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Time We Can't Keep

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She bit him when he ploughed her. Judging by the grimace of pained pleasure on her face, it wasn’t from malice - but a succubus bite is a dangerous thing to carry upon skin. Still, her teeth sank deep into the meat of Geralt’s shoulder, and when he jerked away, the skin tore. He grabbed her face in his ungloved hands, digging forefinger and thumb into the base of her jaw in order to pry it open and she choked on a low moan and spent around him.

The pleasure was brief but intense and Geralt could feel awareness slipping away under the onslaught and the venom from the succbus’ bite. Still hard as meteorite and buried within her, Geralt broke her sorry neck, even as she bit down harder to get at his life blood.

His skin was crawling with unslaked lust as he tried to shove his painful manhood back in his leather trousers. There wasn’t much room, and his skin rubbed against the ties and stays and it nearly brought him to his knees.

Think, Geralt, think, he told himself, buckling his armor with shaking fingers. Succubus venom infects the blood, pumping through the heart and brain to settle in the bollocks like a poison. It has it’s own magic, a death curse from the succubus who owned it. It could be combated with potions that thinned blood, or the traditional way. Ploughing someone until the poison had run it’s course, emptying the bollocks until nothing was remaining.

Most people, Geralt mused bitterly, stumbling out of the burned shack, never made it long enough to empty themselves of the poison. He closed his fingers around the metal shard he’d looted from the corpse earlier in the day, he had to get to Iorveth, tell him of Ele’yas murderous impulses – and then find a whore to plough until the poison was gone.

Iorveth was in his customary rooms, hidden off the beaten path - away from eyes that would stare at his missing one. He usually stood affront of it, but took refuge within as the sun went down and night came. Geralt banged on the door and entered without waiting for Iorveth to respond.

The elf stood within, as Geralt had hoped but the red cloth that covered his mutilated face had been pushed back to reveal the empty socket that remained. His face was damp, likely from a wash or from the heat of the oppressive night, Geralt didn’t know. He did know, however, that he needed to give his information and get out before he did something stupider than siding with Iorveth in the first place.

Iorveth looked a bit bemused at Geralt’s appearance, and said almost hesitantly, “Greetings, Gwynbleidd...?”

Geralt had to willfully ignore the flashes of heat he felt along his skin in order to answer him. He paused for too long and Iorveth’s bemusement started to give way to actual concern and Geralt cleared his throat. “Your Scoia’tael Ele’yas is murdering people from Vergen,” he blurted out with no grace whatsoever.

Iorveth’s budding concern fell away to irritation and anger. “Any proof?” he growled. “Ele’yas is one of my best warriors.”

Geralt managed to pull the blade shard out of his pouch without touching anything vital though his skin throbs and pulses with want. “I found this splinter from a blade in one of the bodies. Compare it to Ele’yas’ weapons.”

“I’ll see it done,” Iorveth said gravely. “Wait here.” Iorveth took the shard from Geralt’s fingers, and the witcher swallowed hard at the skin to skin contact. He nodded once to Geralt and slipped from the room to gather Ele’yas and his weapons. Geralt had not expected that - he’d expected to be dismissed so he could flee.

He knelt before the fire, tried to empty his mind of the sensations running amok in his body, to meditate before Iorveth returned. He hunted through his pack, wishing desperately that he still had the recipe for White Honey. The pack shifted awkward on his lap, digging the hilt of one of his daggers into the bulge trapped in his leathers.

Stars flashed before his eyes and before he could stop himself, Geralt found himself palming the bound erection, trying to untie the leathers to free his manhood. He could feel his climax approaching rapidly - Witcher’s were not used to denying themselves anything, not drink nor food nor pleasure - when the door behind him banged open.

Thankfully, his back was to the door, and his pack hid the strained front of his trews but it took all his willpower to drag his hands to his sides, head dropping with defeat. “Ele’yas must have learned that I know the truth about his madness,” Iorveth said, storming back into the room, “he’s fled the city.”

Geralt bit back a growl of rage, standing slowly and letting his armor settle back around his hips, hiding his burning erection. “Where?” he snarled quietly, tossing back some Mongoose to slow the poison in his bloodstream.

Iorveth pointed in the direction of the burned village. “There, my scouts say. Bring him back to me, Gwynbleidd.”

