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It was his third year in retirement when a strange bout of flu spread amongst the populace of Toussaint, and Iorveth realised for the first time that even fairytales were prone to affliction.
He had heard of its prevalence through the ladies of the estate as they huddled by the grapevines, murmuring about their sons and daughters nursing fevers in bed or the herbalists hurrying door to door with the tinctures and bundles. The severity of the situation didn't quite occur to him even when their numbers visibly shrank, in part because he'd witnessed far worse in his lifetime, and mostly because he'd gotten so used to the peace and the routine of their passing days.
It took one Vernon Roche to remind him of the fragility of it all.
The dh'oine had trudged back home in the snug midday heat, his shoulders slumped and his tunic drenched a different shade of blue. Iorveth looked up from lacing his boots as the door creaked open, and the first thing that caught his eye was the ghastly pallor of his lover.
“What’s wrong with you,” he probed, his voice partially drowned out by the scrape of wood as he stood.
“Nothing,” the dh'oine tried to wave away, his voice without its usual claws.
“Come here. Why do you look so pale.”
“M’fine.”
He took a step forward and Vernon immediately strafed behind the table, putting the object between them so Iorveth couldn’t reach him easily.
“Vernon…”
“Putting stuff in the kitchen.”
Iorveth sighed and turned around in mock defeat, and Vernon must've been really sick because he believed him. As he shuffled away in the direction of the guest bedroom, Iorveth snatched up the chance. In a swift, single leap, he crossed the table and wrung his arms tight around the d’hoine, the clatter of his mug and candelabra loud in their cosy home.
“You’re warmer than usual,” Iorveth noted as he hugged him tighter, amusement morphing into concern as Vernon’s breaths immediately shallowed from the light pressure.
“Ior- M’fine, let go,” he mumbled, putting up a pathetic attempt at resistance as he tried to squirm out of Iorveth’s hold, never once touching him with his hands.
"Clearly not. Tell me what's wrong."
There were soft footsteps from the bedroom and a door creaked open.
“What’s going on,” a half-naked Geralt appeared in the doorway. He was wearing a pair of newly tailored trousers - jet black cotton trimmed with silver and embroidered with vines - and Iorveth would have paused to appreciate the way they accentuated his dick if not for the infuriating man in his arms.
“Vernon’s sick,” he declared to resulting Geralt's frown.
"Must be that weird illness going around."
"Don't worry," Vernon continued to insist, "Go to your party. It’s Midaëte.”
There was a pause as the gears began to turn in their heads.
"Is this what it's about? Why you're being even more stubborn than usual," Geralt probed, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the doorframe. Vernon's gaze flickered to the floor in a valiant attempt to avoid Geralt's disapproving one.
"S' because it's nothing I can't handle."
Iorveth released a hand and smacked it against Vernon's forehead. The dh'oine was normally warm, but he burned under his touch and Iorveth couldn't help a grunt of concern. Without waiting for his lover's insolent protests, he thread an arm behind his back and under his knees, and hauled him up against his chest with little effort. He was limp in his hold, barely able to hold himself up.
"That bad huh," Geralt commented, already on his way out of the house, "I'll let B.B. know we're not attending tonight. See if he can't send someone to tell Dandelion."
"I'll be okay," Vernon protested again, tugging at the lapels of Iorveth's robe, "S' only once a year. Don't let me ruin your fun."
"Bloede dh'oine. Shut your mouth and let us take care of you. The bard throws dozens of parties a year so we're not missing out. I'd much rather tend to you right now."
It worked. Vernon settled down immediately, and Iorveth told himself that he'd imagined the soft glimmer of tenderness in his lover's eyes.
He awoke with a start when a heavy object rolled onto him.
"Ysgart-" His eye snapped open to a mess of brown curls and his anger fizzled away when he registered the object as Vernon.
“Ior,” came the soft mumble as Vernon squirmed on top of him with none of his usual grace.
“Can't sleep, cáerme?"
"Too hot."
"You're burning up again. Want a cold towel?"
"Mn. Want you."
"I'm yours," Iorveth promised and pressed a kiss to his forehead.
