Summer in Toussaint meant blistering heat. The air flickered almost tangibly, causing dizziness, and the lungs of one’s body seemed to dry up with every breath. It was one of the reasons why Emhyr despised the country ruled by his cousin. Of course, even Nilfgaard itself was not usually a pleasure during the summer months. He was essentially used to it, yet the coolness of the palace walls helped make the weather more bearable. 

Out here, there was no such luxury. Corvo Bianco was an unreliable refuge for the heat, at least as far as Emhyr was concerned. He began to curse his decision to pay a visit to his spouse at this time of year, of all times.

The winery was Geralt's property, and it could well have been managed by the caretakers, but Geralt's visits here belonged to their tacit agreements. Geralt was amazingly inflexible in some respects: he always rose with the rising sun, he always put his personal needs behind, and he loved Emhyr with unparalleled loyalty. And yet, in accordance with his guild animal, he was a wanderer. Although no longer a cub: as if it was genetically anchored in him, there always came a time when his eyes roamed restlessly into the distance. 

Then he was dragged to the path. At first, Emhyr had thought he was being drawn to the past, but that was not true. Rather, his little adventures, as Emhyr called them with a mocking undertone meant to hide his concern, seemed to almost charge him up like Emhyr's court sorceress charging her magic crystals. 

There was another arrangement: when Geralt was in Toussaint, Emhyr always stole a day or two, during which his sorceress shielded him from the world and its obligations in a special way: by transporting him here. For that time, he remained invisible in the palace, and all requests bounced off, all meetings were adjourned, and the throne room was empty. Then Corvo Bianco was also his retreat, a place where he was only Emhyr. When the house belonged to them alone and nothing could be heard but the occasional crackling of the old beams or the flickering of the candlelight or Geralt's gasp with no need to hold back because there were no guards outside the door. 

But now they were not in the house, which Emhyr would clearly have preferred. Instead, he sat on the grass with his sleeves rolled up – one of the few fashionable concessions to the heat – and without a robe. It wasn't as if he couldn't enjoy nature, even though for many years it had shown him mainly its hostile sides. Originality and simplicity certainly had their good sides. 

For there was Geralt, who had tried in vain to persuade him to hold his bare feet in the little stream that defied the heat with sheer force of will. Geralt with that alluring, challenging grin on his face that even Toussaint's long hours in the sun couldn't really tan. Emhyr, on the other hand, had the feeling that in this climate, after only a short time, he would take on the complexion of one of the olives that his husband loved to shove between his lips. What a telltale detail. He could almost imagine the whispering at court.

And yet, he didn't care now. All that mattered now was that Geralt had taken off his shirt at some point. A single drop of sweat, long since a narrow trickle, had found its way down from his neck, teasing one of the scars only to finally stuck to his left nipple. There was sweet grape juice on the rustic blanket Geralt had spread on the dry grass, barely cool in the clay jug, just enough to moisten his suddenly parched throat. But Emhyr did not move, did not even dare to stretch out his hand as if the mere action might disturb some kind of magic that had settled over the moment. As if he suddenly found himself in one of those fairy rings that folklore told of. 

Geralt, however, was not a mystical mythical figure. He was all too seductive flesh, from his sweaty hairline to his bare fetlocks beneath the water’s surface. The languid gesture with which he shooed away an annoying insect was like a summons to Emhyr. He licked his lips as if they would burst with dryness, as if the man, his sheer existence, was drawing every drop of moisture from his body. 

Out here, in the shade of the trees, the air did not flicker, but there was not even a breath of air that would have moved the leaves and at least cooled the sweat on the skin. Geralt, with his teasing grin and his feet in the water, with his nipple wet with sweat and the strand of hair he blew out of his face: his very own heatwave. 

As the heat spread between his thighs, Emhyr leaned back, pressing his back against the bark of a tree, opening his legs ever so slightly, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on Geralt. This was already foreplay. The looks, the stoic handling of the heat which had long since seized the innermost. The moisture that ran down Emhyr's back seemed to simultaneously evaporate and cool in an instant. 

