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Roche felt like dying. Maybe he was already dead, and this was his customized version of purgatory, which wouldn't be surprising. Everything hurt, from his body, battered and bruised after non-stop fighting and battles, always onto the next one, charging head-on, to his soul, if he even had one. Roche stopped pondering that question a long time ago, what with all the things he had done and all the blood on his hands. And to what end? Temeria was no more, a war-torn wreckage of its former glory, powerless and helpless. Foltest was gone, a monumental figure who once shaped his whole life, having picked a street urchin and turned it into a loyal and fearsome commander, now rotting in the ground, discarded away and onto the annals of history, forgotten and buried there. His Blue Stripes team, a little family that he handpicked and built over the years of shit they shoveled together, was snatched from him in a blink of an eye, butchered like livestock, and proudly presented on a counter for him to witness firsthand. Just Ves remained, God only knew for how long. Roche stopped believing in one ages ago. No deity watched over him.
He groaned and tried to turn onto his back to assess the damage done to his body. A few cracked ribs, for sure, countless bruises from his less-than-lucky topple from the hill, possibly a sprained or twisted right ankle, he would have to put his weight on it to be certain. A few cuts on his arms and torso, not deadly, but bleeding, some more profusely than others. These would have to be dressed, the sooner the better. Oh, and a splitting headache, of course, he might as well add a concussion to the ever-growing list. With a groan and after several futile attempts he did turn on his back, immediately feeling a wave of nausea and promptly passing out, but not before hearing someone's footsteps in the vicinity. He couldn't be sure if those were real, but if they were, his last thought was a hope that whoever it was would grant him a quick death.
***
He drifted in and out of consciousness, distinctly aware of being moved somewhere but feeling too weak to do anything about it. Bits and flashes of greenery around him filled his vision, then came the darkness. He vaguely remembered feeling arms on his body, touching and undressing him, though he could hardly tell if some kind soul was trying to save him or if looters were about to strip him of his meek possessions and dispatch his corpse where no one would find it. He was too far gone to care.
Here and there, he would come to to take a sip of water or slurp a bit of broth, though he could never make out the face of whoever was nursing him back to life, just a hazy sensation of cool and callous hands on his neck and chin. Whoever it was also changed the bandages and made sure to wet a cloth resting on his forehead. It brought him a strange sense of comfort and peace.
His final awakening from the feverish state was a slow and tedious process. He felt like he had been submerged in the water for too long, strangely detached from the blurry reality that refused to gain a sharper shape. Having painstakingly opened his eyes, he whimpered at the pain shooting through his entire body. He craned his neck, trying to study the surroundings. His gaze traveled over a few stools and chairs, a table filled with medical supplies and what appeared to be herbs, and a vaguely familiar bow and quiver. Before his brain could scramble for where he had previously seen it, though, his eyes traveled upwards and he froze. Iorveth, for it could only be him, was sitting on a bench near the door, fletching his arrows nonchalantly. Vernon had a feeling he only pretended he hadn't noticed his prisoner? patient was awake to avoid spooking him and was highly appreciative of the gesture. He had no strength left to react to the absurdity of the situation, so a sudden bout of cough that grasped him violently saved him from the awkwardness of being unsure how to call for his attention.
“Ah, you are finally awake.” Iorveth rose in one graceful motion, leaving his work behind, took a cup from the table, filled it with water from the pitcher, then approached the bed. He patiently waited until Vernon stopped seething and wordlessly and with surprising gentleness grabbed his shoulders with one arm, helping him to sit up. His cheek brushed against Vernon's in the process and the skin-to-skin contact sent shivers down Vernon's spine. They had never been so up close and personal before. Iorveth pressed a cup against his parched lips, and he drank carefully, with small sips. Once he was done, Iorveth withdrew to put the cup back on the table and grab something from the supplies. Vernon knew he couldn't stay silent forever, but he was still too groggy and his brain was a sluggish mush. A cool palm against his forehead startled him and he shivered. Iorveth was now perched on the edge of the bed, his hip pressing up against Vernon's.
“Your fever seems to have broken,” he continued a casual one-sided conversation. “I need to check your bandages, then give you some broth and a healing tincture.”
Roche felt Iorveth's hands flutter over his arms and torso, expertly doing the clean-up, and decided to voice the most obvious question on his mind.
“Why?” he croaked with a voice he could barely recognize as his own, leaving the rest of the question floating in the air. Why didn't you leave me to die? Why did you decide to help, why are you still helping me? Why do you care?
