Who: yennefer + others When: july Where: nott + nocwich What: after the events of the coup and yennefer's escape to nott, she is making due in what she suspects will be her new normal. Warnings: will update if needed.
[ A small smile tugs on the corner of his lips—a genuine, open expression seldom seen on him. He leans into her touch. It would be better, perhaps, to see her in person under the sunlight, but this will do. This will more than do. He wraps his fingers around her slim wrists, holding her hands there against his chest.
It is hardly the end of their troubles. He worries for her in Nott. He does not know if it will be like when he escaped or when the others fled in the past—abandoned once out of sight—or if the castle will try to search for her. Can they still be tracked? Has that magic faded after all this time, after this world has made them each a little more than they were when they arrived?
Still. Despite his concerns, he feels lighter. He's always hated the way the clutches of court held her.
By the flickering lamplight, his eyes take on a distinct glow. She might find the shine familiar, a remnant of their centuries ahead not yet lived. The only true change beyond the scrapes and bruises he frequently carries with him, and a healing burn up the length of his arm. He knows Jaskier bears a few feathers now. Ciri, a sheen to her hair. He wonders what it is Yennefer must've returned with. Or has she been spared more gifts from the monolith? ]
Mm. You know me. [ He's usually some degree of all right, so long as his family are safe. And at the moment, they are. They're together, unharmed. Facing this shit with the kingdoms as best they can.
He runs his thumb over the back of her knuckles. ] Shall we?
[ He'd like to fuck off someplace they can speak freely. Where he can have her to himself. ]
[ perhaps that is the most confusing thing. she is hardly safe here, hardly out of the eyes or mindset of the crown, and even here in the shroud of night, she feels that weight. she does not know yet if she is being hunted, or if she will fall to the shadows of nott like its people, but this-
this feels like a bright moment, a light in the darkness. geralt smiles at her and it feels like it has been more than their eight hundred years. like it has been centuries more, still. his heart beats under her hands, his pulse familiar in her ears, but it is his eyes that catches her attention - that glow, that has her head tilting, then smiling. recognizing. the truth is - there isn't anything truly changed about her appearance, but her magic has - an ability that has become necessary in these last days.
she lets out a soft breath, an entertained huff. you know me he says, and it actually feels like she can agree. like she knows, for the first time in a long time, because they are together. his thumb runs over the back of her knuckle and she hums, nods once. ]
Let's. I need a decent glass of wine and something that isn't fish.
[ though even as yennefer says it, she doesn't quite move - hovering close. ]
Fish? [ A faint chuckle escapes him. ] Is that all that's ailed you?
[ She did always make a face when he would return with more fish and squid from the ocean. Months on the run, and yet those were some of his calmest days. Bookended by their endless pursuers, sure, but in between the nights looking over his shoulder, listening to horses in the distance, they had time. Together. Minutes that seemed to stretch into days, where the Continent stopped bleeding and they could breathe.
He can breathe now, too.
They crisscross the square towards the nearest inn, one Geralt hasn't been to before. It's serviceable. Has a spare room. He slides an extra gold to the innkeeper so that they will not be disturbed. Later, he will need to go elsewhere to find John, but for now, he's letting himself have this—a brief reprieve from the encumbrance of a looming war.
When the door finally shuts behind them, he exhales. His forehead rests against hers. They've endured much. And he knows they have pained each other as much as the world has pained them. For a time, he wondered if it was all too much—too many caustic words and wounds inflicted. But Ciri found it in her heart to forgive, and Geralt had wanted...he wanted the same. Does want it.
Nenneke had said he was afraid to hope. He's trying not to be. The more time passes, the more he sees that Nenneke, Dean, Jaskier—they were right. He can admit that. Because she's here, isn't she? Yennefer. A year ago, she would not be. A year ago, he could not have convinced her to leave everything she knew behind and start anew.
There are no more need for wishes when he is certain in his beliefs. When he is, at last, certain in her.
So that's why he waits, eyes fixed on the curve of her lips and the curl of her dark lashes. She doesn't need to prod his mind to know what he wants. She can read it on his face. He lets her anyway, if she'll care to. ]
I have been sleeping among barrels of them. I have smelled of nothing but fish for days. You can't tell me you didn't notice.
[ for all her annoyance, there is an underlying sense of amusement in her tone. maybe it's pulled out with his chuckle, maybe it's her own awareness of the ridiculousness of it all. in a matter of weeks she's gone from a highly esteemed private bedroom in the center of thorne castle, to a threadbare cot among fish barrels underneath a tavern, and she feels almost better off for it. she complains, she looks disgusted, she really doesn't like it - but some part of her also hasn't felt this relaxed in some amount of time.
they go off together to another tavern, one that she knows holds no explicit alliance with thorne, of course, but also one she hasn't been to before. it's the closest, as well, though yennefer still pulls up her hood as they step inside, still allows geralt to pass off the gold, to handle the exchange, and then follows him up to the room itself.
it isn't until the door is closed that geralt seems to unwind, and yennefer tilts her face up to his, the hood falling back to her cloak as she does. their foreheads touch, and the silence of the room feels different, feels warmer, somehow, as her hands settle on his arms, on him. despite all that she's traversed since learning of the coup, despite the change in location and the knowledge that now - and most likely for the foreseeable future - she will once again live knowing that she is most likely being hunted, that she has someone after her, and yet it all feels lighter. easier.
a year ago she would not have left. and even before that, geralt had offered her the chance to - a portal to solvunn, a way out of the court itself. she hadn't taken it, clinging a bit desperately to her own choices, her own ego, her own place in it all. but now? now, it does not feel so dire. now it feels less impossible to leave, to sever ties, to start somewhere different and somewhere new and to know that she, that they, will survive. and yennefer knows that geralt feels the same. or, rather, perhaps not exactly the same, but they are in line enough.
his eyes are fixed on her mouth, on her face, and the want in her curls like a physical, aching thing. for the last couple of years there has always been a distance between them, whether by their own making or the physical nature of their separated kingdoms. but now - with her hands sliding up to his shoulders and his breath hot on her face - yennefer feels like there isn't any distance at all. ]
Geralt. [ she says, quietly, watching his eyes. and then, a moment later, she arches up into him, brushing her lips against his. ] You're thinking quite loudly. [ the slight uptick to her lips, a smile, as her hands wind around the back of his neck. ]
[ That's what it comes down to, doesn't it? Danger, fighting, running—that is what they're accustomed to. It's the long shadow cast by the endless court politics that wore him down, all that care and caution just to maintain a position alongside a woman they'd both rather see dead. It made him feel beholden to humans he couldn't give less of a shit about. To a side of Yennefer he knew she did not like, carved into her by a Brotherhood that only ever saw fit to cast her aside when she was of no more use to them.
At last, they don't need to pretend. They can simply be. Fuck the consequences. He is firm in what he'll do to protect her, and she would do the same for him and Ciri. If this world is to descend into war, the least they can have is the freedom to choose.
He knows what he wants. He wanted it even when the spectre of what she'd done haunted the space between them. He's toyed with words like forgiveness. The truth is, he isn't sure there's a definition for where they find themselves now. He has not forgotten. Neither has she, nor Ciri. But a festering wound can't heal. He wants to heal, and he thinks they are, slowly, day by day, and the more he learns to trust her again, the more at ease his heart becomes.
There's enough anger and despair around them. He's seen what happens when it burrows inside. He doesn't want that for himself. He doesn't want it for her.
His lips tilt in response. ] Is that so?
