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Geralt had known pretty quickly that there were no monsters that needed hunting in this town. It’s newer than most: a tavern, a baker, an undertaker, and a general goods store lining the one main thoroughfare. There’s not even a school yet, or an apothecary. Although if one wanted to visit the sweet ministrations of a whore, or touch some other shining virtue of civilisation, one would only have to travel an hour by horse to reach Cidaris. Geralt was thinking about heading that way in the morning, and taking the ferry to Skellige, where the monsters are older, intrenched in the wind-lashed rock of the land. A challenge.
But, a girl’s got to make money. She and Roach have been on the road for weeks, following the scent of a whiff of a rumour of a job, and while she could go for a while yet, Roach has lost some weight, and could do with a rich meal of proper oats, and pellets, and fresh hay, rather than the chaff found on the roadside, and the dehydrated fruits that Geralt can store in the saddlebags.
And so, here they are, in the small public house that would seat twenty people, max, with maybe some extra room for people standing at the bar. There aren’t nearly that many people occupying the single room right now, but the crowd, such as it is, is growing louder and rowdier.
“Another!” the man across from Geralt roars, turning his glass and plonking it on the table, rim-down, so hard it makes a ringing sound. The barmaid appears just as Geralt puts her own glass down, slowly, tipping the lip of it at the man as she does so. It joins the empty glasses along her side of the table, a neat and orderly row, as opposed to the smeared glasses that roll around on the man’s side. The barmaid plonks two more glasses of the clear spirits in front of them, scowling. Geralt doesn’t know what she’s so sore about it; this could be the most action this place has seen in months. If ever.
As they both raise their glasses, she can hear the rasp of a pencil in a notebook, the rustle of money changing hands, the murmur of the bookkeeper as he starts changing the odds. They’re about even now, so Geralt knows it’s time to start packing this up, it’s not worth the effort if the winnings aren’t steep enough.
They drink their spirits at the same time, knocking them back fast. The big, burly man sways. The crowd hushes. He burps.
“Another!” he cries, and the crowd answers back, stamping and clapping. Geralt holds up a hand. The sound recedes, like a wave, dropping gradually until Geralt can hear the roiling breath of the man on the other side of the table.
“Two at a time,” she says. “One light grain, and one dark.”
The man lets out a booming, familial laugh. “As the lady wishes,” he cries, gesturing at the barmaid.
The odds change again.
The barmaid brings the four drinks over on a tray, this time, and with no particular care. Liquor sloshes over the rims. “I’ll not be responsible for cleaning up after ye’selves,” she hisses, but puts two shotglasses in front of each of them. Geralt can’t taste very well anymore, and even her sense of smell is started to leave her, but she would guess the clear glass is more of the vodka they’ve been drinking for well over an hour now, and the dark liquor smells smokey and a little sweet, so she imagines it’s probably a barley grain of some sort, no doubt made in a dirty still next to someone’s outhouse.
Well, it won’t kill her. Probably.
“To your health,” the man says, toasting her with the vodka first. He swallows it in one large gulp, flabby chin wobbling. Geralt follows his example.
“May you find riches all your days,” Geralt says, returning the toast with her glass of malt-coloured liquor. The barley grain doesn’t taste sweet, it tastes like nothing so much as one of her potions, burning her tongue and her airways. She thinks she can feel it travel down her ribcage and slosh angrily in her stomach. She coughs.
The man doesn’t cough. He grins at her through slitted eyes. When she puts her glass down, she starts a new row on her side of her table.
“Again?” she says, just in time to watch the man’s eyes widen comically, before he turns to the side and vomits up his dinner, and lunch, and possibly his last three breakfasts.
“Hmm,” she says. “What a shame.”
The crowd is silent for a split-second, before someone starts clapping, and then someone in the back whistles. There’s a lot of grumbling, though, under it all. A lot of people must have lost tonight, betting against her. Bad for them; good for her, and good for Roach.
“Yes, yes, thank you,” she says. “I’ll take my money now,” she says, locking eyes with the bookkeeper. His purse is jingling, and his eyes are lively. A good night for him as well, she hopes.
“Of course, my lady,” he says, jovial. He starts counting orens onto the table. “Was it discussed who would be paying for the liquor?”
It wasn’t. “Him,” Geralt says, shortly, nodding toward the man being levered out of his chair by two of his buddies. “And don’t call me lady.”
“Of course,” he says, again.
“You look like a travelled man,” she says, as she takes two coins out of her pile to leave for the barmaid. When the frazzled-looking woman comes over to pour a bucket of water over the downed man’s sick, Geralt adds a third.
