The Witcher is Kind of Gay - 6. Iorveth I

There was something fascinating about Iorveth. He was angry, of course, distrustful of everyone who wasn’t one of his Scoia’tael (and even some of those), but he had still allowed himself to trust Geralt. It spoke of desperation, only Iorveth didn’t seem desperate. Perhaps he was convinced he could beat Geralt in a fight, should it come to that, but he was too intelligent for that degree or arrogance, arrogant though he was. He was hard to figure out, but perhaps that was the attraction. Geralt did occasionally enjoy a good puzzle.

Now they stood at the starboard bow together, looking out at the passing scenery in silence. They were about half a day out of Flotsam. Now that Geralt had the opportunity, it was hard not to look at Iorveth. Of all the things about him that were fascinating, the most obvious was his scar and the missing eye hidden by his red bandana. It was a shame that someone had decided to mar such a beautiful face—and Geralt could see that Iorveth had been uncommonly beautiful, even for an elf—but in some ways his scarred visage made him yet more beautiful. It was a raw beauty, wild and untempered, but beauty nonetheless.

‘You’re staring,’ Iorveth drawled, not even looking at Geralt.

Geralt made no apology. ‘Just trying to figure you out. You’re . . . different. It’s interesting.’

Iorveth glanced at him. ‘You’re not what I expected either,’ he admitted. ‘You’re different from other dh’oine.’

‘Not a human,’ said Geralt.

‘Not like other vatt’ghern, either,’ said Iorveth, speaking over him. ‘Are you not meant to be neutral? Choose no sides? Yet you sided with us, as you sided with Yaevinn.’

‘I’ll tell you what I told him. With most of my memory gone, that training makes no sense to me. I do what I think is right. Yaevinn told me I have more in common with you than I do with humans. He was right.’ Geralt met Iorveth’s gaze. ‘What about you? You were quick to trust me.’

‘I don’t trust you, Gwynbleidd. I did what had to be done, what made most sense.’

‘Still,’ said Geralt. ‘That’s twice now that I’ve had you in bondage.’ He smirked. ‘Think that will repeat itself?’

Iorveth scoffed. ‘As if I would ever submit to you. It would have to be the other way around.’

So they were flirting now. Sort of. Geralt wasn’t sure, and Iorveth’s face gave nothing away. He gazed out over the water again. The sun was setting, casting everything in a golden glow. ‘Not a completely impossible thought, under the right circumstances,’ Geralt murmured, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Iorveth look up at him sharply.

Iorveth pushed away from the railing. ‘I need to go check on my men. We will speak more later.’

‘I look forward to it.’

* * *

That evening, Geralt went below deck in search of Iorveth. Though no such words had been spoken, his gut feeling told him that he would be welcome in the small cabin where Iorveth had taken up residence. The Scoia’tael leader had not taken the captain’s quarters for his own, instead giving it to the women Geralt had rescued from the burning tower. Geralt knocked.

‘Enter,’ said Iorveth’s voice from within, and Geralt opened the door, stepping inside, and closed it again behind him. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d come.’ Iorveth sat on his cot, back against the wall, and regarded him with his one cold eye. He wore his bandana, but had removed his armour, under which he wore a linen shirt (dyed green, because elf, obviously) and simple trousers. ‘I thought it more likely that you would take one of our women into your bed, one of the ones you saved. I’m sure they would near as all like to thank you for it.’ He spoke in a bored drawl, though something in his posture gave him away as anything but.

‘Perhaps,’ said Geralt with a shrug. ‘You’re more interesting, though.’

‘Is that so?’ It was the first time Geralt had seen something like a smile grace the elf’s features, if only for a moment. ‘And what of your sorceress?’

‘What of her?’

Iorveth remained silent for a moment longer. Then he said, ‘Well, don’t just stand there.’

