You know... Life here had been easy. The only complicating Geralt had ever experienced was- No, there actually hadn't been any. None whatsoever. And yet, a year and a bit after he arrived, two complications came alone, one after the other.
Jaskier showing up was fine, Geralt secretly missed the Bard. Though, he too was younger than the Witcher recalled and came in hot with a whole saddlebag of issues and anger towards Geralt. Something easily sorted with an apology and some male bonding. But now the lovable gobshite had taken it upon himself to move into the White Wolf's chambers... Can you imagine? It was like being out on the road with him all over again.
Just when he'd started to deal with the stress of having Jaskier living more or less on top of him, who should show up, but Yennefer~.
Geralt didn't need to check the tomes to find her address, he could find her through feeling alone. That or her scent of course. No, the Witcher followed the faint vapors of her energy through the Castle until he found her room. Lingering for a moment. Going to knock, stopped, then raised his fist to try again. "Fuck." He hissed out. Grumbling and turning around, about to abandon the idea altogether. He'd only really come to see if she was home after the events of the ball... Max literally lived two doors down from Geralt and he'd come home that evening stinking of, yup, you guessed it Lilac and Gooseberry... Go figure.
If she wasn't aware there was someone out of her door before, she would now, as Geralt paced the hall a few feet from her room, talking to himself under a breath like he often did.
It wasn't as if Yennefer was any closer to sleeping regardless of the rather late hour; it was still taking her some time to adjust to the difference here in the castle, several restless nights keeping her awake while she pored over texts she had taken from the library adjacent to the wing's common room — texts that seemed to change each time she approached the shelves at a different point in the day. Although she had accompanied one of the other Favored back to his rooms the night of the party, that had not extended beyond their encounter that night — at least for the time being, and she had also departed Max's bedchamber before falling asleep, wanting to retreat to the sanctuary of her own room for anything beyond what had turned out to be a very pleasant diversion, for the length of time it had lasted.
It was her reading that kept her awake now, though the sound of footsteps outside her room prompted her to lift her head from reading over the same sentence she'd been stuck on for several minutes already, blinking blearily as she listened out for those heavier footfalls — which were then followed by a very specific curse uttered in a very familiar tone of voice.
Slowly, she extricated herself from her reading, gathering the fabric of her robe around her frame, and then just as quietly opened the door to find the witcher pacing on the other side, his strides taking up a significant portion of the hallway. A subtle smile emerged across her features as she leaned against the doorframe, arms folding across the front of her body, and waited for him to realize she was observing him.
"Is this how you pay everyone a visit around here? Pace and growl outside of their room until they notice you?"
For some strange unknown reason, since people he knew from the Continent had been showing up, Geralt had been trying to be, 'subtle' shall we say? He was a Witcher so by all accounts he shouldn't have the heart to care about them. And yet showing intent to bed a fellow Favoured in front of them, was something he tried not to do.
Miss Vengerberg on the other hand, however, well... Apparently she had no problem in doing just that.
Max was a married man and seemed very much in love with his two significant others, so Geralt wasn't overly worried about his and Yennefer's get-togethers flowering into anything, not that he had a right to be worried about anything in the first place. He wasn't! It was more a case of him looking out for her... But it wasn't that either now was it? Because Max was a nice guy who wouldn't hurt a fly. Ugh Great... What is he even doing outside of her room then?
Geralt could feel those violet eyes upon him even over all of the bristling and chuntering he was doing. Stopping dead in his tracks as she spoke, the Witcher turned to look over a shoulder at her, standing there, looking amused at his antics. Closing his eyes, Geralt tipped his head in a slight sway, chewing on the inside of his cheeks as he offered no verbal comment to her mocking.
Those broad shoulders of his, hunched up, that barrel chest of his heaving in a slow inhale, as he was clearly contemplating something he wasn't sure he should do. "Damn it, Yennefer." Was all he said, through grit teeth and a grumbled tone before turning on his heels and storming towards her. A strong hand reached out and grabbed at her waist, gripping tightly yet not hard enough to be threatening. His other hand pressed against her cheek, her face small in comparison to his thick fingers as they pushed through silken tumbles of her beautiful jet black hair, cradling the back of her head so he could lean down and capture her lips with him.