“I do some tax collection, and get around this corner of the kingdom fairly regularly,” he says.
“Do you know of any troubles in the area? They need not necessarily be in town, you understand.”
The man shrugs. “What kind of trouble?”
“The kind where people go missing. The bodies could be found mangled, or not at all. Tales of visions, that kind of thing.”
The man counts out his last coin and stands up, brow furrowed. His purse still jangles heavily. “Miss, I can see no reason on this damned Continent why you would want to -”
Geralt takes her medallion out of her tunic meaningfully. She had left her swords and armour in Roach’s stall, and sometimes it takes people a while to catch up. Jaskier’s songs don’t mention one very important detail, at her request, but the bookkeeper’s eyes flick up to her white hair, back to her medallion, and then must take in the whole, scarred lot of her.
“Are you - you can’t - I thought women couldn’t be -”
Geralt puts a finger to her lips to shut him up. “I guess this one is,” she says. “Tell me - do you know of anything that relates to what I speak of?”
“No,” the bookkeeper stammers. “Not really.”
“Not really?”
“Well, no one’s gone missing, but there are stories of a witch, in a cottage, on the other side of Brokilon.”
“How do they know she’s a witch?”
“By the trees, and the bushes.”
Geralt raises an eyebrow.
“They bloom out of season, see. She grows fruit - berries, mostly, some apples and cherries. Oranges, too. Seasonal fruits, all year round.”
“Sounds dangerous.”
“Which is why I didn’t know if you’d be interested - no one sees her, really, but she must let people pick the fruit off the trees. Even the baker here uses some, his blueberry pie is quite famous, and his gooseberry jam.”
Geralt sits up, though her head spins at the movement. “Gooseberries?”
“Yes, not the most common of fruit, I’ll grant you. Quite a delicacy around here.”
“How do you know it’s a woman?”
The bookkeeper shrugs.
“And -” here Geralt hesitates, “No one has gone missing? No, uh, young men? Wealthy landowners?”
The bookkeeper eyes her. “Lady, all I know is what I said.”
It’s funny how many different ways a man can make ‘lady’ sound.
“Okay,” Geralt says. She nods at the man, and he takes his leave.
The barmaid comes back over with another bucket and a broom, to clean up the last of the mess. “Are ye gonna be taking a room, then?” she says crossly, upending the bucket so water taps at the toes of Geralt’s boots.
“I would expect so,” Geralt says. “When I feel like I can safely stand.”
At that, the barmaid huffs, something like a grin flittering across her face.
“Until then, an ale?” Geralt says, wheedling. The barmaid gives the wet spot a couple of goes over with the broom, calls it good enough, and goes to get Geralt’s drink with a roll of her eyes.
Geralt smiles. Roach always hated crossing open water, anyway.
////
The cottage is...well, it’s beautiful, even to Geralt, who has no use for such things, and no mind to quantify them even if she did. There’s wisteria crawling over the brick, herbs in pots under the windows, lavender along both sides of the little dirt path that leads to the front door. Geralt can hear bees, for fuck’s sake, and running water somewhere out of sight.
And the fruit trees - the biggest are the apple trees, three clustered together, about as tall as two of Geralt put together, the tallest she’s ever seen. They loom at the side of the house, overshadowing the rest. Next to the apple trees are cherries and plums, and what smells like it could be an apricot tree, although Geralt has only seen them at the tables of kings and queens, eaten whole with rich cheeses, or smeared over a roasted pig. The trees groan under the weight of their bounty.
In front of the trees, growing almost wild, are the fruit bushes. They look unkempt, but fruitful, thorny branches pointing every which way, butting against each other until it’s contained by the lavender planted down the path. Geralt breathes the gooseberry in deep. It seems it’s planted fairly indiscriminately with blackcurrant, which Geralt has only had in certain medicines to make them go down easier, but she recognises the scent immediately.
She can smell strawberries, too, and rosemary, and fresh-baked bread. She was certain of her destination, and who she would find when she reached it, when she turned Roach’s nose south four days ago, but now she is here, and has seen this picture-perfect domestic haven, she is less sure.
She also hasn’t seen Yennefer since Rinde, and what had been the most intense fuck of Geralt’s long life.
Geralt squares her shoulders, opens the comically small picket gate, and steps onto the garden path.
In the cottage, she hears a hollow thump as something is dropped, followed by the sibilant hiss of a curseword. Well, she guesses someone is home.