Geralt approached the cot, but hesitated as he reached the foot of it. It was unlike him to be nervous, but under Iorveth’s penetrating gaze he suddenly felt so young. Iorveth got up off the cot and stepped up to Geralt, looking him up and down appraisingly. Then, without touching him, he leaned in so his mouth was close to Geralt’s ear and whispered, ‘If you’d like me to touch you, you’ll have to make a move of your own, Gwynbleidd.’

That broke the spell. With a growl, Geralt grasped the back of Iorveth’s neck and crashed their lips together, licking into his open mouth. Iorveth’s mouth was warm, his full lips supple, and his tongue soft in contrast to his sharp wit. Geralt pressed him backwards, pushed him up against the wall and bit into his neck. Iorveth gasped, but soon he grabbed Geralt by the shoulders, reversing their positions. He was surprisingly strong, as tall as Geralt, and now he grasped Geralt’s wrists and pinned them to the wall above his head, attacking his mouth and neck and throat with lips, tongue, and teeth.

Geralt’s hips were still free, and he ground his pelvis into Iorveth’s. The elf responded by shoving his leg in between Geralt’s thighs. Geralt fought to free himself (though perhaps not as hard as he otherwise might have), managed to get his wrists out of Iorveth’s grasp, and attempted to reverse their positions again. They wrestled where they stood for a while, and Iorveth won, shoving Geralt face first into the wall, arms pinned behind his back.

His breath was hot on Geralt’s neck as he whispered in his ear, ‘I told you I wouldn’t submit to you.’ He pressed a kiss to the soft skin just behind Geralt’s earlobe. ‘I’m going to fuck you, Gwynbleidd,’ he murmured. ‘I’m going to plough your arse so hard you won’t be able to walk straight. And I’ll have you begging like a whore by the time I’m done with you.’ He bit the back of Geralt’s neck, causing the Witcher to groan louder than he had intended. Iorveth chuckled. ‘Just how I wanted you.’ He reached around Geralt to cup him through his trousers, finding him hard. ‘And just how you wanted me, no?’

It was. It really, really was, and Geralt had been trying not to think about it since their earlier conversation. He wasn’t about to admit to it, though. ‘Son of a whore!’ he growled, pretending to resist. It was a game. Iorveth knew it too. If Geralt didn’t want it, he could easily overpower the elf and leave. ‘Get on with it, then!’

Iorveth uttered another soft laugh. ‘No, Gwynbleidd. I intend to take my time with you.’ He licked the shell of Geralt’s ear and sucked his earlobe into his mouth. Then, one handed, he unlaced Geralt’s trousers and slid his hand inside. Geralt threw his head back with a low groan, and Iorveth took the opportunity to lick and bite at what he could reach of Geralt’s exposed throat from his current position. He stroked Geralt’s cock, fast and without ceremony.

Geralt gasped. ‘Wait! You . . . I won’t last long if you—’

‘Mm, I know. That’s the whole point. Get it out of the way now and use your body for my pleasure after. Call it retribution for letting that guard strike me before.’

‘Couldn’t—ah!—couldn’t blow our cover. Fuck!’ Geralt tried to hold it back, but Iorveth was relentless, and when the elf tilted Geralt’s face toward him to capture his lips, Geralt came with a loud grunt, thankfully muffled by Iorveth’s mouth. As much as elves didn’t care who ploughed whom, he wasn’t keen on for instance Zoltan catching wind of what he was doing; dwarves were less accepting of sodomy.

Iorveth released Geralt, and the Witcher was allowed a moment’s reprieve, leaning his forehead against the wall and trying to calm his breathing. His trousers were stained with cum. A worry for a later time. After a few moments, Iorveth turned Geralt around to face him with a firm pull at his shoulder, and Geralt found that the elf had taken his cock out. It was a thing of beauty, long and thick and clearly hard, and Geralt instinctively licked his lips.

‘This what you want?’ Iorveth grasped Geralt’s shoulder and pushed him to his knees. He pressed the crown of his cock against Geralt’s lips. ‘Open wide, then.’