“I couldn't very well let you off that easily, now could I?” Iorveth responded with a smirk. “That would have been an unremarkable death for a nemesis of mine, don't you think? I would have asked how you managed to get yourself into such a mess, but you shouldn't talk too much just yet.”
Satisfied with the healing process of his wounds, he wiped his hands clean with a rag, then moved to fetch the promised food. Vernon's mind was clearing up a little and he realized with a startle that he was more relaxed in the company of his sworn enemy than he should have been. Nothing made sense anymore, yet this somehow felt right, which was ironic. They had been dancing around each other since the beginning, vouching to unleash death onto the adversary time and time again, yet choosing not to make good on the oath. Come to think of it now, Vernon wasn't sure he would be willing to murder Iorveth, should it come to it. That thought, however, threatened to give way to a myriad of questions and he wasn't strong enough to open that can of worms yet. It was easier to pretend he was still feverish.
Heedless of the turmoil inside Vernon's head, Iorveth sat down again, pointedly not making a big deal out of spoon-feeding his weakened opponent. The behavior was just as contrary as Iorveth himself was: he could launch half-hour-long tirades, ridiculing dh’oine in every possible aspect without breaking a sweat, yet at the same time he possessed a certain code of honor he followed no matter the circumstances. Apparently, making fun of his enemy in the state Vernon was now in was above the legendary Aen Seidhe. He was infinitely patient throughout the whole ordeal and made sure Roche was as sated and medicated as needed with no snide remarks whatsoever. That made Roche think of how long he had been taking care of him and he immediately decided to give voice to that thought.
“How long was I out?” he asked, direct as ever.
“About a week, give or take,” Iorveth responded, collecting the supplies and a now empty bowl and putting them back.
Roche's eyebrows rose in silent surprise. He had been a dead weight for a week and Iorveth showed no sign of discomfort and didn't even ask for anything in return. Not yet, anyway, he might likely do so soon and would be well within his rights too. He didn't owe Roche anything except for death at his hand. Something warm and pleasant curled in the pit of Vernon's stomach and, as he felt his eyelids grow heavy again, he thought about the best way of expressing his gratitude properly. Sleep took him before he could mumble a quiet “thank you” and he didn't register how Iorveth carefully lowered him on the bed, tucked the blanket in, and smoothed out his hair, an unexplainable tenderness in his touch.
***
“You're suspiciously docile,” Iorveth commented, helping Vernon out of the hut they currently occupied. The treatment was going better than expected, and Vernon could move around without feeling like he had been rammed by a fiend, albeit with Iorveth's arm on his shoulders and another one around his waist. He still felt a little dizzy when moving too fast. “I'm beginning to think you're plotting something evil.”
“Uh-huh, just waiting for you to turn onto your other side and gut you in your sleep,” Roche deadpanned.
Quite obviously, the hut only boasted one bed, which could barely accommodate the two of them. More often than not, they ended up in each other's embrace come morning, limbs intertwined and holding onto each other. The first time Roche conscientiously woke up to a smothering heat from behind and an arm pressing him close to someone's back he freaked out and almost threw Iorveth off the bed in the process. Weak as he was though, he only managed to elicit a sleepy grumble from the elf who tightened his grip around his waist in response. Roche lay in silence, coming to terms with their proximity or, rather, his lack of aversion to such, dimly wondering if he somehow got transported to a parallel universe or some other nonsense one could only come up with in the dead of the night. Slowly willing his body to relax again, he dozed off, thinking to himself he didn't mind such a reality. Not one bit.
“So you admit you are simply biding your time then?” Iorveth asked teasingly. They fell into a bantering pattern easily enough, much to his own amazement. Initially, Iorveth refused to resort to low blows and forewent his scathing remarks for the sake of a proper recovery. As the time went by, he noted how surprisingly right it felt. Sure, they bickered here and there, neither being a saint with endless patience; however, their bites were not lethal anymore. They didn't aim to maim and gut punch with words, leaving emotional wreckage in the process, just to maintain a flow of conversation. It was still fun to get a rile out of Roche without pushing him to his limit.
“Of course I am. Now you've gone and ruined my secret plan,” Roche bit with mock disappointment. Truth be told, he owed some sort of explanation to Iorveth and, mainly, to himself. This bubble of peace that had settled over them was nice and pleasant, but he would have to face the reality sooner or later. They both would.