Geralt reaches the door after a few long strides. It’s painted a rusty red, with a brass knocker. Geralt lifts it and knocks twice. Barely a heartbeat passes before Yennefer opens the door, and Geralt feels a little frisson of - of surprise, shock, recognition, she doesn’t know.
Their eyes meet. A second ticks by. Then five more. Geralt has an impulse to smack her mouth right on top of Yennefer’s, just so Yennefer doesn’t ask Geralt what she’s doing here, and Geralt won’t be forced to say she doesn’t know. But all Yennefer does is step aside, back into the cool shade of her cottage, for fuck’s sake, and says, “Come on, I’ll get you something to eat,” which blindsides Geralt so ferociously she can’t do anything but follow Yennefer inside.
Yennefer leads the way to a massive wooden table that occupies most of what must be a combined dining-living area. She looks - well, good, which shouldn’t be a shock, as that’s damn near the top of Yennefer’s concerns at any given point of the day, but she looks relaxed, settled into her skin. Her slip dress isn’t as opulent as the ones Geralt has seen in the past, but it skims her hips, and Geralt wasn’t so distracted by the cottage surrounds to notice that she still favours a low-cut neckline.
Yennefer gestures to a chair, and Geralt sits, leathers creaking. She turns the chair so she can watch Yennefer rummage in a cupboard and put some food on a plate. When she brings it over to the table, Geralt can see it’s some of the fresh bread she smelled, as well as what looks like a jar of apricot jam and what she can only assume are dried figs, having never seen some herself.
“Did you make this?” Geralt asks.
Yennefer gives Geralt a dry look. “I portal to Aedirn to get the bread, there’s a bakery there I’ve loved since I was advisor to the king. And I allow the locals to take the fruit from my trees, and in return sometimes they leave things.”
“Like an offering.”
“Like an offering,” Yennefer says with a sharp-toothed grin. “I have pie for after, if you’d like.”
“If I’d like,” Geralt says, faint. Then she pops a fig in her mouth, just so she can’t say anything else stupid. It’s juicier than she thought it would be, and sweeter. It makes her whole mouth feel rich. Decadent. She doesn’t know if she likes it.
Yennefer takes the knife, cuts off a piece of the dark brown bread, slathers it in jam, and hands it to Geralt. Geralt takes it from her, looks at it, looks at Yennefer, and takes a bite.
“Do you like it?” Yennefer says. She’s watching Geralt very intently.
Geralt chews. Apricot is a very...bright flavor. She swallows. “It’s sticky,” she allows. It’s sticking to the roof of her mouth, the corners of her lips, and she can feel the sugary tackiness of it on her fingers where she’s still holding the rest of the bread.
“I suppose so,” Yennefer says. She seems amused, her heavy lips twisted up on one side in a smirking half-smile. “Eat your fill. I have plenty.”
Geralt eats the rest of the bread in two over-large bites. There’s silence while she chews it down, Yennefer watching Geralt, and Geralt looking around the cottage. It seems small, but Geralt can’t be sure, Yennefer seems well capable of ensorcelling dwellings so they’re bigger than they look on the outside. They’re in a large L-shaped room, with an open archway at the far end, leading around a corner to where Geralt can’t see. There’s countertops and storage cabinets in the corner of the room they’re sitting in, and shelves at head-height lining most of the walls. Most of the shelves are filled with spices or crockery, but there’s a few knicknacks, some books, an ornately carved timber box, and a few differently colored glass bottles. A few bunches of dried herbs hang from the exposed timber beams that run diagonally across the ceiling.
There’s also lacey curtains hanging over the windows, handmade rugs covering almost every inch of the floor, and furs slung over what looks like a very comfortable rocking chair occupying the corner opposite from where they’re sitting.
It looks very homey, and Yennefer is still watching Geralt. She clears her throat, bread sticking in her windpipe.
“Can, uh -” and here she coughs, again, “- can I give Roach some of your apples?”
When Yennefer nods, Geralt half-rises, but Yennefer gets up first, and puts her hand on Geralt’s rough shoulder. “Stay down,” she says, and Geralt does. “I’ll get them for her. I can put her out the back, there’s room out there with the citrus. Plenty of grass.”
“Okay,” Geralt says, blinking. “But watch your fingers ‘cause she can...bite,” she says, but belatedly, as Yennefer’s already swept out the front door, smelling of flowers and fruits.
“Okay,” Geralt says to the empty room. She picks up another fig. Eats it. Cuts off another piece of bread. Smears apricot all over it. Eats the bread, but slower this time. She repeats this three more times before Yennefer comes back.
