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asweetprologue · 3 years

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@sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo

Prompt: Date Night Relationships: Geralt/Jaskier Rating: Gen Content Warnings: None Summary: Geralt ask Jaskier to go to the Yule festival with him. Jaskier misunderstands his intentions. ao3

“There’s a festival happening tonight.”

Jaskier looked up from where he was working on his latest composition. Geralt was leaning against the doorway to his bedchambers, which Jaskier tended to use as a study as well so that he could reserve the main space for entertaining. He took a moment to set down his quill and wipe his sweaty palm on his trousers. It was almost overly warm in the room, the fire blazing at full height to fight back against the chill of his outward facing chambers. The single, tiny window above his desk ran with moisture, the frost melted away by the heat of the room.

“Yes,” he answered, turning in his plush chair to face Geralt fully, one ankle coming up to cross over his knee. “There’ll be a procession at sunset starting at the main gate, to light the lanterns. And then dancing and such in the main square. Typical Yuletide celebrations.” As he spoke, Jaskier allowed himself to observe Geralt in full, briefly sweeping a glance over his companion. It was exceptionally rare for them to spend winters together; Geralt almost always chose to spend the colder months in Kaer Morhen with his brothers, while Jaskier returned to civilization. This year they had been deep in southern Sodden when the first snows unexpectedly hit, and by the time they’d made it back to Redania they’d received word from Vesemir that the pass to Kaer Morhen was closed. Jaskier had been offered a position teaching for the winter semester, along with a fairly lucrative retainer with a local lordling, so he’d offered Geralt a place to crash while they waited for the witchering season to start up again.

The downtime suited Jaskier’s companion nicely. Geralt’s hair was pulled back into a customary knot behind his head, but it was clean and soft looking, free of dirt and monster guts. His skin shone in the firelight, and the dark circles that always seemed smudged beneath his eyes were faded after weeks of consistent rest and food. He’d taken to walking around without his armor on, content after a few days with the knowledge that Oxenfurt was populated by nothing more threatening than overenthusiastic academics. At the moment he was wearing a pair of old black trousers and a dark blue shirt that stood out against his white skin like a splash of wine on a silk tablecloth. It had cost Jaskier a small fortune, but it was worthwhile to see it clinging to Geralt’s shoulders.

He looked good. Jaskier felt his cheeks heat up as he realised he’d been staring. Snapping back to the conversation at hand, he realized that Geralt had been speaking.

“- if you wanted to.”

“Sorry, what?” Jaskier asked, blinking. Geralt rolled his eyes, used to Jaskier’s lapses in attention. The motion carried annoyance, but when his eyes fell on Jaskier again there was fondness in them.

“I asked if you’d planned on attending. Seems like the kind of thing you’d be working.” Strong arms crossed over a broad chest, stretching the dark fabric across thick biceps. Jaskier swallowed.

“Ah, well, typically I would indeed be regaling the crowds with my sonorous melodies. But considering I had company, I thought it might be better to leave myself, uh.” He cut himself off, feeling suddenly exposed in the admission. While he had taken the time off initially hoping he might be doing something with Geralt, he hadn’t truly expected the witcher to want to do more than maybe get drunk on overpriced Redanian wine. “Well. You’re here, after all,” he finished lamely.

Geralt blinked at that, something odd crossing his face before he looked away. Staring at the fire across from Jaskier, he said, “You could still go.”

Something was off about his tone - overly flat, which he only did when he was trying to muffle some kind of emotion. What it could be, Jaskier had no earthly idea. Confused, he said, “Well, I wouldn’t want to leave you all by yourself on Yule, Geralt. That wouldn’t make me a very gracious host! I’m entirely content to spend the evening with you here, if that’s what you would prefer.” And he was, truly. While he typically spent Yuletide amongst the people, dancing and singing and visiting with friends, he imagined it would be just as rewarding to spend the evening with Geralt, in the cramped comfort of his quarters. The two of them tipsy on ale and spirits, sitting before the fire, trading stories back and forth like they usually did on the road. Cuddled beneath a blanket, pressed up against each other despite the warmth of the hearth, drink making Geralt’s face flush as it almost never did…

Yes, Jaskier imagined he would be perfectly content to spend the evening right here.

Geralt let out a frustrated huff. “I mean, we could go. If you want. I - We should go. Together.”

It was choppy work, even for Geralt. He still refused to meet Jaskier’s gaze, staring with absolute focus at the fire. His shoulders were braced, tense as if waiting for a blow. It was baffling.

“Well, of course, if you’d like to go I’m amenable to that,” Jaskier agreed. “More than, actually. It’s great fun, you’ll see.”

Geralt finally turned to look Jaskier in the eye. A shiver traveled down his spine at the intensity there, but then again, that was how he often felt under that golden gaze. “Together,” Geralt said again.

“I wouldn’t want to go with anyone else,” Jaskier said with a dismissive wave, laughing a little. It was typical to attend the festivities with a spouse or sweetheart, but he’d not taken a paramour of any kind in several months, and nothing serious in years, if he was honest. His attention was unfortunately captured elsewhere. He spared a single moment to mourn the private evening he’d envisioned with Geralt, but he was already warming to the idea of attending the festivities. He’d already shown the witcher around Oxenfurt, but it was exciting to think of showing the city off again in a new light. Geralt had probably not attended many Yule festivals, he realized, having always spent the winters in the mountains. Something released in his chest even as his stomach dropped in disappointment as he realized Geralt probably didn’t even recognize the romantic implications of his offer.

Geralt, at least, looked relieved. The tension dropped from his shoulders, and he gave Jaskier a soft smile. Jaskier’s traitorous heart skipped in his chest, and Geralt’s grin suggested that it may have been audible. Jaskier wasn’t sure what to do with himself, hands fluttering across his desk to meaninglessly straighten papers and notes. “Good,” Geralt said, the grin softening back into that disorienting smile. “I’m assuming you’ll want to change.”

“Ah, yes, can’t very well go out in this,” Jaskier agreed, still feeling slightly unmoored.

“Of course,” Geralt said seriously, but his eyes danced with mirth. “I’ve got some things to do in the market before the stalls close. Meet you at the gate at sunset?”

“Perfection,” Jaskier said, and Geralt nodded before peeling himself off of the doorframe and disappearing into the other room. A moment later Jaskier heard the telltale sound of the exterior door opening and closing, the rusty hinges creaking. He sat for a moment in the empty room, going over the encounter in his mind and trying to determine what had made it feel so off.

“Strange,” he said to himself, and began packing up his things. He had a festival to prepare for.

***

Dressed appropriately in his finest woolen tunic and the thick fur lined cloak Geralt had gifted him the previous year, Jaskier set out from his abode to meet Geralt. An hour or so had passed since their conversation, and the sun was lying low and languorous on the edge of the horizon. Its dying light rippled across the Pontar where it split around the island, the light layer of snow that covered the landscape transformed into gold dust. Already he could see the crowd gathering on the far side of the bridge, led by the priestess of Melitele, returning from the temple outside of the city. Jaskier stood inside the city gates, scanning the faces around him for familiar features.

After a few moments he saw him - highlighted against the backdrop of the setting sun, his hair turned to fiery gold in the dying light. Geralt smiled when they made eye contact, and immediately began to push his way through the crowd towards Jaskier. He too had dressed for the weather, his own wool cloak muffling his form. As he stepped into Jaskier’s space, he said, “You ready?”

Jaskier had the feeling that he didn’t know exactly what he should be ready for, but he nodded anyway. “They’re just beginning,” he said, waving towards the group approaching on the bridge. It was slow going, the procession stopping every few meters to wait while the priestess lit the lanterns lined up along the walls. They would be at it for the next hour at least, making their way around the circumference of the city to light the protective lanterns and then returning to the bridge, where the large crowd would release their own floating lanterns to carry their prayers for the new year to Melitele.

“There’s music in the square,” Geralt said, and Jaskier could just barely hear it as well. Normally he would be amongst the performers, but tonight he was there as the audience.

“The flutist is off key, I can tell already,” he said with a grin, though he could hear no such thing from this distance. Geralt huffed out a laugh and took Jaskier’s arm, just above the end of his glove. Geralt’s fingers were bare, his witcher metabolism keeping him warm enough without them, and they were a cold shock against the skin of Jaskier’s wrist. He let himself be led into the square, which was packed with people. Tables had been set up with food and drink around the edges, while the far side was dominated by a low stage. In the center, couples and groups danced, circling each other in common folk movements. The tune was jaunty and fun, a lively song to help fight back against the dark that threatened the edges of the gathering. Defiant in the best of ways.

