rule set he’d inflicted upon himself in order to minimise possible weaknesses. Now, he’d decided, was his maybe one-and-only chance to get what he desired from a man he actually desired; and if it led to his demise he’d submit himself to destiny one last time.

The general moaned in response, stopped pulling off his left boot – the right one was already somewhere half underneath the bed – and put his hands and attention back on Emhyr and the fastening of his trousers. Excitement and nervous jitters pulsed through Emhyr but the cat’s hands were sure and relentless and stripped him bare. “Look at you, you’re so perfect,” he purred and nudged him down on the bed. The bed cover was pink roses and olive green foliage. Emhyr heard the quiet jingle of the general’s belt buckle behind him, and the clink of a grease jar. He swallowed and tried to relax. He’d known he’d have to give up his dignity like this but clinging to the thought that he was just an anonymous body to the general didn’t help with the way he felt air on the exposed skin of his arse, his spread thighs, and the thought what he must look like to him, on his knees and elbows, trembling, surrendering to being taken, being used.

The stranger behind him groaned and slipped fingers into him, deep, in one determined push, lazily plodding around inside of him until Emhyr cried out from near unbearable lust. “You’ve come prepared,” the general rasped, “fuck, all open and ready for me. I can just slip into you and do what I want.”

Emhyr keened, hands crumpling the bed sheet’s roses. It wasn’t so much that he’d just readied himself for tonight; he’d spent this week’s free evenings reliving last time’s pleasures and imagining… this . Still, when the stranger’s cock started pressing into him, he sobbed and twitched. It did feel different – not a merciless instrument as his glass phallus was, but also very much not under his own control.

“I’ve only ever done this by myself,” Emhyr whispered, half hoping the cat might not have heard him.

The cat groaned and pushed all in. “Let me take care of you,” he gasped. “Oh fuck, I’ll make it good for you…” For a second it felt like Emhyr knew this voice but he was too focussed on the pleasure burgeoning deep inside of him now – and it was to be expected the stranger’s voice had become familiar at some point. And then the cat started to fuck into him with forceful, hard thrusts, keen on the impact, hips slapping into the soft flesh of his arse, hard cock poking into his insides, the dull promise of pleasure suddenly sharp and exquisite and raw. Emhyr cried out and made it a “yes!” because the thought of the cat stopping to ask was unbearable. He wanted more, and the stranger gave it to him, fast and almost brutal and perfect and overwhelmingly good; he felt splayed open and sensitive and relentlessly pounded, it was too much, he had no say in it and no control, he was being taken, had to take that merciless cock and came shouting and sobbing and untouched and losing himself in freefall.

The stranger pulled out and Emhyr felt liquid everywhere, on his stomach, running down his arse, inside his bones. He got turned around and the cat’s hands were back pawing at Emhyr’s chest. “Why are you so fucking perfect,” the stranger rasped, looming over him with feline grace and then something gave and Emhyr felt the necklace with the voice-rendering charm slide from his neck .

“Hvren!” he gasped, still dizzy and unfocussed , which was the worst thing he could have done. He could have stayed silent, it would have been possible. But the shock just made him react and he reacted in a deplorably human way and cursed up a storm while fumbling for the pendant.

The general stumbled back as if he’d been punched, and stared in bewilderment. There was no way for either of them to pretend that he hadn’t recognised Emhyr’s voice as that of his emperor. For a few heartbeats he just stood there, half naked, vulnerable, struck.

And then – Emhyr was still lying on his back, stunned with indecision – the stranger bolted out of the room as fast as an actual frightened cat.

Chapter 5

“Morvran – listen.”

Morvran listened but Geralt was just staring at him and not saying anything else.

“I lost one of your boots and in case anyone asks, I need you to lie about it,” he eventually explained. “All you have to say is that your boots were stolen; and whatever specifics you give, don’t mention that it was me who attended the masquerades.”

Morvran blinked. “What in the great sun’s name did you do?”

“Nothing, because I wasn’t there,” Geralt tried to make light of it. “Let’s say I lost a boot while witnessing something, alright? Just something private, no matter of state or anything like that. It’s no-one’s business, really.”