"It's quiet out here," Geralt said with an innocence he must have lost more than 80 years ago. "Even the birds are too hot to sing. But you, honored husband, sit there not even allowing the sweat to cool your imperial body."

A hand, sunk in the stream, suddenly shot up and sprinkled a breath of moisture in Emhyr's direction, eaten up almost imperceptibly by the ambient temperature. 

"An attack?" Emhyr replied with a sneer. "Maybe you better choose your weapons more carefully."

"Oh, you mean like yourself? I don't see that you have anything more to offer than a sharp tongue."

"I didn't offer it yet."

Geralt's hand, seemingly absorbed in playing with the water, paused, and his gaze became interested. 

"One does wonder what else would be needed for that," he said, almost dreamily. 

Suddenly he rose, tugged at the waistband of his loose pants, adding perkily, "You might need some more motivation."

As if these tight thighs beneath the stunning waist were not incentive enough; not reason enough to make a man break out in a sweat even more than the heat could. He stood upright, his long lashes half closed over his golden eyes. The sun that could not dye this fair skin and bleach this white hair even more; that very sun shone not merely on a body, but on a marvel. The thought seemed to come directly from one of those pulp novels, and yet...  The true miracle was that this body, whose countless scars told so many stories, had a very special story reserved just for Emhyr. One that all power and wealth could not acquire. One that was given only by itself and only in true devotion. 

But no thought of that now. The day, the spot, even the romantic mood that a picnic promised, might carry something poetic in it. However, the depressing heat – or perhaps something else entirely – clouded his senses and left room only for animal instincts. A mind that on any other day bowed to protocols, rules and sheer logic, even demanded all this, virtually as the natural order of things, could stop thinking now and here. Perhaps Emhyr was simply giving in to the desire between his thighs, but as a Nilfgaard saying went, Much that is tasteless at the table is spice in bed.

This bed would be made of grass and moss, but he did not care. He stretched out his hand. The throne room was far away, and yet, for a heartbeat long, it seemed that he was ready to pass judgment. As far as Geralt was concerned, he had made his judgment a long time ago. 

"I don't want to keep you waiting," he said calmly as his eyes roamed over Geralt's body. 

It was always like this. He never got enough of the sight, and although they had done nothing but roast in the heat, exchanging glances and ridiculous words, Geralt was already half hard. Almost as if the feigned indifference in Emhyr's gestures and words excited him, although the man was still wearing all his clothes, steaming underneath. 

"You think," Geralt said as he moved closer, his wet feet wetting the grass with urgently needed moisture, "I'm so impatient? So keen to present myself to you?"

"Why else would you have already torn off your clothes, my dear?"

The incorruptible logic of these words, coolly delivered, was undeniable. With two steps Geralt overcame the distance. Even his naked body radiated a heat that took Emhyr's breath away for a moment – or was it something else? When stormy lips conquered his, the thought faded away like all the others. Geralt had gone down on his knees, but this time without that quiet mockery that this game sometimes held for both of them: the only man who had ever voluntarily knelt before the Emperor and yet had never officially done so. 

Now other moisture wetted Emhyr’s parched mouth, but he quickly realized that he was not suffering from thirst but hunger. This was hunger that always arose in Geralt's presence, as the saying goes, appetite comes with eating. Not that this required any prompting. 

Emhyr's hand was warm like everything about him, but also damp with sweat as he closed it around Geralt's neck and pulled him even closer. For a moment, all of this seemed overwhelming. His clothes stuck to his body, and Geralt's urgent tongue did nothing to relieve the heat, on the contrary. The latter must have sensed this, because now nimble fingers slipped under the waistband of Emhyr's tunic, and despite the temperatures, they left a pleasant little shiver on his back. 

Geralt's mouth parted from his, moist lips with a broad, victorious smile as he murmured, "You sure must be feeling hot, husband."

Emhyr had his shirt pulled over his head and quietly returned, "Oh, and you think you have the cure?"

"Well," Geralt returned, as his hands wandered slowly over Emhyr's shoulders as if searching for an elevation he didn't yet know, "we can bathe in the stream afterward and see if it helps."

"Afterward," Emhyr growled, impatience flashing in his eyes, and Geralt gave a hoarse, low laugh.