“I don’t suppose you know any of the local dances?” Jaskier asked, already knowing the answer. Geralt confirmed it with a shake of his head. “Well then be a dear and get us some ales, hmm? We can still watch.”

Geralt, for once, did as he was bid without comment, probably just as interested in the alcohol as Jaskier was. He found them a spot to stand near the mouth of an alley, where he hoped the noise of the crowd would be a bit reduced. Geralt was sometimes bothered by the bustle and murmur of a large group of people.

Geralt rejoined him shortly, offering him a mug of mulled wine. Jaskier took a grateful sip, feeling the hot liquid settle in his gut and warm him from the inside out. It was very good - spicy and strong, just how he liked it. Geralt hummed appreciatively when he took his own drink.

They stood watching for a while, Jaskier making the occasional snide comment about a bad dancer or an overplayed tune if he thought it would make Geralt laugh. And it did, more often than not; Geralt was open and affectionate this evening, leaning down to whisper conspiratorially in Jaskier’s ear as they watched a couple sneak away from the dancefloor. Jaskier laughed into his glove, quickly beginning to feel light and soupy from the drink.

“I know this one,” Geralt said suddenly, drawing his attention back to the band. It was a slightly slower song, a couple’s dance. Bright gold eyes turned in Jaskier’s direction. “Want to dance?”

Jaskier gaped. “With you?”

Geralt’s eyebrow quirked upwards, betraying only exasperation. “Don’t see anyone else here making an offer.”

“Well, you - I - Alright,” he said, finally, swallowing his confusion. Geralt offered a hand, and Jaskier accepted.

They moved out towards the dancers, Jaskier feeling his heart rise in his throat. When they reached the edge of the pack, Geralt turned and gave Jaskier a short bow, overly formal for the setting. With an incredulous laugh, Jaskier returned the motion, and when he raised his head again Geralt was in his space, hands coming up to rest lightly on his waist.

It shouldn’t have been able to take his breath away so easily, but it did.

The motions of the dance were simple, basic circular pathways as they stepped out and back in together. Their hands never parted, but every time the steps pulled them apart Jaskier found himself missing Geralt’s warmth beside him. Slowly, the tempo picked up speed, until they were twisting and whirling around without pause. When the song ended, Jaskier was panting for breath. Geralt looked winded himself, though his chest rose and fell at the same rate it always did.

They made their way off the dance floor once again, ceding their spot to another couple. Geralt’s arm curled around Jaskier’s waist and he leaned into the touch, feeling more drunk than he should be. “You’re good at that, witcher,” he said, accusatorily. “I could have been taking you dancing all this time! How many balls have we been to?”

Geralt flushed faintly, the color staining his ears a fetching red. “The Wolf witchers use techniques that are similar to some dances,” he said. “The pacing, some of the moves, are familiar.”

“I’m never going to let this go,” Jaskier warned as they shuffled back towards the mouth of their alleyway. “You’re going to have to dance with me at every festival, ball, and banquet we ever attend from now on.”

Geralt smirked at him. “I don’t know that I mind.”

And what was that supposed to mean? Jaskier felt a flush spread down his cheeks, his throat, even his chest felt warm. Geralt didn’t mind dancing? Or didn’t mind dancing with Jaskier? Panicked, he said, “I’m going to get us more drinks!”

By the time he returned with more warm wine, he had managed to wrestle his emotions back into place. He passed Geralt one of the mugs, giving him a wide grin that he hoped would cover for his accelerated heartbeat.

As they drank, Jaskier found himself at a loss for words. He was happy to be here, truly. It was always enjoyable to spend time with the object of his affections, but at the same time, he felt something cold settling in his stomach that the wine could not touch. He glanced at Geralt out of the corner of his eye, watching the other man observe the dancers. His hair was in slight disarray from the dancing, his cheeks still slightly flushed, and Jaskier wanted him so badly it felt like a wound. He wished he could lace their fingers together as other couples around the square were. Wished he could sit in Geralt’s lap and feed him sweetmeats and honey cakes as the festivities melted away around them. It was difficult to be so close, and yet so far from what he actually desired.

Geralt glanced over at him, and something in Jaskier’s face must have betrayed his sudden turn into maudlin, because he didn’t look away. “Should we go?” Geralt asked, concern drawing his brow together.

Jaskier cursed himself, plastering on another smile. “No, no, dear heart, I’m enjoying myself plenty. The lanterns will probably be lit soon, don’t you think? Maybe we should go find ourselves a spot before the crowd arrives.”

Geralt nodded, still looking a bit worried. It was flattering, that he was clearly concerned about whether Jaskier was having a good time, but it only made him feel more wistful. Not looking to see if his friend was following, Jaskier began to pick his way out of the square, doing his best not to jostle any of the other partygoers. Geralt dogged him like a shadow, and they both emerged some minutes later in the silvery moonlight of the river walk.

Already Jaskier could see the bridge, some ways away to their left, dotted with lantern lights. The procession had made its way back. He stepped up to the edge of the river, leaning against the low wall that held the city back from its edge. Geralt stayed a step or two behind him, arms crossed against the chill. “This will be a good spot,” Jaskier said, leaning over the railing to point. “They’ll release them there, so we should be able to see them as they go up.”

“They do this every year?” Geralt asked, voice a low rumble. Now away from the noise of the crowd, it shook Jaskier’s bones.

He nodded. “For the last, hmm, thirty years, I think? The lanterns carry wishes, you see, requests for Melitele. They go up into the heavens, and when they come down they carry her blessing. So they say.”

“Hmm,” Geralt replied. They stood together in silence as the little pinpricks on the bridge became a sea of candlelight, and slowly, one by one, began lifting up into the air. Soon the sky was awash with golden sparks, hovering above them.

Jaskier leaned against the wall, watching the lanterns make their way skyward. “Wish I’d thought to make one ahead of time,” he said wistfully, watching their lights twinkle in the darkness. “I didn’t know we’d be -” He turned to look at Geralt, who was rummaging around in his bag. “What are you doing?”

With a triumphant huff, Geralt found what he was looking for. He presented it to Jaskier with a sheepish looking grin, an unusually bashful look for the witcher. In his palm was a small square of paper and wood, maybe half the size of the other lanterns being set loose from the bridge. “I found someone selling them earlier,” he said, setting the little thing on the ledge of the wall in front of them. “Thought you might want to join in.”

Jaskier clapped his gloved hands together, delighted. “Oh, it’s just adorable,” he said, feeling his grin pull at his cold cheeks. He picked the thing up, cradling it delicately in his cupped hands. The paper sides were decorated with a floral pattern - tulips, or maybe buttercups. Jaskier reached forward towards Geralt. “Would you light it for me?”

Geralt reached out and snapped, the clean sound cutting through the still air. Immediately the paper in Jaskier’s hands began to warm, the little lantern glowing merrily. Carefully, Jaskier made his way to the edge of the river wall and leaned over the side, letting the lantern rest on his flat hands as it grew lighter. After a moment, it lifted gently off of his palms and started to drift skywards.

Geralt stepped up to join him, their shoulders pressing together as they leaned against the railing, watching their little lantern float up to join the sea of others. A wave of golden light blanketed the city, giving the river an otherworldly glow as it reflected the sky. Jaskier sighed happily, allowing Geralt’s constant warmth to wash over him. He turned to comment on the spectacle, but his words died on his lips as he found Geralt already looking at him. The warmth of the lanterns reflected in his eyes as well, making them glow with their own light in the darkness. Jaskier’s breath caught in his throat, his cheeks warming.

“This was nice,” Geralt said, his voice pitched low. The rumble of it sent a shiver up Jaskier’s spine. They were so close together, and Jaskier found himself turning into Geralt’s heat like a flower to the sun.

“Y-yes,” he stuttered, a beat too late. “It’s always a pleasure to spend an evening with you, my friend.”

Geralt hummed, a distracted noise, and lifted his bare hand up to Jaskier’s jaw. “Oh,” Jaskier said, surprise and confusion and clamouring hope blossoming in his chest, and then Geralt was kissing him.

It was a chaste little thing, but Jaskier felt himself light up at the touch. His own hands came up to grasp Geralt’s hips, the gloves or the shock making him clumsy. Geralt hummed again, a wickedly satisfied sound that made Jaskier shudder embarrassingly. He tasted like mulled wine and cinnamon, the taste lingering on Jaskier’s lips as they pulled away.