Roche sighed and leaned on Iorveth some more to lower himself onto the log less than gracefully. His ribs still hurt like hell, and his leg wasn't fully functional yet. Iorveth dropped down next to him in one fluid motion.
“You know,” Vernon decided to start small, “for a moment, while I was lying there, I wanted to die.“
Iorveth's breath hitched in his throat and he exhaled audibly. That was...news to him and not a good one at that.
“Or at least I thought about it.“ Vernon continued calmly, as though that revelation hadn't just punched Iorveth in the gut. “About what it would be like to finally stop fighting, to see my team again. They're all dead now, except for Ves.” His voice sounded monotonous, more devoid of life than Iorveth was comfortable with.
“I'm sorry you lost them,” Iorveth offered in all honesty. He couldn't very well regret that the unit infamous for the decimation of countless Scoia’tael ceased to exist, yet he knew the pain of losing his sisters and brothers intimately, and he deeply sympathized with what Vernon was going through. That feeling of loss never quite went away.
“Thank you,” he replied quietly, slowly coming back to here and now. “I just felt so god-damn tired, you know? Part of me was tempted to let go.”
Iorveth's heart clenched painfully. Hearing this confession hurt. He never wanted to imagine a stoic soldier like Roche so broken and resigned to his fate, let alone think about what would have happened had he not been there on time. He wasn't big on destiny, but he was grateful for one stroke of luck it granted him.
“But then you found me. By the way, I don't think I ever got to ask you how you did it.” Roche turned to him, eyes no longer glazed with reliving his past.
Something fierce was burning in Iorveth's eye, his jaw was set, his posture rigid and tense. “I was in the area,” he replied stiffly. “Heard the sounds of a fight and decided to investigate.” There was no real point in withholding the information about his unit anymore. Vernon was clearly not going anywhere any time soon, and by the time he would, anything he disclosed would have become irrelevant and outdated. “My unit was stationed nearby, but I had some matters to take care of on my own. How did they manage to get you?”
“An ambush,” Roche shrugged. “One of my spies must have been captured and spilled the beans. Thought I'd give them hell before going out, you know?”
Iorveth ground his teeth, deciding against speaking out. He wouldn't be able to explain why he was so... angry, frustrated? He didn't know what he felt, but it left a sour taste in his mouth and something unpleasant crawled in the pit of his stomach.
“Anyway,” Roche shook his head, noting how Iorveth's mood seemed to have gotten even worse within a short span of their conversation, ”I'm glad you were there. Thank you,” he said earnestly. “I don't think I would have made it without you.”
That simple statement soothed an ache within Iorveth, his face cleared up, no longer resembling a storm cloud. He exhaled, not knowing how to respond to that. He was used to hiding behind sarcasm, deflection, and mockery, and for the better part of their stay in the forsaken cabin, their easy exchange of jibes worked well for both parties. They hadn't broached any serious subjects before, though, and he felt like he owed it to Roche to offer some sincerity in return.
“I'm glad you're alive, he admitted quietly.” Then, scared of the weight of that statement, he quickly added, “After all, your death belongs to me, not some filthy brigands.”
“As does yours to me.” Roche didn't miss the sidestepping but was willing to let it slide, instead filing it away for later. Iorveth's words were an unexpected, yet pleasant surprise. He was glad to see his mood had improved, though he still couldn't fathom what had ruined it in the first place. He felt...strangely at peace, which should have been impossible in the company of a notorious Scoia’tael leader. Yet his presence gave him comfort and warmth few things in life could. He struggled to his feet clumsily, and Iorveth wordlessly offered his support, draping an arm around his torso.
“Let's head back,” he suggested, starting on a familiar track to their temporary shelter. Soon he would have to think about the next steps, for now, he could simply enjoy the fresh air and (secretly) the closeness of Iorveth's body.
***
“Vernon,” Iorveth moaned breathlessly below him. His lips were red and swollen with kisses, cheeks flushed, and neck covered in love bites. Roche grinned, leaning down to suck another mark onto the junction of his shoulder. Iorveth shuddered and pulled him closer, tightening his grip on Vernon's waist. “Don't go,” he pleaded and whined as Vernon nibbled on his ear.
“You won't get rid of me that easily,” Vernon smirked and snaked his hand into Iorveth's hose. Iorveth jerked against him, and Roche's eyes flew open with a startle.
