#will i ever write a rorveth fic where they don't punch each other? no

[limerental]

ficletvember 2023 - day 8

iorveth/roche weird criminals modern au of reason of state or something

Though an elite team of unsavory characters has agreed to work together with the hopes of assassinating the shady CEO of Redanian Industries, that doesn't mean they have to like each other.

content warning for canon-typical violence and a mostly non-explicit blowjob

The intercom crackled.

"Shit, pack it in, lads, our man's long gone."

A moment later, the staccato hum of the helicopter rising from the roof of the factory confirmed the announcement. Radovid had fucking gotten away again.

With their mission failed, animosity predictably reignited among the ragtag crew of would-be assassins. 

"I fuckin' had him. One damn floor away. If you'd kept those heavies off me on that platform–"

"Ah, my mistake, Vernon. I had assumed you preferred your skull attached to your head. You were too close together to take a–”

“Thought you used to be a better fuckin' shot than that. You losin’ your touch? Your eyes goin’ bad, Iorveth? Can you see this?”

A distant middle finger, blurred through the lens of a scope.

“Permission to shoot him, boss?”

“Sorry, denied,” grumbled Dijkstra’s voice through the intercom. “Unfortunately, we need the unpleasant little bastard. Quit bitching and get out of there. All of you.”

There came a chorus of affirmatives from the crew. Geralt, already in the lobby. Isengrim, packing up in the building opposite. Philippa, disappearing easily into the crowded streets.

“Triss,” called Roche. “Law enforcement?”

“Thirty minutes out,” said Triss, her soft voice warped by the distance. Her van was somewhere down on the streets, parked in a discrete location. “I scrambled their comms but–”

“No rush then.”

“Fuckin’ hell–”

"Roche, don't."

“Damn it, someone make sure he doesn’t kill–”

Roche’s intercom clicked off. 

For a few moments, having clicked off his own noisy comms, Iorveth trailed the barrel of his rifle after the figure scurrying across the roof in the unearthly blur of his night vision scope. He considered how much trouble he’d be in if he took a shot after all. Just a few warning shots whizzing near his ankles. Couldn't hurt.

He leaned away with a sigh and rolled his stiff neck and shoulders, beginning to pack away his rifle. A dozen flights of stairs separated this floor from the lower roof below, but the elevator was already pinging.

Iorveth amused himself imagining Roche jogging in place in the little box as it rose.

All that furious energy wasted just for a chance to hit him once or twice before they had to flee as the building was inevitably surrounded.

The door whooshed open just as he clicked the last latch shut on his packed equipment, and the man descended on him, all but vibrating with rage.

Iorveth deflected a punch with his forearm and jabbed with his own hit that Roche twisted easily away from. There was no real sense in hand to hand fighting like this, both of them too well-matched and too familiar. Each strike inspired a fluid counterstrike. They circled the empty room, locked in a stalemate.

There’d been a time when Iorveth would have played dirtier, unafraid to knock the man’s head against a nearby surface in a move that could split his skull in two. Similarly, Roche did not pull the gun from its holster on his thigh and let loose the way he may once have.

Things had been simpler when Roche was special ops and Iorveth part of a now defunct terrorist organization. For now, they were on the same team, and it wouldn’t do to maim or dismember one another before fulfilling their goal. 

After Radovid was dead, no holds barred.

Time ticked by. This building would be buzzing with cops before long.

Roche managed to pin Iorveth with a rough shove against the long span of windows, the city lights glowing on his furrowed brow. 

When their mouths met, the crush of their bodies together was no less furious.

Roche tugged at his braided hair, and Iorveth bit his lip hard. When hands fumbled at his belt, tugging, Iorveth caught them.

“No time for that,” he said. They’d have enough trouble escaping the building as it was. Iorveth could imagine the panicked demands and warnings buzzing from their silenced comms.

Unfortunately, the bastard couldn't resist a challenge. 

“There’s time,” Roche grunted and went hard to his knees. 

Sirens echoed in the distance. Iorveth shoved back the slouch of Roche's beanie to run his palms along his buzzed scalp.

"Hurry up," he said, even the hot pleasure of the mouth stretched around his cock not enough to dull his awareness of how close they were cutting it.

Roche pulled back a moment, breathing in sharp pants.

"You're usually more of a hairpin trigger," he grumbled.

"Maybe you're boring me."

"Fuck you."

The renewed focus and intensity brought him to the edge and over in a few quick breaths, and the warm twitch of his belly had barely waned before Roche was on his feet and had him by the collar.

Roche grunted as his back hit the wall, Iorveth punching the flash of the button to call the elevator even as he sucked a red mark onto the man's stubble-rough throat. When the door pinged and slid open, they fell inside with Iorveth's thigh crooked between Roche's legs. Roche gripped the bar along the wall and rutted up against him as the elevator hummed to life and plunged.

Iorveth watched dark eyelashes flutter as his mouth dropped open, almost pretty.

Later, sprawled out across the dark sheets of their shared high-rise apartment, he'd like to take his time and really watch the way this man's expression lost its stubborn tension momentarily at the cusp of his pleasure. 

The fluorescent lights flickered into the red glow of shutdown just as they crashed into a lobby swarmed with policemen. 

They'd have been wholly fucked had Geralt not appeared suddenly to beckon them down a side corridor. A full-tilt sprint took them through a maintenance hallway and out the other side of the building to crouch together behind a dumpster, listening for the roar of Triss' getaway van. 

"Bastard just had to get a fuckin' punch in," grunted Iorveth as he leaned, breathing hard, against the slump of Roche's shoulder.

"Sure," said Geralt as he eyed Iorveth's undone belt. "We'll go with that."

#my fic #ficletvember #iorveth x roche #rorveth #will i ever write a rorveth fic where they don't punch each other? no #pretend like this is a really fleshed out au idea and not an excuse to write sniper iorveth #imagine he's wearing a cool tactical turtleneck and looks cool as shit and is really cool. and roche has a stupid tactical beanie. #and looks like a loser