He stared at Geralt for a moment before clearing his throat. “What, erm. What was that for?”

Geralt gazed at him fondly, a thumb skating over Jaskier’s cheekbone. He knew it must be warm to the touch. “I wanted to,” he said, shrugging. “And it’s the customary way to end a romantic outing, I’m told.”

Jaskier blinked at him. “Romantic outing?”

Geralt’s head tilted to the side, giving Jaskier a confused look. “What did you think this was?”

“Oh,” Jaskier said again. “Oh!” He pulled a hand away from Geralt’s side to slap over his own forehead, feeling both extraordinarily foolish and giddy. “God’s above, this was a date?”

Geralt’s expression shuttered slightly, and his fingers slipped from Jaskier’s cheek to his shoulder. “You didn’t realize.”

Jaskier leaned forward, desperate to wipe the nervous look from Geralt’s face. He wrapped his own hands around Geralt’s neck, squeezing the base of his skull slightly. “I’m sorry, dearest, I didn’t, but I am delighted. Ecstatic, overjoyed, elated, euphoric, exultant -”

Geralt laughed, cutting him off. “Alright, I get it. You’re happy.”

“More assuredly so,” Jaskier agreed, grinning. He felt lighter than he had in years, floating on a bubble of joy. “Though I will say, we will probably need to go on another ‘romantic outing’ to be sure we do it right. I won’t have our first real date be one I wasn’t even aware of.”

Geralt leaned back in, his lips ghosting over Jaskier’s. The bard shivered, anticipation making his breath come faster. “I don’t know that I would mind that either,” he said, and then his lips found Jaskier’s once again. Jaskier laughed into the kiss, and knew that there would be many more chances for the perfect date to come.

#geraskier #the witcher #witcher #geraltxjaskier #geralt/jaskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #geralt #fan fiction #fanfiction #fic #my work #witcher fic #sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo #sugar and spice #s&s

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faetxlity · 2 years

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How To Make Mistakes (such as friendships and lovers)

Summary:

Kolgrim of the Vipers had every intention of walking the path alone, doing his job well, and retiring to a ditch where perhaps one of the young Witchers would find his medallion and no one would remember him particularly fondly for anything. It was a good plan. A great old plan actually. Trust a Griffin and a Bear to fuck it right up.

@save-a-witcher-bingo Prompt: Free Space

He met the Bear first, on an autumn night that was as clear as a mountain stream. Kolgrim fell asleep under the stars and woke to a curse and a boot in his ribs. “Hells- I didn’t see you!”

Kolgrim groaned and sat up, “Are you too tall to watch your feet?”

“Sorry, what are you sleeping so close to the path for anyway? Bringing new meaning to snake in the grass, aren’t you?” Kolgrim stood, half expecting a fight and resigned to it.

“I’ll move.” he said.

“No no, I’m sorry. I’m Sindri, you’ve got a good spot here. I was looking to bed down for the night.” The man rubbed the back of his neck, “I’ll move on.”

With a long suffering sigh Kolgrim shook his head. “Room for two.” He gestured at the soft expanse of grass. The Bear, Sindri, didn’t hesitate to take the offer.

“What’s your name?”

He could have stayed quiet. Let it be a night no one remembered in three years.

“Kolgrim.” He told the stars.

He met the Griffin some months later in a tavern where Kolgrim lost several crowns more than fair on a meal flavored with spit.

“Well, it’s good to see a brother.”

The Witcher was as broad as a wagon and he took the seat across from the Viper with an easy smile.

“Can I get you a drink?”

“Shouldn’t. The ale’s worse than Piss and the only spice they’ve got is spit.”

“Ah. Well, how about a companion and some rations? I’m Agravain of the Griffins.” His armor was nice, well cared for but far from shining. Perhaps his company wouldn’t be too bad at all.

“Kolgrim.”

“Well met my friend. Do you play dice?”

The second time he met Sindri was in the sewers below Cintra. He’d been slogging through for quite some time when splashes alerted him to something fast approaching. He pulled his silver sword and brought it up. He pulled back just in time, the edge of the sword resting against the Bear’s neck. A single finger came up to push it away, revealing a long silver scar quite close to where the blade had stopped.

“Oh hey! It’s you!” Never before had anyone seemed quite so happy to see him; not even his own mother. “So, it’s funny that you’re here cause the problem has been dealt with! Good news right?

"How far is it to the surface because we really need to go?”

“What?”

“Time bombs- we have time but not a lot-“ the walls shook and the Bear winced. “I might have misjudged. How fast can you run?”

One big hand clasped his shoulder and turned him around before he could get another word out, “Run!” and they were running.

They reached the Sun just as the ground rumbled beneath them and their ears rang with the explosion.

Someone was laughing.

Kolgrim was amazed to find that it was him.

The second time he met the Griffin he wondered if perhaps the Bear’s antics hadn’t rattled him more than he first thought. Though Sindri had assured him that they were both quite alright after an evening of drinks.

It was a turn of brilliant or horrid luck that landed Kolgrim playing guard dog for a minor Redanian noble. Agravain approached him with a hand outstretched. “My friend! I see they’ve brought you into the fold as well!” Golden eyes were blown wickedly wide behind a half mask made of bronze.

“Are you alright, Agravain?” He clasped the man’s outstretched hand, for otherwise he feared a hug was fast approaching.

“I am wonderful.” The Griffin grinned, leaning close. “There’s a potion- here I have another bottle” He began to pat down his chest in search of the mysterious potion while his eyes strayed to the chandeliers. “It makes the lights look amazing, like the dancing sky.”

“Oh dear.” He whispered, “You’re as high as a Kestrel, aren’t you?”

“Certainly. It makes these functions much more interesting.” Two ladies in skirts as wide as they were tall bustled past, pausing just long enough for the Griffin to bow and offer them a greeting forty years out of style. They covered their mouths as they giggled and curtsied.

“Aha! Here it is!”

“Give me that!” He hissed, snatching the vial before anyone could see. Agravain looked joyous for a fleeting moment, before the vial disappeared into his coat at which he seemed crestfallen. It should not have been cute. It was adorable.

“Come on, you can stand here and watch all the lights while looking the part of dashing knight while I actually work.” He steered the man toward the balcony and set him up just inside by a column. “The paragon of chivalry and poise my ass.“

“It’s a good one.”

He would not be amused.

Not until two days later with the Griffin’s form shrinking in the distance and the potion in his pocket a promise to meet again.

The third time that they met, it was both of them at once in a Temerian jail cell. He stumbled in and was met with matching cat-slitted eyes, burnished gold and goldenrod. Kolgrim groaned. Fate truly was a cruel jester.

“Kolgrim!” Came the echoed greeting, followed by a long pause as the Witchers stared at each other.

“This is your Viper?” Agravain asked.

“Excuse me I’m not anyone’s-“

“Yeah, but you didn’t say he was yours!”

“I really don’t think this is helpful. Nor did I realize that you were planning a joint attack on my sanity.” He took a seat, resigned to the evening he’d been sentenced to, though his lips twitched.

“You like us.” Sindri said. “I don’t know why you pretend that you don’t.”

“Honestly you should travel with us, share mead and perhaps some warmth. You seem to come across our paths often enough.”

They were both earnest and it was confusing as it was terrifying. They hardly knew him and yet they wanted him to travel with them? Them? Who had apparently known each other so long as so converse about his sparse encounters and to lay in a cell with their heads rested against each other? It was insanity.

But the craziest part was the ‘yes’ that sat on the tip of his tongue.

Best to set them straight now and save himself the disappointment.

He placed his hands on his knees and gave his best refusal for the thing that he wanted. “I’m cursed. Have been since birth.” He picked at the loose threads of his pants. “Wherever I go, whatever I do, no matter the steps that I take, something goes wrong.”

“Nonsense.” Agravain murmured at the same time Sindri said, “So that’s how you’ve gotten stuck with us.” Agravain swat at the Bear but to no end.

“Every fortune bestowed upon me is ruined threefold and I find that it would, somehow, pain me greatly if either of you were caught in such a mess on my behalf.” Agravain came to kneel in front of him, Sindri followed.

“What if you let us decide what we are willing to go through? Hm?” Agravain pried his hand off his knee to hold it between two of his own. “What do you say?”