[ What am I thinking? A hand gliding up her thigh. Her fingers trailing down his spine. The glow of her eyes when the sun is angled just right through the open window of a different inn, one perched high on the cliffs of Talgar, overlooking the sea below. The images are purposeful, beckoning, an old trick they used to play with and one he has not employed in a long time. Here and now, it feels right. ]
[ danger, fighting, running - those are easy. those are aspects of their lives that yennefer and geralt are both experienced in. some could say comfortable with, to a degree. she does not have to be who she knows she can be, who she knows the brotherhood molded her to be and who she becomes with focus and attention and perfect detail, when it's needed. the only issue, in this instance, is that for so long she'd thought it was needed. for how long she clung to that image, thinking it was the best she could provide.
it feels like a weight being lifted, a costume being peeled away. layers and layers of lies and warped views, pooling at her feet. except that geralt has very much not begun to pull away at her clothes, a fact that yennefer is very much aware of, and very much is intending to change.
because for all that is left unsaid, all that is not quite forgiven but is healing, mending, they are still somehow them. always found, always brought back to the here. geralt's lips tilt and his mind crafts, images that feel like they could be someone else, save for the distinct feeling they leave still on her skin. her eyes close briefly, letting her mind live in the sensation of it all, in that seaside inn, in the sun pouring through the open window, the smell of the water and the waves. yennefer breathes in, breathes him in, and somehow it lessens the lingering smell of fish in the air. ]
The wine was shite, at that inn, but the sunsets were worth the coin. You'd just healed from your previous hunt, and this- [ she moves her hands down to his side, her fingers slipping up under the fabric of his shirt, finding one particular scar along his side and running her fingers along it. she smiles, letting herself stay for just a bit longer in the memory, ] -was particularly sensitive.
[ Hm. There it is. His smile widens. Yeah. He recalls that, too. Her, complaining about the wine. Him, drinking it anyhow because it was shit but better than the ale, which was no better than wyvern piss.
He guides her fingers over the scar. It overlaps with another, a single talon that caught him unawares. Not serious enough to find a healer—so he'd sewn it together in the woods and, on a whim, went to search for her. Back then, it was often a whim, a sudden urge that would grip him and before he knew it, he was turning around, riding a little further north or south than he intended. Asking after a dark-haired sorceress in town.
A heart guided by the djinn's magic, he used to tell himself each time they parted. What else could it be? (Why else would she leave?) ]
How long did we last? Two weeks?
[ Long, for them. A rare moment in their lives when he would wake up and she would still be there—or he would. Until she wasn't. He can't remember anymore what drove them apart. Any number of things, he supposes. Another argument, a simple desire to move on, a mutual realization they could not be that together.
Those are no longer questions on his mind.
He loosens the laces of her dress. His palm lays flat against the small of her back, and he lets his thumb press against a bump along her spine. She's warm. He leans down, kisses her again at last. ]
[ 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. ]
Edited (not me forgetting to pick an icon) 2024-07-22 00:07 (UTC)
[ Is that right? She remembers it to the day? He laughs, quiet, surprised and yet not. She's far more sentimental than she'll admit, except sometimes she does—in moments like these—and he thinks, this is the real reason he would come back. This is why they would come back to each other, why when they were apart, she would never quite leave his thoughts.
He slips the dress off one shoulder, then the other. The fabric is rougher than the fine silks she would wear from the castle, made to withstand the elements than for a life at court. She does smell like fish and mud and alehouses. A spot of dirt mars her forehead. He couldn't give less of a fuck. He remembers Rinde, the crumbling shithole of a house, her rumpled dress and tangled hair. He's never wanted her more than when she's let herself unravel, willingly or otherwise.
This inn isn't much better, frankly, but at least they've a bed as opposed to a pile of rubble and broken glass. The sheets are thin here, too, the shuttered windows barely containing the cool night breeze outside.
For now, he doesn't take advantage of any of it. Instead, he helps her undo the buttons on his trousers, one by one, the hem of his shirt coming loose from its confines as their fingers tangle and bump into one another's. There is, as usual, nothing else beneath his one layer of linen and leather.
He lets her draw him close. Closer. So close that her body heat leeches through to him and she can no doubt feel his desire pressed against her. He kisses her throat, her collarbone, pushing the rest of her dress off so it can fall to the dusty floor. They turn and spin—and whether he finds himself up against the wall or she does, it makes no difference. ]
[ she does remember to the day - whether it be some part of her that clings to that sentimentality, or she, herself, can't quite forget it. they were good days, days that despite the years that would pile over, never really faded. geralt is one of the few people who would ever recognize this piece of her, who knows that these are memories, facts, pieces of her life she wants to cling to. yennefer, herself, does deny them - even when they both know the truth.
geralt laughs, and it's quiet, a low rumble in his chest that she feels more than hears, and yennefer's smile grows. the dress comes off her shoulders, some sturdy, cheap thing she'd found as soon as they made it to nott. even her traveling clothes would draw too much attention, the cloak she'd taken with her tucked away with the alchemy equipment she'd taken with her.
truthfully, yennefer couldn't give less of a fuck about the inn - it's a bed, instead of a cot among the fish barrels. it's a private room, candles lit in the corner, and she feels like she can breathe. her fingers tangle with geralt's as they work at the buttons of his trousers, as they pull free his shirt, and now it's yennefer's turn to laugh, soft and...not nervous, exactly, but entertained. she feels a little like she's fumbling, like it's been so long since this has been them that she's relearning how it feels. the fabric of his trousers slouches, and yennefer's hands wrap around the exposed skin of his hips, around to his back. there's this need in her to feel him - not through the horizon, not through the illusions of the singularity, but now.
the fabric of her dress falls, bunches at her feet, leaving her bare to him, too. she lets her head tilt, her breath coming a bit faster as her hands find purchase at his backside, pulling him closer as they spin, her back pressing up against the wood walls. she feels him pressed against her hip, and it is a very directed movement that has her rolling her hips against him. ]
Geralt- [ she breathes, a heat growing in her gut. ]
[ The noise she makes can almost be called a giggle. It would not be the first time he's heard of it, but it's certainly been a long time. The world is falling apart and a dynasty has just collapsed a mere two weeks ago, and he has never felt lighter. Later, the weight of reality will return, but right now, he doesn't give a fuck. He doesn't care about anything except her body against his and her hands on his skin, soft, smooth, not a hint of roughness to her palms or fingers.
He kicks off his boots, his trousers. His head lowers. He kisses the curve of her breast, lets his thumb caress it. Her hair cascades over him, and he pushes it back over her shoulders.
Sometimes, there are a hundred memories in her touch; other times, his head goes blank and he can't remember a fucking thing at all. Isn't interested in trying. Right now, it's the latter that overtakes him. His fingers dip between her legs. For a brief moment, he considers picking her up, pinning her to the bed, but he likes where she is, actually. He likes the way she looks up at him beneath the curl of her dark lashes. The long stretch of her neck he can trace with his tongue.