“Your horse is as ornery as ever,” Yennefer says.
“Hmm,” Geralt says.
“I dumped your saddlebags and tack on the back porch. You can sort it out later.”
Geralt can feel her eyebrows climbing into her hairline. “Thanks,” she says.
Yennefer comes to stand behind Geralt’s chair. She puts her small, dainty fingers on Geralt’s square jaw, tilting her face so Geralt’s neck is craned upwards, and she’s staring at Yennefer from below. Yennefer has a soft smile on her face, but her violet eyes are as intense as always.
“Look at you,” she says, lowly. One of her thumbs moves to wipe jam from the corner of Geralt’s mouth. She lets go of Geralt’s jaw to stick her thumb in her mouth, suck on it. Geralt keeps on looking at her. “My hero witcher, a fucking mess.”
“Don’t call me that,” Geralt says.
“What, a fucking mess? Or mine?”
Geralt makes a rumbling, dismissive noise, breaking her gaze from Yennefer’s. Yennefer trails her fingers over Geralt’s overlarge shoulders as she comes round to Geralt’s front, only to hitch up her dress and straddle Geralt’s lap. Geralt’s hands settle on her hips, automatically.
“Hello,” she says, seriously.
“Hello,” Geralt says.
“I’m glad you came to see me,” she says. Her hands start to work at the ties over Geralt’s chest, the ones that keep her pauldron leathers in place, until they’re loose enough that she can lift the heavy mess over Geralt’s head. It hits the ground behind her with a solid thump.
“Now doesn’t that feel better?” Yennefer says. Geralt wasn’t wearing any proper armour today, or much of her full kit at all, so now Yennefer’s got rid of her one item of protective clothing, she’s sitting in a mage’s kitchen in only a half-length tunic and trousers.
“A little,” Geralt allows.
“Oh?”
“Well, there’s more to go yet,” Geralt says. Yennefer huffs out a gentle laugh.
“Right you are,” she says, and tugs at Geralt’s tunic until Geralt raises her hands, and Yennefer lifts it up and off. It falls to the back, whispering over her leathers. Yennefer doesn’t waste much time with Geralt’s chest bindings, either, finding where Geralt has tightly tucked away the loose end, and starting to unravel them by passing them from hand to hand. The movement forces Yennefer close, her hands wrapping around Geralt in a faux hug, and Geralt’s breath hitches. Yennefer didn’t do this for her last time.
When it’s done, and the bandages fall carelessly to the floor, Yennefer rocks back, running her hands up and down Geralt’s bare chest. Geralt hisses. Her nipples are so sensitive, once they’re free.
“It’s a crime these were taken from me,” Yennefer says, mournful, her hands cupping the small mounds of Geralt’s breasts.
“From you?” Geralt says, with a snort. It’s true, for a woman of her size, they are very small, but breasts are of no use to a witcher. They couldn’t give her a potion to stunt her development, too scared it would stunt her in other ways, too, but they started binding her when she was young.
“Why, would you want them?” Yennefer says, eyebrow raised, thumb still brushing across Geralt’s right nipple.
Geralt grins, does a little aw-shucks shrug. Yennefer knows she wouldn’t. They would only get in the way, or hurt her back, or get sore after a long day’s hard riding. They’re just one more thing she doesn’t have to drag around with her.
“Come here,” she says, instead, using her strength to pull Yennefer toward her, seating her in Geralt’s lap properly. Yennefer gasps. The movement rucks Yennefer’s dress up, but Geralt pushes it up further. No panties. Good. Yennefer’s eyes follow Geralt as she brings her hand to her mouth, sucks on her middle and pointer fingers, and slips them between Yennefer’s thighs, leaving shiny trails leading to the center of her. Yennefer spreads her thighs wider when Geralt nudges at her, good at taking direction in this one damned thing, and she sighs when Geralt starts rocking into her with her fingers.
“Yeah?” Geralt murmurs. Yennefer’s arms bracket her head, holding on to the back of the chair as she moves with Geralt.
“Mmmmmm,” Yennefer says, a musical note in the dead silence of the cottage. And then continue like that, slow, mutable, Yennefer’s hips rolling, for several molasses-stretched minutes, until Yennefer gathers her legs under her and says, “Wait, I -”
And Geralt says, “Yeah?”
And Yennefer says, “Yeah, I want to -”
And Geralt steels herself, curls her spare hand around Yennefer’s hip, and says, “Go ahead.”
