summary: The Witcher becomes a palm reader.
of the start and the end
part two: a little touch
Yennefer's unsure of what's the true reason behind the warmth she feels. Geralt sits close enough his knee presses heavily and comfortably against hers while the fire licks violently at the logs she had collected. His hands are rough in hers, long fingers gentle in the way they handle her palms.
She can no longer hear Jaskier's snores as he disturbs the dark quiet of the night. The crackling of the fire drowns him out, determined to sing louder than their bard. It's for the best; she wouldn't be able to enjoy herself right now if he was awake.
She watches Geralt as he keeps his head bowed, silver strands of his hair almost glittering in the firelight.
"Did you know hands can tell you everything you need to know about a person?" His voice is a quiet, rough murmur. If she wasn't leaning so closely toward him, she doesn't think she'd have heard him with how loud the fire crackles and how softly he speaks.
Running her tongue along her teeth, she smiles at him. "Is that so?"
"Hm." His fingers brush over the back of her hand gently as if she were Roach, his most prized companion. His horse lingers in the dark, eating away her grass in peace.
"And what do my hands tell you?"
Lit by the firelight, he smiles as he keeps his head bowed. She ducks her head, wanting to see his golden eyes burn brilliantly. He keeps his face downcast, expression purposefully hidden from her.
But she doesn't need to see the small smile he wears or even how his messy, unkempt hair falls into his eyes like he's some soft boy. She can tell how he feels by the way his fingers gently glide along her own like stones skidding across the top of the coolest waters. He handles her delicately, but not like she's capable of smashing at the merest hard press.
Fingertips tracing the bone of her finger, his fingers kiss her nails gently. Turning her hand over, his touch is ticklish as it drifts across her lifelines like a feather. Yennefer may lick her lips quietly and feel her breathing grow shallow, but she can't spy how him touching her affects him. Geralt is always stone, unreadable and unbreakable, and while he often sinks to the bottom of any riverbed when thrown by someone else, he always floats for her.
"That you are powerful," he says, amused. "And that you enjoy the finer things in life. They also tell me that you want to bed me."
"Oh," Yennefer chuckles. "Is that so? And what part of my hand tells you that?"
Spying his tongue darting out to wet his lips, she watches as his smile almost becomes shy. Looking up at her, he sits taller and brings her hand with him. Pressing it against his chest, he makes her shuffle forward on her log until her knee is pressed between his legs.
"It can't stop touching me."
Yennefer smiles before she presses her lips together, refusing to allow him the luxury of seeing her teeth. "I think this hand teller is very off the mark."
His brow arches, lips curving upward. "Is that so?"
"Hm," she hums, nodding. "If the hand teller was telling the truth, my hand wouldn't be there."
"Oh," Geralt chuckles. "Where would it be?"
Yennefer smiles and keeps her gaze on his as she allows her hand to slide down his chest slowly to palm his crotch. "There."
"Hm." Geralt inhales deeply. Not allowing him to speak another word, she leans forward and kisses him.
notes.
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