"You're right, of course, for an afterward, there must be a now," Geralt replied lightly, eyes fixed firmly on the veiled hazel before him as his fingers stroked the other’s crotch: playfully at first, to a firm grip that elicited a hiss. 

"Oi," he went on with raised brows, an outrageous impersonation of his spouse, "who would have ever heard of wild mountain lions around Corvo Bianco?"

"Cheeky," Emhyr returned as his tongue found the saliva for the words. 

Geralt knew exactly what effect he had, and he enjoyed it. And Emhyr relished it as well, for even if this bold advance of his husband might have had much to do with the heat lying heavily over the land and clouding the senses, it was just as rare. 

It was one of those traits that Emhyr loved so much about him. The outwardly tough witcher, a relentless fighter, a bastion against monsters (here he might exaggerate a little, but the essence was correct): he loved to surrender. In the seclusion of their bedchamber (and by no means only there), he let himself fall and gave up all strength. Wax in Emhyr's hands, beneath his fingers and his tongue, eliciting sounds that had drilled into Emhyr's memory and lingered there as an escape from all those monotonous moments that his everyday life had to offer. 

Now, however, Emhyr was the wax, perhaps even already melted. For now, his witcher appeared boldly. His fingers' movements did not allow escape, the closeness with which he pressed against him offered no way out, and that was not desired either. Soon he was nibbling on Emhyr's earlobe, soon his warm breath was stroking his neck; all this while a hand held him in place. And Emhyr let himself be held there as if Geralt's hands were burning into his skin; but if so, this was the most wonderful fire under which to perish. 

"There are things I want to do," Geralt whispered, a hot breath of wind on Emhyr's ear. "That is, I wanted to do them. But it is too hot, and if I don't feel you inside me soon, honored husband, all this will be over much faster than I would like. Or you."

"Filthy," Emhyr replied, the corners of his mouth half raised. 

Then he pushed Geralt back and lay down on the grass, literally tearing his pants off as he moved. 

"Give me what is due," he demanded, "and I warn you, hold your horses."

There it was again, that hoarse little laugh that could cause shivers all its own, but of course, Geralt obeyed. 

"He can't help it," he spoke more to himself, "commanding even out here, I may ascend his throne."

"Stop talking, or this will actually be over sooner than you thought," Emhyr muttered with a telltale little gasp in his voice. 

Geralt now knelt over him, breathing a tiny kiss on the corner of Emhyr's mouth, and then whirled around. 

"For this reward, you will have to work," he still said, with his body finally lying down on Emhyr. 

There was no answer, for his mouth was already closing over Emhyr's member with feverish impatience, leaving the latter only a rasping moan in a very dry mouth. And yet it was necessary to collect any available moisture. He raised his hands, pushed apart the cheeks seductively presented in front of him, sucking in a deep breath of the tangy smell emanating from the perky erect cock not far away. 

At that moment he wanted everything and couldn't decide; here beneath Geralt's thighs: everything was a provocation, the finely glittering precum as well as the tight rear end. He took up the drop with a careful finger, undecided whether to moisten his own lips with it, to enjoy the foretaste. But then, almost automatically, he stroked it over the puckering hole presented to him. The moisture evaporated in the heat as if it had never been there, but there was a soft sound in front of him that was almost lost in the indecent slurping. 

So his finger followed the now invisible trail, and although Geralt's mouth worked his cock with that particular skill he had never quite understood and which drove him to the brink of madness, he gave himself to the task. Gently, ever so gently, he explored the familiar folds, this irresistible mystery that was his alone. Of course, this was not enough, and the drop of sweat rolling off Geralt's back, entering his cheeks, did little to calm his excitement. As if the heat had made him lose his mind, it finally occurred to Emhyr that he needed more as well as Geralt did. Even though another seduction stood hard and firm right in front of him, now the impatience was back, demanding quick release. 