Time was running out, and Geralt knew it. He ran through the town at breakneck speed, dodging dwarves and rats and doorframes. He knew - and Iorveth knew - that Ele’yas would die before letting himself get captured. He reached the village, standing in the middle of what once was the town square.

“I’ll not be put down like some dog! Fight!” Ele’yas shouted, leaping out from behind a rocky outcrop and spinning his twin blades at Geralt’s face.

Snarling the rune for Yrden, Geralt leapt backward, throwing the magic at Ele’yas’ feet for the elf to stumble into. Even trapped by the spells power, the elf fought him, swinging his blades wildly and screaming insanity.

Each duck, roll and dodge had Geralt nearly blind from forced pleasure, where his engorged manhood ground against the stays from his leathers. Even with his distraction at an all time high, Ele’yas was no match for an angry witcher.

Especially an angry witcher with a cock hard enough to cut steel. He made his way back to Iorveth’s hole in the wall, dragging Ele’yas’ swords with him. In his current condition, Geralt was in no state to bring back anything else.

He stumbled into Iorveth’s doorway, dripping mud, startling the elf. “Gwynbleidd?” he questioned, taking a step back.

“Ele’yas is dead,” Geralt growled, dropping the swords on a nearby table.

Iorveth eyed the blades and sighed heavily. “I can see that. He would not submit?”

Geralt shook his head, already turning for the door. “No,” he answered. “He would not.” He nearly made it to the door when Iorveth grasped his shoulder, hand clamping down on the succubus’ bite mark. The bolt of pain went straight to his cock and his legs folded beneath him.

“Gwynbleidd?” Iorveth cried in alarm when Geralt went to his knees. “You are injured,” he said closing the door on Geralt’s only chance to find a woman.

“No,” he denied, even as his shoulder throbbed with pain and pleasure both. “Ele’yas fell in love with a succubus. That is why he went mad.”

Iorveth’s face went through several expressions, ending in understanding. “You ploughed her,” he concluded.

Geralt grunted. “She ploughed me.”

With surprisingly gentle hands, Iorveth moved the armor away from Geralt’s shoulder and found the bite mark. He hissed an ancient curse under his breath and said, “how long has it been since she bit you?”

“Since before I gave you the shard from Ele’yas’ blade,” Geralt grunted.

Iorveth’s eye widened in alarm. “A succubi bite can kill, Gwynbleidd,” he snapped.

Geralt glared at him. “I’ve noticed,” he growled scathingly. “Let me up, I’ve got time to find a woman. There’s a pretty elf maid down by the outskirts who’ll gladly let me plough her into unconsciousness.”

Using Iorveth’s arm to steady himself, he tried to stand, wobbling badly. His cock shifted within his leathers, and suddenly everything went very, very dark.


When he came to, he found himself on a bed. The light was dim, thankfully, and limited to the banked fire and a few candles across the room. He recognized Iorveth’s room, for the swords he’d left on the table and the heavy coat bunched behind his head.

Geralt was also naked.

His things in a neat pile by the side of the bed, his swords laying across his armor. He went to touch the wound on his shoulder and found his wrist lashed to the corner of the bed and followed the rope with his eyes to his other wrist. He tugged experimentally, but whoever had tied him had tied him well.

“Iorveth?” he growled, looking around the room. The elf appeared from around the doorway, a bruise in the shape of a mouth very visible under his jaw.

“Apparently,” the elf drawled, “you waited too long and attacked the nearest warm body for succor. Namely, myself.” He sat down on the edge of the bed, his heavy green coat gone, and dressed only in a thin green tunic and leathers. Though Geralt’s cock felt huge and swollen, Iorveth kept his eyes on Geralt’s face.

“Should I be apologizing?” the witcher asked, shifting his wrists obviously.

The elf shrugged one shoulder. “I bandaged your shoulder, and searched for the elf maid you mentioned but found no one by the outskirts but a few drunks and dwarves.” Geralt tried to shift his side away from the warmth Iorveth provided with little success. “So you have a choice, Gwynbleidd,” Iorveth murmured. “I can go out and find you another woman, which could take time you don’t have...”

“Or?” Geralt grumbled, skin twitching. “I don’t see another option, elf.”

