I'm going to write this before the pledge total changes anymore (preview)

As a Witcher, Geralt was always aware of his surroundings. He was in the basement underneath a tavern, though after the recent blow to the head, he felt like he was careening up north of the moon. 

The basement held, in addition to sporadic posts supporting the dance floor upstairs, a backlog of beer barrels and bottles of wine, as well as other supplies tucked away down here to await their use. There were as well a number of cots, in case a miracle occurred and all the tavern’s rooms were sold out, but the public still craved to spend their coin here. It was a state Geralt had indulged in when circumstances conspired against him and he was damned sick of camping. The innkeeper there had stressed that he had a full inventory of his spirits, and if any was found missing, the price would be split among all the boarders whether they’d drunken or not, so it was in everyone’s best interest to see to it no one indulged themselves selfishly.

That tavern was probably still standing. This one had collapsed, its rubble bending the floorboards downward, packing the light layer of flooring that should’ve been open and airy. A portion of the basement had caved in, allowing sections of wall and roof to slide down from upstairs, and allowing in an ample helping of light that shed its glow even into the shadowed area of the tavern, where all the weight overhead tried to squash illumination.

The maelstrom of the djinn hovered in the gaping hole left by the destruction of both the floor and ceiling, blotting out much of the sunlight with the insubstantial smoke of its body. Yennefer was still trying to subdue the thing, break it in like a rowdy horse, but she had been driven to her knees by the effort, her careful composure now sweaty and weak-kneed. He could see the djinn gaining in forcefulness, its energy sweeping aside Yennefer’s attacks like a rock would bat aside the tide. The sorceress had insisted she could bring the creature down, but if she could, it would be as the surf wore down a stone, and neither of them had that kind of time.

One wish still remained to it. With it enacted, the djinn would be powerless, dispelled. But as the wild horse would try to kick those who dared for its taming, the djinn would use what remained of its energy to take revenge on Yennefer, and Geralt would not see that happen, for reasons too numerous for him to sort out the prime. He owed her for Dandelion’s life. She had impressed him with her wits and willfulness. She was beautiful, in the bittersweet way of the sorceress’s corrections.

Even in the midst of combat, bedraggled and worn, Yennefer was beautiful. Her sculpted face, even if it masked that which she was born with, had been crafted with a master artisan’s touch, Yennefer aware of exactly how she wished to appear and exactly the effect she wished to convey. Her dress torn, her primness stripped away, she was even more alluring. He could see all of the will backing her lighter actions, and the ferocity with which she pursued her goals at all costs. Before, for all her preening, she’d reminded him of some show pony, her body a trophy of her own magical talent, and displayed with the same self-satisfaction. Now she was an animal cornered, cunning and fierceness pushed to the limit, and that feral drive shared space in her bright eyes with the same heady intelligence she had always possessed. It made her far more attractive than her spells ever could.

The only thing that could save her from the djinn’s vengeance was if her destiny were tied to his, making it impossible for the djinn to attack her without breaking its covenant with him. To the outsider’s eyes, harming one destined to be with him would be no difference from severing a hand or plucking out an eye—verboten. 

He could plainly wish for her to fall in love with him, or bear his child, or something equally obvious. It would be the simplest of methods and Geralt doubted he would mind her company very much. But even if he were cur enough to claim a woman’s bed by such brusqueness, she was a sorceress, and powerful even for one of her breed. Her cleverness would overcome any love spell in little time, and she would take revenge for the disrespect given her. Though perhaps if he convinced her it was to save her life, she would let him off with a light flaying.

No, there was only one tack to take. She wouldn’t like it, but she would like death even worse.

“Genie!” Geralt called, his gruff voice filling the room, dwarfing the exchange of energies and stratagems that had seemed so loud up until now. “I wish that every time I thrust into Yennefer, she would be brought to orgasm!”