Just a dream, then. As he tried to get his breathing under control, Roche registered the very same elf pressing up against his back, arm slung loosely over his waist, small huffs of air hitting his nape and sending goosebumps all over him. Unsurprisingly, he was already hard, and the presence of a particular warm pliant body in his bed did not help matters. Iorveth’s beauty was something he noted the very first time he laid eyes on him all those years ago and dismissed as a fact useless for battle, but no less true. Roche often found his gaze drawn to his strong and athletic figure, moving in vicious grace, his plump lips, mostly curled in a snarl, his high cheekbones, rarely painted crimson with exertion, let alone flustered. Even his absent eye and the scar, covered with a signature red bandana, were a source of admiration, not ugliness. He had been through a painful and gut-wrenching ordeal, yet he survived and was more vibrant and powerful for it. Granted, he did not allow himself to appreciate all that. It would have been foolish in a time of respite and simply deadly in a battle. Now, lying in Iorveth's arms, he could hardly deny he wanted him. Worst of all, he started to suspect it wasn’t just physical. Soldier's life didn't provide many opportunities to engage in anything sexual, and he recoiled in disgust even thinking about going to a brothel. Roche indulged himself for a few more moments, quietly enjoying the intimacy of their closeness, then sighed and set to extricate himself from Iorveth's embrace. Luckily, his injuries were healing up quite nicely so he could move on his own and did not have to endure the humiliation of explaining himself to Iorveth once he woke up. Elf mumbled something in response and only tightened his grip on Vernon's waist. In a bout of softness, Vernon carefully stroked his hand with his fingertips and finally managed to slip out to take care of his arousal outside. And if he fantasized about his dream coming to life while doing so, well, that was nobody's business but his own.
***
Of course, the strange bubble of domesticity that had settled over them could not last forever. Iorveth was soon cruelly reminded that the world was still out to get them whenever possible. He was coming back from one of the hunts, having snatched a couple of rabbits for dinner, when he heard a telltale sound of twigs snapping under someone's feet. He was instantly alert, unsheathing his sword and quickly scanning the surroundings. A crossbow bolt flew past his face and made its way into a tree trunk, then chaos exploded all around him. Half a dozen men, probably bandits by the looks of them, charged in his direction, and Iorveth dispatched one of the farthest ones, having thrown his dagger. Adrenaline coursing through his veins, he snarled and lunged himself into the melee. The tree behind his back provided ample cover; he dodged and parried the blows coming from various directions confidently, moving with the grace of a seasoned warrior. His opponents were hardly on his level, yet they surpassed him in numbers and he would never make the mistake of underestimating dh’oine again. He caught some movement out of the corner of his eye followed by a painful yelp from afar, but couldn't afford to pull his attention away from the fight at hand. If reinforcements were coming, it would soon get messy. It wasn't until he heard a clash of swords that he registered the presence of two opposing forces on their makeshift battlefield. And that could only mean one thing: Roche. A cold shudder ran through him at the thought of Vernon getting injured again, or worse. Bloody dh’oine, he could never stay well away, could he? Roche's fighting skills were nothing to scoff at, but he was still recovering and who knew how many foes he was up against. Fear and fury mingled into a tight ball inside his chest and he doubled down on his efforts to get rid of the assholes and make his way to Vernon as quickly as possible. He curled his lips in disgust as another opponent spilled his guts quite literally onto the ground, plunged his sword deep into the torso of a bandit next to him, then twisted it for good measure. Just as he was stepping over the dead body and retrieving his weapon, he heard an alarmed shout "Watch out!" and snapped his head forward to see Vernon bodily smash into yet another brigand, standing with his crossbow about to shoot at Iorveth. And get a blade into his side for the trouble. In the seconds it took Iorveth to cross the thrice-damned distance between them, heart in his throat and breathing heavily, Vernon successfully offed the bandit and was trying to gauge the severity of his wound.
“Iorveth, are you alright?” he asked worriedly.
Iorveth blinked and then simply exploded, turning into a fuming cloud of fury. “Am I alright?” he repeated the words with a strange tightness in his voice, and Roche started to suspect something was amiss. “What the hell were you thinking, Vernon?” He barely managed to refrain from shouting, partly because he wasn't sure they had seen to all of the bandits already. “You've just barely recovered from your last skirmish; do you really have such a death wish?” he snarled in anger, then stepped closer and batted Vernon's arms away to examine the wound himself.
