not his soft, placating words. not the way he's always taken to this - when she's angry, and fired up, and ready to destroy the world. she supposes there is some logic to it, too; if she is so explosive, so unstable, a calming, gentle, placating tone would be what should calm it down. and she knows when she was younger it had worked, her need to have someone meet her rather than shrink away had overpowered what it was she'd been looking for.
but that isn't it, and maybe that's why she keeps digging. why she shoves the blade in between his ribs with those words. he flushes, and she knows she got it - that his pride is part of what this is all about. she doesn't blame him for that, either. if anyone was going to know what pride could push you to do, it would be her - and it has been. decisions made just so she could prove herself, bridges burned so she could make a point. she shoves the words into that space because she knows it will get to him, but it isn't because she wants to squash this, necessarily. doesn't want it to convince him.
no, what she wants is that frustrated tone, the way his words get sharper and sharper. it's this rise, this anger, the fact that he meets her here when she gets like this. the fact she's not alone in the intensity of this emotion in her chest. she knows istredd, better than most anyone can, and she knows what will hurt him. and then in that same breath, she knows he can take it, knows that he won't leave her here with this maelstrom in her chest.
a slow suicide she had once said, and she wasn't wrong. his focus is what drives him, his intense need to learn, to know, to uncover and to understand and to put back together again. yennefer did not have that patience, just as she will never have his mind, and while all she did was reiterate that very same perception, he would be the only one to know that the reason was her own frustrations. that he loves her, that she knows he loves her, and that she can't make that be enough.
yennefer crowds closer to him because she can, because his personal space has never really stopped her before. not after the nights they spent underground, not after he taught her to read minds. his mind.
they're things i thought you'd like.
his eyes are as vibrant blue as she remembers, and yennefer doesn't so much as flinch under the intensity of his gaze. they are close, they are so close, and yennefer is still so angry with him. an anger that spikes, dangerously, at the sound of his laugh. she can barely follow what it is he's saying to her, too - about her wanting him to be stronger, about her pushing him to face the world they were in, rather than losing himself in the years passed. she doesn't hear it, not really, not when she latches onto afraid and you know what to do.
his hand is on her cheek, the side of her face that had been so wrong before, that her ascension had removed for her and that she had thought she left so far behind (but it's never that far, not with how the horizon likes to remind her of everything she thought she left) and it's a belated realization of just how warm it is. and that makes her angry, too, the familiarity of it so warm that a part of her wants to jerk away.
she doesn't. instead, yennefer reaches out to grab the front of his tunic, both of her hands bunched tightly enough in the fabric that it's a wonder it doesn't rip under her hands. ] I am not afraid. [ she hisses, lying. knowing, too, that he can tell.
her eyes go to his mouth, then - whether it's subconscious, or a habit, or whatever - before they move up to his eyes again. she can feel his breath on her, how she still has to lean up ever so slightly to catch his eyes. she hates this, she hates him, but more than that she hates the simple fact she knows how much she doesn't. not really. ]
And if they take you, if this goes at all wrong- [ she will kill him. they both know it, both understand that she's capable of it. she's already promised geralt she would, a conversation they had ages ago.
but it's the mention of lucifer that does it. that jealous, territorial part of her surging forward, overwhelming her when she says: ] It will not be Lucifer who does it.
[ she jerks him forward, then, forcing him to lean down to meet her lips, to kiss her right in the middle of his room. her own answer to what she thinks, at least in this moment, about being 'free' of him. ]
no subject
not his soft, placating words. not the way he's always taken to this - when she's angry, and fired up, and ready to destroy the world. she supposes there is some logic to it, too; if she is so explosive, so unstable, a calming, gentle, placating tone would be what should calm it down. and she knows when she was younger it had worked, her need to have someone meet her rather than shrink away had overpowered what it was she'd been looking for.
but that isn't it, and maybe that's why she keeps digging. why she shoves the blade in between his ribs with those words. he flushes, and she knows she got it - that his pride is part of what this is all about. she doesn't blame him for that, either. if anyone was going to know what pride could push you to do, it would be her - and it has been. decisions made just so she could prove herself, bridges burned so she could make a point. she shoves the words into that space because she knows it will get to him, but it isn't because she wants to squash this, necessarily. doesn't want it to convince him.
no, what she wants is that frustrated tone, the way his words get sharper and sharper. it's this rise, this anger, the fact that he meets her here when she gets like this. the fact she's not alone in the intensity of this emotion in her chest. she knows istredd, better than most anyone can, and she knows what will hurt him. and then in that same breath, she knows he can take it, knows that he won't leave her here with this maelstrom in her chest.
a slow suicide she had once said, and she wasn't wrong. his focus is what drives him, his intense need to learn, to know, to uncover and to understand and to put back together again. yennefer did not have that patience, just as she will never have his mind, and while all she did was reiterate that very same perception, he would be the only one to know that the reason was her own frustrations. that he loves her, that she knows he loves her, and that she can't make that be enough.
yennefer crowds closer to him because she can, because his personal space has never really stopped her before. not after the nights they spent underground, not after he taught her to read minds. his mind.
they're things i thought you'd like.
his eyes are as vibrant blue as she remembers, and yennefer doesn't so much as flinch under the intensity of his gaze. they are close, they are so close, and yennefer is still so angry with him. an anger that spikes, dangerously, at the sound of his laugh. she can barely follow what it is he's saying to her, too - about her wanting him to be stronger, about her pushing him to face the world they were in, rather than losing himself in the years passed. she doesn't hear it, not really, not when she latches onto afraid and you know what to do.
his hand is on her cheek, the side of her face that had been so wrong before, that her ascension had removed for her and that she had thought she left so far behind (but it's never that far, not with how the horizon likes to remind her of everything she thought she left) and it's a belated realization of just how warm it is. and that makes her angry, too, the familiarity of it so warm that a part of her wants to jerk away.
she doesn't. instead, yennefer reaches out to grab the front of his tunic, both of her hands bunched tightly enough in the fabric that it's a wonder it doesn't rip under her hands. ] I am not afraid. [ she hisses, lying. knowing, too, that he can tell.
her eyes go to his mouth, then - whether it's subconscious, or a habit, or whatever - before they move up to his eyes again. she can feel his breath on her, how she still has to lean up ever so slightly to catch his eyes. she hates this, she hates him, but more than that she hates the simple fact she knows how much she doesn't. not really. ]
And if they take you, if this goes at all wrong- [ she will kill him. they both know it, both understand that she's capable of it. she's already promised geralt she would, a conversation they had ages ago.
but it's the mention of lucifer that does it. that jealous, territorial part of her surging forward, overwhelming her when she says: ] It will not be Lucifer who does it.
[ she jerks him forward, then, forcing him to lean down to meet her lips, to kiss her right in the middle of his room. her own answer to what she thinks, at least in this moment, about being 'free' of him. ]