WOLVES WITHOUT TEETH ( geralt of rivia.. )

006. clandestine marrow..

Indeed, nothing could quite match the steam's impact on a cold traveller in the continent's long winter midst. Azaras almost melted as soon as, wrapped in a thin and hardly clean towel, she stepped into the actual baths. Luckily for them, or at least for Geralt's heart, this particular city had a history of holding nothing against orgies, so they never got around banning men and women sharing the same rooms in such facilities.

He cought an arm around her before she'd slip off buckled knees and down the slippery floors. Amongst mosaics of strong walls, stood columns of spiralling designs, of sirens drawn with depictions of the outside baths in lakes or rivers, as some stories and songs glorified the imagined vulgarity of. In heat, the place caught an orange aroma and the walls almost seemed golden.

No molded scent escaped the heat nor did ugliness manage to transcend the sound of low laughter, of quiet water splashing on the walls or floors, between the burning of some coal somewhere underneath some tables.

And there was privacy in public too, not just because their chosen time happened to be a quiet evening for the baths, but also because the columns to the sides of the room at which centered came a squared pool, formed compartments that from certain angles concealed whoever decided to sit on the polished stone benches drenched in water.

Heat licked their feet as a low little table held together molten coal. The scent was spirited with firewood and pleasant stings.

Azaras face was red and Geralt's hair already formed thick strands in its let down state, before they even sat down on one of those more private benches. First they sighed.

At their left, on Geralt's side, was a sink and a bucket. The sink only had hot water running and the bucket was only as big as his palm, but it was a perfect way of getting washed or having the blood pump faster.

"I'll give you a massage." Geralt did not offer. He announced.

He reached out for the little bowl and filled it with water, returning to the position of waiting for Azaras to get comfortable. She turned her back to him but in the process, her elbow knocked over his hand and all the hot water instead poured over his bare chest, pooling into the short towel he wore around his waist.

His grin growled and Azaras looked over her shoulder especially for it, along with the river flow going down pristine on all the brazes and the hairs, litte marks that made Geralt... well, it made him himself. Around his neck, forevermore, she glanced at that medallion.

With that image of his eyes rolling briefing, Azaras finally settled to turn around. Her towel was short too, too short to even remain underneath her while she sat, far less likely to stay put while she crossed her legs and pulled them to herself, to be able to sit on the bench, facing the wall. Instead, she undid the towel completely in what meant her back. She held it to her chest, brushing over her brests and covering her front. With one hand, she swept underneath her black of hair and gathered it on only one shoulder.

Geralt helped with that one part. He pushed one thumb on her bare skin, on the middle of her spine, twisted it slowly upwards, under her forgotten strands of darkness formed in thicker veins. He felt the smile on his own lips, the slowness of his heart at peace, all at the sight of her goosebumps, leaving even the scars she had gained to momentarily fade.

Azaras bowed her head forward. The red of her cheeks no longer belonged just for the warmth and for once, she felt like his silence could mean adoration as what he showed each time their bodies fell aligned. Little do you know, what you do to my heart, she shighed deeply while the strands have been pushed clear off her back.

A stream of hot water pulsed down her back and she arched forward in a little unexpected sigh of relief.

She did not realize just how cold she has been feeling until that water burned her back. Immediately after the ache came the soothing brush and pressure of Geralt's left hand, returning that sigh of hers into straightening up again.