The heat radiating off him was worrisome and Iorveth had to remind himself that Vernon had been through worse. He'd fought the man once in the outskirts of Dorian while he nursed a high fever; it was particularly memorable pressing him up against the tree, scalded by the heat radiating off him and frustrated by his impaired ability to fight. He wondered too often what it would've been like to pin the dh'oine on the forest floor and take him right there and then, and the thought accompanied him on many lonely nights.
The same curiosity burned at the forefront of his mind and he ran a hand up Vernon's side. A small brush. Just to sate his curiosity
What he didn't expect was the tiny moan that rumbled against his chest.
He tried again, this time rubbing into the small of his back where he knew Vernon loved to be touched. He was rewarded with yet another breathless moan and the press of a growing hardness against his thigh.
"Don't stop," came a whisper so quiet, no human ears would have picked it up.
"How far do you want me to take this?"
"All the way."
"You're not lying are you?"
Vernon peered at him through thick lashes, doing his best to act coy.
"I'll not continue until you agree to be honest with us and tell me when it's too much."
The annoying dh'oine just blinked and pouted, and plough it all, he looked rather cute. Iorveth knew he meant yes - how could he not after a year of living together - but he reminded himself that giving in would reverse the efforts they'd been making with Vernon. His thirty-five years of dogged independence wasn't easy to undo, and every step forward had been hard-earned.
"It's not going to work," Iorveth finally managed.
"Fine," Vernon groaned, dropping all attempts at subterfuge. "I promise I'll be honest. Now get on with it, I'm trying to act like a damsel in distress you can take advantage of."
"You? A damsel?" he began to chuckle and flipped them around so Vernon was laying on his back. His skin was fever-flushed and his lips were still pale, but it didn't take away from any of his usual allure. Iorveth caught his wrists in a hand and pinned them above his head, and the dh'oine hardly reacted save for the twitch of his cock.
"I've finally caught you, Vernon Roche. Servant of the Temerian kingdom, decorated commander and fearless leader-"
"I'm going soft," Vernon snapped and Iorveth snickered madly. The bed shifted next to them and he turned in time to see Geralt roll over on his side.
"Damsel huh? Need a knight?"
"Sorry, minne. We didn't mean to wake you."
"You didn't. It was this little one who did."
He heard the dh'oine curse under his breath, no doubt turned on by the nickname, and Iorveth suppressed a grin as he leaned in to capture those soft, supple lips instead.
Fuck.
Kissing him was like kissing the sun, scalding and joyful and giddying, magnifying his thirst tenfold instead of quenching it. He dove in for more and Vernon let him, body going slack against the mattress as he parted his lips and let him take as much as he wanted until he finally begged for breath.
"Do you think he's still loose?" Iorveth asked.
"After last night? Yeah."
The witcher wet a finger and slipped it between Vernon's legs, penetrating him with practised ease. And Geralt was a man who was hardly surprised - how could he not be when his experience dwarfed him and Vernon's - so when his eyebrows raised and his cock stiffened, Iorveth took interest. The witcher began to pull and tug at the rim, easing the muscles as Iorveth slicked himself up with oil.
"Thrust all the way in at one go," Geralt instructed and Iorveth wasn't one to argue with him in bed. He hauled Vernon's leg over shoulder, his head spinning with anticipation as he watched Geralt plug both thumbs in and spread him open. He gripped a angled hipbone, aligned himself, and thrust all the way into that-
“Fuck.”
Iorveth slammed his eye shut and curled his fingers tighter around the dh’oine as he struggled to even breathe. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
Vernon was burning up from the inside, soft folds and tense muscle clenched snug around him. They hung in overwhelmed silence as Iorveth tried to recover from the abrupt crash of pleasure, unable to do much else except keep himself from spilling immediately. And Vernon was struggling too, his pupils blown wide as he desperately clung on to Geralt’s arms, the bottom of his lip trembling and his breathing high and tight.
He rolled his hips and the dh’oine nearly fell apart. Vernon’s eyes squeezed shut and he burrowed himself into Geralt’s arms, plastering himself against his body and shaking with sensitivity.