He doesn't waste much more time before he guides himself inside her. He hitches her leg over his hip. If one of the inn's ugly paintings tumbles off the wall, well. Jaskier's gold can replace that later. ]
[ more often than not, their coming together - whether back on the continent or here in this sphere - was always so complicated. their choices, their decisions, their lives, a combative force that they found themselves drawn in spite of, rather than because of. but still, there were moments like this - where things could be simple, where this could almost be easy. yennefer has not slept well in weeks, has not truly been clean is just about as long, has lived each day with a tension in her chest and one eye to the castle and has wondered, waited, prepared for it all to come crumbling down. and yet?
and yet in this moment, she laughs, and it fills her ribs like a warm summer air. she is not thinking about the castle, or sidwell, because it feels like for once it won't matter because they are here, where geralt kicks off his boots and wraps his lips around her and yennefer's laugh turns breathy, her voice hitching with the heat of it. he knows her body, just as she knows his, and still this all feels somehow new, somehow exciting.
when his fingers dip into her, yennefer's head falls back against the wall - the thud of her skull hitting wood heard more than felt, but she doesn't care. she arches into it instead, rolls herself down on his hand impatiently, because she knows what he's thinking. knows the options he considers. knows that they have a chance of that now, or perhaps even later, and yennefer lets her hands - nails digging into skin ever so slightly - shift from around his back to his chest, up to his shoulders. it's a good thing he doesn't waste too much time in pressing his mouth to her throat, that he doesn't waste time in pushing himself up into her, because yennefer is just on the brink of doing it herself when she feels him.
her mouth opens in a gasp as he presses in, shifting her hips forward - closer - opening herself up to him. he might be the one who hitches her leg up over his hip, but she's the one who uses it to tug him closer- pressing him the rest of the way into her until their bodies are lined up. the angle has her on her toes, her grip on his shoulders and her leg around his waist holding up most of her weight, until he decides to pick her up the rest of the way. she doesn't even notice the painting, wouldn't even care if she did as it's hardly the last thing that will tumble to the ground tonight. ]
[ Her laugh drags one out of him in return, quieter, rumbling inside his breastbone. Unlike the hazy, faded visions of the future, this is crystal clear and real and (they are real) out here, it's been far too fucking long since he's felt the warmth of her skin on his.
A sharp gasp escapes him. He slides his hand over her other leg, then hoists her up. She's as light as a feather to him, and as soft as one, too. Her heart thunders between his ears. He thinks of the last time he had her like this. Against the creaky shelves of some ancient, dusty library, maybe, leather tomes tumbling around them. Him, grumbling about the inconvenience of it all afterwards, as he often does.
He is not grumbling about a damn thing now.
His hand braces against the dresser beside them. Sharpened nails extend, leaving deep gouges in the wood. Not a new development, but a new one for her. He's changed some since the last time they were together. Still no horns like she once asked, but...the fangs, yes.
She's changed, as well. In more ways than the physical. There was a time he wondered if he would ever speak to her again. And then—
Perhaps his heart has never been that steeled against her. Perhaps he never wanted it to, even when she'd hurt him the most. He can't say he regrets allowing her back in; a part of him firmly believes she won't ever make him regret it. Not now. Not anymore.
His breathing quickens. He doesn't flush easily, but he's certainly warm, heat rising to the surface. The thick scent of her arousal fills the air. It makes his head spin—equally forgetting and equally not giving a fuck that the walls are thin when he slams his palm against it. He drags his teeth lightly over her earlobe. ]
[ she feels his laugh rather than hearing it, a vibration through his chest, his ribs, up through her hands. the angle is better, when his hands get under her legs and he lifts her with no issue at all, the ease at which his strength comes something that - despite the brutish nature of it, does thrill her. it is less that geralt can do it that she can let herself go enough to be allowed, his weight and his movement and him keeping her up against this thin wall.
yenenfer does not share geralt's inherent quiet, letting her voice rise and tilt, the gasp of breath ease into a moan of pleasure as he begins to move. this, like many other things, had been a strategy she had learned in her many years a sorceress. their body, their beauty, was a power to be used, to be manipulated. but that had never, truly, been the case with geralt. had never had to be. from that first time in the basement of that ruined building and every crossing of paths sense, yennefer feels and lets herself feel, chases, wants. it happens out of her periphery, the claws, the gauges - there's a flicker of surprise deep in her gut, that very quickly flashes hot, and yennefer surges forward to kiss him, feels the sharpness of his teeth, and she wants.
they are both different, though her changes - other than the slight point to her ears, a detail she's grown accustomed to, despite how she all but subconsciously still hides them under the curls of her hair when she's able - aren't as easy to notice. he might feel it, smell it even- the shift in the chaos in the air, the low vibration under her skin. there's no need for her features to be different. if anything, this is one of the few times that yennefer has looked fully, truly like herself since she escaped the castle. there is no slight change to her appearance, no minor alteration. scars and all, she is her, because she wants to give that to geralt, herself.
the kiss breaks, and yennefer lets out another noise - possibly a cry, possibly a moan, possibly a hissed yes, yes- and maybe even the sound of his name. the heat rises between them, the warmth of his skin adding to the searing heat of her own. geralt slams his hand against the wall and she feels the wall shake with it. it pulls another soft laugh from her, her breathing almost as quick as her heartbeat. ]
Geralt, Geralt- [ he doesn't need the warning, but she gives it to him anyway, the fact that she can feel it coming. that they're close, she's close, as her hands dig a little more into the muscle of his arms, his shoulders. she clings to him as much as she can, moving her body with the pace he sets. ]
[ It's good to sense her magic again, her Chaos humming between them. They've each spent too much time paying with the the few things the world has allowed them to keep, and hell—even at his angriest, he never wished to see her magic stripped from her. But he has not, in truth, been angry with her in a long while. Mostly, he's...missed her. In that pained, hollow way where he had told himself it was not possible to yet be with her.
It feels possible now.
He drinks in every hitch in her chest, every noise and moan she makes. His fingers squeeze her shoulder, her arm, tangling in her thick dark locks. Maybe he leaves behind a mark or two. He isn't paying attention, seldom feels the need to be overly gentle with Yen, and here, in particular, he's loose and unthinking in a way he almost never is. A breathy sound falls from his lips, her name tumbling in a low grown.
Then he's shuddering, ears ringing and eyes shut. He curses. His skin is slick against hers, and when he finally opens his eyes again, he can see the flush blooming across her chest, across her cheeks. A crooked smile lifts his lips.
This is, he thinks, a reunion well worth waiting for. Well worth a toppled kingdom for.
He cups her cheek, studies the way the moonlight turns her eyes a pale lavender. Her imperfections, inside and out—they're what makes her who she is. He would not ask her to be anything else. (All he'd wanted was that she not throw everything away to be something she didn't need to be.) ]
I missed you. [ Has he said that before? Well, no matter. He has no qualms repeating himself, this once. ]
[ it does feel a bit like a returning - with his hands, rough and strong and dependable and constant - and her magic, thick and heavy and humming. she feels like this is what it's supposed to be. how this is supposed to feel. it feels like ages, lifetimes in many ways, since it's felt this right - her, with her magic back, and him, with his hands on her.
she knows that a large part of the distance between them had been her own doing, her own choices. not wholly, not entirely, but enough. and that had led her to dark nights, lonely moments, thinking that maybe she would never find herself here again. would never find him here again, with her. it had been too much to imagine, to impossible a distant.
it does feel possible, now. they feel possible.
geralt squeezes at her shoulder, tangles in her hair, and yennefer feels her own layers slip away. she's always been a combination of them all, of who she is and who she presents, of who she lets others see and who she crafts on top of that. he bites, and as yennefer feels the mark begin to form, feels the pierce of fangs, and yennefer moans - uncaring of the sound of her own voice, of how loud it is and who hears. she digs her own nails into the muscle of geralt's back, his shoulders uncaring of if, or how far, it digs into his skin.
yennefer has never bothered to hide this, or any, side of herself from geralt. never thought it mattered, or was needed. and now, as she feels it build, feels this grow and expand and come to a climax, there isn't any need to pretend otherwise. and then as it's easing, as her chest rises and falls and she comes back to herself, he is there again.
there's a smile, his smile, a crooked tilt to his lips. she smiles back, leans into his hand and smiles back. her body feels loose, her legs holding around his waist and the knowledge that if he wasn't holding her where she was, she would slide straight down to the floor. instead, his voice is low, he says I missed you and yennefer's smile grows, her next breath feeling almost bubbly. ]
I missed you, too. [ her limbs are loose, barely connected, but with enough energy, with enough willpower, she lifts her hands to his face and cups both sides of his jaw. she leans her face forward - pressing her forehead to his.
she doesn't notice, if he has repeated himself. if anything, she repeats herself, too. ] I missed you.