“I-“ the guard slammed his hand against the metal gate and Kolgrim faltered. Sure that his luck had been tested enough. Heedless of his anxieties Sindri stood and walked toward the door with a pleasant smile.

“We’re having a conversation here,” he drawled “if you wouldn’t mind moving along?” One massive paw landed on the bars hard enough to rattle them in the stone. The guard fled. “Thank you!” The bear called jovially.

Kolgrim felt a smile come on despite himself, he fought it down but it was a hard battle only won by hiding his face. Sindri took his place back and grinned. “So I believe you were gonna tell us that you’re happy to accept our affections?”

“Or friendship.” Agravain was quick to add.

This was all quite new and overwhelming, to simply have two people to talk to. Two people who wanted his company so badly they would risk jail or worse for him. To have two Witchers vie for his … attentions … was inconceivable. Yet here they were.

Ivar would kill him; or he’d laugh himself to death in a fit. Kolgrim was no longer sure.

“I think that would be agreeable.” Agravain smiled, small and sweet, pleased. Sindri broke into a boyish grin that highlighted just how young he was- a man by the continent’s standards but a child in his big heart.

Yes, he could get used to these men.

“Friendship. And perhaps your affections after a time.”

Sindri, the fool, whooped and leapt to his feet.

The Griffin smiled and shook his head, looking to Kolgrim as though they were sharing a joke. Perhaps they were.

Affections.

Yes, he feared those would prove just as difficult to avoid. He had no plans to try very hard.

#witcher fic #the witcher #witcher kolgrim #witcher oc #my writing #save a witcher bingo

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sometimesiwrite · 3 years

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Sick of This

A/N: Modern AU inspired by a random piece of dialogue from TW2 (Roche’s Path) in Vergen when Geralt and Zoltan speak with Yarpen and Burdon (I think). We hear a story about how Geralt took care of Triss while they were travelling together and she had a horrendous illness. I’m working with hybrids of these characters, but primarily drawing on game dynamics with a bit of book influence for Yennefer and some Netflix influence for Triss.

Summary: Geralt and Yennefer are in town for a an important political dinner when Geralt learns that their friend, Triss is down for the count with a terrible stomach flu. With some time to spare, he visits her, intending to stay a short while, but her condition worsens to the point where Geralt feels he can’t leave. Internal and inter-personal conflict arises as Geralt vies to skip dinner in favour of caring for a friend in need. tl;dr: Going through a relationship rough-patch (again) and realizing you might have feelings for a close friend makes for a difficult night.

Characters/pairings: Geralt x Triss; Geralt x Yennefer; Yennefer x Istrid; Jaskier

Warnings: Infidelity, verbal abuse/toxic partnership, detailed descriptions of vomiting/severe nausea/stomach pain.

MASTERLIST

Triss looked down at the illuminated screen of her phone: “In town for a few days,” the text read. “Long story. Yen has a work thing. Anyway, let me know if you want to grab a drink.” The number didn’t belong to a name in her contacts—but then again, Geralt’s number never did. Every few months, he’d get a new pay-as-you-go so that old clients wouldn’t try to contract him under the table. It only took two calls from the same tight-assed, penny-pinching hypocrites who’d tried to low-ball him on his first case to make him realize an ever-changing phone number was a good idea. So: burner phones. As a nice added bonus, it made it harder for the Redanian Secret Service to keep tabs on him which meant a little more… investigative freedom when push came to shove. The few people he ever contacted regularly—Triss, Yennefer, Eskel, Lambert, Jaskier (Vesemir didn’t text)—never bothered putting his number in their contacts. By the time they got around to updating his number, he was changing it within a few weeks anyway. Besides, he insisted it was safer for all of them if they didn’t have his name in their phones in the first place. By now, everyone knew that if they got a text from an unknown number, there was a 99.9% chance it was Geralt.

The toilet gurgled as Triss returned to the sofa with a groan, scrunching her knees up against the pain in her stomach. She checked her phone again: “Only if you’re free, I know Foltest keeps you pretty busy…” She rolled her eyes and replied, “Thanks, Ger. Ordinarily, I could use one right about now, but I’m feeling pretty sick. Think I should stay home </3” She smiled weakly as the text fwiipped its way up the screen. Too bad she was laid up. Would’ve been nice to see him. Her friends always said he was too grumpy and moody to be any fun, but Triss always thought of him as being quite mellow and calming to be around. He never imposed expectations on their time together, unlike her other friends who were always scheming, gossiping, or bitching about their bosses. Just easy conversation and a few good laughs as they caught up on the past few months or years or however long it had been since they last saw each other.

She checked her phone again and fired off a few brief “not today, babes, sorry, I’m just so sick” texts before her mouth started watering again and she headed into the bathroom: a routine by this point. A few girlfriends had offered to keep her company with rom coms and ginger tea, but she was already feeling so exhausted and it was only 1pm. Besides, Triss wasn’t sure she was prepared for anyone other than her cat (who was hiding under the bed) to see her like this: tawny cheeks flushed with fever, tight brown curls haphazardly bunned on top of her head in a pragmatic attempt to keep them out of the toilet and away from her face, frizzy ringlets falling loose down the back of her neck… and she was acutely aware that she smelled of sickness. Her body’s best attempt to rebalance itself meant that her underarms would overpower even her best deodorant. IF, that is, she cared enough to put any on which she Did Not. She was also, like any sensible woman in her current state, not wearing a bra.

Nope. Today was a day of horrendousness. Her phone pinged. “You need anything?”

“A new body might be nice. If you happen to see one that would suit me… 😝”

The fwoop! came in before her screen went dark: “LOL, I’ll see what I can find. Any preferences?”

Triss smiled despite the pain in her stomach. “Hmmm I did always want to be a physiotherapist. Oooh! Or a gymnast!” Fwiip!

Fwoop! “Still at your same place? I can send it by courrier. Should get there before 3:00”

Triss was trying hard to come up with a witty enough comeback, but her head was starting to ache. Hmmm. Yes, body, I would love to hydrate you, but you keep rejecting everything I put inside you. “Ugh,” she groaned again and made her way to the toilet. When she got back a few fruitless minutes later, she checked her phone again. Nothing. She just replied, “Thanks, Ger. BRB, going to go die now. When the courier gets here, just tell him to transfer my soul into the new body. I’ll leave it under the Welcome mat.” The TV flipped on as its owner began the endless Netflix Scroll of Indecision. She finally settled on Blue Planet for the 50th time hoping that slow-moving sea blobs would be soothing in some way.

It didn’t. Another excruciating hour of bathroom visits every ten-to-fifteen-minutes had her googling ‘pressure points to relieve nausea’ by 2:30. She had just pinched a spot on her wrist between her thumb and forefinger when she heard a soft knock on her door. “Ugh, no, GO AWAY! LEAVE ME TO DIE IN PEACE!” she called out from her nest on the sofa. It was too late. The she heard the door brush against the spongy beige carpet as someone poked their head inside, “Triss?” It was Geralt.

“Oh gods, no, Geralt, stay back, save yourself!”

He gave a low chuckle and Triss already felt a little better. How does he always manage to do that? “I don’t have a new body for you, but I might have the next best thing. Permission to enter?”

Triss let out a rueful groan, “Alright, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She heard him step in quietly and toe off his shoes as the door closed. A second later, he came around the corner with a Rexall bag in hand. He’d been to a barber recently, and his silvery hair was looking more stylish than usual—cut shorter on the sides and stylishly swept back from his face. Paired with his dark-teal flannel shirt and grey denim jeans, Triss thought he looked unusually striking.

Geralt tilted his head sympathetically at the sight before him. Triss was bundled on the sofa in an oversized sleep shirt and sweatpants, fuzzy socks bunched around her ankles, and what looked like any and all home remedies gathered around her: hot water bottle, cold pack, three mugs of tea (ginger, peppermint, and chamomile by the smell of them), a glass of ice water, a barely-touched bowl of chicken broth, a mangled bag of oyster crackers, and a thermometer.

“You’re really down for the count, huh? Got a fever?” before she could object, the back of Geralt’s hand was on her forehead. It felt cool and refreshing against the dry heat of her face as he assessed her condition. “Meh. Could be better, could be worse.”

“I could’ve told you that,” Triss retorted with a halfhearted smile. “Ugh… sorry, um, I have to…” she pointed towards the bathroom and Geralt raised his hands (‘say no more’) as his friend scuttled exhaustedly around the corner. He busied himself with watching manta rays gliding through the open ocean until he heard the toilet flush and Triss emerged again, looking ragged and a little sheepish. “Sorry,” she said, pouring herself back onto her nest of blankets and stuffed animals.

