Geralt found Iorveth in a dark corner of the elfin encampment in Vergen. The elf was holding a glass of something that smelled several centuries stronger than dwarven ale, his back ghosting against the sloping wall of a shanty. The camp had been set into a crack in the mountainous city—it could not be called a valley—and had such poor drainage that rainwater pooled in the spaces between the little wooden shacks and turned to thin mud. It was clear from the elves' accommodations where Vergen placed the scoia'tael in society.

Iorveth looked up as Geralt approached, and the witcher leaned his side against the shanty.

Iorveth tipped his glass toward him in a sarcastic salute. "Gwynbleidd. How goes the search?"

Geralt had spent the evening looking for the four components of the antidote for Saskia. He needed to talk to some of the locals about navigating the mines, but he didn't think they would take kindly to him bursting into their bedrooms at midnight asking about immortelle.

"I have some leads," the witcher said. "Nothing to be done until the morning. Philippa says Saskia will hold through the night."

Iorveth nodded and took a sip of his drink.

"Drinking alone?" Geralt asked.

"I'm not quite welcome at the tavern," the elf said in his usual drawl. Iorveth's voice was unlike the other elves'. It was harsh and biting and somehow deeply seductive. Geralt stepped forward and took the glass out of Iorveth's hands to taste the liquid himself, slipping his tongue along the rounded edge and relishing the sweetness of Iorveth's mouth that lingered in the alcohol.

"I'll drink with you," he said huskily.

Iorveth's eye widened almost imperceptibly, betraying his nerves. Feigning confidence, the elf placed a finger to Geralt's mouth and wiped up the excess liquor from the witcher's lips. Then he placed his slender finger in his own mouth and sucked on it gently.

Geralt watched all this with quickly dilating pupils. His pants were bulging, and Iorveth could see it: the elf smiled smugly at the witcher's erection.

"You're a tease," Geralt accused. "You've been teasing me for days."

Iorveth's face became flushed, embarrassed to have his affections exposed. Geralt used the moment to toss back the rest of Iorveth's drink, which was not so strong as he had originally suspected. Then he placed the glass on the ground and circled his arm around Iorveth's waist, pulling the elf close against him.

"What do you want?" he breathed against Iorveth's ear. The elf shivered as Geralt nuzzled into his neck and teethed at the base of his hairline. He whimpered something unintelligible as Geralt licked a warm line up his neck. "I asked you a question," he whispered. "Tell me what you want."

He placed his lips just behind Iorveth's ear and began to suck. The elf gasped and cried, "Damn it, Gwynbleidd. You know what I want."

Geralt smirked against Iorveth's neck. "Do I? I'm not sure."

Iorveth growled. "I want you—to fuck me."

Geralt tipped the elf's head back and met his lips in a crushing kiss. Their tongues touched and shivered against each other. Geralt's hands wandered to forbidden places. Iorveth opened his body to the witcher and moaned for more, but Geralt didn't want to give it to him here, in this muddy alley. He took Iorveth by the belt and tugged him around to the front of the shack so they could enter through the door, which Geralt shut tight behind them. The lock was crude, but it would hold. He used the igni spell to light two torches on the wall. They cast a warm, low light across the scarcely furnished room, which held a single wooden chair, a small table, and a bed in the corner. The last was all that mattered to Geralt.

He tore Iorveth's coat from his body, letting the fabric and weapons fall together to the floor. Then he pushed Iorveth onto the bed. The elf lay propped on his elbows, looking up both eagerly and shyly. His shirt stretched taut over his sleek muscles, and Geralt was pleased to see that his pants were tight over his groin.

Still standing, Geralt began to undress himself, tugging his shirt up around his abdominal muscles and over his broad shoulders. Iorveth's eye scanned hungrily over every inch of exposed skin, lingering on the witcher's deepest scars. Geralt smirked and moved his hands to his belt. He could see Iorveth's pulse quicken in the hollow of his throat, and he decided to tease the elf a little, slowly pulling the leather loose and sliding it free from his belt loops. This wasn't fast enough for Iorveth. The elf growled impatiently and grabbed at Geralt's pants, pulling them down his sculpted hips and legs in one smooth motion. He reached to repeat the process with Geralt's white boxers, but the witcher held his hands in place and shook his head. "Not yet. You're wearing too many clothes."