Morvran kept blinking at him. “I will promise nothing. But I am going to consider it.”

---

Ciri had expected the usual snide remarks regarding Geralt’s presence at dinner, but tonight her father seemed to be too preoccupied to even notice. She’d been getting to know him for more than a year now and so far nothing had ever preyed on his mind so much he’d allowed himself to appear distracted. “Father? What’s wrong? Something on your mind?”

“Nothing of consequence,” he lied. He sounded sad, of all things.

Geralt seemed off, too. He had tried to weasel out of their dinner appointment, saying he’d forgotten and already eaten, and was now just pushing his food around on his plate.

One thing that always seemed to help brighten her father’s mood was talking about her early childhood. “I remember something from when I was little – was that you who used to say this to me or was it Eist?” She laughed. “‘Cat got your tongue?’ It was so – oh shit.” Emhyr was choking on his food, coughing and wheezing.

Geralt was at his side in the blink of an eye, grabbed him around the chest, kicked his chair away and, pressing against him from behind, pushed on his diaphragm until the emperor was coughing, wheezing and trying to elbow Geralt away. “I am fine! Get him off me!”

It was obvious Emhyr could breathe well enough when he had sufficient oxygen to curse. Geralt still walked him over to Ciri’s abandoned chair before he retreated again to inconspicuously melt into the background – a behaviour Ciri had never seen in him before as he usually didn’t care, and rather ostentatiously so, at that.

Emhyr drank from the goblet Ciri had pushed into his hand and sighed. “I am sorry for having made a fuss, but there is no need to exaggerate like this.”

“Alright; better safe than sorry.” When had she started to speak in platitudes and idiomatic phrases? “Geralt was just trying to take care of you, you might want to–” Geralt had made a weird little noise behind her, which was the first thing he’d said all evening. “...maybe stop giving him such a hard time.” The door clicked shut and when she turned her head Geralt was gone. “What the fuck is wrong with everyone?” She wrangled her wine back from her father’s hand and emptied it in one draught.

---

The emperor stood up from his throne and returned the military salute of his generals with a benevolent nod. It had taken him a day to come up with an excuse to gather them all – at least those currently present at the capital. (Dishing out medals for everyone made the medals rather worthless but no-one would complain.) The generals were all wearing parade armour, all of them sporting their golden boots. Emhyr frowned and recited the little speech he’d prepared, honouring Nilfgaard’s military elite and so on. He eyed General aep Gludhyhm in particular, who was from Vicovaro, looked rather strapping – and was wearing both of his golden boots while looking dutifully bored.

Emhyr had just finished his speech when his eyes fell on Morvran, who had hurriedly taken position next to the throne a little after everyone else had marched in. Emhyr blanched. Black boots. Morvran’s boots were black. Morvran’s face went slack as he saw Emhyr’s eyes glued to his traitorous boots.

The emperor managed to send off the gaggle of generals without breaking role and then turned to Morvran with an unreadable expression on his face. A kaleidoscope of memories was tumbling through his mind and when he was finally capable of speech again he was able to ask “Who has your boots?” because he’d visited the baths with Morvran and the cat’s lean and scarred chest had not been Morvran’s.

“Uh,” Morvran said, and fumbled with a pocket. “I have no clue what this is about but I was told to give you this.” He pulled out a sealed letter and Emhyr took it. “Your Majesty!” Morvran retreated into formal protocol and bowed – and when Emhyr didn’t seem to object he also retreated from the throne room. Geralt had slipped him the sealed note the very last second before he’d been about to enter the ceremony and Morvran was almost fine with not knowing what the fuck had happened at that masquerade, as long as no-one expected him to lie to Emhyr.

Chapter 6

The note had been brief, only giving an hour and a meeting place: in the evening, in a small room usually used for discussing matters with one or two senators at a time.

Emhyr considered the possibility of the cat being a member of the senate – or a clerk. A lot of people had a military background, which would explain the scars and an acquaintance with Morvran. Maybe – maybe he could keep him; keep him as a kept man, a good friend of the emperor, an open secret.