“There is me,” Iorveth said evenly, with no expression on his face at all. “It has been some time, but I think I remember how it works.” Despite the lack of his expression, there was a hint of humor in Iorveth’s tone.

Geralt blinked at him. Of all the things he expected of the night, this was definitely not one of them. In his indecision, Iorveth reached out with a long finger hand and wrapped it loosely around Geralt’s aching cock.

The world went white for a moment and he thrust up into Iorveth’s grip without meaning to. “Is that your answer, Gwynbleidd?” Iorveth murmured, tightening his fingers ever so slightly. Geralt’s cock twitched tellingly and Iorveth rubbed his thumb under the dripping head, making him groan loudly. “Do you want me to help you?” he asked with another torturously slow roll of his thumb.

“Ploughing help me, elf!” Geralt snarled, jerking in his bonds. “Unless you want a dead witcher on the hands of your revolution!”

Iorveth actually smiled at that. “Don’t be so dramatic, Gwynbleidd,” he drawled, jerking Geralt’s cock languorously. “You have some time before death. Enough to enjoy it.” He danced his fingers around the head of Geralt’s erection, fingers slick with some sort of oil, and Geralt snarled lowly, jerking his hips up. “You must be truly desperate, to allow me this sort of liberty,” the elf murmured, rubbing his thumb against the weeping slit of Geralt’s erection.

“Get on with it,” Geralt snarled, yanking at his restraints.

Iorveth’s lips curled up in a half smile. “Patience, Wolf.”

He turned his attention wholly onto Geralt’s erection, sitting cross legged beside him on the bed. His hand still moved slowly up and down, slick with Geralt’s juices as well as the unadorned blade oil he’d looted from his pack.

Geralt loved Triss Merigold with all his mutant heart, even though he’d plough anyone that looked at him sideways. And in recent memory, he’d never been as hard and desperate as he was at that very moment with a male elf’s hand gripping his cock.

Iorveth explored his erection carefully, mapping out what made Geralt twitch and jerk and growl. He tested Geralt’s bollocks for their weight, judging their color to keep an eye on the progression of the poison. He rubbed his thumb into the crown of Geralt’s cock, pressing down with his other hand to spread the sensation around.

Geralt’s world went white again, stars flashing in front of his vision as his cock finally exploded with the pleasure he’d wanted since ploughing the succubus. He groaned in relief, relaxing into the bed and the coat beneath him. He twitched hard when Iorveth cupped him again, and he opened one eye to see that despite his climax, he was still hard as steel.

His entirely body went tight when he realized what was going to have to happen. “You’re going to need more oil,” Geralt said in defeat.

“Relax, Gywnbleidd,” Iorveth said quietly. “I will not hurt you.” He reached down to the floor and drizzled more oil over Geralt’s cock, making him twitch and twist. When he put his hands on him again, Iorveth kept a tight fast grip that dragged Geralt to the edge of another orgasm.

The oil made a sloppy sound as the elf jerked him, and when Iorveth dug his thumb into the vein beneath the tip of his cock, Geralt shouted and spent again, body shuddering and twisting with sensitivity and pleasure.

This time the elf didn’t let go of his cock, keeping his hand just under it’s head, rubbing his thumb in short hard rolls. Pleasure sparked over him and Geralt couldn’t hold his head up to watch anymore. Iorveth drizzled more oil over him and cupped his bollocks with wet fingers. Geralt’s hips were twitching, though he wasn’t sure if it was towards the elf or away, as Iorveth rubbed the same sensitive spot over and over.

With his thumb still in play, Iorveth used his other hand to press against the slit of Geralt’s manhood, rolling his palm against the crown. Geralt’s cock was practically drooling with his juices, both natural and succubi given, and when Iorveth tightened his grip suddenly, he climaxed again, hips twisting away to escape the overstimulation.

This time he could feel how hard he was still, even after three climaxes and he groaned loudly when Iorveth slicked him up again with more oil. “Too sensitive?” the elf questioned quietly. “Does it begin to hurt?”

“No other choice, right?” Geralt grunted, tugging on his restraints to distract himself.