Geralt shrugged, “No need to be, you’re sick. Here,” he reached into the pharmacy bag and brought out a box of ginger Gravol tablets and a medium-sized bottle of Cherry Punch Pedialyte—she was allergic to most over-the-counter cold and flu medication.

“Geralt, you didn’t have to do all this for me. How did you even know I had the stomach flu?”

He looked over her shoulder at her laptop which was still open to the page of various nausea-relieving pressure points, “Hm. You should have this stuff around anyway,” he paused as Triss swallowed heavily and went to the bathroom again. It wasn’t that she didn’t know how to take care of herself, her mother had been a nurse practitioner for heaven’s sake. Still, Geralt was never one to leave a friend in need if there was something he could do about it. A particularly visceral sound drew him from where he was perched on the arm of the sofa. Triss was crouched on the bathroom floor, shivering with her forehead resting on her elbows over the toilet bowl. She spat. Geralt sat on the edge of the bathtub. “How long has it been like this?”

“Since about... 10am,” she managed to get out before her entire body heaved. Geralt instinctively reached out to place a hand on her back. She didn’t object. She never objected to these little shows of affection from Geralt. There was always something reassuring about them, and it felt particularly nice to be reminded that she wasn’t alone just now.

Geralt rubbed slow circles across her back as he coaxed her through retching and dry heaves. “You know you could've just asked.”

“I know but—”

“Stubborn?”

“Uh-huh,” Triss admitted, sitting back on her heels and flushing the mostly-empty toilet. “Besides, the last thing you need is to be taking care of a gross friend right before getting ready for a fancy business gala.

“You clearly don’t know just how little I’m looking forward to this evening,” Geralt grumbled, passing Triss a cool glass of water to rinse with.

“Not looking forward to talking the talk, Mr. Slick P.I.?” Triss’s eyes gave a twinkle as her freckled cheeks pulled into a cheeky smirk.

Even when she’s a mess she still finds a way to light up. Geralt furrowed his brow at his own thoughts. Where did that come from? “You know how it is, all this high-society stuff, rubbing elbows, laughing at tasteless jokes. It’s just not me. But Yen—well…” he sighed heavily, “I dunno. She’s right in that it’s a good way to get the information we need, stay visible to the right people but… I shouldn’t be talking to you about this. I know she’s your friend.”

Triss raised an eyebrow, “Oh, go on. Trust me, there’s nothing you can say about Yennefer of Vengerberg that will surprise me. Besides, you’re my friend, too.”

“Hm.” Geralt stared down and fiddled with his crossed thumbs. “Lately I can’t get anything right. I’m always asking the wrong questions, or I’ll try and talk to her about something I want us to work on and it’s never worded the right way and then it just turns into a fight which is what I want to stop doing in the first place. And then I’m either too sensitive or not sensitive enough and… it’s like she has a set of rules inside her head she won’t tell me about. Feels like it’s harder than it should be. But who am I to know?”

“I’m sorry, Geralt. Yennefer can be so unfair sometimes. I don’t think she understands how much she can push against the people she cares about. It’s one thing to be a friend, at least I can take a breather every now and then if I need to. But it’s different for you. You don’t like taking time apart.” Triss offered an apologetic smile before groaning and leaning back over the toilet and Geralt’s hand took up its place on her back again as he worked her through another round.

Geralt’s phone rang as Triss flushed the toilet. “Sorry, it’s Yen. I should take this. Be right back. Yen? Yeah, I’m with Triss, got a stomach thing, I stopped by to bring her some...” his voice disappeared around the corner as he went into the bedroom. Triss couldn’t make out their whole conversation, but it sounded tense. The phrase, “...just trust me to dress myself, I’m not a—,” came through the drywall. Triss sighed sympathetically. It certainly hadn’t been smooth sailing for the two of them. Geralt had his own flaws and foibles in the romance department—he could be callous and insensitive in favour of honesty at times, and never shied away from pushing buttons—but Yennefer was mercurial, brazen, rash, and brutal; all excellent qualities for a powerful and influential chief advisor. But as much as Geralt was his own handful, she’d never known him to willfully hurt someone he cared about, and was quick to apologize when he did.

When Geralt came back, Triss was trying to push herself to standing. He caught her as she swayed on her unsteady legs. “Whoa, whoa, Triss, easy. Here, sit back down, wait here for a second.” Triss did as she was told and settled miserably back onto the bathroom floor. Geralt immediately returned with two blankets before disappearing again. A few minutes later, he returned once more with a tea tray on which was balanced Triss’s laptop, a small glass of Pedialyte on the rocks, the pack of gravol, and the box of oyster crackers.

Triss let out a soft giggle, “What is this?”

“You need to try and get something in you. Might not be pretty at first, but if you don’t get some fluids soon, you’re going to be in bigger trouble.”

“Really. I had no idea. I can take care of myself, you know… sorry that was,” Triss sighed. “It’s been a long day

Geralt hunkered down next to her on the floor on top of a throw pillow, “Hey, I get it. But that’s not why I’m here. Just because you can doesn’t mean you have to. So take this, with a sip of this,” he handed her a blister pack of the Gravol and the glass of Pedialyte, “and let’s see if you can keep it down.”

“Cherry Punch. How did you know this was my favourite?” Triss could no longer hide the fondness that was welling up despite her unrelenting discomfort and growing exhaustion. Geralt gave a muted smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “How’s Yennefer?”

The lines on Geralt’s face became more pronounced, “She’s… fine.” Triss tilted her head (‘really?’) and Geralt relented, “There’s a chance Istrid will be there tonight.”

“The head of the Archeological Association? I don’t get it, what’s he got to do with you and Yennefer?”

Triss could guess the answer from Geralt’s pause. His words merely confirmed it, “They have history.”

“You don’t think that Yennefer will—I mean, she wouldn’t—”

“She has. She doesn’t know that I know, but…” Triss’s heart sank. “I don’t know why I’m waiting for her to tell me. Guess I don’t want her to feel like I went out of my way to find her at fault—which I didn’t, by the way. I found out by accident.”

“I’m sorry, Ger.” The weight of Triss’s head against his shoulder brought Geralt out of his daze and he looked down at the messy updo of mahogany hair. He smiled again, a delicate, private, unconscious thing that sparked from an unconscious uplifting somewhere in the middle of him and pulled the corners of his eyes. He thought about ignoring it, not wanting to have to go digging inside himself for what it meant. Instead he wrapped an arm around Triss’s shoulder and pecked a chaste kiss to the top of her head.

“How’re you feeling?”

The answer to that question proved complicated. Triss’s spirits were a bit better thanks to Geralt’s stubborn-yet-easygoing caretaking. But the introduction of contents into her contrary stomach was yielding less-than-desirable consequences. Painful cramps persisted between more frequent bouts of vomiting—which by this point was mostly dry-heaves followed by the occasional expulsion of bile. Meanwhile it was 5:30 and Geralt’s phone beeped a notification. He checkecked the screen with one hand while he soothed Triss with the other: Where are you??? Yen. Who else could it be? He’d have to call her.

“Geralt, go! Really, I’ll be fine I promise. You’ve got to rub elbows and laugh at bad jokes, remember?” Triss propped herself up on wobbly elbows over the toilet bowl, not trusting the wave to be over.

Geralt was already dialling. Triss heard the faint echo of her friend’s voice on the other line as she answered with, ‘Where the HELL are you?’

“I’m still with Triss, Yen. Things aren’t looking good here, she’s just gotten worse. If I can’t—Yen, listen if she doesn’t—if she doesn’t get any fluids in her I’ll need to take her to the hospital.” Geralt pulled an apologetic face and Triss gave him a reassuring wave that she’d be fine if he stepped out for a minute. “Yen, please, I thought we talked about this, please don’t use that tone, it makes me feel…” The conversation continued, though this time in the living room: “I know this is an important night for us to both be there, Yen, you’ve been reminding me for the last month, but I can’t just leave until… what’s that supposed to mean? That’s not—no, hang on, that’s not fair, Yen… Well if you already don’t believe me I don’t—Okay, then you tell me what I’m supposed to say! I’m tired of this, Yennefer, I am so. Exhausted trying to figure out exactly what to say in order for you to not react like this every time I… can I finish?...”

