[ well, yes. she also drank the terrible wine, because it was better than ale, which was better than nothing at all. on the fifth or sixth day the complaints were more for show, and consistency than any real disdain. yennefer found herself learning to appreciate the shit wine for what it was - warm sea air, thin sheets, geralt, who had an odd, specific sort of patience about him. one that caught her attention early on, and held it for the days, days, nearly two weeks after.
her smile matches his and she lets him guide her fingertips along the raised scars, some familiar, some perhaps new. she remembers the nights and days she'd spent in that bed doing this same thing, remembers tracing the scar with her lips.
she wasn't supposed to have been on that side of the continent. she'd been expected at a ball, invited and then very highly encouraged by the brotherhood. tissaia had said something in the letter that had pissed yennefer off, something that hadn't mattered in the long run, but was enough for her to disappear. to find herself in that small inn, drawn by that same tug, the same pull. ]
Ten days. [ yennefer says softly, almost a laugh.
she also doesn't remember what it was that drove her away, that time. how long the days and nights had felt, and yet nowhere near long enough. she'd had to deal with so much bullshit after that stay, so much that she'd found herself wanting to go back, to return, to those mornings. that threadbare mattress.
his fingertips work at the laces of her traveling clothes, the dress that she hasn't bothered fixing back after their travels, because the mud and fraying fabric helped her blend in to the streets of nott. geralt's fingers work, and yennefer feels the back of her dress open, feel the shape loosen and then fabric hang from her shoulders. her hands flatten across his lower back, then to his sides. he kisses her, and she kisses him back through her smile, at first more softly than usual.
but that doesn't last long - it might be moments, it might be minutes, but the first few presses of lips are gentle, warm, but then something shifts. her hands dip into the hem of his trousers, moving to his front to find his belt, or ties, or whichever it is that's keeping his pants on and to get rid of them. the next time their lips press, she is pushing closer, pulling him closer, a slowly building impatience written in the arch of her body towards him. ]
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her smile matches his and she lets him guide her fingertips along the raised scars, some familiar, some perhaps new. she remembers the nights and days she'd spent in that bed doing this same thing, remembers tracing the scar with her lips.
she wasn't supposed to have been on that side of the continent. she'd been expected at a ball, invited and then very highly encouraged by the brotherhood. tissaia had said something in the letter that had pissed yennefer off, something that hadn't mattered in the long run, but was enough for her to disappear. to find herself in that small inn, drawn by that same tug, the same pull. ]
Ten days. [ yennefer says softly, almost a laugh.
she also doesn't remember what it was that drove her away, that time. how long the days and nights had felt, and yet nowhere near long enough. she'd had to deal with so much bullshit after that stay, so much that she'd found herself wanting to go back, to return, to those mornings. that threadbare mattress.
his fingertips work at the laces of her traveling clothes, the dress that she hasn't bothered fixing back after their travels, because the mud and fraying fabric helped her blend in to the streets of nott. geralt's fingers work, and yennefer feels the back of her dress open, feel the shape loosen and then fabric hang from her shoulders. her hands flatten across his lower back, then to his sides. he kisses her, and she kisses him back through her smile, at first more softly than usual.
but that doesn't last long - it might be moments, it might be minutes, but the first few presses of lips are gentle, warm, but then something shifts. her hands dip into the hem of his trousers, moving to his front to find his belt, or ties, or whichever it is that's keeping his pants on and to get rid of them. the next time their lips press, she is pushing closer, pulling him closer, a slowly building impatience written in the arch of her body towards him. ]