[ she lets him touch her - though, if she were being honest, it's much more than that. yennefer wants him to touch her, hands and mouth wandering and exploring, treading over ground they may know well, but with a kind of care and focus that makes her head feel light. his attention on her, she supposes, might feel suffocating for some. the intensity of him, even with his softness, even with his care, and yet yennefer feels herself drinking in every breath of him.
it is easy, to fall into habits. into arches and touches she knows he likes, she knows she likes in return. when her hands travel across his shoulders, it is with an unspoken plea - one he hears, one he acts on, pulling the fabric over his head and discarding it off the side of the bed. it also opens up him for her to see - really, truly, see. the faded bruises, the newer scars, what (if she chose to turn him over and look for herself) are most likely some open wounds against his back. bandages that cover him even now. her breath does not catch, necessarily, but her focus is drawn immediately down to the coloration across his ribs. the scrapes that have healed, or nearly healed, and the parts of him that haven't.
it is not with hesitation, necessarily, but with a gentle, careful sort of focus that her hands travel down his chest to them. a light brush of her fingertips down his ribs. when she closes her eyes she sees more of him than he ever meant for her to see, sees more of him than she ever wanted to see herself, but this - as he bares the scars left behind, that he's carried with him to this very room - that yennefer feels like she can see it. not the wounds, not the unspoken details, not the dark secrets they both now carry; instead, she sees geralt, shouldering on. geralt, offering an olive branch to keep moving forward. geralt, patient, willing, waiting for her to make the next move.
yennefer lets out a breath she does not quite remember holding in a slow, precise exhale. a bit like she is focusing, a bit like she is pulling chaos to her, even when she knows she doesn't need to here. when she looks up to catch his eyes, it is at the exact moment that she sets her hands over the bruises on his ribs, pressing palms to purple, just as if she were to heal him were they together. she supposes whether or not it works is up to him, supposes that it is his decision if the magic she attempts to use on him actually will heal the images he's created, but the intent is there. and if it all works, the bruises will fade under her hands, the pain alongside it.
and - judging by his reaction - yennefer will lean forward to press a kiss to his neck, and then another further up towards his jaw, as her hands move slowly around his ribs to the parts of his back she can reach, that same healing magic he's felt from her before spreading across his skin. healing wounds, closing skin, stitching him back together - all the while her tongue and teeth map the muscles of his neck, her bite scraping across the stubble of his jaw, her legs pulling out from under him to wrap around his waist. ]
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it is easy, to fall into habits. into arches and touches she knows he likes, she knows she likes in return. when her hands travel across his shoulders, it is with an unspoken plea - one he hears, one he acts on, pulling the fabric over his head and discarding it off the side of the bed. it also opens up him for her to see - really, truly, see. the faded bruises, the newer scars, what (if she chose to turn him over and look for herself) are most likely some open wounds against his back. bandages that cover him even now. her breath does not catch, necessarily, but her focus is drawn immediately down to the coloration across his ribs. the scrapes that have healed, or nearly healed, and the parts of him that haven't.
it is not with hesitation, necessarily, but with a gentle, careful sort of focus that her hands travel down his chest to them. a light brush of her fingertips down his ribs. when she closes her eyes she sees more of him than he ever meant for her to see, sees more of him than she ever wanted to see herself, but this - as he bares the scars left behind, that he's carried with him to this very room - that yennefer feels like she can see it. not the wounds, not the unspoken details, not the dark secrets they both now carry; instead, she sees geralt, shouldering on. geralt, offering an olive branch to keep moving forward. geralt, patient, willing, waiting for her to make the next move.
yennefer lets out a breath she does not quite remember holding in a slow, precise exhale. a bit like she is focusing, a bit like she is pulling chaos to her, even when she knows she doesn't need to here. when she looks up to catch his eyes, it is at the exact moment that she sets her hands over the bruises on his ribs, pressing palms to purple, just as if she were to heal him were they together. she supposes whether or not it works is up to him, supposes that it is his decision if the magic she attempts to use on him actually will heal the images he's created, but the intent is there. and if it all works, the bruises will fade under her hands, the pain alongside it.
and - judging by his reaction - yennefer will lean forward to press a kiss to his neck, and then another further up towards his jaw, as her hands move slowly around his ribs to the parts of his back she can reach, that same healing magic he's felt from her before spreading across his skin. healing wounds, closing skin, stitching him back together - all the while her tongue and teeth map the muscles of his neck, her bite scraping across the stubble of his jaw, her legs pulling out from under him to wrap around his waist. ]