Geralt was pacing back-and-forth now, and Triss could tell from the tone on the other end of the line that Yennefer wasn’t backing down anytime soon, “Geralt, if you don’t leave Triss’s apartment and come back here and get dressed this instant, I swear I will—”

Geralt paused outside the bathroom door for Triss to flash a wilted thumbs-up as she tried to drink more Cherry Punch Pedialyte, “Or you’ll what, Yen? Count to ten and then chuck me in the coi pond? I—you know what?” he moved back into the living room, “No, you know what? How ‘bout this: I’m staying here with our friend who needs help, and you can go to this big event, embarrassment free, and do what you do best without the big idiot holding you back. Whatever needs to get done at this dinner tonight, I bet you’ll do better on your own than worrying about me screwing something up.”

Triss heard his phone flip shut followed by a heavy sigh before his sock feet padded back into the bathroom. Unfortunately, just then, her suspicions about not being finished proved correct as her mouth, once again, began to water. Thankfully Cherry punch wasn’t nearly as bad coming back up as other flavors were known to be. In less than a second, Geralt was there with a warm hand and a blanket around her shoulders. They didn’t talk much over the next little while as Geralt continued his attempts to soothe Triss’s stomach enough to hold something down. After an hour, Triss finally was able to rest a little, albeit still in quite a bit of pain. But with the toilet no longer an ongoing necessity, the sofa once again became a viable option. Geralt scooped up the blanketed bundle and carried her back into the living room to continue their journey under the sea, complete with cold compress and bendy straw.

By 7:30 Triss hadn’t needed the toilet at all in the last hour, and some of her stomach pain was starting to diminish. However, she was still shivering and achy, and not interested in food. She kept insisting that Geralt had time to meet Yennefer at the gala, that she would be perfectly fine on her own, but Geralt wasn’t convinced. Showing up now would not only put Yennefer in the awkward position of having to save face by not murdering him in cold blood in front of a dozen or more foreign dignitaries, but it would also mean having to face Istrid who, if he wasn’t already, would doubtlessly be very interested to hear Yennefer’s thoughts on a great number of things before the night was over. Geralt didn’t trust himself not to do something he’d regret—or at least that Yennefer would regret.

Another hour in and Triss was starting to perk up: minimal stomach pain, and she was making a decent dent in her Cherry Punch. Geralt decided it was time for a little chicken soup. He made a freezer pizza for himself and cracked a beer while he warmed up a can of Campbell’s Chicken Noodle, ladelling out all the broth into a mug for Triss so she wouldn’t be tempted to eat more than she could handle. Geralt had only one goal for her tonight: keep everything down. If she could do that, then he had at least been able to do something for her. If not… Geralt tried very hard not to listen to the voice that said, ‘then you’re no use for anyone’ in the back of his mind. Thankfully, Triss finished her broth without concern and he didn’t have to worry about that voice for the time being. Instead, he settled a little deeper into the sofa cushions as Triss resumed a comfortable spot against his shoulder.

After another little while, a miracle happened: Triss started to have fun. That characteristic sparkle came back to her eyes, and the two friends quickly began to actively enjoy their evening. They watched The Fellowship of the Ring and took a drink of beer or Pedialyte every time Frodo had a dramatic closeup, was stabbed, or rolled his eyes for dramatic effect. Geralt microwaved a bag of popcorn, and Triss cautiously had a few oyster crackers as they laughed and caught up. Finally. It may not have been the original vision for what drinks and casual hangs would look like, but it was good. It was nice. Relaxed, and pleasant. Easy. Geralt’s mind wandered as the Fellowship fled the Balrog, and he didn’t notice the little line his thumb was leaving on Triss’s blanket as it traced up and down her shoulder. He also didn’t think twice when she shifted, half-asleep, to lie her head in his lap and his hand moved to the curve of her waist. It wasn’t until he looked down in the direction of soft snoring that he was reminded exactly who was lying in his lap.

His initial thought was, ‘shit,’ as he slowly removed his hand from her waist, not wanting to wake her, but also not knowing what to do. It was suddenly all so intimate, though he didn’t quite know why. As he watched her, peacefully asleep in his lap, he realized he didn’t want to break away. Didn’t want to wake her to adjust to a more ‘appropriate’ orientation. He touched her shoulder again. That was nice. That felt… nice. She stirred, and Geralt wondered if she was comfortable as he brushed a tight ringlet behind her ear. She smiled in semi-consciousness and his heart sang. This was bad. This was very very bad. He reached for the remote and flicked the tv off. It was after midnight, and high time everyone went to bed. Alone.

That was the only option. Right? In theory, no. There was another option, and a significant part of Geralt wanted to go with that one, stay in this soft warm place where everything felt easier… where he felt happy. But a louder part of him knew that wasn’t right, wasn’t fair; that even if he was unhappy—even if Yennefer had spent the night with Istrid (Geralt tried not to think about that). The bottom line was Triss felt well enough that he no longer needed to stay with her to make sure she was alright. That was why he’d come. If he stayed for other reasons, it wouldn’t be fair to anyone. End of discussion.

“Triss,” Geralt murmured, rousing her as gently as he could.

“Hmm?” Her eyes fluttered open to see Geralt staring down at her. She didn’t remember lying down in his lap, but she must have just before she fell asleep. “Did I fall asleep on you?”

Geralt’s eyes crinkled, “Hm. Yeah. You were pretty out of it.”

“Ah, shit, I’m so sorry!”

“You needed the rest. Wouldn’t be the first time someone’s passed out on me, and you’re significantly easier to deal with than Lambert.”

Triss bunched her blankets around her shoulders and shivered sleepily, “You should go. Yennefer’s probably waiting for you.”

“Hm. Yeah, probably,” Geralt heaved himself off the sofa as Triss released her hair and gathered her nest to head to the bedroom. Geralt waited until she was bundled in bed. “All set?”

A little smile peeked over the tops of the covers, “Mmmhmm, thanks.”

“Need anything else?”

“No, I’m good. Goodnight, Ger.”

“Goodnight, Triss,” Geralt flicked off the light. In the entranceway, he paused with his hand on the doorknob, took a deep breath, and left, locking the door behind him and putting the key back in its usual hiding place. Enough now. Done. He was determined that whatever he had felt, whatever warm, unexpected thing had bubbled to the surface, would forever exist behind that locked door, frozen in time. A blip. The important thing was nothing was acted on. Not really. At worst, they wandered into a grey area by accident. These things happen. The key now was not to dwell on it, to move forward.

Geralt’s stomach soured as he slid his keycard into the slot of room 622. The lock clicked open as the little light on top flashed green and Geralt turned the handle, closing the door behind him as quietly as he could. He toggled the dimmer switch next to the door; the lowest setting would give him enough light to get changed without waking up—Yen? The bed was empty, still freshly turned-down, with his pre-approved evening attire laid out as he had suspected. He fucking hated that tie. He put the suit back in the garment bag from whence it came and checked his phone. Nothing. No texts, no missed calls. Might still be out. It wasn’t unusual for these events to turn into afterparties which was where most of the juicy information was gathered. He hit speed-dial.

“Hi, Jaskier? It’s—yeah, hi. Listen. Are things still going over there? I just—hm? Yeah, she’s doing okay now. Took awhile for me to get anything in her, but no hospital visit so… yeah, she finally got to sleep just as I was heading out, made sure she was hydrated and had a little something… I’m sure she’d appreciate that… Actually, that’s why I’m calling, I just got back and she’s not in, I was wondering if you knew where she…When?…Okay…No, archeology… Mmm no, they’re very different fields. Nevermind, thanks, Jas…Yeah, no it’s, um, I just wanted to make sure that she was okay. Didn’t want to bug her in case she was in the middle of—something. Yeah… Well don’t let me interrupt that. Okay, all the best. Go get ‘em tiger. ‘Night.”

Geralt tossed his phone on the bed and flopped heavily on top of the duvet and rubbed a hand over his face.

“Goddamnit, Yen.”

__________________

@the-space-between-heartbeats

@just-a-sad-donut

@oxenfurt-archives

@thirstyforred

@titaniafire

@belalugosisdead

@lonelygayz

@awkward-turtles-world

@iloveyouyen

@criminaly-supernatural

@friendlybelladonna

@enkelikauneus

#geralt x triss #witcher au #Modern AU Witcher #Takin' care of Triss-ness #morethangeraskier #rarepairs #off-canon #tw partner abuse #tw2 #tw3 wild hunt

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sylvanfreckles · 3 years

Text

Broken Bones (FebuWhump 16)

Fandom: The Witcher Summary: Having freed Jaskier from the inn's cellar, Geralt takes him to safety to rest and recover. Danger is on their heels, however, and Geralt still might be too late to save his friend.

