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    Summary

    Iorveth kisses him with the force of a storm, bruising his lips like lightning, nipping at his skin with his teeth. The scent of blood is almost overwhelming in Geralt’s nose, metallic and sweet. It only contributes to his arousal, and he is almost achingly hard in his pants already. Iorveth grips him through the fabric, a predatory smile on his face.

    “Always ready when I need you, aren’t you,” he hisses, already breathing heavily.

    “Fuck you,” Geralt grinds out against him. Iorveth leans forward, until his hot breath ghosts over Geralt’s ear, sending shivers down his spine.

    “That’s the idea,” he whispers.
    *

    After a mission gone bad, Iorveth needs some stress relief. Geralt is the perfect person to provide it, without too many questions asked.

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