[ They stay that way for a minute or so. Foreheads resting together, her breaths matching his. He watches her chest rise and fall as her heartbeat begins to steady.
Then he carries her to the bed, sprawling atop of it himself afterwards. He's bedded many, loved a handful here and back home—including those who, for reasons that are difficult to put in words, were not meant to be—but Yennefer has been the only one who's drawn him back into her circle time and again. Perhaps that's why he'd been so uncertain at the start, leaving each time the pull was too strong. A trepidation he seldom feels with anyone else. The realization that she is, maybe, the sole person he was afraid could break his heart.
And then she had.
He supposes they both did it to each other.
His hand rests on the flat of her stomach. She's warm beneath the roughness of his palm. The last true memory he has of them together is Thanedd. Before it all went to shit—that'd been...good. And for a moment, he worries how quickly things will go to shit now. It seems to be a pattern with them (with him, really, more than anything). There's more he should be doing than fucking waiting.
A problem for tomorrow. ]
I have something for you. [ He curls a finger over the pendant she wears. ] Remind me afterwards.
[ It isn't especially sentimental. It is useful. ]
[ it is certain a main reason she would pull away - any time the pull felt too heavily, any time the feeling of this reached her chest, her neck, threatening to pull her under - she take to the road, the next town, anywhere else. she would often claim it was because he left first (which he did, in a way- that very first day) but they both knew the truth. both knew why those good, easy days they did share came to an end.
but they always came back together, in the end. no matter how far he traveled, so matter the decisions she would make, no matter how much pain they had the ability to inflict on each other, she chooses this.
as does he, apparently.
he carries her to the bed and when he sets her upon it, she stretches - feeling the ease and warmth of a good fuck settling in her muscles. he sprawls next to her, his hand on her stomach, and she lifts one of her own hands - trailing her fingertips along the back of his hand, over his knuckles, the knicks and bumps of scars. there's no real purpose in the movement of her fingertips over his skin, yennefer instead choosing to simply enjoy the quiet, the still. she is thinking of thanedd too - of the time they'd had to simply be, the anxious energy of a plan executed to the best of their ability, despite what would soon follow.
when geralt speaks, it is low, a tone she hasn't heard in some time. she looks down to her pendant, where his finger curls around it, and she feels her brow lift. ]
A gift? [ geralt is very rarely sentimental, so the idea of something else catches her interest. she shifts, arching her back a bit to more easily turn onto her side to face him. memories flash through her mind at the sight, seeing him settled in bed, relaxed - if only for a few moments. ] I'm starting to feel under-prepared.
[ His skin tingles where her fingers glide over him. He's relaxed in a way he seldom is. ]
If you want to call it that. [ His answer is unhurried. He makes no move to retrieve it with any haste. Only when the position of his leg forces him to shift his weight regardless does he finally roll onto his other side and reach beneath the bed for a small leather pouch.
He lays back on the bed and places it between them. Ingredients, as she requested. They are portioned into small jars, vials, and tins—a collection of herbs and monster bits he's gathered throughout the month. There is, equally, a few jars not obtained by his hand but rather a friend. The handwriting labelling those are distinctly more feminine than the rest.
As she surmised: not the most sentimental of gifts. He might occasionally have his whimsy—little carvings here or there—but they never end up in Yennefer's hands as they did his other lovers, not even in their long dreamlike decades together. Perhaps it simply feels as though the depth between them goes beyond such gestures.
There were many letters, however. ]
Nadine Cross passed a few items along. [ Up until a few weeks ago, neither he nor Nadine realized the connection between them. He supposes that's no surprise when it comes to they three, private as they are. ]
Said she owed you one. [ His lips curl into a tease. ] I didn't know the great sorceress of Thorne herself was making friends.
[ neither of them are in any rush, and yennefer sees no reason to be. yennefer could be okay with spending the entire weekend in this room, if they choose to, even though she knows there are others she needs to see. people she needs to connect with. but she also...
she's on no real timeline. she is here for this, for this easy, calm, relaxed, time with geralt. so she doesn't push, doesn't ask again, just watches him with a small smile curling at her mouth.
but in time he does decide to move, and she sits up just a bit to watch as he reaches over to retrieve something from under the bed. it is only when the bag is set between them that yennefer sits up even further, pulling the bag into her lap as she gives geralt a curious look. it's only when she pulls it open and sees the jars does she let out a laugh - partially surprised, also partially not at all.
she pulls out a couple of the jars, looking through them with a sort of young, bubbly excitement. ingredients she hasn't seen in weeks, and some she hasn't seen at all. she pauses when she pulls out a jar with a label and clean, curled handwriting, and she turns to geralt with a questioning look just as he answers her. nadine cross. ]
I came across her in the Horizon, first. She was sitting in the midst of a garden, surrounded by flowers. [ yennefer continues looking through the bag, that lightness, that young excitement still somewhere on the surface.
part of her wonders if she needs to say it, or if the words are obvious without the air to guide them. she reminded me of triss. yennefer is quiet for a moment, thinking about that day, how she'd felt stepping into that overgrown place, and then she moves on. ]
She made some comment that no one in that barbaric desert of yours could teach her alchemy. [ it is a joke, a teasing curl to her own mouth, even if there is more than just a little truth to it. ] I've been giving her some lessons, a little more guidance than what she can find there.
[ she finishes searching through the bottles, closes the bag and sets it aside. she smiles at geralt again before leaning over and kissing him, gently, softly. it says something that he may not have given her anything overtly sentimental, and yet she is perhaps more pleased with what she did receive. ]
I should be impressed that you're making friends. [ a beat, and then a kind of softening. ] Though I'm not. Or rather- not surprised.
[ Propped on one elbow, Geralt watches her go through the pouch, the lilac of her eyes lit up bright. He can't help the genuine smile that takes over his face.
Yes. That does indeed sound like Nadine. He found her quite differently, haunted by the absence of her memories and the lost children she could not recall but felt were there. It was an unusual place for both of them to be. It's good, he thinks. To know that Nadine and Yennefer have become friends, of sorts.
Yen need not say it. He sees it, too. Her affinity for healing and teaching. It reminds him of Triss. He supposes that's why, ever since, he's felt something quietly protective over Nadine. ]
Here and there. [ Acquaintances, allies, connections. There are not many he would call friends out loud, but he can admit that his attachments have grown throughout his time here. It is the nature, maybe, of being in one place, with the same people, day in and out. He has not ever had that experience until this place. Until this foreign world that's steadily become more home than the Continent was.
A few quiet moments pass. His hand rests on hers, their fingers curling together. He glances at the window, weighing when he should tell Yennefer that he has another he needs to see to. He's reluctant to leave her, but...John is important, as well. He's made his promises. ]
[ it would make sense- for them both to draw their own, but similar, conclusions. would make sense that they see the similarities in her.
they’ve each settled into something they could almost call a life, something they might almost consider theirs, were it not their understanding of how quickly these things could be taken from them. yennefer, in just the last week or so, has had much of what she would have considered her life striped from under her very feet, if not for the people. if not for her people.