(Sequel to Imprisoned)

* * *

The main room of the inn was practically aglow with the midday sun compared to the darkness of its cellar, though Geralt's eyes had no trouble adjusting. He paused at the top of the steps while Jaskier squinted into the light, however, to let the bard adjust to both the brightness of the day outside and the release from his imprisonment.

They'd been supposed to meet at this inn—though Geralt hadn't realized it was so disreputable—a few days before, but Geralt had been detained thanks to an injury on a hunt. He'd arrived to find the innkeeper and his thuggish companion had beaten Jaskier and locked him in the cellar, and mostly likely robbed him as well.

The thug was nowhere to be seen. He'd tried to get in between Geralt and the cellar and Geralt had caught him by the wrist and simply kept twisting until he heard a satisfying crack. The innkeeper, however, was still behind the counter, looking like he couldn't decide between swinging a club at Geralt, pissing himself, or making a break for it.

Geralt gently escorted Jaskier over to one of the long wooden benches near the hearth and sat him down, giving the bard's shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

Jaskier caught his sleeve. “I don't want to stay here,” he pleaded. Geralt couldn't blame him—the man had been left to go cold and hungry, bound to a rack of kegs, waiting for whatever uncertain fate the innkeeper had in store for him.

“We won't,” Geralt replied, keeping his voice low and his eyes on the innkeeper. “What did he take from you?”

“I don't care about the money, let's just go.”

“Jaskier.”

The bard heaved a weary sigh. “Eight crowns? Maybe a little more? My room...I don't know what they did with my lute.”

Geralt grunted. He squeezed Jaskier's shoulder again and gently extricated his sleeve from his friend's grasp. Then he schooled his features into what Jaskier always called his “Witcher Face” and stalked over to the innkeeper, the fury he was barely keeping in check alive in every muscle.

“S-sir,” the innkeeper stammered. “We was just...he couldn't pay his bill, a-and the alderman-”

“No.” Geralt slammed his hand on the counter, hard enough that the inkwell toppled over and the innkeeper took a few frightened steps back. By the sudden scent of ammonia in the air, it looked like he'd chosen to piss himself instead of run or fight. Good. “I've seen your little game before. The other man that was here, the scarred one. He had a tattoo,” Geralt drew a line with his finger over his right eye. “You work for the press-gangs.”

It was a nasty business. The press-gangs got around some of the laws against slavery by claiming their indentured workers were there to work off a debt. It sounded good on the surface—a man who'd gambled too much or taken a loss on his property could work a few years in a mine or on the road works to pay back his creditors—but like so many things it had gotten twisted. Most of what Geralt had seen were men and women, and even children, forced into heavy labor for exaggerated or nonexistent debts.

“Give me his money,” Geralt demanded.

The innkeeper was shaking his head. “S-sir, he was our guest for five days, w-we deserve some-”

Geralt slammed his hand against the counter again. This time the scarred wood gave an alarming groan, like one more blow would crack it. The innkeeper swallowed, then rummaged around beneath the counter and shakily counted out five Redanian crowns.

“All of it,” Geralt growled. Another swallow. The odor pouring off the innkeeper shifted a bit, as though he'd soiled himself as well. Then shaking hands laid five more crowns on the counter.

Geralt swept the coins into his pocket. “His belongings?”

“Th-the stable,” the innkeeper jerked his head toward the door. “We've no one to sell to until Pas...until the peddler comes through. Check the barrels.”

Turning on his heel, Geralt walked back over to his friend's side. “Can you walk?” Much as Jaskier—and Geralt—wanted to be out of this place, he wouldn't endanger his friend's safety. When the bard nodded he slowly guided him back to his feet and wrapped one of Jaskier's arms around his shoulder.

“I'm sorry I was late,” Geralt said when they'd made the relative safety of the stable. He left Jaskier leaning against the feedbox while he went about preparing Roach for travel and searching the barrels for his friend's belongings. There were only a few things—his lute, some clothing, a few toiletry items—and he carefully packed those in his own saddlebags.

“You beat Pascar here,” Jaskier replied, wearily. “That's most important.”

“Pascar?”

“They said,” Jaskier waved his hand toward the inn, winced, and rested it against his side while he fought to catch his breath. “He was supposed to be here in a day or so. Collecting workers for the salt mines.”

Geralt had the sudden urge to go back in and run the innkeeper through, but he ignored that in favor of adjusting Roach's saddle and brushing a soothing hand down her shoulder. She was agitated because he was agitated, and all three of them would feel a lot better leaving this town behind them. He gestured to Jaskier and the bard shuffled over to them to be hoisted up into the saddle. Geralt climbed up in front of him and clicked his tongue at Roach to start her moving.

Jaskier groaned a little at the jolt and leaned forward to rest his body against Geralt's. The witcher didn't mind—Jaskier was a tactile creature, and if a little physical closeness would help drive away the demons of the last few days then Geralt would be happy to offer it.

During his recovery from his own injury, Geralt had sheltered in a ruined barn about half a day's ride from this thrice-damned inn. That would suit them enough for a day or two, until Jaskier was recovered enough for a longer trip.

The bard gave another moan and huddled closer, and when Geralt risked a glance he could just see his friend's head resting against his shoulder. Geralt reached back and patted Jaskier's knee. “Just don't fall off, all right?”

* * *

It was well past dusk when they reached the barn. Geralt had left a stash of kindling behind for the next traveler who needed shelter, so he easily built a fire while Jaskier tried to make himself comfortable against the half-rotted timbers.

He didn't have the heart to complain about the dirt on his clothes or the ratty blanket Geralt tried to tuck around him. Between the throbbing in his side and the ache in his belly, he was altogether miserable.

They hadn't stopped for a meal, but Geralt had forced a few field rations into him. They weren't the easiest things to digest after over a day without food, but it was better than waiting for a hot meal back at that inn.

Jaskier shivered, tucking his arms more closely around himself. If there had been some reason—if he'd insulted someone, or dallied with the wrong woman, or actually left his bill unpaid, he might have understood the attack. But to be assaulted, beaten, tied in a cellar, left to rot until the mine's foreman came around to collect, all at someone's whim?

If Geralt had been even a day later....

There was a hand on his knee. Jaskier shook himself out of his thoughts and tried to muster a smile as he looked up. “Geralt?”

The witcher's face was pinched with concern. “We need more firewood for the night,” he explained. “There are plenty of rabbits here, too, I thought I might snare a few for supper.”

Jaskier's heart clenched. He was being ridiculous—they were miles away from the town by now, and no one would have followed an angry witcher. He had no reason to be afraid of being left alone here. “I'm all right,” he tried to reassure his friend.

Geralt frowned, but he gave Jaskier's knee a gentle squeeze and rose to his feet. “I won't be far. Give a shout if you need me.”

To his horror, tears prickled behind Jaskier's eyes. He wasn't an infant, dammit! He had been terrified, yes, but he was safe now. He nodded and ducked his head, pretending to adjust the blanket around him. That cellar had been far too cold, and even now he could feel the chill in his bones.

His hand brushed over his side and he sucked in a breath, flinching back. Geralt had poked and prodded and declared it nothing worse than a few bruises and scrapes—deep bruises, to be sure, but nothing broken, thank the gods.

The leaves rustled and the timbers around him creaked. Jaskier shivered and tried to scoot closer to the flames, fighting down the unease he felt at being alone. He hadn't originally planned on traveling with Geralt for long, but now he hoped the witcher wouldn't mind his company for a bit more time.

There was movement at the edge of the firelight. Jaskier squinted and shadowed his eyes with his hand, trying to compensate for the glare in his face. “Geralt?”

A shadowy figure drew closer, though it wasn't shaped right to be Geralt. Then a branch in the fire cracked, sending a shower of sparks upward, and for one, heart-stopping second the all-too-familiar face of the scarred man from the inn was visible.

Jaskier's breath caught in his chest, then he was struggling out of the blanket as the man rushed at him. He started to call for help but a heavy weight slammed into him and a meaty palm was clapped over his mouth.

“This must be my lucky day,” the scarred man snarled. “Your little friend broke my arm, so I'm gonna break every bone in your scrawny little body.”

The bard tried to thrash himself free, aiming a blow at the scarred man's injured arm, which he had strapped against his chest. Fingers tightened around his jaw and his head was slammed against the ground.