Part of Yennefer had left the event arm-in-arm with Max with the intention of letting Geralt see her in another person's company; whether or not anything had come from it, or had transpired after leaving the ball, was another matter entirely. Perhaps she had just wanted to determine if she could goad a certain type of response from the witcher, although the specifics of that response were not necessarily known even to Yennefer herself; mostly, what she desired from him was some display of feeling, or even a signal that the connection that existed between them was of its own making and nothing that could be so manipulated or directed outside of what they wanted.
The truth was that she had not sought out Max's bed with any great stirring of emotion, or any intent to develop deep feeling; it had been a pleasurable diversion and nothing more, something that had culminated in mutual satisfaction, which in the end was about as much as one could hope for these days especially when it seemed she was being directly encouraged towards engaging in certain performances with her fellow Favoreds.
Witnessing the White Wolf standing near the threshold to her room was in part proof that he had seen her leave and that she had not left alone, but she was under no illusions that he'd admit to it, or even admit to his real reason for being here. In fact, she wasn't expecting him to stay either now that she'd addressed him directly, half-predicting that he would muster some excuse for lurking in the corridor before choosing a direction to walk off in.
The swear he leveraged at her prompted her mouth to drop open in minute surprise, but before she could even muster so much as a retort he was there, striding into her space and surrounding her with his presence, one large hand sliding across the inward curve of her waist and practically leading her into him as the other cupped her face, fingers threading deep into the hair she currently wore unbound. And then his mouth was on hers for a kiss that managed to be equal parts soft and claiming, familiar and yet new. Before she could even second-guess her movements she reached for him, arms winding around his body, fingers digging into the brawn of his shoulders — and then permitted herself to kiss him back, to meet him with just as much fervor as he possessed, nipping at his lower lip for the sole purpose of silently goading him on, signaling her unspoken desire for more.
Geralt never got jealous or envious of who was bedding who in this place. While making meaningful connections was hard for him, on account of how guarded and closed off he was, he liked to think that some people here would think of him in fondness or high regards. Never before had he sort out someone after seeing them leave in the arms of another. Never before. Until now. Until her.
It was a chance he couldn't allow himself the risk to take. An urge to get in there and plant a seed of desire between them was strong. He wanted Yennefer, wanted her to know he wanted her, but he also wanted to take his time in doing so. This, however, certainly wasn't taking his time. There was a fire in the Witcher's kiss, a heat that radiated from him as he held her, sold as an old oak tree yet with fingers and lips as soft as new green leaf. A mix of emotions flooded out as he chased her mouth, groaning from the sensation of her little teasing, taunting nip.
The moment he felt her hands around him, the way her fingertips dug in to cling possessively, Geralt pushed his body against her, leading her, albeit clumsily so, back into her room. Bumping past the door as he booted it shut with his foot, the sound of it rattled in the frame as it clattered. Letting go of her head, in a wide sweep of his arm, Geralt cleared the vanity table of the various bottles and trinkets Yennefer might have had placed on there- and heaving her up in one arm, he sat his Scoceress down upon the now cleared surface.
Cupping her face again now as he deepened the kiss with a roll of his wide, warm tongue, his groaning echoed between their mouths, breath coming heavily through his nose. A shift of the hand at her hip, hand his calloused fingers pressing against a smooth thigh, brushing upwards and under the soft, cool fabric of her robe, his hips pressing inward to part a way between her legs as their chests met and in turn pushed Yennefer's back against the mirror behind her with a creak.
While Yennefer was obviously aware of what the Fae encouraged at almost every turn — those details had not escaped her notice, first in her basic introductions and then at the Yule event, through which she'd been able to learn more information from others who had been present here much longer than she — there was a part of her that felt no significant pressure to engage in anything right away, regardless of whether it would have given her earlier rewards in the process. Going to Max's bed had been a pleasant respite from dwelling on her circumstances, from poring over texts from the library, from attempting to tap into her magic again — but she certainly hadn't expected to receive Geralt at her door this soon.
In the moment, however, she couldn't bring herself to protest — not while he kissed her, and certainly not as she refamiliarized herself with the taste of his mouth, firm and warm against her own, seeking but not attempting to dominate her, letting her lean forward and meet him instead. He seemed to like it more when she wasn't meekly responsive, if memory served, and the rumble of his groan across her lips made it readily evident that he'd particularly enjoyed her nipping at his.
