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The saltiness on his tongue was fading, the taste slowly being replaced with corded fabric laced with flimsy tassels, his teeth sinking into soft downy feathers that cost more than his entire life's service. Feathers taken from Cintrian cignets, or the down of Gold-Necked geese. Not worthy for his rough, tobacco stained teeth to be touching. Yet it was the only thing he had nearby to silence himself. His tongue pressed into the fabric, sucking on it for a second for it to become a little more malleable when he felt Geralt reposition.
He wasn’t stupid. He knew what was coming. Yet, the first hard thrust still made his entire body shake, his muscles tensing. This was why he was biting a pillow.
“Easy,” Geralt purred, like he was some young whore. Fucking prick. But the rudeness did force him to relax and he cracked open one exhausted eye to glare at the Witcher from over his shoulder in the dying candlelight. He could barely see him, but he could tell Geralt’s golden eyes were probably locked on his in the dark. Cold and unrelenting, yet always with a hint of wavering control over his ‘non-emotions’. It made him release the pillow to pant and make sure the prick saw his own lack of constraint.
“Fuck you, Geralt,” he half-whispered, trying to sound irritated with his trademark growling voice. Only the opposite came out. It drawled, like a moan, and he could almost feel the Witcher pulse in excitement at his obvious submission.
Like he’d give him the satisfaction.
He turned back to the pillow, biting into it like a dog on a bone, and he sunk back down into the uncomfortable bedding, his hips still forced to be raised. He hated the feeling of the sweat on his skin and the taste in his mouth and the humiliating position he was in. Presenting. Like a bitch in heat. In a room where the scents were musty and perfumed. Stained on pillows that, no doubt, had been used to prop up other before him for the exact same ritual. The air was stuffy, the light too dark, the sheets annoyingly scratchy for all their fanciness, and the singer downstairs too fucking loud, baying about lovers in a storm or some shit.
Yet his discomfort and agitation melted when Geralt leaned forward, getting into a better position above him. The stuffed mattress on either side of his chest sank in as the Witcher braced himself, and he grunted as he was forced to spread himself wider. But it was for a good cause, the brief humiliation he suffered. Geralt’s hot breath, still smelling of iron and wine, ghosted over his neck, and he dipped his face down further into the pillows, silently giving his answer to the question that was being asked.
Can he start?
If he didn’t in the next thirty seconds, he was going to turn and wallop the idiot. Fortunately, the answer was understood, and a tongue pressed against the nape of his neck, sending a hard shiver down his spine. Geralt began to thrust and he fell into his role - submissive, obedient, and most of all, quiet.
Too many people were asking questions these days. And he was growing tired of having to bare his teeth over matters that didn’t concern anyone.
Naturally, Geralt probably had the same thoughts on his mind. His grinding started sloppy - tense, even. As if he was trying to find the best way to perform, yet keep himself composed and confined. If anyone walked past the door, they’d probably hear rough shifting, which of course could be attributed to sleeplessness. But for Roche, all it was doing was frustrating him. Yes, privacy was something both of them tended to hold in high value, but he was inclined not to care as much when he was being ploughed. Mostly because he was impatient and went too many weeks without a fucking that made him practically go blind.
“Geralt-” he tried to start, clear frustration edging his voice, but the teeth that scraped against the pathetically delicate skin on the back of his neck silenced his complaint. Geralt shifted again, this time to pull the heavy cover over them both, and Roche let the pillow take in his confused growls. As soon as the overly stitched duvet enclosed him, it was if someone had lit a fire on his skin. The hot air and mugginess became unbearable, the comforter acting like ten pounds of stuffy, dead weight that choked away anything breathable. However, the stupid thing as thick - and sadly, it muffled things. Not well, but enough.
That was the answer to his whining. Being suffocated. Brilliant.
Geralt didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he didn’t care. Whichever it was, it didn’t matter, as the bastard began fucking him hard now that there was a layer of protection over them, his thrusts growing bolder, and Roche had to accept the circumstance. Breathing in the humid air, every inch of his skin growing slick with sweat from Geralt and the comforter. The combination was enough to make him dizzy and he could feel that even his breath was growing wet against the sheets. Every exhale felt like it left a stain and every inhale made him feel like he was drunk.