Emhyr also considered the fact that this would be an excellent opportunity for an assassination, meeting alone with an unknown person who now was aware who he was and had had two days to plan accordingly.

He took two Impera along and touched the knife on his belt for reassurance. A deep breath before he entered.

The stranger was leaning with his arse against the table, arms folded in front of his chest, his doublet properly fastened and the cat mask in place.

Emhyr huffed. “Why the theatrics, still?”

The cat shrugged stiffly. “Because I would like to have a few words with you. I know I can’t keep myself hidden, even if I… left my family behind and fled, you’d get my name from Morvran.”

Emhyr took a deep breath. He could order his guards to seize the man and force him to de-mask. He didn’t want to. The room was utilitarian (relatively) and bare, they would obviously be alone in it, the stranger didn’t seem to be armed and he himself had a knife. He nodded and sent his Impera to guard the door from the outside.

“Why do you think I will retaliate against you once I know your identity?” Emhyr asked with a steady voice. He knew he was intimidating and didn’t hold it against the cat. “I am sure my reputation will suffer more than yours. You could get yourself celebrated for having fucked the emperor.”

The cat slumped down. “That’s not what I want.” He took a deep breath. “Alright, I’ll better get my explanation out as long as you’re still listening.” He walked a few steps away and back. “I’ve wanted you for some time now. It’s been a horrible condition but I managed it.” Emhyr narrowed his eyes. The cat continued: “At the masquerade – that stranger… you. You reminded me of… yourself. First I thought I could use that stranger to get you out of my system. Later I thought, maybe he was better than you – accessible. Didn’t hate me. Wasn’t fucking royalty. Just a man. An acerbic, sharp, charismatic man, maybe some impoverished noble or a rich merchant – they come as haughty as it gets.”

Emhyr huffed. “I do not react well to flattery.”

The cat laughed. “Where did I flatter you? When I called you a bastard or when I admitted that I like that?”

Emhyr gasped and bit back a laugh. “Why do you say I would hate you?”

“I don’t know, Emhyr, but you do.” The cat sighed. “I think you’ve made me the scapegoat for all the losses in your life. If it was all my fault, you can place your anger somewhere and it wasn’t just the worst of luck crossing your plans.”

Emhyr flinched and blinked.

The cat nodded. “I mean you no harm, Emhyr. I never did. Well, maybe a little, once, but not for some time now.” The witcher removed his mask and headscarf, took a deep breath and looked pained. “I know I’m hurting you just by being me and I tried to spare you – also myself because I might have a thick skin but of course this hurts like shit.” He grinned without mirth and went back to his spot in front of the table.

Emhyr stared at him, wordlessly.

The witcher made a bitter little noise. “Yeah. I’ll accompany Ciri on her Grand Tour and then I’ll leave. I don’t have enough self-destructive urges to stay and keep twisting this knife around. As you can see I have no motivation for anyone to learn what happened.” He took another deep breath. “Maybe give Morvran his boot back.” The witcher left the room; the Impera let him when they recognised him.

Emhyr stepped up to the closest chair, sat down, touched the abandoned cat mask and didn’t move for a long time.

Chapter 7

The easiest approach was to be seethingly angry with the witcher. He tried that.

The problem was that although Emhyr had an impressive capacity for being willfully obstinate, this time being angry didn’t help with his grief because it concerned one and the same person. It wasn’t a diversion anymore. It just led to thinking of Geralt even more.

It could still have worked, had he been able to come up with a single shred of evidence that any of this had been a wrongdoing on the witcher’s side. But no, not only had he also been clueless in the matter of mistaken identities, he had then not even been repulsed by the reveal that he had fucked a monster. Emhyr could have worked with that. Emhyr had worked with that – he did not have the witcher’s foolish self-deprecating endurance to maintain affection for people who turned on him; there were graves bearing evidence of that.

So currently he was helplessly grieving the loss of the cat – the loss of potentially more… relations with the cat and the loss of being able to at least reminisce about the two encounters they’d had – knowing very well that the true person behind the cat was right in front of him and even sort of… available. But thinking of the witcher immediately raised his hackles.