With curt but purposeful movements he directed Geralt's hips, and then finally he had him as he desired. His tongue was heavy in his mouth, but the sight before him moistened it, a clever trick of nature. Slowly, he stroked one of those few spots on that alluring body that didn't have the light, almost chalky color that the mutations had claimed. Even as the tip of his tongue merely grazed the sensitive edge, the effect was immediate. Geralt's grip tightened. A sound rang out, muffled: half sigh, half lustful moan. His tongue, only seconds before so eager in its task, faltered just a moment long.

Finally, they realized each had their assignment – with the same, immediate goal. As if they had agreed, almost in sync, they both found a rhythm. The heated air, the sweat-soaked grass, even the chirping of insects attracted to it; everything faded into the background. There was still heat, the kind that rises from the innermost, the kind that spirals up and lightens every thought. 

A light wind arose, a gentle breeze still; just a breath brushing over the heated bodies until drops of sweat became goosebumps. The wind remained unnoticed, but would not remain so for long: this first gentle rustling of the leaves heralded a still distant thunderstorm that would unload in a while. 

But first, it seemed, eagerness unleashed that lovers feel who are so close to each other and not yet close enough. Again it was Geralt who took the lead. He, who was usually all too avid to let Emhyr guide him in this particular dance, now showed an impatience that was not only due to the weather. Although it was his choice to withdraw from the palace for weeks, it seemed as if all those weeks had built up inside him and demanded immediate redemption. 

His movements were nimble and deft, and before Emhyr knew what happened, he had disentangled and spun around. Hot lips demanded a kiss, forcing a tongue inside. Emhyr's mouth filled with his own taste lingering on Geralt’s tongue, tart and a touch sweet. He closed his eyes and analyzed it as if it was a wine, and was this a good vintage? It seemed so to him. But even that, just a taste: if this was a wine, he had only absorbed the aroma, and it was Geralt who would feast on it. Suddenly, the lips were gone, yet the taste still lingered in Emhyr’s mouth, mixed with Geralt’s unique flavor. 

"Open your eyes, my love," Geralt said, "you don't want to miss this."

When had this man become so bold? He, who usually always melted beneath Emhyr's fingers; a body so hardened by many torments, yet so malleable and receptive. Receptive to every gentle touch, every breath that stroked the scars that crisscrossed the body like a map; a map of experiences that were never quite forgotten and that these fingers could nevertheless heal, at least for the moment. 

Emhyr opened his eyes, and there was that smile, broad as if the sun was rising. In truth, the first delicate clouds were moving in front of the real sun, but the sky was far, and the smile was very close. 

Geralt rested his hands on Emhyr's chest. Whether that was necessary or not, it was another physical connection that drove the heat immeasurably. The next compound wasn't quite as easy, even in this position, and the concentrated expression on Geralt's face was amazingly arousing. His shoulder-length hair, tamed with a ribbon only for work out here, had long since come loose. It framed a face that was never more beautiful than in those moments full of passion. 

And in all this: the smile remained, just like his gaze remained fixed on Emhyr's eyes. As if to assure he was with him, all the time, not only physically – a mind fixed to his. Finally, they both gasped at the same time, in a sound that blended and became one, just like their bodies that had just met. The warmth that now enveloped Emhyr was incomparable and completely different from any other heat. It was marvelous, still: he almost enjoyed the sight in front of him even more. His hands found their way to Geralt’s hips in a rehearsed movement, and he clasped tight as Geralt lowered his body with agonizing slowness. 

Geralt's member rested almost on Emhyr's belly, the wet tip close to losing another drop, and the mere thought was overwhelming. But not so much as everything else; for now Geralt leaned forward once more to graze his lips with a careless kiss. Another teaser, although no more foretaste. For now he was moving, slowly pushing himself up, leaning on Emhyr as his hair brushed his spouse's cheek. 

The fact that the wind was picking up went unnoticed, just like the sun, whose rays no longer made it through the denser clouds. The sultriness, on the other hand, seemed to increase even more, but the sweat dripping from both bodies might well have another reason. One of those reasons, no doubt, was that Geralt's body was now bent over even more, to the point their nipples met, rubbing against each other with every touch. This very special angle tempted deep, firm thrusts, and soon Emhyr had regained his dominance in this game. 