Roche raised his eyebrows in silent bewilderment. Not that he forgot Iorveth could be lethal with his words just as much as his weapons, but he was actually surprised he would lose his temper so spectacularly, and over what? As if he could just do nothing and watch him get shot, which he hurried to convey to his enraged companion. He wasn't angry just yet, but his own short fuse was starting to rear its ugly head. “What did you expect me to do, stand there idly and let that bolt hit you? Is that how you imagine we humans repay our debts?” he asked, some of the hurt at the assumption showing in his voice.
Apparently, that was a wrong thing to say, because Iorveth's facial expression grew even darker and he practically growled, “I don't recall ever saying you owe me anything, dh’oine. Least of all that you should go and get yourself killed while repaying your so-called debt,” he repeated the word with disdain. He tore off a piece of Roche's shirt sleeve and pressed it to his wound to staunch the bleeding.
“Don't be so dramatic,” Roche scoffed, “I've had worse. Besides, I am not planning on dying any time soon.” He was dying to ask why Iorveth cared so much but decided to bide his time until he looked less like his old murderous self.
“Really?” Iorveth responded sarcastically. “Your recent actions suggest otherwise. This will need stitching.” He was torn between the desire to see to it personally and a sensible decision to collect whatever belongings he could find on their assailants and take care of their corpses.
Roche most likely followed his train of thought, for he said, “You stay here and clean up the mess, I'll be fine. The cut is not that deep.”
Iorveth deliberated for a few more seconds, then nodded curtly and got to work.
***
Roche winced as he doused his wound from a bottle of a Temerian rye. Either the previous occupant of this hut didn't have a taste for good alcohol, or Iorveth was a masochistic drunk, for that hooch packed a strong punch. His shirt was already ruined, so he ripped it into a few more pieces to make do with till he went in search of proper medical supplies. Going through routine motions, he couldn't help but think about Iorveth's outburst earlier. Sure, the elf clearly didn't want him dead anymore, but it was one thing to stop considering the other a sworn enemy and a totally different one to actually what... display care so openly? Roche had already admitted to himself that whatever he felt for Iorveth was far from hatred, but he could not know what was in Iorveth's head. He wasn't in a habit of allowing himself to hope and dream, but maybe today's events showed him that he might have a shot at whatever Iorveth would want them to be. Locating the needle and thread turned out trickier and far longer than expected, and he sighed with frustration. He could take care of his own wound dammit, if only he could find what he needed. Sewing accessories finally in hand, he turned to the sound of an opening door.
“That was quick,” he commented on Iorveth's arrival. True, his own steps weren't as quick as they used to be yet, but Iorveth did have a lot to tend to.
“I was in a hurry,” he barked in response, deposited the supplies he managed to scavenge in a pile near the entrance, and strode in his direction. “Hop on,” he motioned towards the table.
Vernon absolutely did not have shivers run down his spine at the sound of that commanding tone. He was kind of hoping Iorveth would cool off a little, but he looked as fuming as before, so he complied and handed him the kit. He tried not to imagine the same situation they were in right now but under very different circumstances: him perched on a table, legs spread wide and invitingly, with Iorveth standing between them, his body leaning forward, closer and closer until Vernon could wrap his legs around his torso and pull him in for a kiss. At least the pain that was about to get significantly worse meant he wouldn't have to worry about feeling all hot and bothered by his fantasy and clearly hard, too.
Iorveth's touch was cool and surprisingly gentle, given the emotions that were still coursing through him, and Vernon remembered that elves ran significantly colder than humans did. That must have been the reason for the multiple layers of clothes and armor he usually sported, Roche wondered to himself absent-mindedly to get distracted from the unpleasantness of the procedure. He was eager to discuss what had just happened but found himself hesitant to broach the subject so as not to upset Iorveth further. Luckily, the elf spoke first.
“I suppose you will want to be on your way now,” he uttered in a carefully controlled voice. “Your recovery is almost finished, and in your book, you are free of any debts, not that you ever owed me anything,” he continued the meticulous stitching as if he hadn't just made Vernon's stomach drop.
“What? Are you kicking me out?” Roche asked incredulously, not even trying to mask the hurt in his voice. He knew he had upset Iorveth, sure, but he wasn't expecting this.
“We are in a derelict hut in the middle of nowhere, Roche, not an inn that I own. Besides, it’s what you were going to do anyway, isn't it? These few weeks of an illusion we had been living in were just that. And it's time to come back to the real world,” he kept on going, every word shattering the hopes and dreams Vernon had in a particular place in his heart reserved for Iorveth. Apparently, he was alone in thinking the time they had here was special, that they could make something of it. It wouldn't be the first time he misread the situation, far from it. But he didn't have anything to lose anymore, not really, so he might as well admit his feelings, one-sided as they were. Iorveth could do whatever he wanted with them.