And Yennefer draws herself up and fucks herself on Geralt’s fingers, bucking up and bearing down, and Geralt’s really gotta brace herself against the punishing snap of Yennefer’s hips. Yennefer’s making unladylike grunts with the effort, eyes closed, head tipped back, singularly focused, until Geralt says, “Another?” the word rough around the edges.
“Fuck yeah,” Yennefer breathes, slowing down enough that Geralt can get another finger into her, all bunched together, face-up, and when Yennefer starts grinding down, with Geralt’s hand like this she can get her thumb to Yennefer’s clit much easier, but all she can do is hold herself in place while Yennefer uses her as she pleases.
Little noises, barely words, drip from Yennefer’s lips as she rides Geralt, rising and falling, rising and falling, until her noises reach a crescendo and cut off entirely, Yennefer grinding her clit against Geralt’s thumb until she comes, so tight around Geralt’s fingers, and then she grinds herself just a little bit more, until the shivers in her belly bend her double and she collapses against Geralt.
Geralt pulls her fingers out and wipes them on her trousers. Yennefer, face hidden in the crook of Geralt’s shoulder, laughs.
“Hmm?” Geralt says. Her tongue feels big in her mouth. She can still taste apricots.
“That was just what I needed, thank you,” Yennefer says into Geralt’s neck. Her hands drop from the back of the chair, one cradling the back of Geralt’s neck, one skimming the crown of Geralt’s skull to tangle in her hair.
“You’re...welcome?” Geralt says, and Yennefer laughs again, still indolent, and the hand in Geralt’s hair tightens, jerks her head back, and Geralt’s gasp is lost inside Yennefer’s mouth as Yennefer kisses her.
Yennefer is as commanding in this as she is in all things. She commandeers the entirety of Geralt’s mouth, the angle of Geralt’s neck, when and how Geralt can draw breath. When she draws back, Geralt feels conquered.
“Do you want anything else to eat?” is what she says.
“I really don’t,” Geralt says.
“Excellent,” Yennefer says briskly, but when she makes to get up off Geralt, Geralt winds one iron arm around Yennefer’s waist, and, shoulders bunching, heaves them both out of the chair. Her other hand hitches under Yennefer’s ass, and Yennefer’s legs reflexively hold tight around Geralt’s waist.
“You brute,” Yennefer says, delightedly, and kisses Geralt again. “Through there, down the end,” she says, after Geralt nearly collides with the table, and Geralt walks them through the archway at the far end of the kitchen, around the corner into the bedroom.
The bed is massive, is the first thing she notices. It is unmade, but clearly opulent, with cushions and furs and blankets piled haphazardly all over it. Geralt drops Yennefer at the edge, and she bounces back with a laugh, and as she pushes all her comforts off the bed so they can both fit, Geralt gets a quick chance to glance around, and this is more what she thinks of when she thinks of Yennefer - the bed is ostentatious, decadent, with four posters, and is absolutely swimming in drapery of emerald and shimmering grey. There’s a fireplace almost the size of one whole wall, which is funny, because the tiny red-brick chimney that Geralt saw on the outside of the roof certainly doesn’t match such a monstrosity. Stones pave a large semi-circle around the fireplace, and there’s a sizable pile of neatly-chopped wood in the corner almost to the ceiling. A modest fire pops happily.
“Nice, no?” Yennefer says when she catches her looking. She’s reclining on her elbows in the center of the bed, dress rucked up to the top of her thighs.
“It’s very...you,” Geralt says, generously.
Yennefer snorts. “Take off your pants and come here,” she says, waving an imperious hand.
Geralt undoes her belt, the drawstrings at the waist, then pushes them down, drawers and all. Yennefer makes an approving hum as Geralt steps out of her clothes, and knee-walks over the bed until she can straddle Yennefer’s thighs, pushing her dress higher and higher, up over her pubic hair, until Yennefer has to plant her feet, raising her ass so Geralt can push it higher still, over the softness of her stomach, the fullsome roundness of her breasts, and then Yennefer has to sit up a little, raising her hands so Geralt can pull the dress up and off. Then she thumps back down onto the bed. Geralt tries to look her fill, but Yennefer gets impatient, pulling Geralt down to her by her arm, and then they’re kissing again, like they never stopped, like they might never again.
Geralt stretches out over her, fitting their cunts against each other, rolling her hips as she hitches one of Yennefer’s legs higher on her waist. She can’t come like this, but it sends a pleasurable zing through her nonetheless, an insistent reminder of the stone of arousal that sits heavily in her belly.