Their gazes met in a silent admission, and their mouths, only briefly detached from each other, exchanged knowing smiles. Emhyr's grip tightened, and at last, his witcher surrendered to this force of nature. When the first drops fell, a gentle summer rain with a hint of petrichor, Emhyr’s thrusts were still exploratory. Then, as if the sudden rain was his impulse generator, he imperceptibly adapted to this external rhythm and found his nature. 

Nature itself – well, it had also picked up speed. The rain hit the far too dry ground with a hiss, and the drops splashing into the stream played their own tune. Above all this was a dull rumble, not too distant now: the storm was approaching, no longer a mere announcement. No doubt, then, that their sounds were barely audible, and yet, they were the only thing they heard. 

These were delicate sounds, reserved for special occasions and places; sounds, in any case, that were probably rarely heard out here. The smacking of two bodies, drenched in sweat and lust, colliding. The low, approving hum from two throats when this happened; when what seemed to be made for each other found each other. How quickly that hum could turn into a sound that was almost a whimper, by just a single touch. The more their bodies adjusted to each other, the more Emhyr increased his speed; almost as if the more Geralt opened up to him, the more he wanted to make sure he stayed close. 

The friction stayed and increased, even though the world around them softened. The earth gave way to the surge of water. The next morning, very early, when Emhyr was back at the palace taking a bath, his chamberlain would be very surprised at the hard-to-remove stain that grass, moss, and earth had rubbed into his master’s hips. He, however, would give a very slight smile at the memory that came with it, almost wishing it wouldn’t fade so soon.  

But now and here it didn't matter. The now and here was filled with heat that was barely around them anymore. The approaching thunderstorm, a threatening sound and sheet lightning, had cooled the air noticeably. But Geralt's warmth surrounding him was so much hotter than the air had ever been. 

"It's raining," Geralt gasped, and his veiled gaze made it clear that this had indeed only just dawned on him. 

A second before he had been lying limp, nearly will-less on top of Emhyr, letting himself be held, driven into an extremely delicate state of consciousness by hard, almost ruthless thrusts. Now he was wide awake. The grayness that had set in unnoticed made his eyes glow with that peculiar radiance that rivaled a cat. But the cats, of which there were plenty on Corvo Bianco, had long since retreated to a safe place, safe not only from the strange not-quite-man and his companion but also from the thunderstorm.  

Whatever it was, the sudden coolness brushing across his heated chest, the rain that pressed his hair heavily into his neck, or the approaching climax – he straightened up, his hands firmly on Emhyr's shoulders, an unspoken request to give in. Not for the first time today, the latter obeyed. 

Emhyr lay there, in that increasingly damp bed of grass, his mouth slightly open, letting the rain moisten his throat and Geralt his desires. He came with the first real lightning strike that lit up the sky, and the thunder that quickly followed accompanied the twitching of his cock deep inside Geralt. The latter laughed, although the roar of the sky almost swallowed the sound, just as he swallowed the increasingly heavy rain. The laughter was pure joy, ecstasy even. Perhaps also a special kind of outlet, as it is sometimes in moments of extreme excitement, when joy and sadness, fear and thrill, and many such feelings blend. 

He was still laughing when he swallowed that laugh itself because a single touch was enough to break the camel's back. The rain was now so heavy that it quickly wiped away what was showering his husband. 

"I guess the bath in the stream will have to be canceled," Geralt said with a chuckle. 

Once again, lightning twitched across the sky. The thunderstorm was so close, and the trees so dry, that reason finally took over again. It was visibly difficult for Geralt to break away, but the magic of the moment had faded, and the raindrops pelted down on them almost painfully. 

"We should go," he said, jumping up and gathering their clothes scattered on the damp grass. 

Emhyr did not want to go. It wasn't that he had suddenly developed a love for nature, certainly not because it was just mercilessly pouring over them. Unlike Geralt, whose mood after lovemaking could be fragile and strange, sometimes high, sometimes low, he was anxious to delay the moment until reality crashed down on him. 

"Come," Geralt said softly, as if sensing just that – which he probably did, amazing as that was for his kind and profession, and held out his hand to him. 

This time, when lightning and thunder applied simultaneously, Emhyr grabbed his hand.