But plough the gods, when Geralt pressed his body against him, his unnaturally smooth legs kicking out his to make him spread more, his weight smothering him further, he found himself drinking in how light his head was becoming. His short nails struggling for a grip as he moaned into the pillow, the damp fabric absorbing his embarrassing needy cries. Geralt didn’t stop, his thrusts getting rough, and for a second, Roche let himself be suspended in it. The muffled slapping of Geralt’s balls against his own, the pressure of the Witcher on his back; his muscles working hard, his thighs flexing powerfully against the backside of his own. All he could do was submit - like a bitch in heat. A mutt being fucked by a wolf.
…More like a whore being fucked by a monster.
He let out a hot, shaking pant when he lost his grip on the pillow, unable to keep from holding in his ploughing lewd moans, and it was met with Geralt’s arm pressing the back of his head into the sheets below to keep him quiet. Shoving him into the sheets so his voice wouldn’t be so damn obvious. He growled at the act - fucking Geralt, he was going to punch him in the head for this - but it made him sink deeper into the insanity that was his submission to the bloody Witcher. That the shockingly horrible and lewd moans came from his throat from being fucked in such an undignified way. That he was already rubbing precome against the bedsheets and his gut churning with the struggle not to just release all over himself right then.
Then that damn tongue was back against his neck, hot licks being applied to his skin, and he clenched harshly against Geralt to let him know what he was bloody doing.
“How close?” Geralt’s monotone yet commanding voice flooded into his ear, leaving him rolling his eyes back slightly in pleasure. “Are you already at a limit, Vernon Roche? After only a minute of being ploughed?”
Fuck him. And fuck the smell of oiled leather and cloves that stuck to his skin. He breathed deep into the sheets, his fingers already balled up in them to try and refrain from letting go so easily.
Bastard reached underneath him and scraped his hand against his lower stomach, keeping it there as he fucked him. As if he expected to feel his cock stretching his insides or some shit. All it made him do was become hyper aware of just how hot they were under the duvet. That his skin was slick, sticky, and demanding more of that sinful touch.
“Well, Roche?” the purring, smug voice came again. Teeth found their way to the tip of his ear to nip at it, and he violently thrust against Geralt at the action. “Are you close?”
Fucking prick. Fucking shitting prick. He was going to stab his corpse every day of the year for this.
“Ro-che?” Geralt groaned, and it made him tighten. In every aspect of the word.
“Y-Yes,” he finally admitted, moaning the awful word into the sheets. “Yes. For f-fuck’s sake!” He arched, gulping in the hot sex-stained air that was now suffocating him. Fuck it. Fucking fuck it. “Geralt, you f-fucking-!”
One hand pressed hard into the space between his shoulder blades, burying his face back into the sheets already stained with his saliva and sweat, and Geralt mounted him hard, nearly standing as he repositioned to drive his cock deep into his body.
He didn’t complain. Didn’t bother to speak. He purposely shut off his mind as Geralt began fucking him hard, his thrusts brash and brutal; Enough to cause bruises, perhaps, but he didn’t care at that moment. Fuck, he didn’t care who even heard. Under that bloody comforter, he was getting bred like an animal - by an animal - and he let himself go to it. Not even caring when he came after barely ten seconds of the change, his cum spattering down his thigh and against the sheets.
Fuck if he’d never care. Not when he was feeling like this.
Geralt drove down deep, scraping against his prostrate, but more importantly, showing him his position in life. Where he belonged. The way he could fuck him, make him feel as if his cock was going into his stomach, like he had fallen on a tree branch. That he was meant to be spread and treated like the newest whore at the brothel. That every brutal, rough thrust was also because he was driving a Witcher crazy. Sloppily, he thrust back, gasping into the sheets as Geralt worked himself up, his fingers gripping his hip hard.
He held his breath and bloody well listened to it. The sound of a Witcher being taken to the brink and how wet it was. How he could almost come again against himself.