Iorveth snorted. “You’re a connoisseur in the art of pleasure, witcher, you must know there are other ways for men to find their climax.” He added more oil to his hands, Geralt could feel drip down on to his thigh. He nudged Geralt’s legs open wider, using his own body to hold Geralt in place. He slid his long fingered hand down to press against the space behind Geralt’s bollocks and the witcher jerked hard. “Yes?” Iorveth prompted, finger just below the small hole he’d found there.

“Damn it, elf!” Geralt growled. “Just do it and get it over with.”

The elf smirked again, circling his finger over the sensitive skin and entrance there. “Getting it over with could get you hurt, Gwynbleidd,” he admonished. He spread oil around, and slipped one finger inside Geralt. It felt odd - even with the enhanced pheromones running around in his bloodstream. He twitched a little when Iorveth removed his finger, added more oil and then re-entered him. The elf was surprisingly gentle as he ploughed Geralt with a single finger. “How does this feel, Geralt?” Iorveth murmured, caressing the witcher’s name with his accent.

“No pain,” Geralt grunted, refusing to look at the elf.

“Good,” purred Iorveth, and then he crooked his finger. Pleasure exploded through him, wringing a short climax from his sore and abused cock. He groaned loudly, turning his face into the coat to bite down on one of the sleeves. At this rate, the elves outside guarding their leaders flat had to know what was going on inside.

Iorveth had paused when he climaxed, checking the weight of Geralt’s bollocks before rubbing his finger against the place inside him that had caused him such pleasure. Iorveth kept his touch gentle, circling carefully with the pad of his forefinger, not exploring any deeper just touching the nerve endings inside.

Geralt could feel his cock harden despite it’s sore and painful bearing. He watched the elf carefully behind slitted eyes, and he could see his cock rise up between them. It was practically purple with blood and strain and there was a mess of his spending on his hips and belly.

He’s really not sure how much more of this his body could take. “I’ve heard,” Iorveth said quietly, still circling the nerves inside of Geralt’s body, “that to do this,” he punctuates his statement with a harder rub against him which makes his cock twitch and shudder, “it empties a man of all that is within him.”

“Speaking from experience, Iorveth?” Geralt managed to drawl between pants, though his voice cracked telling down the middle of the sentence.

The smirk on Iorveth’s face widened a little. “Perhaps.” He slid his finger free of Geralt’s body, only to slide back in with two. He kept rubbing the bundle of nerves with those two fingers, holding Geralt’s leg steady with his free hand.

Pleasure mounted him slowly, his cock twitching and drooling, adding to the mess, and when Iorveth added a third finger to rub against the nerves there, Geralt’s cock gave up and began jerking. He never grew any less hard, but the juices ran down his cock in copious amounts, puddling on his hips and over Iorveth’s wrists.

Each rolling pull of his orgasm without spending lessened the fire beneath his skin drastically until his cock expended no more. Iorveth pulled his hand away, slipping his fingers out of Geralt’s body wiping them on a cloth left helpfully by Geralt’s knee.

Though his bollocks were empty, his cock was still hard as steel and curved up towards his belly. “Think you have one more in you, Geralt?” Iorveth murmured, splashing more oil into his hand and gripping his cock with the other.

Geralt bellowed, jerking his hips up into Iorveth’s grip, cock twitching with overstimulation and pleasure and the last of the poison in his blood. He bucked like a mad thing until Iorveth was forced to let him go. “The poison will win, Gwynbleidd,” Iorveth said firmly. “You must purge it from you.”

“A moment,” Geralt panted. “Just – a moment.” He stared unseeing at the banked fire for a long moment before dragging his eyes to the elf. Iorveth hadn’t moved much, still sitting legs crossed by Geralt’s hip but even in the dim room Geralt could see the bulge inside his leathers and the large wet spot he was trying to hide. “Do you want...” Geralt tried to ask, throat clicking on the question, “to plough me, elf?”

A flush stole over Iorveth’s face, and Geralt might have missed it if he hadn’t been looking straight into Iorveth’s good eye. He arched his hips a little, offering without words the second time. Iorveth stared at him for a long moment before stripping off his tunic and ruined trews. The elf wasn’t as scarred as Geralt was, and he was covered in wrapping vine tattoos but he was lean and muscled.

His cock was hard and dripping, skin flushed a surprisingly delicate pink. Iorveth didn’t speak, just dragged Geralt’s hips up to bare him to the room before pressing the head of his cock against the entrance he’d just spent an hour torturing. It didn’t take much pressure for the blunt head of Iorveth’s cock to breach him, and he was loose enough that the elf slid right inside him without pain.