(she chooses not to think of those she’s lost- of how even triss had once been here, nevermind the countless others they’ve watched disappear. it doesn’t help her, in this moment, to acknowledge the things they’ve lost, whether shared or separate. )
but yennefer does snort, at his words. here and there. she knows the truth, the things he doesn’t say. the breadth of what she assumes is his family, his group, his people. she watches him grow quiet even now, studies the likes of his jaw, his neck. their hands are intertwined, but she decides that isn’t quite close enough, shifting so that her head is set against his shoulder, her body pressed to his side. she feels, slow and low and deep beneath the surface, the casual beat of his heart. ]
You’re thinking of them, now. [ her voice is just as casual, just as lulled into their easy companionship. her eyes remain on their hands, and she sounds… relaxed.
it feels like this might be a first for them - talking about this, even when they’ve known otherwise for years. the other people in their circles, those they’ve let in. perhaps it isn’t fair, that she’s making the reach, the magic and presence of her in his thoughts something he must be used to even after their time apart. ] Him.
[ Hm. There she goes, prodding away. He isn't bothered, and it saves him the effort of having to explain precisely who and what is on his mind. Or why. Him indeed. Now that Yen's magic has returned, now that they are no longer so distant, he's sure she has felt the many people that circle his thoughts despite his claims otherwise.
Lately, however, he's found fewer reasons to pretend.
He studies the curve of her lips. ] He was injured in the attack.
[ John is all right, from what Geralt gathers, so he isn't especially worried about that. It is, he thinks, a much simpler desire than worry or fear or anything so terrible: he just wants to see the man. Perhaps he's drawn to the way John bares his heart so unlike anyone else Geralt has been with. It tugs on something within him he had not known could exist with...well, anybody, beyond maybe Ciri. He's grown accustomed to a certain distance, playful or otherwise, that permeates most of his relationships, no matter how close he grows to someone.
And because he cannot read her thoughts in return: ] Have you met?
[ she has. geralt has always been someone with lists of attachments, most kept beyond an arms reach, but many making their way under his skin. she had known of some of them, when they were all in thorne, those years ago, and could assume based on their distanced interactions over time. geralt had many people that circle his thoughts, some yennefer knew and many she did not. still, she does not go searching like she could. only really goes for the one that takes up geralt's thoughts now.
he was injured in the attack and a few more details fall into place. a city guard, a quiet man, a kind of softness she can just barely make out. yennefer is certain she'd seen him around the castle, but to geralt's question, she shakes her head. ]
I did not see much of the city guards. I was more acquainted with the royal ones- particularly Ellya's dedicated ones. [ she shrugs - when she thinks back on her time in the castle, how fully integrated into it she had been and how far distanced she feels to it now, it's difficult to really think about who she had or hadn't known. she went into the city itself from time to time, but not nearly as often as she probably should have. or could have. and now, never will again.
but that's not what they're talking about, so she turns back to the conversation. ]
[ Mm. That would be consistent with how the kingdom operates, he supposes. As far as he knows, John has little to do with the royals and that appears to be how he preferred it. Patrolling the streets and being with his men. Geralt would not deny he'd feel better with John elsewhere, but he understands the need for the familiarity. And Thorne would be far more familiar to John than the Free Cities.
Still. He intends to speak to John about it. So that John can at least have a choice. ]
At the Masquerade. Amongst the Fey. I saw his true face a few weeks later. [ He curls a lock of dark hair around his finger. ] I think I made him nervous.
[ Not because he was a Witcher but because of something far more mundane.
His lips quirk. He gives her hair a gentle tug. ] Have I made you curious?
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no subject
It is hardly the end of their troubles. He worries for her in Nott. He does not know if it will be like when he escaped or when the others fled in the past—abandoned once out of sight—or if the castle will try to search for her. Can they still be tracked? Has that magic faded after all this time, after this world has made them each a little more than they were when they arrived?
Still. Despite his concerns, he feels lighter. He's always hated the way the clutches of court held her.
By the flickering lamplight, his eyes take on a distinct glow. She might find the shine familiar, a remnant of their centuries ahead not yet lived. The only true change beyond the scrapes and bruises he frequently carries with him, and a healing burn up the length of his arm. He knows Jaskier bears a few feathers now. Ciri, a sheen to her hair. He wonders what it is Yennefer must've returned with. Or has she been spared more gifts from the monolith? ]
Mm. You know me. [ He's usually some degree of all right, so long as his family are safe. And at the moment, they are. They're together, unharmed. Facing this shit with the kingdoms as best they can.
He runs his thumb over the back of her knuckles. ] Shall we?
[ He'd like to fuck off someplace they can speak freely. Where he can have her to himself. ]
no subject
this feels like a bright moment, a light in the darkness. geralt smiles at her and it feels like it has been more than their eight hundred years. like it has been centuries more, still. his heart beats under her hands, his pulse familiar in her ears, but it is his eyes that catches her attention - that glow, that has her head tilting, then smiling. recognizing. the truth is - there isn't anything truly changed about her appearance, but her magic has - an ability that has become necessary in these last days.
she lets out a soft breath, an entertained huff. you know me he says, and it actually feels like she can agree. like she knows, for the first time in a long time, because they are together. his thumb runs over the back of her knuckle and she hums, nods once. ]
Let's. I need a decent glass of wine and something that isn't fish.
[ though even as yennefer says it, she doesn't quite move - hovering close. ]
no subject
[ She did always make a face when he would return with more fish and squid from the ocean. Months on the run, and yet those were some of his calmest days. Bookended by their endless pursuers, sure, but in between the nights looking over his shoulder, listening to horses in the distance, they had time. Together. Minutes that seemed to stretch into days, where the Continent stopped bleeding and they could breathe.
He can breathe now, too.
They crisscross the square towards the nearest inn, one Geralt hasn't been to before. It's serviceable. Has a spare room. He slides an extra gold to the innkeeper so that they will not be disturbed. Later, he will need to go elsewhere to find John, but for now, he's letting himself have this—a brief reprieve from the encumbrance of a looming war.
When the door finally shuts behind them, he exhales. His forehead rests against hers. They've endured much. And he knows they have pained each other as much as the world has pained them. For a time, he wondered if it was all too much—too many caustic words and wounds inflicted. But Ciri found it in her heart to forgive, and Geralt had wanted...he wanted the same. Does want it.
Nenneke had said he was afraid to hope. He's trying not to be. The more time passes, the more he sees that Nenneke, Dean, Jaskier—they were right. He can admit that. Because she's here, isn't she? Yennefer. A year ago, she would not be. A year ago, he could not have convinced her to leave everything she knew behind and start anew.
There are no more need for wishes when he is certain in his beliefs. When he is, at last, certain in her.
So that's why he waits, eyes fixed on the curve of her lips and the curl of her dark lashes. She doesn't need to prod his mind to know what he wants. She can read it on his face. He lets her anyway, if she'll care to. ]
no subject
[ for all her annoyance, there is an underlying sense of amusement in her tone. maybe it's pulled out with his chuckle, maybe it's her own awareness of the ridiculousness of it all. in a matter of weeks she's gone from a highly esteemed private bedroom in the center of thorne castle, to a threadbare cot among fish barrels underneath a tavern, and she feels almost better off for it. she complains, she looks disgusted, she really doesn't like it - but some part of her also hasn't felt this relaxed in some amount of time.
they go off together to another tavern, one that she knows holds no explicit alliance with thorne, of course, but also one she hasn't been to before. it's the closest, as well, though yennefer still pulls up her hood as they step inside, still allows geralt to pass off the gold, to handle the exchange, and then follows him up to the room itself.
it isn't until the door is closed that geralt seems to unwind, and yennefer tilts her face up to his, the hood falling back to her cloak as she does. their foreheads touch, and the silence of the room feels different, feels warmer, somehow, as her hands settle on his arms, on him. despite all that she's traversed since learning of the coup, despite the change in location and the knowledge that now - and most likely for the foreseeable future - she will once again live knowing that she is most likely being hunted, that she has someone after her, and yet it all feels lighter. easier.