Before he could further revel in it, Geralt’s bucking grew erratic. His breath laboured. His nails pressed deep into the tattoo on the side of his stomach. A hiss escaped and Roche went still as he felt Geralt release. Silent, yet his body stuttered. Gods, he was so damn deep inside him, but it still chased his cock when he pulled out, spilling down his thighs and making him shudder himself at the feeling of how much Geralt had inside himself.
Roche let himself collapse first, face still in the sheets, and he barely reacted when the duvet was tossed aside. Cold, almost foreign air assaulted his skin, but he didn’t bother to try and cover up or even attempt to make a snide remark on the change. Instead, he turned his head just enough to gulp in the new air - fuck, it burned his lungs. How fucking hot was it under that duvet? - before he settled into closing his legs and laying still to allow himself some semblance of recovery.
His ass began to throb. And it felt like a flood had passed between his legs. Sticky and invading. Then again they had used half a bottle of oil… Only because Geralt had to bloody get curious. Fucking lewd idiot Witcher. Now he probably wouldn’t be able to sit tomorrow.
A skeptical hand touched his leg and he grunted in response, not willing to turn over. Not yet, anyway.
“Roche,” Geralt let out a deep sigh, his name being spoken in it. “Here.”
“What?” he mumbled, his brows fixing as he felt how his hot face only made the sheets under it hotter. Gods, did everything have to be so difficult? He felt like he needed to dunk his head in a pail of water.
After a moment, he felt something cool touch his upper shoulder and he finally forced himself to open his eyes and look, the room still dark around them. Somehow he had adjusted to it. Slightly. Geralt was merely sitting next to him holding out the skin flask he kept on his hip when travelling. It made him frown, not registering what he was offering.
“Water,” Geralt said softly. “You need it.”
“I need it?” he muttered, narrowing his eyes, but the exhausted look Geralt gave him made his snippiness die down. Slightly. He struggled to lean up to take it, and when he flopped back down, his insides now throbbing from the fucking they took, he merely pressed the flask against his face.
Gods, it felt good.
They said nothing as they adjusted back to the air of the room, the tavern patrons below rumbling loudly for some drinking song. Clearly unaware of what had happened above them. Roche finally pushed himself up from the sheets to drink, and when he finished he handed it back to Geralt, who did the same. They didn’t speak about it - they never did - but Roche could see Geralt was itching for a bath. His own throat was now wanting his pipe. Something to mask the smell of dick on his breath.
“Hand me my bag,” he asked Geralt, his right-hand moving to rub at the marks the Witcher had left on his neck. Geralt raised a brow at him.
“I’m not your soldier, nor your page,” he said in a dull voice. That made him shoot him an irritated look. Fucking prick.
“No, but you just brutally fucked me in the ass, you ass. Now hand me my bag. I want my pipe.”
Geralt remained where he was.
“You asked me to.”
Fucking jackass. “I never said ‘Fuck me so I can’t bloody well sit tomorrow’,” he shot back. He swore Geralt nearly smirked at that.
“You’re getting soft, Roche,” he said, running a hand through his hair.
“Excuse me?”
“I went easy on you,” he said nonchalantly. Was he fucking kidding?
“Easy?” Roche snapped, and Geralt shrugged.
“I restrained myself.”
Oh, fuck him. “Like shit you did.”
Now he swore he saw him smile. “I did. Unless you wish me to show you what I could really do.”
He was goading him.
He never claimed to be a smart man. Nor did he ever say he was well-trained. He was, after all, a dirty street rat that had the chance to become something greater than he was. All due to his King. And though he was trained on when not to take the bait - when to recognize the piece of cheese on the cupboards was secretly guarded by a cat in the shadows - there were still instances where he reacted. When the rebellious part of him came out and the sneer on his face showed so blatantly, it would have shamed every Temerian spy that had ever lived.
It was as if Geralt knew this. And fucking *loved* that he did. And what could he say? He merely clenched his jaw, glaring at the bastard before him. Through the dimness of the room, the stench of sex and melting candles. Of blood cleaned from blades, scented pillows, and stained sheets. Of the dizziness and tension that existed between them, like a mocking Griffin. Always ready to rear its head.
To remind Roche he was a fucking idiot.
“Show me,” he snarled.
Geralt only smiled in the dark.