Geralt groaned loudly, hips twitching back and forth, trying to get used to the sensation. “Are you in pain?” Iorveth groaned, fingers tight on Geralt’s hips.

“No,” the witcher growled. “Move.”

Iorveth arched his hips, angling himself to drag against the nerves inside of him, ploughing Geralt with even strokes. Each touch of the elf’s cock against the spot inside him made Geralt jerk his hips up, pressing down with each thrust. He twisted his wrists until he could grab the ropes and he fucked himself down on Iorveth’s cock.

With his free hand Iorveth reached between them and gripped Geralt’s sensitive cock, stroking it in time with his thrusts. Geralt shouted, cock spasming in the elf’s grip, spitting out a sad clear slide of liquid.

Even with the proof that his body had been empty of fluid and poison and spending, Iorveth continue to thrust inside of him, tormenting the nerves there with perfectly aimed thrusts. His hand continued to jerk Geralt’s tortured cock, dragging both pain and pleasure through him.

It was too much - it wasn’t enough and Geralt thought he would go insane with it. He dragged himself against Iorveth, widening his legs and planting his feet firmly on the stone bed to gain more leverage. Despite himself, Geralt felt his cock harden for the sixth time, this time a natural accompaniment to Iorveth’s slick jerking.

There was nothing else in the world but the hard cock battering his nerves and Iorveth’s hand jerking his cock. Groans and growls and epithets in half remembered languages fell from his mouth as Iorveth increased his speed. The elf pulled his hips up higher nearly bending Geralt in half as he ploughed without abandon.

The firelight illuminated the flush on Iorveth’s checks, and the way his eye was slitted with pleasure. His mouth was slack, for once not fitted into a smirk or a grimace of hatred. Geralt clenched down on the cock inside him, and Iorveth jerked hard and arhythmically in answer.

He did it again, able to focus more now on other sensations other than the pained pleasure - though there was plenty of that still. Iorveth swore loudly, speeding up his thrusts and leaning low over Geralt’s body.

The change in angle had him seeing stars again, and Geralt spasmed a little in response, clenching hard. Iorveth shouted, the arm holding him up collapsing down to an elbow and bringing them face to face.

And then Iorveth kissed him. It was more like an attack than something shared between lovers but it was still a kiss, as the elf dug his thumb into the sensitive vein under the crown of Geralt’s cock while his own cock dragged against the nerves inside of him.

Pleasure overwhelmed him and he froze up, clenching hard and jerking in Iorveth’s grip with one last spending. His cock jerked hard in the elf’s grip but nothing came out, he’d been entirely emptied.

Iorveth jerked hard, once - twice - and he followed Geralt over the edge, spending hard inside him. After a moment, Iorveth untangled their legs with some effort, sliding his softening cock out of Geralt with a small noise of distress.

He glanced over Geralt’s body with a clinical eye, touching Geralt’s half-hard cock in askance. “Witcher stamina has it’s perks,” Iorveth murmured. “You almost look as though you could spend again.”

Geralt snorted, hoarse and fucked out. “Not like I could stop you,” he pointed out.

In response, Iorveth slid his hand around him in a loose grip, still slick with oil and their mutual spending. Geralt shouted, jerking up and yanking at his restraints. “That wasn’t a challenge?” Iorveth asked, almost managing to sound innocent. He slid his fingers over Geralt’s sore cock, gently but firmly, dragging him to full hardness again.

Eyes slamming closed, colors flashed in the corner of his vision, as Iorveth shifted himself to gain a better angle. Skin pressed against skin and Geralt blinked hard to see the elf straddling him, their cocks together and Iorveth’s hand around them both. “Elven stamina seems much the same,” he managed to grunt out, thrusting his cock against Iorveth’s.

Iorveth seemed almost frantic, slicking them with left over oil and jerking hard and fast, no longer caring for gentle with his own cock between them. Over-sensitivity wreaked havoc over his cock and skin but Geralt tried to thrust into Iorveth’s grip anyway. The elf’s face was close to his, flushed and damp with sweat. He was biting his lip hard enough that the flesh was white with pressure and Geralt wondered absently how long it had been since he’d been touched.