Yennefer’s mouth is - well, it’s big, is the only way Geralt can think to describe it, it’s all-encompassing, and it’s tough to keep up with the way that Yennefer dives into kissing like she dives into everything else, head-first and without care. She moans into the kiss, puffs of air hitting Geralt’s cheek, and Geralt just tries her best to meet Yennefer with everything she’s got, grabbing a hefty handful of Yennefer’s ass, helping Yenn rock up into her as she rocks down.
It’s Yennefer who breaks it off first, of course, because Geralt is only here to follow her lead.
“How ‘bout you get up here?” Yennefer says, her mouth so, so, pink.
“Huh?” Geralt says, like a complete boob.
“Up here,” Yennefer says meaningfully, tapping two fingers against her lips. “On my face,” she adds, after Geralt’s expression must remain blank.
“Oh,” Geralt says, with dawning horror, “Oh, no you don’t have to -”
“But I want to -” Yennefer says, and Geralt’s done what Yennefer’s offering for other girls a couple of times, and they always seemed to enjoy it, but they were dainty things, easy for Geralt to move as she pleased, and hold them as she liked.
“I’m not - I’m too heavy for that,” Geralt says.
“Okay,” Yennefer says, and Geralt leans down for more kisses, but Yennefer doesn’t let Geralt get so much as a peck in before she pulls back. “But how about just for a little bit,” she says, “just ‘til you’re wet,” like it’s a bargain they’re entering into.
“Um,” Geralt says, and her brain must be screeching to a halt, because she can’t think of another good goddamn reason why not, so she says, “Shit, okay, yeah,” and tries her best to shimmy up Yennefer’s body without putting any knees or elbows in any tender places.
“Turn around,” Yenn says, handling Geralt judiciously, making sure Geralt is exactly how she wants her, knees on either side of Yennefer’s head, facing the long expanse of Yennefer’s body down the bed. Geralt doesn’t know where to put her hands.
“Perfect,” Yennefer says, right up into Geralt’s cunt, just before she brings Geralt down to sit on her face.
Geralt twitches at first, Yennefer’s nose skidding down her labia before she finds her clit, and she’s so tense, but Yennefer’s mouth fixes over her, dirty as you please, and Geralt shouts, slapping her hands down onto the neutral ground of Yennefer’s stomach, needing something to keep her propped up.
Yennefer’s hands are on either side of Geralt’s ass, fingers digging in, keeping Geralt in place as she eats her out, tonguing her clit, circling around to flit down just underneath where it’s way, way too tender, but Yennefer doesn’t linger too long on any one spot too long to kick it over into too much.
And Geralt, god, Geralt is panting above her in no time, a matter of minutes, and Yennefer said she’d do this to Geralt, for Geralt, until she’s wet, and that time is approaching fast, much faster than Geralt thought it would. Not that she can really tell, given how much of Yenn’s saliva is getting all over her, into the crease of her thigh, in her pubic hair, but then Geralt thinks how it could be the combination of them, Geralt leaking down onto Yennefer’s face, and Yennefer breathing it in, spreading it around.
“Fucking hell,” Geralt hisses, and she loves this, she does, much more than she thought she would, but it’s getting to the point where she needs to come soon, Yennefer winding her higher and higher, but she won’t be able to while she’s too concious of the entire bulk of her, holding herself up over Yennefer.
“Okay you’ve proved your - your fucking point,” Geralt says, broken over a groan, and tries to climb off Yennefer, who makes a complaining sort of noise, but lets her go. Geralt doesn’t get off Yennefer so much as fall gracelessly to the side.
Geralt sneaks a wondering sort of hand down herself, over the sweat that’s starting to gather at the base of her ribcage, into the wet curls that trail from her lower belly to the tops of her thighs. She’s saturated.
“Mmmm,” Yennefer says, watching Geralt touch herself. She’s turned herself over, and is now crawling toward Geralt with hot jungle-cat eyes. The lower half of her face is shining, from her nose to her chin, and Geralt’s unoccupied hand reaches for her, smears her thumb across Yennefer’s lower lip so hard she can feel the imprint of each individual tooth. Then she sucks her thumb into her mouth, getting it clean. Yennefer groans.
“I like this look,” she says. Her fingers join Geralt’s at Geralt’s cunt, Geralt peeling herself wide while Yennefer plays with her, two flat fingers running up one side of Geralt’s cunt lips, then down the other. Geralt groans, takes her own hand away to - she doesn’t know what, maybe grab Yennefer, bring her closer, but Yennefer says, “Wait, I want to see what you look like, when you do this for yourself,” and Geralt’s breath hitches, and Yennefer adds, “I want to see what you like,” and who is Geralt to deny Yennefer a single thing that she wants.