a year ago she would not have left. and even before that, geralt had offered her the chance to - a portal to solvunn, a way out of the court itself. she hadn't taken it, clinging a bit desperately to her own choices, her own ego, her own place in it all. but now? now, it does not feel so dire. now it feels less impossible to leave, to sever ties, to start somewhere different and somewhere new and to know that she, that they, will survive. and yennefer knows that geralt feels the same. or, rather, perhaps not exactly the same, but they are in line enough.
his eyes are fixed on her mouth, on her face, and the want in her curls like a physical, aching thing. for the last couple of years there has always been a distance between them, whether by their own making or the physical nature of their separated kingdoms. but now - with her hands sliding up to his shoulders and his breath hot on her face - yennefer feels like there isn't any distance at all. ]
Geralt. [ she says, quietly, watching his eyes. and then, a moment later, she arches up into him, brushing her lips against his. ] You're thinking quite loudly. [ the slight uptick to her lips, a smile, as her hands wind around the back of his neck. ]
no subject
At last, they don't need to pretend. They can simply be. Fuck the consequences. He is firm in what he'll do to protect her, and she would do the same for him and Ciri. If this world is to descend into war, the least they can have is the freedom to choose.
He knows what he wants. He wanted it even when the spectre of what she'd done haunted the space between them. He's toyed with words like forgiveness. The truth is, he isn't sure there's a definition for where they find themselves now. He has not forgotten. Neither has she, nor Ciri. But a festering wound can't heal. He wants to heal, and he thinks they are, slowly, day by day, and the more he learns to trust her again, the more at ease his heart becomes.
There's enough anger and despair around them. He's seen what happens when it burrows inside. He doesn't want that for himself. He doesn't want it for her.
His lips tilt in response. ] Is that so?
[ What am I thinking? A hand gliding up her thigh. Her fingers trailing down his spine. The glow of her eyes when the sun is angled just right through the open window of a different inn, one perched high on the cliffs of Talgar, overlooking the sea below. The images are purposeful, beckoning, an old trick they used to play with and one he has not employed in a long time. Here and now, it feels right. ]
no subject
it feels like a weight being lifted, a costume being peeled away. layers and layers of lies and warped views, pooling at her feet. except that geralt has very much not begun to pull away at her clothes, a fact that yennefer is very much aware of, and very much is intending to change.
because for all that is left unsaid, all that is not quite forgiven but is healing, mending, they are still somehow them. always found, always brought back to the here. geralt's lips tilt and his mind crafts, images that feel like they could be someone else, save for the distinct feeling they leave still on her skin. her eyes close briefly, letting her mind live in the sensation of it all, in that seaside inn, in the sun pouring through the open window, the smell of the water and the waves. yennefer breathes in, breathes him in, and somehow it lessens the lingering smell of fish in the air. ]
The wine was shite, at that inn, but the sunsets were worth the coin. You'd just healed from your previous hunt, and this- [ she moves her hands down to his side, her fingers slipping up under the fabric of his shirt, finding one particular scar along his side and running her fingers along it. she smiles, letting herself stay for just a bit longer in the memory, ] -was particularly sensitive.
no subject
He guides her fingers over the scar. It overlaps with another, a single talon that caught him unawares. Not serious enough to find a healer—so he'd sewn it together in the woods and, on a whim, went to search for her. Back then, it was often a whim, a sudden urge that would grip him and before he knew it, he was turning around, riding a little further north or south than he intended. Asking after a dark-haired sorceress in town.
A heart guided by the djinn's magic, he used to tell himself each time they parted. What else could it be? (Why else would she leave?) ]
How long did we last? Two weeks?
[ Long, for them. A rare moment in their lives when he would wake up and she would still be there—or he would. Until she wasn't. He can't remember anymore what drove them apart. Any number of things, he supposes. Another argument, a simple desire to move on, a mutual realization they could not be that together.
Those are no longer questions on his mind.
He loosens the laces of her dress. His palm lays flat against the small of her back, and he lets his thumb press against a bump along her spine. She's warm. He leans down, kisses her again at last. ]
no subject
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. ]
nsfw ↓
He slips the dress off one shoulder, then the other. The fabric is rougher than the fine silks she would wear from the castle, made to withstand the elements than for a life at court. She does smell like fish and mud and alehouses. A spot of dirt mars her forehead. He couldn't give less of a fuck. He remembers Rinde, the crumbling shithole of a house, her rumpled dress and tangled hair. He's never wanted her more than when she's let herself unravel, willingly or otherwise.
This inn isn't much better, frankly, but at least they've a bed as opposed to a pile of rubble and broken glass. The sheets are thin here, too, the shuttered windows barely containing the cool night breeze outside.
For now, he doesn't take advantage of any of it. Instead, he helps her undo the buttons on his trousers, one by one, the hem of his shirt coming loose from its confines as their fingers tangle and bump into one another's. There is, as usual, nothing else beneath his one layer of linen and leather.
He lets her draw him close. Closer. So close that her body heat leeches through to him and she can no doubt feel his desire pressed against her. He kisses her throat, her collarbone, pushing the rest of her dress off so it can fall to the dusty floor. They turn and spin—and whether he finds himself up against the wall or she does, it makes no difference. ]
nsfw ↓
geralt laughs, and it's quiet, a low rumble in his chest that she feels more than hears, and yennefer's smile grows. the dress comes off her shoulders, some sturdy, cheap thing she'd found as soon as they made it to nott. even her traveling clothes would draw too much attention, the cloak she'd taken with her tucked away with the alchemy equipment she'd taken with her.
truthfully, yennefer couldn't give less of a fuck about the inn - it's a bed, instead of a cot among the fish barrels. it's a private room, candles lit in the corner, and she feels like she can breathe. her fingers tangle with geralt's as they work at the buttons of his trousers, as they pull free his shirt, and now it's yennefer's turn to laugh, soft and...not nervous, exactly, but entertained. she feels a little like she's fumbling, like it's been so long since this has been them that she's relearning how it feels. the fabric of his trousers slouches, and yennefer's hands wrap around the exposed skin of his hips, around to his back. there's this need in her to feel him - not through the horizon, not through the illusions of the singularity, but now.
the fabric of her dress falls, bunches at her feet, leaving her bare to him, too. she lets her head tilt, her breath coming a bit faster as her hands find purchase at his backside, pulling him closer as they spin, her back pressing up against the wood walls. she feels him pressed against her hip, and it is a very directed movement that has her rolling her hips against him. ]
Geralt- [ she breathes, a heat growing in her gut. ]
im so sorry for the wait ;;
He kicks off his boots, his trousers. His head lowers. He kisses the curve of her breast, lets his thumb caress it. Her hair cascades over him, and he pushes it back over her shoulders.
Sometimes, there are a hundred memories in her touch; other times, his head goes blank and he can't remember a fucking thing at all. Isn't interested in trying. Right now, it's the latter that overtakes him. His fingers dip between her legs. For a brief moment, he considers picking her up, pinning her to the bed, but he likes where she is, actually. He likes the way she looks up at him beneath the curl of her dark lashes. The long stretch of her neck he can trace with his tongue.