He was actively aware of all those things. He wasn’t one of those base people drifting through life on unexamined motives and spontaneous moods. He analysed situations thoroughly, including his personal options, and planned accordingly. He had lists and notes.

The solution to his problem was clearly to simply ignore the pain and distract himself.

He could not start another war because Cirilla would not have that. But maybe he had made a mistake previously, had come to a rash conclusion regarding pleasures of the flesh. Maybe he had enjoyed the acts and conflated it with being infatuated with the individual committing them. That was a reasonable assumption.

---

Emhyr stepped out into the garden and fought down the impulse to sit on the fountain’s circumference and wait for his cat. The cat would not be here today. (If the witcher decided to continue attending the masquerades, he’d have to find a new mask because the cat mask currently resided on Emhyr’s bedside table.)

The hole in the garden wall had been worked on and turned into a back exit closed off by a richly ornamented wrought-iron door, guarded from the outside by last week’s brawny faux executioners. Emhyr greeted them before he made sure the door was indeed not locked from the inside. He’d have some kind of gift sent to da Sipario, showing appreciation for his efforts.

Emhyr sighed and walked back towards the house. The evening entertainment hadn’t started yet but the hired prostitutes were already promenading more or less lascively among the cloaked guests. Emhyr strolled over the premises and eventually picked the next best man because he didn’t feel any actual desire for any of them; it didn’t matter if they were dark haired or blond, they were all equally young and decorative. He wasn’t going to be squeamish about it.

He chose a different room from last time. “I want you to fuck me,” he told the young man, who shrugged and said “Sure.” His cock was half hard and Emhyr asked if he could touch him, in case this triggered any lust in himself – ‘appetite comes with eating’, as the saying went. It didn’t, but it got the man hard. The bed covers were dark red lilies on an emerald green background. Emhyr had kept his doublet on and the charm necklace safely tucked underneath. The fingers entering him were skilled and felt vaguely pleasant. He tried to remind himself that this was an actual stranger he hadn’t exchanged more than a few words with, playing with his hole, but it still just felt like somewhere between a medical examination and a massage. The cock filling him was slightly better, and the man was experienced and hit the right spot, but even when Emhyr grabbed his own cock it wasn’t enough by far to get him anywhere. Now this was unsatisfying and embarrassing.

There was a traitor in his head who knew exactly what he wanted and when he gave in and experimentally imagined it was Geralt pounding into him, he had to bite back a sob. Geralt thrusting deep into him, grunting with pleasure, urgently touching his skin, Geralt grinning (he’d seen him grin, once or twice), Geralt calling him a bastard and that he wanted him. Emhyr managed to come, but it was a major effort with a mild result. The young man pulled out and discreetly finished by himself.

Emhyr slipped his trousers back on, tried to determine if he felt better now and came to the conclusion that he wasn’t keen on repeating the experience. He knew da Sipario paid all prostitutes for their attendance alone but decided to nevertheless tip the man well, since this probably hadn’t been overly enjoyable for him, either.

---

When Emhyr was back in his own bed, cleaned up, bathed and trying to sleep, he found out that trying to think of Geralt had opened some unfortunate floodgates and he was now thinking of Geralt. What his skin had felt like under Emhyr’s fingers. What he would look like fully naked on his bed. How he would writhe and moan when Emhyr parted his pale, taut buttocks, how his flesh would feel in his hands, how he’d behave on his fingers.

He wasn’t thinking of a man in a cat mask anymore, either, but of Geralt’s strange fine hair, how different he looked with a beard (would he grow it out again now?), how he was often staring at him with his bright yellow eyes and how oddly sweet (dumb, he used to think) he looked when he genuinely smiled.

And because he sometimes allowed himself to have an epiphany, he also remembered how the man he’d called ‘artless brute’ had dissected the reasons for Emhyr’s hatred with a few eloquent sentences and that he might be right, at that.

He fell asleep feeling better.

Chapter 8

Ciri was ready for the old shitshow called ‘dinner with her fathers’. It had gotten so bad last time, she had offered she’d stop insisting on it – but both had declined, saying it was fine. She was sure it wouldn’t be fine, but then: it could hardly become any worse, either.