“You alright?” Geralt checked in and pressed a kiss to his cheek.
“A lot. Full. Feels a lot,” came the jumbled answer.
The sight of a fever-flushed Vernon laid bare wore his patience down to nothing and unable to hold back any longer, he pulled out most of the way and then slid right back into the dh’oine. It tore a silent scream out of Vernon and he twisted in Geralt’s hold, hands pawing at his chest and eyes wide with shock. Iorveth didn’t give him any time to recover, building up the pace far too quickly and reaching down to tug at his erection. His cock was already drooling, splattering droplets of precum on his abdomen as it bounced with every thrust.
“Want something to do with your mouth?”
Vernon nodded and Geralt straddled his chest without another word. There was a brief moan and the wet smack of lips, followed by Geralt’s low rumble as he presumably slid into his wet heat. Sweat trailed down scarred skin, sliding over the planes of his back and Iorveth resisted the urge to lean over and taste him.
“Shit.”
“Doesn’t he feel even more amazing than usual?”
“Yeah. Would like to try his ass.”
“I shouldn’t take long, and not especially when he’s warm like this.”
And it really didn’t. His orgasm snuck up on him in moments and he snapped his hips into Roche, spilling into him with a groan. The dh’oine wrung tighter around him still, milking every drop out of him. He made an eager noise and then reached down to touch himself, but Geralt pinned his hands down to the bed.
“Wanna come? Beg for our touch,” Geralt chuckled and pulled out as Roche bucked and thrashed beneath them, going breathless as he murmured quiet curses at them. Much to Iorveth’s satisfaction, his resistance was brief and he soon collapsed back into bed.
“Geralt, please…” he finally conceded, turning so he could hide his face in the pillows.
“Well done, minne,” Iorveth praised and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “C’mon Geralt. His hole is practically begging for more.”
Iorveth gathered Vernon up in his arms and flipped them so the dh’oine was laying on top of him, legs spread wide and his ass pushed high in the air. Geralt manoeuvred behind them and slicked himself up with an efficiency he usually reserved for the battlefield.
“Been waiting all night,” he groaned, his voice laced with lust as he scooped Iorveth's cum up and pushed it back into Vernon. The dh’oine groaned and pushed his face into his chest, stubble scraping against his skin as Geralt toyed with his ass. The memory of those thick fingers was still fresh in his mind and he swallowed thickly.
“Fuck me already,” Vernon finally blurted out, turning to glare at the witcher.
Broad hands clutched his hips and without a second to waste, Geralt sheathed himself with a low growl. He was struggling - Iorveth could tell from his knitted brow and the high, tight way he was breathing - and so was their little dh’oine.
“Breathe, sweetheart,” he tried to coax as Vernon stared up at him with wide, damp eyes, pleading quietly as he did his best to accommodate the other’s girth. As Geralt began to move, Vernon began to tug the sheets under him, surprising Iorveth with the show of strength.
“He’s like a furnace,” the witcher remarked through grit teeth and Iorveth returned a knowing chuckle.
“I wonder if we could fuck him in the bathhouse and get the same effect.”
“Hm. Let’s try.”
“S’ public,” Vernon protested, though the break in his voice gave away his true thoughts.
“And? The whole of Touissant already knows who you belong to. If you’re worried about being heard, Geralt can take your ass and I’ll gag with my cock.”
His cheeks burned even brighter and he hid his face in Iorveth’s chest again. He snickered and patted down his hair and back, soothing him as the witcher continued to roll his hips languidly.
The tension eventually melted away and Iorveth took his face in his hands, coaxing him open with a prolonged kiss and drawing out more of his uncharacteristically powerless moans. His own cock began to twitch back to life, spurred on by the eager partner squirming on top of him. Iorveth could tell the exact moment when Geralt began to speed up, tugging the tiniest cries of pleasure out of Vernon until his words became murmurs and his murmurs became incomprehensible.
"Are you quite alright," he checked and brushed the damp locks off his forehead. It took a few nudges to get him to respond.