Geralt knelt down on the bed over Iorveth and tenderly removed the elf's shirt. He lowered his lips to Iorveth's chest and nipped his way down to those beautiful abs, spending his time licking and sucking the dark lines around each muscle. By the time his tongue reached the elf's lower abdomen, Iorveth was moaning and writhing beneath his touch. Geralt dipped his tongue beneath Iorveth's trousers and savored the gasp that sounded above him. He skillfully undid the trouser button with his teeth and kissed the skin that was revealed beneath it. Then he peeled the tight fabric down over Iorveth's hips and was delighted to learn that the elf wore no underwear.

When Iorveth was naked save the red scarf that was wrapped around his unseeing eye, Geralt rocked back on his knees to admire the form of the man who had starred in all of his recent fantasies. Iorveth was more beautiful than his imagination had realized. His skin was smooth even where scars etched colorful patterns in his history. Every muscle ran seamlessly into the next, so solid that there was no question about the elf's strength. But nothing compared to the elf's cock, and Geralt didn't care that Iorveth could see him staring. It wasn't that Iorveth was particularly long or thick around (though he was certainly not small). Rather, Geralt was struck by the visible vigor of the elf's length: the healthy, pinkish color, the round and tantalizing head, the pulsing veins, the incredible symmetry of it all. It was the kind of dick that an artist would attempt to craft on a statue, but no statue would ever live up to this perfection. Geralt's mouth grew wet at the thought of having Iorveth inside of it.

He stood and dropped his own boxers, revealing how aroused he was by the sight of the elf's body.

Geralt looked back up at Iorveth's face. Iorveth was watching him—gauging his reaction, his dark eye searching and cautious. Geralt pushed his lover for the night flat on his back against the bed and lowered his body down onto that warm, lean abdomen. Their erections rubbed together playfully, both of them as hard as swords. Geralt kissed the vines of Iorveth's tattoo and felt the elf's pulse quicken beneath his lips. His lips skated down to Iorveth's nipples, and he sucked each softly before moving lower. When his mouth reached Iorveth's groin, the elf sat up suddenly, and Geralt raised his head.

"What's wrong?" the witcher asked. He drew back a little to give Iorveth space.

"I haven't…done this in a while," Iorveth said, a blush spreading across his face. Geralt imagined that it took a lot out of the scoia'tael commander's ego to admit that he was inexperienced at anything—especially sex. "I don't know if I can—do this. With someone else."

Geralt knew the name that had gone unsaid: Cedric.

"We don't have to keep going," Geralt said. He rolled over to sit facing Iorveth on the edge of the bed, one hand stroking Iorveth's hip.

Iorveth looked away. "No, I—I need this. Just not the intimacy, the tenderness. Fuck me, but don't kiss me."

Geralt frowned and raised his hand to touch Iorveth's cheek, almost expecting to find tears there. His cock was aching, sure, but Iorveth's heart was aching. Tonight was not the night to fuck Iorveth the way he wanted to fuck him, hard and fast. He rolled his shoulders back and said, "No. I'll stay the night if you want, but no more of this."

Iorveth looked at him sharply. "What are you going to do? Spoon me? Get your fucking cock in my ass, Gwynbleidd. I didn't bring you here to comfort me."

Geralt raised his eyebrows. The elf's mood had changed from nervous to spiteful without much prodding. "You didn't bring me here at all," he said. "I pushed you through the door. But I'm not going to fuck you while you're grieving. When I take you to bed, I expect you to be thinking of me and only me." Not Cedric or Saskia, he added in his head.

Iorveth pulled his face out of Geralt's hand and spat, "Bloede dh'oine." He swallowed hard. Geralt had never seen something so broken and yet so beautiful, his pale skin swimming with firelight. "Can't you understand that I don't want to feel anything?" he asked hoarsely. "I want you to fuck me senseless so I don't have to think about it all. Please. Don't be—tender with me. Be rough. Hurt me. You asked me what I wanted. That's it."

"I wasn't aware that you wanted to be punished," Geralt shot back. He stood from the bed and turned his back to Iorveth. "I'm not going to have sex with you so you can atone for whatever sins you think you've committed."

He had just picked up his discarded underwear when Iorveth stepped behind him and caught his hips in his hands, brushing his lips across the base of the witcher's neck. "I didn't say I wouldn't enjoy it." He exhaled slowly, and it sent warm shivers down Geralt's spine.

There was no helping it. The elf was too damn sexy, and he knew it. Geralt turned around and pushed Iorveth roughly into bed. He would give Iorveth what he'd asked for.