He doesn't waste much more time before he guides himself inside her. He hitches her leg over his hip. If one of the inn's ugly paintings tumbles off the wall, well. Jaskier's gold can replace that later. ]
i will wait forever and more for you c;
and yet in this moment, she laughs, and it fills her ribs like a warm summer air. she is not thinking about the castle, or sidwell, because it feels like for once it won't matter because they are here, where geralt kicks off his boots and wraps his lips around her and yennefer's laugh turns breathy, her voice hitching with the heat of it. he knows her body, just as she knows his, and still this all feels somehow new, somehow exciting.
when his fingers dip into her, yennefer's head falls back against the wall - the thud of her skull hitting wood heard more than felt, but she doesn't care. she arches into it instead, rolls herself down on his hand impatiently, because she knows what he's thinking. knows the options he considers. knows that they have a chance of that now, or perhaps even later, and yennefer lets her hands - nails digging into skin ever so slightly - shift from around his back to his chest, up to his shoulders. it's a good thing he doesn't waste too much time in pressing his mouth to her throat, that he doesn't waste time in pushing himself up into her, because yennefer is just on the brink of doing it herself when she feels him.
her mouth opens in a gasp as he presses in, shifting her hips forward - closer - opening herself up to him. he might be the one who hitches her leg up over his hip, but she's the one who uses it to tug him closer- pressing him the rest of the way into her until their bodies are lined up. the angle has her on her toes, her grip on his shoulders and her leg around his waist holding up most of her weight, until he decides to pick her up the rest of the way. she doesn't even notice the painting, wouldn't even care if she did as it's hardly the last thing that will tumble to the ground tonight. ]
❤️
A sharp gasp escapes him. He slides his hand over her other leg, then hoists her up. She's as light as a feather to him, and as soft as one, too. Her heart thunders between his ears. He thinks of the last time he had her like this. Against the creaky shelves of some ancient, dusty library, maybe, leather tomes tumbling around them. Him, grumbling about the inconvenience of it all afterwards, as he often does.
He is not grumbling about a damn thing now.
His hand braces against the dresser beside them. Sharpened nails extend, leaving deep gouges in the wood. Not a new development, but a new one for her. He's changed some since the last time they were together. Still no horns like she once asked, but...the fangs, yes.
She's changed, as well. In more ways than the physical. There was a time he wondered if he would ever speak to her again. And then—
Perhaps his heart has never been that steeled against her. Perhaps he never wanted it to, even when she'd hurt him the most. He can't say he regrets allowing her back in; a part of him firmly believes she won't ever make him regret it. Not now. Not anymore.
His breathing quickens. He doesn't flush easily, but he's certainly warm, heat rising to the surface. The thick scent of her arousal fills the air. It makes his head spin—equally forgetting and equally not giving a fuck that the walls are thin when he slams his palm against it. He drags his teeth lightly over her earlobe. ]
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yenenfer does not share geralt's inherent quiet, letting her voice rise and tilt, the gasp of breath ease into a moan of pleasure as he begins to move. this, like many other things, had been a strategy she had learned in her many years a sorceress. their body, their beauty, was a power to be used, to be manipulated. but that had never, truly, been the case with geralt. had never had to be. from that first time in the basement of that ruined building and every crossing of paths sense, yennefer feels and lets herself feel, chases, wants. it happens out of her periphery, the claws, the gauges - there's a flicker of surprise deep in her gut, that very quickly flashes hot, and yennefer surges forward to kiss him, feels the sharpness of his teeth, and she wants.
they are both different, though her changes - other than the slight point to her ears, a detail she's grown accustomed to, despite how she all but subconsciously still hides them under the curls of her hair when she's able - aren't as easy to notice. he might feel it, smell it even- the shift in the chaos in the air, the low vibration under her skin. there's no need for her features to be different. if anything, this is one of the few times that yennefer has looked fully, truly like herself since she escaped the castle. there is no slight change to her appearance, no minor alteration. scars and all, she is her, because she wants to give that to geralt, herself.
the kiss breaks, and yennefer lets out another noise - possibly a cry, possibly a moan, possibly a hissed yes, yes- and maybe even the sound of his name. the heat rises between them, the warmth of his skin adding to the searing heat of her own. geralt slams his hand against the wall and she feels the wall shake with it. it pulls another soft laugh from her, her breathing almost as quick as her heartbeat. ]
Geralt, Geralt- [ he doesn't need the warning, but she gives it to him anyway, the fact that she can feel it coming. that they're close, she's close, as her hands dig a little more into the muscle of his arms, his shoulders. she clings to him as much as she can, moving her body with the pace he sets. ]
no subject
It feels possible now.
He drinks in every hitch in her chest, every noise and moan she makes. His fingers squeeze her shoulder, her arm, tangling in her thick dark locks. Maybe he leaves behind a mark or two. He isn't paying attention, seldom feels the need to be overly gentle with Yen, and here, in particular, he's loose and unthinking in a way he almost never is. A breathy sound falls from his lips, her name tumbling in a low grown.
Then he's shuddering, ears ringing and eyes shut. He curses. His skin is slick against hers, and when he finally opens his eyes again, he can see the flush blooming across her chest, across her cheeks. A crooked smile lifts his lips.
This is, he thinks, a reunion well worth waiting for. Well worth a toppled kingdom for.
He cups her cheek, studies the way the moonlight turns her eyes a pale lavender. Her imperfections, inside and out—they're what makes her who she is. He would not ask her to be anything else. (All he'd wanted was that she not throw everything away to be something she didn't need to be.) ]
I missed you. [ Has he said that before? Well, no matter. He has no qualms repeating himself, this once. ]
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she knows that a large part of the distance between them had been her own doing, her own choices. not wholly, not entirely, but enough. and that had led her to dark nights, lonely moments, thinking that maybe she would never find herself here again. would never find him here again, with her. it had been too much to imagine, to impossible a distant.
it does feel possible, now. they feel possible.
geralt squeezes at her shoulder, tangles in her hair, and yennefer feels her own layers slip away. she's always been a combination of them all, of who she is and who she presents, of who she lets others see and who she crafts on top of that. he bites, and as yennefer feels the mark begin to form, feels the pierce of fangs, and yennefer moans - uncaring of the sound of her own voice, of how loud it is and who hears. she digs her own nails into the muscle of geralt's back, his shoulders uncaring of if, or how far, it digs into his skin.
yennefer has never bothered to hide this, or any, side of herself from geralt. never thought it mattered, or was needed. and now, as she feels it build, feels this grow and expand and come to a climax, there isn't any need to pretend otherwise. and then as it's easing, as her chest rises and falls and she comes back to herself, he is there again.
there's a smile, his smile, a crooked tilt to his lips. she smiles back, leans into his hand and smiles back. her body feels loose, her legs holding around his waist and the knowledge that if he wasn't holding her where she was, she would slide straight down to the floor. instead, his voice is low, he says I missed you and yennefer's smile grows, her next breath feeling almost bubbly. ]
I missed you, too. [ her limbs are loose, barely connected, but with enough energy, with enough willpower, she lifts her hands to his face and cups both sides of his jaw. she leans her face forward - pressing her forehead to his.
she doesn't notice, if he has repeated himself. if anything, she repeats herself, too. ] I missed you.
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Then he carries her to the bed, sprawling atop of it himself afterwards. He's bedded many, loved a handful here and back home—including those who, for reasons that are difficult to put in words, were not meant to be—but Yennefer has been the only one who's drawn him back into her circle time and again. Perhaps that's why he'd been so uncertain at the start, leaving each time the pull was too strong. A trepidation he seldom feels with anyone else. The realization that she is, maybe, the sole person he was afraid could break his heart.
And then she had.
He supposes they both did it to each other.
His hand rests on the flat of her stomach. She's warm beneath the roughness of his palm. The last true memory he has of them together is Thanedd. Before it all went to shit—that'd been...good. And for a moment, he worries how quickly things will go to shit now. It seems to be a pattern with them (with him, really, more than anything). There's more he should be doing than fucking waiting.
A problem for tomorrow. ]
I have something for you. [ He curls a finger over the pendant she wears. ] Remind me afterwards.