Emhyr still looked sad; and, on top of that, not well rested. Unlike last week he had an almost intimidating edge, though; his eyes looked sharp and he dominated the room in a way that always reminded her of a raptor. Shit. Well, she could always grab Geralt and portal them out of the dining room.

Geralt… looked relaxed. Huh. He wasn’t trying to become one with the scenery anymore but he also didn’t appear to be out for a fight. He seemed more or less normal – which was odd.

Instead of Geralt stealthily observing Emhyr’s every move and Emhyr completely ignoring him, it was now Emhyr whose eyes always came back to Geralt while Geralt – seemed to be taking this in with a thoughtful expression.

“Geralt, how have you been doing lately?” she asked carefully and a little artificially peppy while they were eating their soup.

Geralt cleared his throat. “De Rideaux is going to have someone infiltrate the conspirators. I got var Fjogof to invite me, so de Rideaux knows where to send them. I also identified one of his cronies.”

Ciri nodded encouragingly.

“Var Fjogof?” Emhyr asked, and Ciri struggled not to splash her spoon into her soup. “You were asking for him at the fountain.”

Geralt blinked. “Yes, that’s why I was there; and why Morvran gave me his boots; to lure var Fjorgof out.”

“Morvran’s what now?!” Ciri boggled.

“Yeah,” Geralt agreed.

Emhyr huffed and Ciri felt herself being several levels out of the loop. “You were there again… yesterday?” Emhyr was back at being anxious.

Geralt hummed and the servants brought the main dish. “Had a new mask,” he added and cut into his roast.

“You two… met at one of those parties?” Ciri tried to get back into the loop. There was some rather intense silence and narrowed eyes on both sides.

“Yes,” Emhyr declared, and Geralt looked surprised but content. They kept eating for a moment, then Emhyr asked “What new mask?” and Geralt frowned.

“Uh. Some kind of bird with a long beak,” he eventually answered. Then his expression became mischievous. “You wouldn’t have liked it.” And for some reason Emhyr seemed to be blushing.

“I’m glad you two seem to be getting along now,” Ciri ventured on.

“Apparently.” Geralt looked at Emhyr, a challenge in his eyes.

Emhyr sipped from his wine and ran his fingers over the decorative engravings. “I apologise for having been obtusely antagonistic. You might – no: you were also right regarding the reasons why I clung to my bias.” He put his goblet down. “I must also apologise that although my regret is sincere, I am clearly not unselfish in my attempt to ingratiate myself with you.”

Ciri was staring at her father, trying to catch up. Geralt also stared at Emhyr and then laughed, rubbing his face. “You’re impossible, you know? Of course you know. I honestly didn’t know what to do with your new attitude because of your… very apparent agenda. But when you’re admitting it like that…” he shook his head and became serious. “But it’s also what I want, so I guess you caught me there.”

Ciri had the sudden intuition that she might not actually want to know what her fathers were talking about.

Emhyr got up and waved away the servants trying to move his chair for him. Geralt had mirrored him and they met at the corner of the table, both staring into each other’s eyes. “I do not want you only for my bed,” Emhyr growled and Ciri decided dinner was over and it was time to leave.

“Emhyr,” Geralt started and got pulled into a hard kiss. Both of them moaned and grabbed each other’s clothes. “Bed sounds good though right now,” Geralt gasped and the remaining servants quietly agreed.

Emhyr hummed. “I tried to forget you and in order to accomplish that had a prostitute fuck me; I did not like it.”

Geralt snorted. “I know, I saw you.”

“Ah.” It was the first time ever Geralt saw him look bashful. He smiled and pulled Emhyr close and kissed it away.

There is an allegory in this story how we wear the masks our lives afford us to wear and what it means to recognise each other for who we truly are, but let’s end this story as it deserves to end: Emhyr took Geralt to bed and they got very thoroughly acquainted with each other. They also donned their masks again for the next masquerade where Emhyr fucked Geralt against that apple tree.

The End