In spite of his vow not to drink, Geralt couldn’t deny the strangely pleasurable warmth swirling about his head. Could it be the heart-pounding thrill of sneaking around? Probably not…he had never quite enjoyed putting himself into compromising situations, though he certainly had a knack for it. Perhaps it was just being around the raven-haired sorceress once again… Ridiculous, considering they had been apart for over two years, but definitely more probable.
“Shh…guards.” A warning hand pressed against his chest to halt him. “Hide behind the tapestry.”
Before he could act, Yennefer had grabbed his arm, pulling him behind the thick tapestry alongside her. They both held their breaths as the two guards neared, heartily engrossed in their conversation about birds.
“Hmm…what do jackdaws do?”
“Jackdaws caw.” The wildlife expert of the two explained. “Goldfinches warble, and cranes whoop, whereas peacocks screech.”
Geralt grimaced, recalling a time he nearly had his eyes scratched out by a peacock.
That afternoon, the sun was shining; one might say the songbirds were warbling. Such a lovely day in Toussaint shouldn't be wasted, thus he embarked on a lazy stroll through the forest. It certainly wasn’t his intention to accidentally intrude upon a grumpy peacock’s territory. Regardless, it was his first encounter with the colourful bird, a native to the warmer climate of the less travelled south.
How was he to know what to expect?
A mildly humiliating experience, to say the least. Though, the fowl was admittedly quite the exemplar of Toussaint’s character – beautiful, but no less deadly.
Listening in on his disgruntled thoughts, Yennefer let out a quiet snort of amusement, and Geralt glanced down at her.
Immediately, he became very aware of the space that had disappeared between them. He drew a shallow breath. Gone was the mirth in her gaze, instead he found an intensity, of unspoken questions and emotions.
And unmistakable desire.
He watched her eyes flicker down to his mouth, back to his eyes.
He wasn’t fooling anyone, least of all himself. The time they spent apart was insignificant, barely a dent in their history. He still came alive simply at the thought of her.
Geralt trailed a hand up her waist and tugged her into him, eliciting a soft gasp from the sorceress. Try as he might, Geralt could not squash the smugness in his smirk, hearing the sound of her quickening heartbeat. He wasn’t interested in trying too hard anyway.
Now, the witcher wasn’t entirely sure who moved first, but somewhere between “hawks scream” and “doves, they coo”, Yennefer’s mouth collided with his. She drew his bottom lip through her teeth and nipped his smugness away, none too gently. Geralt pressed her against the cold stone wall, his fingers tangling in her mane of ebony, drunk on her bittersweet scent. Languidly, her tongue brushed against his as he surrendered to her, heat swirling in his belly.
In some practical part of his mind, the part which wasn’t heady with longing and desire, he knew the guards would hear them if they weren’t careful. But by the gods, all he wanted in that moment was to discover all the sounds that this raven could make.
A wandering hand found Yennefer’s breast, caressing her through soft, lush fabric. Still has expensive tastes, nothing’s changed, Geralt thought happily.
Overwhelmed by the simultaneous sensation of Geralt’s lips kissing down the column of her neck, and the short hairs of his beard grazing the sensitive skin, the sorceress found herself fighting the urge to moan. Seems the beard really wasn’t so bad…
Then footsteps halted in front of them. “Hmm…what about nightingales?”
Geralt and Yennefer froze, yanked abruptly out of their cocoon of desire, hearts still pounding. The silence between the question and answer felt much too long and much too loud. Yennefer tensed, her dark eyes focused, and her fingers curled pre-emptively.
Geralt watched, transfixed.
“Ah right, nightingales croon!” Finally enlightened, the footsteps receded, echoing down the corridor.
As the tension left Yennefer’s body, she glanced over at Geralt, who was still caught somewhere between aroused and love-struck.
“Well, that was…close.” Geralt said, raising his eyebrows. Yennefer laughed softly at the witcher’s expression and hummed her agreement.
It might have been a flicker of the shadows, but Yennefer could have sworn she caught a glimpse of that raw adoration in his glowing eyes. The same adoration she saw that night in Thanedd. In the bathhouse after Stygga Castle. And countless times after.
But try as she might to stifle the embers of hope flaring in her chest, she could not deny that she still yearned for him and everything they once were.
As if sensing her probing eyes, the witcher’s gaze grew a little harder to read. The sorceress arched a questioning eyebrow at the sudden return of Geralt’s infuriatingly smug smirk. His roguish eyes had settled on a dark bloom on her neck, a stark contrast to her pale skin.
In answer, Geralt lowered his lips slowly to the point where her jaw met her neck, sucking gently to punctuate his point. Yennefer rolled her eyes, irritation warring with loving exasperation.
“For a man nearing a century of age, you can sometimes be insufferably juvenile.”
“I don’t remember you complaining moments ago.” The witcher murmured, lips drifting dangerously close to her own again. The sorceress pulled away.
“Enough,” Yennefer said, her tone firm but gentle. “There’s no time to waste. We need to find Ermion’s laboratory.”
Yennefer emerged from behind the tapestry first, a near imperceptible, rather self-satisfied smile ghosting across her kiss swollen lips. Damn that witcher and his wonderful mouth.
Slightly more dishevelled, Geralt followed soon after, straightening out the ever itchy and uncomfortable formal clothing. Contraptions of evil.
See, Geralt of Rivia was no art aficionado, but that evening, he felt like he could certainly grow to appreciate tapestries.