“Okay, but you have to be closer, come closer,” Geralt says, a little shaky but mostly okay, and there’s one of Yennefer’s dozen pillows within easy reach, so she grabs it, folds it, and props it behind her head so she can see down her body to where Yennefer is situating herself properly, on her belly between Geralt’s spread thighs. Geralt can’t help herself, she slings one heavy thigh over Yennefer’s shoulder, knee crooked so her foot rests at about the small of Yennefer’s back, keeping Yenn pinned, just where Geralt wants her.
“But I still want you to touch me,” Geralt says, fingers returning to where she’s wettest.
“I honestly don’t think you could stop me,” Yennefer says, eyes fixed on where Geralt is rolling two fingers around her clit, and she’s - well, she’s too wet, actually, and has to wipe herself off on her thigh, unable to get enough friction.
“What do you want me to do?” Yennefer murmurs.
“What you were doing before was fine - is fine,” Geralt says. Is she blushing? Her face feels hot. They didn’t do this last time, they just rolled about on a mattress in a collapsed mansion, Geralt just fingerfucking Yennefer until she was screaming, pulling at Geralt’s hair until it hurt, until she couldn’t come any more and she ate Geralt out so viciously she left half-moon crescent indents on the outside of Geralt’s thighs.
“Perfect,” Yennefer says, her fingers returning to Geralt’s labia and then dipping inside, just. Not doing much, just feeling Geralt, circling around her hole, and Geralt watches Yennefer watch where she’s cleaved open for her.
And Geralt, she just - well, she just touches herself, the way she likes. Uncomplicated, reasonably hard, her pointer finger starting in larger circles before she gets closer and closer to the center of her clit, and she moves into it as she starts breathing harder and harder. When she starts bucking into her own hand, she takes Yennefer’s fingers deeper, and Yennefer curls them delightfully, and Geralt just keeps fucking herself in the rhythm she likes best. Then Yennefer’s thumb nudges where Geralt is most sensitive, right under her clit where she normally never goes, and Geralt thought she was on her way there, but suddenly she’s riding the edge, and she says, “Yes, Yen, keep going,” and Yennefer, bless her, doesn’t change a thing, she just crooks her fingers right inside Geralt, her thumb jammed against that spot, and Geralt takes one loud, tearing breath, then another, then says, “Oh, oh, Yen, yes,” and then Yennefer bites her, right on the inside of the thigh that’s over her shoulder, and she bites hard, enough for it to hurt even Geralt, and then Geralt comes like another building is coming down on their heads, inescapable and almost terrible.
“Fu-uck,” Geralt says, staring at the ceiling. Yennefer’s fingers are still inside her, and she curls her fingers, testing, but after Geralt’s knees reflexively slam shut, nearly boxing Yennefer’s ears, Yennefer quits, drawing back to sit on her haunches.
“Alright, alright,” she laughs, hands out in front of her, supplicating. Geralt can’t look away from how wet one of her hands are. She can feel something oozing out of her, and dripping down toward the bed. She doesn’t know if it’s sweat, or Yennefer’s spit, or her own fucking juices.
“Guess last time wasn’t a fluke,” Yennefer says, sounding unbearably smug.
“I think we should test it out more, though,” Geralt says, reaching for her by tumbling down directly on top of Yennefer, bringing them both back down flat onto the bed.
Yennefer laughs, but it stutters a little when Geralt reaches for her breasts, heaving them with both hands, pushing them down, around and together.
“These are lovely,” Geralt says, and raises her head to take one dark nipple into her mouth. She wonders if they were kept from whomever Yennefer was before Aretuza, or if their pet enchanter had moulded them, especially for her. Geralt supposes it doesn’t really matter; these perfect breasts belong to Yennefer now.
It’s only when Yennfer brings a hand up to cradle Geralt’s head, encouraging her to lavish the same attention upon her other breast, that Geralt moves on. She gives a contrary smile to Yennefer, who huffs as Geralt shimmies south, down Yennefer’s body, planting kisses in the hollows of her ribs, over her belly button, in the dip below her stomach, on the crease of each thigh.
When Geralt looks back up, her gaze travelling between Yennefer’s breasts to her face, Yennefer’s expression is quite unreadable, but she tucks a strand of Geralt’s white hair behind her ear in a tender gesture that would make Geralt’s heart thump double-time, if it could.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, witcher,” she says, “but had I never known you with your clothes off, I would not have guessed you capable of such gentleness.”