The head of Iorveth’s cock caught the underside of Geralt’s and the witcher shouted again, jerking hard and spasming against the elf. Iorveth gasped quietly, his own spending dripping over Geralt’s hips and cock. As though he couldn’t hold himself up anymore, Iorveth’s spend cock slid against Geralt’s when the elf collapsed against him.

Geralt whined low in his throat, unable to help jerking up at the pressure. Iorveth met his eyes, and rocked his hips down in answer. “Still?” the elf panted, his one good eye was glassy with pleasure and tears but he still rolled his hips down against Geralt’s cock.

His body screaming at him for a rest, Geralt jerked his hips hard against Iorveth’s, wrapping his legs around the slim body on top of him to get better leverage. His cock was twitching and his bollocks were aching but the pleasure was too good to pass up. He rolled and thrust and rubbed until Iorveth was hard between them again, and Geralt pressed a sloppy kiss to the side of Iorveth’s mouth. “Plough me again. Do it.”

Iorveth wasted no time in sliding back within him, his motions frantic rather than careful as he fucked into Geralt’s exhausted but willing body. There was no way he could get hard again, though his cock gave a rallying twitch.

It didn’t take much more than a few thrusts for Iorveth to spend a third time, and he shook apart against Geralt’s chest. Geralt didn’t often sleep, meditation offered him more in the way of rest than simple sleep but his body would take no more and he drifted off, ankles still hooked with Iorveth’s and his wrists still bound to the bed.


When Geralt opened his eyes, his wrists were freed though he was still naked, a blanket had been dropped over him. “You slept most of the day away,” Iorveth drawled from a dark corner of the room.

Geralt snorted quietly. “Better than being dead.” He searched out Iorveth’s eye in the dark. “Thank you.”

Iorveth waved a hand. “Think nothing of it. You have a job to do here, which you cannot do if you’re dead.”

The witcher rolled his eyes, sitting up and casting about for his clothing. Once he’d dressed, he crossed the room towards were Iorveth sat. “I’m sorry about Ele’yas,” he murmured, reaching out to touch the elf’s shoulder.

The elf nodded once. “As am I.”

There didn’t seem like there was much more to say, so Geralt hooked his weapons over his shoulder, and started for the door. “I’ve got a few more leads to follow up,” he said. “I’ll let you know if I get anywhere.”

Iorveth didn’t respond so Geralt tugged on his boots and reached for the door handle. A hand on his good shoulder stopped him and Geralt allowed Iorveth to turn him around. “Good luck, Gwynbleidd,” the elf said quietly. “Don’t die.”

He pressed Geralt gently against the door and kissed him. It wasn’t like the sloppy kisses that were more desperation than anything else, it was a kiss that Geralt had given Triss just before battle. Iorveth crowded him against the door, pressing his knee between Geralt’s hips, raking his fingers through the silver-white hair at Geralt’s temples.

Geralt kissed back, cupping Iorveth’s elbows in his palms, opening his mouth for the elf when Iorveth licked at his lower lip. He angled his head just right to deepen the kiss, sliding his hands from Iorveth’s arms to his waist in order to drag him closer.

They were pressed hip to hip, chest to chest, mouth to mouth as Iorveth kissed him with all the desperation that Geralt had given him before the poison had drained from his system. When Iorveth pulled away, his mouth was swollen and kiss red, and he stepped away quickly. Geralt quirked a grin and leaned in for short kiss. “I’ll try not too,” he said, and slipped out the door before he could be tempted to stay.


When the battles were over, and Saskia walked free, Geralt climbed up into Loc Muinne to face Letho for the final time. Iorveth was waiting for him outside the main square and he helped Geralt off the ledge. “Letho is there,” he said, gesturing. “He has Merigold with him.”

Geralt nodded, jaw tight. “Glad to see you survived,” he told the elf, touching his wrist.

Iorveth’s eye slid away. “Good luck, Gwynbleidd,” he said quietly as they opened the door together. “Don’t die.”

He was filled with the memory of the gentle lover that Iorveth had been during his time of great need and Geralt felt a pang of sorrow that he was never going to meet with that Iorveth again. He smiled a little, soft and just for the elf, and nodded once before leaving to face his past.