The resulting press of his body against hers sent her shuffling back a few paces, further into the room, and once the door was shut behind them with a resounding thud it was as if they had fully been unleashed on one another, gripping at one another's bodies with a desperation that couldn't be stifled. She barely perceived being plucked up in his arms, lifted as though she hardly weighed anything of consequence, until she was unceremoniously deposited on the closest flat surface, fragile bottles smashing against the floor after he'd swept it clean of any obstacles.
She was clutching onto him now, letting her tongue not only battle but war with his, letting him lick deep into her mouth before doing the same to him in return, and her legs fell apart to permit him to shift in between them, the halves of her robe slipping open to expose her to the hip. Next to him, she was clad in significantly fewer layers, something that would become even clearer as her fingers briefly fumbled for the belt tied around her waist keeping the robe closed and finally tugged the knot free, baring even more of her body in the process — smooth skin, the valley between her breasts, the flat plane of her abdomen, the dark curls above her cunt. If the kiss finally broke between them, with her leaning back against the cool glass of the mirror, it was only because she wanted to let him see her, to reveal herself to him like this, to see what he would do once his gaze could feast on her practically nude form. She was already half-breathless from his mouth on hers, chest rising and falling with soft pants as she waited for his next move.
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midnight action;
Jaskier showing up was fine, Geralt secretly missed the Bard. Though, he too was younger than the Witcher recalled and came in hot with a whole saddlebag of issues and anger towards Geralt. Something easily sorted with an apology and some male bonding. But now the lovable gobshite had taken it upon himself to move into the White Wolf's chambers... Can you imagine? It was like being out on the road with him all over again.
Just when he'd started to deal with the stress of having Jaskier living more or less on top of him, who should show up, but Yennefer~.
Geralt didn't need to check the tomes to find her address, he could find her through feeling alone. That or her scent of course. No, the Witcher followed the faint vapors of her energy through the Castle until he found her room. Lingering for a moment. Going to knock, stopped, then raised his fist to try again. "Fuck." He hissed out. Grumbling and turning around, about to abandon the idea altogether. He'd only really come to see if she was home after the events of the ball... Max literally lived two doors down from Geralt and he'd come home that evening stinking of, yup, you guessed it Lilac and Gooseberry... Go figure.
If she wasn't aware there was someone out of her door before, she would now, as Geralt paced the hall a few feet from her room, talking to himself under a breath like he often did.
breaking in that inbox with a little action—
It was her reading that kept her awake now, though the sound of footsteps outside her room prompted her to lift her head from reading over the same sentence she'd been stuck on for several minutes already, blinking blearily as she listened out for those heavier footfalls — which were then followed by a very specific curse uttered in a very familiar tone of voice.
Slowly, she extricated herself from her reading, gathering the fabric of her robe around her frame, and then just as quietly opened the door to find the witcher pacing on the other side, his strides taking up a significant portion of the hallway. A subtle smile emerged across her features as she leaned against the doorframe, arms folding across the front of her body, and waited for him to realize she was observing him.
"Is this how you pay everyone a visit around here? Pace and growl outside of their room until they notice you?"
👀
Miss Vengerberg on the other hand, however, well... Apparently she had no problem in doing just that.
Max was a married man and seemed very much in love with his two significant others, so Geralt wasn't overly worried about his and Yennefer's get-togethers flowering into anything, not that he had a right to be worried about anything in the first place. He wasn't! It was more a case of him looking out for her... But it wasn't that either now was it? Because Max was a nice guy who wouldn't hurt a fly. Ugh Great... What is he even doing outside of her room then?
Geralt could feel those violet eyes upon him even over all of the bristling and chuntering he was doing. Stopping dead in his tracks as she spoke, the Witcher turned to look over a shoulder at her, standing there, looking amused at his antics. Closing his eyes, Geralt tipped his head in a slight sway, chewing on the inside of his cheeks as he offered no verbal comment to her mocking.
Those broad shoulders of his, hunched up, that barrel chest of his heaving in a slow inhale, as he was clearly contemplating something he wasn't sure he should do. "Damn it, Yennefer." Was all he said, through grit teeth and a grumbled tone before turning on his heels and storming towards her. A strong hand reached out and grabbed at her waist, gripping tightly yet not hard enough to be threatening. His other hand pressed against her cheek, her face small in comparison to his thick fingers as they pushed through silken tumbles of her beautiful jet black hair, cradling the back of her head so he could lean down and capture her lips with him.
no subject
The truth was that she had not sought out Max's bed with any great stirring of emotion, or any intent to develop deep feeling; it had been a pleasurable diversion and nothing more, something that had culminated in mutual satisfaction, which in the end was about as much as one could hope for these days especially when it seemed she was being directly encouraged towards engaging in certain performances with her fellow Favoreds.
