✤ : lacing your fingers into theirs and holding their hands ── @cerbin .
her touch was not something he took for granted easily. Perhaps, maybe not at all nowadays. All things considered ─ he knew better. He knew now what it was like to miss those fingers in his hair ; to miss them against his chest, to feel her close enough to have it. He looks at her then and the span of dying flora around them. The once green landscape fading into more gray and dull colors as their ride continued on. The one consistency in the last few weeks was her. And roach.
He turns his head when she falls to sit beside him. The fire burned faintly in front of them. A weak brush of heat against his gerkin and his boots. She takes his fingers first before he could get hers. Thumb stroking circles over her palm and then her knuckles. Tracing the shape of imaginary lines he could still see through the growing darkness. She didn’t scar like he did. She didn’t show the wear and tear that came with mortality like they do. She stayed quite the comely beauty he’d beg to forget whenever they would take their leave of each other’s company. With her haunting eyes and intoxicating scent.
Light fingers frame her neck and her jaw, tilting it back as he claimed her lips with his. Lilacs and gooseberry. Soft and warm to the touch. A quiet comfort to add to the thrill of the night. His for now. In the way it could only be his. And he parts, a mere few inches, with a slow drawn out smile.
send a symbol for a gentle touch / not accepting .
Yennefer tilts her head for Geralt’s probing pleasure. She looks at him out the corner of her eye. “Enjoying the view?” she asks. She’s had decades to grow accustomed to the stares, that outright near gawking at her enchanted body. However, she’s never noticed Geralt do it himself especially in this manner. She can detect his amber eyes switching between admiration and examination. What is he searching for?
The sensation of calloused fingertips over her delicate skin tickles wherever it goes. Geralt truly is a visual opposite to how the mage appears before him now. Her fingers once had callouses, too. Her muscles ached for so long she could hardly notice. A nose desensitized to the smell of pig shit everywhere. No one would believe her if she said she knew what hardship was, not with the fine silk fabrics she wears and detailed perception to appearance. She’ll let them think what they want and smile behind a hand or fan at how idiotic they sound. Everything about her has been crafted precisely to leave only a single trace behind of who she was before, but she doubts even her own mother could recognize her.
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