November 2020 Drabble #1

The Witcher is so… adorable when he struggles. He visibly tries to be stoic, but the more he tries to snap the ropes tethering him to the posts of the bed, the more his mouth starts to twist, just shy of a snarl.

Yennefer watches him with a faint smile as she makes her way steadily around the edge of the bed. She’s not wearing shoes but she twines her finger through the air, causing a menacing click, click, click with every time her naked heels are hitting the cold stone floor.

“Yen-” Geralt warns with a menacing growl. The big bad wolf does not like being made into a helpless puppy, it seems. His nostrils flare as she comes to a stand next to him, probably scenting her perfume in the air. He struggles with the blindfold around his eyes the most, she assumes.

“Tut, tut. Easy now. It’s just a bit of rope, isn’t it?” She looks around while she speaks, searching for some inspiration. She finds it in the form of a fat, half-burned candle on the bedside table.

“This is no game. You reinforced these bonds. Stop it.” He tries so hard to sound like he has any modicum of sway over here, it is adorable.

Yennefer does not answer because that will infuriate him even more. Instead, she passes her palm over the fat candle, lighting it on fire. His nostrils flare again when he smells the smoke and the heat… or whatever. She’s not entirely sure what he can and can’t do. His senses are… extraordinary. She would love to study him more, but it would severely cut into her playtime.

He never sits still long enough for anything meaningful.

“Yen!” he barks again, his chest heaving. It really is impressive… A work of art, that one. She does wonder about it sometimes. How he would look without his special… training. Whether he, too, had been beneath the hands of a wizard ripping the ugly right out of him. Yennefer’s smile falters some at the thought of that. She extends her arm, a satisfactory amount of wax having gathered around the flame.

“Brace yourself.” It’s a fair warning, even if she speaks it as she is already twisting her wrist, giving him barely a second to process her words before the first fat drip of wax hits his belly.

Geralt cries out, his whole body jerking so hard that she winces and then laughs.

“Ouch.”

“YENNE-”

“Easy now. Almost pulled that shoulder out of its socket; and we don’t want to have that, now, do we? Not this time. I think I found a fun game for us to play today…”

“Get me OUT of here!”

“No.” She twists her wrist again, dripping wax into the thick trail of fur beneath his belly button just because she can and she enjoys the thought of him thinking of her and cursing her existence when he has to get the dried wax out of there later. “Your little bard friend is downstairs getting the masses hot for you and looking for a nice wet pastime himself. We have all the time in the world, and I intend to use every second of it.”

She leans down and presses her fingertip to his nipple. It is icy cold to the touch.

The Witcher roars again.