Geralt did as he was told, taking it in as far as he could manage. Apparently, he had managed to surprise Iorveth who, for the first time since they began, uttered a soft moan of his own. Geralt relaxed his throat and took Iorveth in to the hilt. The elf grasped his hair and groaned. Pulling back, Geralt coughed. He had no idea how many times he had done this before losing his memory, but judging by the reactions of the partners he’d had since, he was good at it. Sucking cock was apparently an instinct, much like fighting. Second nature. Muscle memory.

He used his tongue, tasting the salty pre-cum, and took Iorveth into his mouth again, working him slowly. Iorveth began to thrust shallowly into Geralt’s mouth, and occasionally Geralt would relax his throat and take him all the way in again. He was getting hard once more, listening to the soft pants and gasps escaping Iorveth’s mouth.

‘Fuck . . . I’d love to feed you my cum, vatt’ghern.’ Iorveth pulled out of his mouth. ‘But that is for another time. Strip.’

Geralt got to his feet again and began to remove his clothing. Iorveth watched him, taking in his pale, scarred body as it was revealed. There was something like admiration in his voice when he said, ‘You’ve fought many battles. Haven’t you, Gwynbleidd?’

‘More than I can remember,’ said Geralt truthfully, removing the last of his garments. He stood before Iorveth, naked and exposed, wondering what would happen next. When Iorveth remained still, Geralt took a step toward him, reaching for his bandana. Iorveth slapped his hand away.

‘Don’t you dare!’ he hissed. ‘Try that again and I’ll kick you out of here naked. Understood?’ Geralt nodded, stepping back and raising both hands in surrender. He realised now that Iorveth didn’t cover his scars for the benefit of others, but for himself. How much disgust must he have encountered from others, for such a proud elf to feel ashamed? ‘Good. Face the wall again,’ Iorveth ordered, and Geralt did as he was told.

Turning his back on an enemy (though Iorveth was an ally, at the moment he felt somewhat like the opposite) went against every instinct he had, and he felt his body tense up. He listened for Iorveth’s breathing, his heartbeat, the sounds he made. The rustle of clothes; so he too was getting undressed. The stopper being pulled from a small flask or vial. Then footsteps as he approached. Fingers slick with oil pressed against Geralt’s entrance suddenly, and Geralt tensed further, uttering a soft grunt. ‘Relax,’ said Iorveth’s voice in his ear. ‘Breathe.’ In spite of his commanding tone, there was an odd tenderness to his words now.

Geralt tried to relax his body to let Iorveth in. A few deep breaths had his asshole give way, one of Iorveth’s fingers slipping inside. Geralt couldn’t help his loud groan, and Iorveth reached around him and covered his mouth with his free hand. Again, he was hard, firm, commanding, but he stroked Geralt’s cheekbone with his thumb in a gesture that was, once again, strangely gentle. ‘That’s it,’ he murmured.

Iorveth took his time working him open. Geralt was grateful for that. He couldn’t recall anyone doing this to him before, though that didn’t mean it hadn’t happened. It hurt when Iorveth stretched him, but it felt good, too, and Geralt pushed back on his fingers to get him to go deeper.

Finally, he felt Iorveth’s cock pressing against him, and then it slid inside. He worked his way deeper with shallow thrusts, and Geralt didn’t know how to keep quiet or still. He pressed his tongue against the palm of Iorveth’s hand and, to his satisfaction, heard Iorveth’s breath hitch in his throat.

Once he was all the way inside, Iorveth kept his promise. He fucked Geralt hard, but though it hurt, the pain soon gave way to pleasure and staying quiet became harder still. Geralt grunted with every thrust, and Iorveth did as well.