Geralt is definitely blushing now, she thinks. She ducks her face, settling on her stomach, spreading Yennefer’s legs so far her knees stick right out at her sides.
“And I am very glad to have known you in such a manner,” Yennefer continues.
Geralt starts eating Yenn out then, just to shut her up.
“Oh, you marvellous girl,” Yennefer says, arching up into Geralt’s mouth in a sinuous curve, so Geralt’s nose is fairly knocking against Yennefer’s pubic bone, so Geralt puts one large hand on Yennefer’s lower belly and pushes down, pinning Yennefer to the mattress. Her other hand cards through the thick curls on the outside of Yennefer’s cunt, peeling her shiny, wet lips apart so Geralt can dive deeper.
And, by Melitele, she smells amazing even at the core of her, at first musty and briny, but under that, the tang of sweat and old blood. It’s a heady cocktail, a secret only Geralt is privy to, and Geralt breathes it in as she lashes Yennefer’s clit with her tongue, fingers playing with Yennefer’s labia, until Yennefer says, demands, “Fuck me, please,” and who is Geralt to deny the most powerful mage this side of the Yaruga when she’s being so polite.
Yennefer’s wet too, and Geralt’s fingers actually slip against her, searching, until she can slip her fingers inside, and then it’s nothing but easy, Yennefer straining, the muscles under the hand Geralt’s using to hold her down are bunching and releasing, bunching and releasing, and if Geralt wasn’t using a good portion of her strength to pin her, Yennefer may have bucked Geralt right off.
Geralt doesn’t try anything fancy, just tries to get as much of her face into Yennefer as possible, sucking as hard as she can, tongue working overtime, setting a punishing pace as she works her hand in and out between Yenner’s thighs.
Yennefer takes longer to come, this time, until Geralt has to withdraw to catch her breath, kissing the edge of her cunt hair, nipping the the inside of her thighs, fucking her all the while, until Yennefer says, “Fuck, okay, I’m close, can you -” and Geralt reattaches her mouth to where Yennefer is swollen, blood-flushed, rubbing the flat of her tongue right over her. Yennefer comes with an exhalation of breath so forceful it almost sounds like a sob.
Geralt draws back, but she’s not done, and she doesn’t think Yennefer is either; Yennefer who likes to get fucked, not like Geralt, not really, so even as Yennefer tries to squirm away, bucking like a wild thing, Geralt just follows her down, fucking three fingers inside her now, pistoning with a wet, squelching sound. The hand that was pinning Yennefer gets busy with Yennefer’s clit, rubbing over her hard, harder than Geralt’s ever gone with another woman, until her wrist is in danger of cramping, fingers fucking flying, trying to keep Yennefer down as Yennefer, finally, gets louder and louder, cries spiralling higher, sounding almost pained, until Yennefer’s back draws tight like a bow string and she cries one last, final time, and she says, “Okay, okay, stop, no more,” and Geralt gentles but doesn’t let go under she gets one last full-body shudder.
Geralt falls back to her haunches to look at Yennefer. She’s flushed down to the tops of her breasts, her stomach is heaving, and Geralt can see the aftershocks running through her as her cunt is still rhythmically opening and closing. She’s wet, too, Geralt worked her so hard she’s splattered come everywhere, and it’s oozing viscously from the slightly gaping hole. Geralt is very proud of her efforts.
Yennefer’s got her arm flung over her face, trying to catch her breath. Geralt leans over her to lift her arm up and away. Geralt wants to call her darling, sweetheart, all kinds of honeyed things, but she wasn’t made for such beautiful sentiments, and they gum up in her mouth like sweet taffy. Like thick, sugary apricot jam. She settles for looking Yennefer in the face and raising a self-satisfied eyebrow.
Yennefer groans, pushing Geralt’s face away. “You look like a smug tabby cat,” she says. She feels around behind them until she grabs a pillow, which might have been the one Geralt was using earlier, fluffs it back into shape, and situates one half of it under her head.
“Come down here,” she says, and Geralt goes, laying her head on the other half. It’s the middle of the day, the sun is filtering in through the apple trees outside the window. The sheets are twisted around somewhere underneath them, and they may be laying crossways on the bed, actually. The fire still crackles. Yennfer curls onto her side, one knee coming up in some kind of twisted half-child’s pose. It looks horrifically uncomfortable, but Yennefer closes her eyes. Her face is so close to Geralt’s, Geralt inhales Yennefer’s every breath. Geralt can hear Yennefer’s heartbeat start to slow.
Geralt closes her eyes.