"Yes. Keep going," Vernon finally whispered, attempting to angle his hips up for Geralt. It worked until it didn't, strength leaving his limbs within seconds and he collapsed back onto Iorveth with a groan. He could feel the other's hardness press against his abdomen, rubbing against him with every thrust and spreading slick between their bodies. The thought of thrusting right back into that heat made his head and when Iorveth spoke again, his voice was strained with renewed lust.
"I would like to fuck him again when you're done."
Geralt quirked an eyebrow up, right about to protest.
"Want," Vernon mumbled, "Iorveth. Again. I want too much."
"Would you like me to overstimulate you like we did the last time?" he tried to make sense of it and Vernon nodded.
"Yes," was his simple reply.
"You have a fever. Shouldn't push yourself," Geralt chided, but Vernon did something that made Geralt double over with a moan. He changed his tune in an instant and angled Vernon’s hips, fucking into him with renewed gusto as he chased his approaching orgasm with reckless abandon. The gold of his eyes were barely visible in the eclipse of his pupils and his features were overcast with strain and lust.
A few more moments was enough for Geralt who reached his own orgasm without fanfare, his hips slapping hard against Vernon before finally slowing. And when the witcher pulled out with a groan, Iorveth didn't wait to pounce.
"My turn," he declared as he flipped Vernon around and pulled his back flush against his chest. He rearranged their limbs with practised ease and braced his feet against the mattress, hissing as he pressed into his heat without reprieve. Iorveth began to grind into Vernon's prostate with the head of his cock, unrelenting even when the dh'oine started to shake all over.
"Coming-" Vernon cried out abruptly as he arched against Iorveth and came jerking wildly against him, ribbons of cum painting his own chest and over Geralt’s when the witcher leaned down to kiss him. He tweaked a nipple between his fingers and palmed the head of his cock, pinning him to his climax and refusing him relief.
“Ior- Iorveth!” he cried into the liplock, but neither his strained voice nor the aborted thrusts halted Iorveth's assault. His whimpers teetered on the precipice of pain and pleasure, and barely a minute had passed before the sobs started when warm tears splattered on the sheets.
There he was, his wonderfully over-stimulated Vernon who was caught helpless between them, unable to do anything but cry as they toyed with his body. The brevity of the moment never took away from its power, like a sheet of ice crashing down a waterfall or a tree felled from great heights, and Iorveth tucked his face into the crook of Vernon's neck as he relished him shaking apart.
"Mercy, please, please! Can't take- Mercy!" Vernon croaked out and clawed at Geralt's back, unable to take it any longer.
Squashing his urgent pleasure, Iorveth pulled out and threw his arms around Vernon's chest, squeezing him tight as he whispered sweet nothings against the back of his neck. Geralt was right there too, pressing soft kisses across his tear-stained cheek as he reassured and soothed his shaking limbs.
Vernon's thighs continued to tremble long after, only slowing to an occasional jerk when he began to slip into unconsciousness.
"You alright?"
"Stay," came the tiny voice.
"We aren't going anywhere, minne. You're ours."
“Wouldn’t trade you for the world.”
When there was no response, they knew Vernon was out like a light.
"You were so good Geralt," Iorveth whispered as he craned his neck to glance at the witcher. It dusted a blush onto his pale cheeks and he quickly rolled off the bed, mumbling something about a clean towel and a basin of water. They would work on his reluctance to receive compliments later; for now, he was content to hold Vernon as he slumbered.
"Think he's making progress," Geralt remarked as he shifted them about and wiped them down.
"He is. It wouldn't have been possible without you, minne."
"Or without you."
“You’re our greatest blessing,” he praised again and Geralt very nearly dropped his cloth.
They needed a proper bath, but he was exhausted and Vernon needed the rest. The bed was a mess but it smelt like them - of bliss, contentment, and of trust.
Iorveth was half asleep by the time the witcher finally curled up next to him. He murmured an acknowledgement when a broad back pressed up against him and a strong arm draped over his chest, pulling him deeper into that precious sense of safety that he treasured with all his heart. What they had wasn't perfect, but Iorveth had never expected or wanted it to be. It would all work out as long as he had them.