Hard. Fast. Rough. But then, strangely tender again as he slowed down, pressing a kiss to the back of Geralt’s neck, before picking up the pace once more. Iorveth was full of contrasts, himself a contradiction. Suspicious, then trusting. Cruel, then kind. Rough, then tender. Here was an elf who fought for something. Not simply to rebel, but to accomplish, and everything he did had a purpose. He wasn’t fucking Geralt to pass the time. He had some reason for doing it, though Geralt hadn’t yet figured out what.

Soon, though, Geralt lost all concept of thought. Now all there was was Iorveth’s hot breath in his ear, Iorveth’s cock in his ass, Iorveth’s hands on his skin. It burned like a white hot flame, inside and out, and all Geralt could do was feel. He felt Iorveth’s heartbeat, quick and hard and so alive, pulsing through Geralt’s own body with each thrust of Iorveth’s hips. He felt the scent of sweat and sex, of his own cum on Iorveth’s hand. He felt the taste of it, salty and bitter on his tongue as he once again pressed it to Iorveth’s palm. Eyes closed, forehead pressed against the wall, Geralt felt all of it.

Iorveth removed his hand from Geralt’s mouth to grasp his hips and Geralt did what Iorveth had promised he would make him do; between ragged breaths, he begged. ‘Fuck . . . Iorveth . . . Please, don’t stop! Feels . . . Iorveth . . . Gods, I need you!’ He barely knew what he was saying. ‘Please . . . need your cum . . .’ And he repeated his lover’s name, again and again, like a chant. A prayer.

When Iorveth came, it was with a quiet gasp, head bowed and forehead pressed against the back of Geralt’s shoulder. He took a moment to compose himself before he pulled out and turned Geralt around again. He kissed him, hard, and then, instead of taking him in his hand, got to his knees and brought him off with his mouth, swallowing every drop when Geralt came within half a minute, biting his own fist to keep quiet.

Geralt’s knees were shaking, and he leaned back against the wall to keep himself upright. His heart still hammered in his chest. Iorveth stood. Now that Geralt could see him, in all his naked glory, he realised just how powerfully built Iorveth truly was, muscular and strong. He had the chest and arms of an expert archer. His skin, smooth and almost golden, glistened with a sheen of sweat. Geralt longed to touch, but hadn’t the strength.

Iorveth stepped close to him. With that same odd tenderness he kissed Geralt’s lips. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘Lie down.’ He let Geralt lean on him, and though the cot was narrow, somehow they both managed to fit under the blanket, Iorveth stroking Geralt’s hair until he came down from the intensity of the experience. Once he had, Geralt laughed, turning his head to meet Iorveth’s eye.

‘That was . . . Thank you,’ Geralt murmured, and because Iorveth was lying on his left side, Geralt reached out to cup his right cheek, thumb brushing what was visible of his scar. Iorveth flinched, and for a moment Geralt thought he might slap his hand away again. But he didn’t, though he gazed at Geralt with suspicion and his face was set in a scowl. ‘I don’t mind, you know,’ said Geralt softly. ‘Plenty scarred myself. I’d like to see you, if you’ll let me.’

Iorveth seemed to hesitate, though his expression softened just a little bit. When he said nothing, Geralt slowly moved to untie the bandana, and Iorveth let him. It came away, revealing sleek dark hair and an empty socket where his eye had once been, a red and jagged scar covering the entire side of his face. Iorveth shut his eye tightly, drawing a shaky breath. ‘Hey. Look at me,’ said Geralt. After a moment, Iorveth opened his eye again and met Geralt’s gaze, jaw set in defiance. Geralt only smiled. ‘You’re beautiful,’ he whispered, and kissed Iorveth’s scar softly.

Iorveth scoffed, breaking eye contact, and Geralt thought he saw a slight tinge of pink grace his cheeks. ‘Shut up, Gwynbleidd. Go to sleep.’

Wordlessly, Geralt kissed Iorveth’s lips once more before turning around, back pressed against Iorveth’s front. Iorveth draped his arm over Geralt’s middle and held him as they both drifted off to sleep.