Witnessing the White Wolf standing near the threshold to her room was in part proof that he had seen her leave and that she had not left alone, but she was under no illusions that he'd admit to it, or even admit to his real reason for being here. In fact, she wasn't expecting him to stay either now that she'd addressed him directly, half-predicting that he would muster some excuse for lurking in the corridor before choosing a direction to walk off in.
The swear he leveraged at her prompted her mouth to drop open in minute surprise, but before she could even muster so much as a retort he was there, striding into her space and surrounding her with his presence, one large hand sliding across the inward curve of her waist and practically leading her into him as the other cupped her face, fingers threading deep into the hair she currently wore unbound. And then his mouth was on hers for a kiss that managed to be equal parts soft and claiming, familiar and yet new. Before she could even second-guess her movements she reached for him, arms winding around his body, fingers digging into the brawn of his shoulders — and then permitted herself to kiss him back, to meet him with just as much fervor as he possessed, nipping at his lower lip for the sole purpose of silently goading him on, signaling her unspoken desire for more.
no subject
It was a chance he couldn't allow himself the risk to take. An urge to get in there and plant a seed of desire between them was strong. He wanted Yennefer, wanted her to know he wanted her, but he also wanted to take his time in doing so. This, however, certainly wasn't taking his time. There was a fire in the Witcher's kiss, a heat that radiated from him as he held her, sold as an old oak tree yet with fingers and lips as soft as new green leaf. A mix of emotions flooded out as he chased her mouth, groaning from the sensation of her little teasing, taunting nip.
The moment he felt her hands around him, the way her fingertips dug in to cling possessively, Geralt pushed his body against her, leading her, albeit clumsily so, back into her room. Bumping past the door as he booted it shut with his foot, the sound of it rattled in the frame as it clattered. Letting go of her head, in a wide sweep of his arm, Geralt cleared the vanity table of the various bottles and trinkets Yennefer might have had placed on there- and heaving her up in one arm, he sat his Scoceress down upon the now cleared surface.
Cupping her face again now as he deepened the kiss with a roll of his wide, warm tongue, his groaning echoed between their mouths, breath coming heavily through his nose. A shift of the hand at her hip, hand his calloused fingers pressing against a smooth thigh, brushing upwards and under the soft, cool fabric of her robe, his hips pressing inward to part a way between her legs as their chests met and in turn pushed Yennefer's back against the mirror behind her with a creak.
no subject
In the moment, however, she couldn't bring herself to protest — not while he kissed her, and certainly not as she refamiliarized herself with the taste of his mouth, firm and warm against her own, seeking but not attempting to dominate her, letting her lean forward and meet him instead. He seemed to like it more when she wasn't meekly responsive, if memory served, and the rumble of his groan across her lips made it readily evident that he'd particularly enjoyed her nipping at his.
The resulting press of his body against hers sent her shuffling back a few paces, further into the room, and once the door was shut behind them with a resounding thud it was as if they had fully been unleashed on one another, gripping at one another's bodies with a desperation that couldn't be stifled. She barely perceived being plucked up in his arms, lifted as though she hardly weighed anything of consequence, until she was unceremoniously deposited on the closest flat surface, fragile bottles smashing against the floor after he'd swept it clean of any obstacles.
She was clutching onto him now, letting her tongue not only battle but war with his, letting him lick deep into her mouth before doing the same to him in return, and her legs fell apart to permit him to shift in between them, the halves of her robe slipping open to expose her to the hip. Next to him, she was clad in significantly fewer layers, something that would become even clearer as her fingers briefly fumbled for the belt tied around her waist keeping the robe closed and finally tugged the knot free, baring even more of her body in the process — smooth skin, the valley between her breasts, the flat plane of her abdomen, the dark curls above her cunt. If the kiss finally broke between them, with her leaning back against the cool glass of the mirror, it was only because she wanted to let him see her, to reveal herself to him like this, to see what he would do once his gaze could feast on her practically nude form. She was already half-breathless from his mouth on hers, chest rising and falling with soft pants as she waited for his next move.