“I was going to say that last few weeks meant something to me,” Vernon stated, once the stitching process was done and Iorveth could fully concentrate on their conversation. He was glad he waited since Iorveth flinched at the words. He was still standing very close, and the ambiguity of their current position was doing nothing to calm Vernon's nerves. “And, in case my words and actions haven't been clear, I do not want you to die. In fact, I would very much like to... explore whatever this is between us now.” Vernon exhaled slowly. Iorveth's silence was oppressive, and he was feeling more and more insecure and vulnerable by the minute. Sighing with disappointment, he came to the conclusion that confessing like this wasn't his brightest idea and mentally braced himself to leave. After all, he survived worse things than heartbreak.
Tired of waiting for an impossible thing to happen, Vernon added, rather dejectedly, “Clearly, it isn’t something you want, so I'll just leave you to it,” and made a move to slip off the table and away from Iorveth's imposing presence. Only to hear Iorveth half-growl, half-whimper, and feel him surge forward and capture Vernon's lips with his own. The kiss was scorching hot and far from gentle as if Iorveth was trying to punish Vernon for making him sick with worry and was not above biting his lips in retaliation and licking the wounds afterward. Vernon groaned in response and reached out to press their bodies flush against each other, snaking his legs around Iorveth's waist the way he always wanted to. He felt euphoric at such enthusiasm and couldn't get enough of Iorveth, kissing him again and again, sucking his lower lip, and eliciting sweet moans from a normally cool and collected elf. He caressed his face tenderly, contrary to Iorveth pouring all his anger, frustration, and anything in between into the kiss, making it hungry and fierce. They finally broke apart, gasping for air, but not before Iorveth sucked a particularly bruising mark just below Vernon's jaw, claiming him.
“You'll be the death of me, Vernon Roche,” Iorveth panted, pressing their foreheads together. Vernon was satisfied to see he was flushed from his face up to his neck and evidently hard.
“I thought that was a given?” he replied wryly and couldn't resist pressing a small kiss to the corner of Iorveth's mouth. If anything, that made Iorveth blush even more, and Vernon was quite pleased with the result.
“I got scared,” Iorveth spoke once he had his breathing under control, pointedly not looking Vernon in the eyes. “Of losing you,” he clarified, making Vernon's heart skip a beat. “You could have died twice, and who says I would be there next time something like that could happen? And I wasn't sure what you wanted to do once you were well again, if you even wanted me... He let the unsaid part hang in the air for a second, then continued, “So it was easier for me to pretend like I didn’t feel anything and push you away first.”
Vernon could not remember the last time he saw Iorveth so vulnerable. He carefully grabbed his chin turning him so that they would be facing each other and stroked his cheek with his fingertips, wishing to comfort him. He hadn't dared hope Iorveth would reciprocate his feelings and now that he had a shot with him he would do everything in his power to demonstrate to Iorveth how desirable he was and how lucky he was to have him.
“I can show you how much I want you,” he responded flirtatiously, snapping his hips forward for good measure and coaxing a low groan out of Iorveth. Vernon then proceeded to pepper his face and neck with hot, open-mouthed kisses, sucking a bruise here and there and enjoying the small sounds Iorveth produced, squirming in his arms.
Eventually, Iorveth's self-control snapped and he effortlessly lifted Vernon off the table, earning himself an undignified yelp and laughing at his response. “We are not making love on a table while you're still wounded. Some other time maybe,” he mused aloud, depositing flustered and more turned on than ever Vernon onto a bed. Iorveth started peeling off his layers of clothes and Vernon couldn't tear his gaze away from him as more and more bare skin was revealed. “Enjoying the view, are we?” Iorveth smirked and made a show of flexing his muscles.
Vernon growled impatiently, “Come here, you tease.”
Clad only in his undershirt and hose now, Iorveth slowly approached the bed, getting on top of Vernon, careful of his wounded side. He kissed him languidly, enjoying skin-to-skin contact and little whimpers Roche made when he felt particularly good. Breaking the kiss, Vernon muttered, “You know, rumor has it elves are exceptionally skilled lovers.”
Iorveth leaned down to whisper in his ear, “Let's see if the rumors are true, for I'm going to ravish you tonight, Vernon.” Roche could only shiver in response, pulling him in for another kiss, giving as good as he got. After all, Iorveth never broke his promises.