[ It isn't especially sentimental. It is useful. ]
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but they always came back together, in the end. no matter how far he traveled, so matter the decisions she would make, no matter how much pain they had the ability to inflict on each other, she chooses this.
as does he, apparently.
he carries her to the bed and when he sets her upon it, she stretches - feeling the ease and warmth of a good fuck settling in her muscles. he sprawls next to her, his hand on her stomach, and she lifts one of her own hands - trailing her fingertips along the back of his hand, over his knuckles, the knicks and bumps of scars. there's no real purpose in the movement of her fingertips over his skin, yennefer instead choosing to simply enjoy the quiet, the still. she is thinking of thanedd too - of the time they'd had to simply be, the anxious energy of a plan executed to the best of their ability, despite what would soon follow.
when geralt speaks, it is low, a tone she hasn't heard in some time. she looks down to her pendant, where his finger curls around it, and she feels her brow lift. ]
A gift? [ geralt is very rarely sentimental, so the idea of something else catches her interest. she shifts, arching her back a bit to more easily turn onto her side to face him. memories flash through her mind at the sight, seeing him settled in bed, relaxed - if only for a few moments. ] I'm starting to feel under-prepared.
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If you want to call it that. [ His answer is unhurried. He makes no move to retrieve it with any haste. Only when the position of his leg forces him to shift his weight regardless does he finally roll onto his other side and reach beneath the bed for a small leather pouch.
He lays back on the bed and places it between them. Ingredients, as she requested. They are portioned into small jars, vials, and tins—a collection of herbs and monster bits he's gathered throughout the month. There is, equally, a few jars not obtained by his hand but rather a friend. The handwriting labelling those are distinctly more feminine than the rest.
As she surmised: not the most sentimental of gifts. He might occasionally have his whimsy—little carvings here or there—but they never end up in Yennefer's hands as they did his other lovers, not even in their long dreamlike decades together. Perhaps it simply feels as though the depth between them goes beyond such gestures.
There were many letters, however. ]
Nadine Cross passed a few items along. [ Up until a few weeks ago, neither he nor Nadine realized the connection between them. He supposes that's no surprise when it comes to they three, private as they are. ]
Said she owed you one. [ His lips curl into a tease. ] I didn't know the great sorceress of Thorne herself was making friends.
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she's on no real timeline. she is here for this, for this easy, calm, relaxed, time with geralt. so she doesn't push, doesn't ask again, just watches him with a small smile curling at her mouth.
but in time he does decide to move, and she sits up just a bit to watch as he reaches over to retrieve something from under the bed. it is only when the bag is set between them that yennefer sits up even further, pulling the bag into her lap as she gives geralt a curious look. it's only when she pulls it open and sees the jars does she let out a laugh - partially surprised, also partially not at all.
she pulls out a couple of the jars, looking through them with a sort of young, bubbly excitement. ingredients she hasn't seen in weeks, and some she hasn't seen at all. she pauses when she pulls out a jar with a label and clean, curled handwriting, and she turns to geralt with a questioning look just as he answers her. nadine cross. ]
I came across her in the Horizon, first. She was sitting in the midst of a garden, surrounded by flowers. [ yennefer continues looking through the bag, that lightness, that young excitement still somewhere on the surface.
part of her wonders if she needs to say it, or if the words are obvious without the air to guide them. she reminded me of triss. yennefer is quiet for a moment, thinking about that day, how she'd felt stepping into that overgrown place, and then she moves on. ]
She made some comment that no one in that barbaric desert of yours could teach her alchemy. [ it is a joke, a teasing curl to her own mouth, even if there is more than just a little truth to it. ] I've been giving her some lessons, a little more guidance than what she can find there.
[ she finishes searching through the bottles, closes the bag and sets it aside. she smiles at geralt again before leaning over and kissing him, gently, softly. it says something that he may not have given her anything overtly sentimental, and yet she is perhaps more pleased with what she did receive. ]
I should be impressed that you're making friends. [ a beat, and then a kind of softening. ] Though I'm not. Or rather- not surprised.
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Yes. That does indeed sound like Nadine. He found her quite differently, haunted by the absence of her memories and the lost children she could not recall but felt were there. It was an unusual place for both of them to be. It's good, he thinks. To know that Nadine and Yennefer have become friends, of sorts.
Yen need not say it. He sees it, too. Her affinity for healing and teaching. It reminds him of Triss. He supposes that's why, ever since, he's felt something quietly protective over Nadine. ]
Here and there. [ Acquaintances, allies, connections. There are not many he would call friends out loud, but he can admit that his attachments have grown throughout his time here. It is the nature, maybe, of being in one place, with the same people, day in and out. He has not ever had that experience until this place. Until this foreign world that's steadily become more home than the Continent was.
A few quiet moments pass. His hand rests on hers, their fingers curling together. He glances at the window, weighing when he should tell Yennefer that he has another he needs to see to. He's reluctant to leave her, but...John is important, as well. He's made his promises. ]
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they’ve each settled into something they could almost call a life, something they might almost consider theirs, were it not their understanding of how quickly these things could be taken from them. yennefer, in just the last week or so, has had much of what she would have considered her life striped from under her very feet, if not for the people. if not for her people.
(she chooses not to think of those she’s lost- of how even triss had once been here, nevermind the countless others they’ve watched disappear. it doesn’t help her, in this moment, to acknowledge the things they’ve lost, whether shared or separate. )
but yennefer does snort, at his words. here and there. she knows the truth, the things he doesn’t say. the breadth of what she assumes is his family, his group, his people. she watches him grow quiet even now, studies the likes of his jaw, his neck. their hands are intertwined, but she decides that isn’t quite close enough, shifting so that her head is set against his shoulder, her body pressed to his side. she feels, slow and low and deep beneath the surface, the casual beat of his heart. ]
You’re thinking of them, now. [ her voice is just as casual, just as lulled into their easy companionship. her eyes remain on their hands, and she sounds… relaxed.
it feels like this might be a first for them - talking about this, even when they’ve known otherwise for years. the other people in their circles, those they’ve let in. perhaps it isn’t fair, that she’s making the reach, the magic and presence of her in his thoughts something he must be used to even after their time apart. ] Him.
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Lately, however, he's found fewer reasons to pretend.
He studies the curve of her lips. ] He was injured in the attack.
[ John is all right, from what Geralt gathers, so he isn't especially worried about that. It is, he thinks, a much simpler desire than worry or fear or anything so terrible: he just wants to see the man. Perhaps he's drawn to the way John bares his heart so unlike anyone else Geralt has been with. It tugs on something within him he had not known could exist with...well, anybody, beyond maybe Ciri. He's grown accustomed to a certain distance, playful or otherwise, that permeates most of his relationships, no matter how close he grows to someone.
And because he cannot read her thoughts in return: ] Have you met?
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he was injured in the attack and a few more details fall into place. a city guard, a quiet man, a kind of softness she can just barely make out. yennefer is certain she'd seen him around the castle, but to geralt's question, she shakes her head. ]
I did not see much of the city guards. I was more acquainted with the royal ones- particularly Ellya's dedicated ones. [ she shrugs - when she thinks back on her time in the castle, how fully integrated into it she had been and how far distanced she feels to it now, it's difficult to really think about who she had or hadn't known. she went into the city itself from time to time, but not nearly as often as she probably should have. or could have. and now, never will again.
but that's not what they're talking about, so she turns back to the conversation. ]
Where did you meet him?
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Still. He intends to speak to John about it. So that John can at least have a choice. ]
At the Masquerade. Amongst the Fey. I saw his true face a few weeks later. [ He curls a lock of dark hair around his finger. ] I think I made him nervous.
[ Not because he was a Witcher but because of something far more mundane.
His lips quirk. He gives her hair a gentle tug. ] Have I made you curious?
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