Stars exploded in his vision and his limbs went slack. Jaskier tried to roll away from the scarred man, but a cruel hand caught his wrist and twisted it up behind his back. “Scream for him,” the scarred man whispered, one foot heavy on Jaskier's back.

Jaskier whimpered through his teeth as the scarred man's weight forced the air out of his lungs. He couldn't have screamed if he'd wanted to, as the position put too much pressure on his bruised ribs for him to draw in a breath.

Then the scarred man gave another savage twist and something in Jaskier's forearm gave with a snap and he suddenly had the breath to scream.

* * *

Geralt didn't hesitate. When he heard Jaskier scream he dropped the armful of wood he'd gathered and charged into the barn, drawing his sword as he did. He pulled up short, eyeing the scarred man who stood with one foot on Jaskier's back, the bard's arm bent back at an awkward angle.

“I knew I should have killed you,” Geralt growled. The man's eyes had a feverish light, no doubt whatever potions he'd taken to combat the pain of his broken arm were affecting his mind.

“You broke something of mine,” the scarred man snarled. He shifted so that his foot was on Jaskier's shoulder and moved his hand up to grab the bard's index finger. “Now I break something of yours.”

“Don't-” Geralt took a step forward, but the scarred man gave a wrench and twisted his body one way, his foot the other, and Jaskier screamed again as his finger gave under the pressure.

The scarred man was panting, fumbling for Jaskier's middle finger next. “Do you know how many bones there are in the human body?” he asked. “I've never heard of anyone breaking them all, but I'm willing to be the first.”

“If you harm him further,” Geralt warned, but the scarred man's eyes were alight with madness and he twisted again. Jaskier's screams gave way to ragged sobs, his body going limp beneath his captor.

Geralt steadied his grip on his sword. “You're dead,” he told the scarred man.

The man actually laughed, dropping Jaskier's arm to aim a savage stomp at his back, where his ribs connected to his spine. “I can't even feel my arm,” he chortled, slapping himself on his wounded limb. “What could you possibly do to me?”

He was across the floor of the barn in one, fluid motion, the point of his sword driving easily into the scarred man's chest. The man gave a small hiccup of surprise and stared blankly down at the hilt protruding from his ribs.

“I don't...feel it,” he muttered before his eyes rolled back in his head and he started to collapse. Geralt kicked the corpse away before it could land on Jaskier and dropped to his knees to gently roll his friend over. Jaskier immediately curled around his injured arm and hand, his breath coming out in little pained moans.

“Let me see it, Jaskier,” Geralt urged gently. “The sooner we set it the less it will hurt. Let me see.” It took some coaxing, but Jaskier uncurled enough to let Geralt prod at the wound.

“Your fingers are just dislocated,” Geralt said, after a careful inspection. “But this is a break, here, above your wrist.”

During the examination, Jaskier had pushed himself up to lean against Geralt, as though to soak up warmth and strength from his friend. Geralt wrapped one arm behind the bard's back and gently ran his hand up a down his spine, pausing over the sharp swellings that indicated damage to his ribs. “I think your arm is the worst,” he finally said. “These feel like fractures.”

Two dislocated fingers, a broken arm, and three fractured ribs. It could have been so much worse...but it was bad enough.

Jaskier didn't reply, merely turning his face into Geralt's shoulder as the witcher gently grasped his wrist and elbow to tug the break in his arm back into alignment. “Stay here, I need to make a splint.”

He gently pushed the bad away from him and waited until Jaskier met his eyes and nodded, then hurried to his saddlebags to retrieve the bandages and salve he carried for his less serious wounds.

His fingers needed to be straightened and realigned, then splinted together. They would heal easily enough, and Jaskier wouldn't lose any mobility, thankfully. Then another, sturdier splint for the break in his arm, which Geralt then strapped across his chest for stability.

“Jaskier,” Geralt cupped the bard's face in both hands, waiting until weary blue eyes focused on him. “I'm going to drag the body out of sight and get the firewood I dropped, then I'll be back. We'll leave at first light; the inn at the ferry landing isn't too far.” He could send one of the soldiers from the landing back for the scarred man's body, it would keep for a day or two.

He waited until Jaskier nodded, then pushed to his feet. “I'll be back in a moment,” he reassured his friend. If Roach hadn't needed the rest he would have struck out even in the dark, relying on his own senses to guide them safely.

And if, when he returned from his tasks, he let the bard curl against his side for a few hours fitful sleep, what did that matter. He'd been too late too many times already...he wouldn't risk leaving his friend in danger again.

* * *

Yes, I hurt Jaskier again, but as promised in the “Imprisoned” entry I also gave him some Geralt-snuggles.

#febuwhump #febuwhumpday16 #broken bones #the witcher #fic #fanfic #geralt of rivia #jaskier #sequel to day 3 #hurt/comfort #jaskier whump #hurt jaskier #protective geralt

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storieswrought-a · 3 years

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finding a decent herbalist was art in itself, finding the right herb or root for what he wanted to do even more so. fortunately for him, good word travelled fast and far, eventually reaching even him, how a skilled herbalist had been seen around the oxenfurt area --------- as dangerous as it was, considering radovid had his witch hunters all over the north, the lot eager for blood and torture, regardless of the herbalist simply wishing to help folk in healing or using it for magic, or even the occult, as he aimed to do. he tried to, time and time again, rid himself of the demon called gaunter o'dimm, tried to find a way to banish the evil before the wish he granted him couldn't be reversed. there was resentment and remorse all at the same time in the ataman of the redanian free army, fear gripping his heart at the thought of losing his beloved iris for good, anger having him clench his fists on the other hand due to rage consuming him, rage towards those who had wronged him, took from him, chipped away whatever was left of the once prosperous von everec estate and wealth.

olgierd grew desperate, was at the point to even believe old wives tales about a mixture that got rid of all curses and bad omens looming around one, with a price ------ the rarity of the herbs it required was the key factor that prevented him from easily getting his hands on them, as well as getting the ritual going. said stories also involved a ritual, and sacrificed blood of a virgin or a newborn, though even he was inclined not to believe that part, and he had sacrificed a lot already. his brother was dead, his iris didn't love him anymore but oh, what wouldn't he do to make things right again, while he still harboured some emotion within him, while he still cared that he doomed his wife to spend the rest of her days with otherwordly creatures he had summoned through the art of goetia to keep her company while he would be away.

it all indicated towards him being away being for forever.

so oxenfurt was his place to go, first the market, then the alchemy inn. surely, if the herbalist in question were a traveller, they needed refreshment, a place to stay. lady luck was smiling upon him as he entered, his presence alone having eyes turn on him. olgierd was no stranger to the establishment, and a few minutes of finally finding a soul willing to talk had him walk over to one of the tables, occupied by the herbalist.

❝ word has it you're quite skilled in certain areas. ❞ he tried to be as discreet as possible. who knew whether or not witch hunters would lurk around. ❝ i'm in need of your services. ❞

@tempred / starter call ( olgierd von everec )

#tempred #【 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐞: olgierd von everec 】#[ i'm sorry this took ages to write! ]#❛ 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐩! ❜ | queue

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likecastle · 4 years

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honestly i'm a complete sucker for tissaia. could you write something about her and philippa or rita? i love possessive tissaia! also your fics are brilliant!

Thank you so much, anon! I tried to give you possessive Tissaia, but this took a bit of an unexpected turn.

Fair warning, there’s some slightly kinky stuff in here that does not get negotiated beforehand, but rest assured that everyone’s into it, Tissaia’s just not super in touch with her feelings or good at communicating.

Tissaia scans the crowd, searching amongst the banqueters for a glimpse of Rita’s golden waves. Beside her, a Redanian ambassador drones on about the intricacies of trade negotiations with Kovir, and Tissaia wishes fervently for another glass of Est Est, though no amount of wine will make this conversation any less tedious. Nevertheless, Tissaia nods and asks the right questions to keep the man talking.

“They want to show us they don’t need us anymore,” he says with a supercilious smirk. “But, of course, we’re the ones keeping half of their industries in business, so who needs who in this arrangement, I ask you?”

Who needs who, indeed, Tissaia thinks bitterly. The man’s daughter is in her second-year at Aretuza, and if Tissaia wants him to continue giving to the school as generously as he has been, she needs him to believe that she is as impressed with him as he is himself. It’s a loathsome undertaking, but a necessary one.

“Indeed,” she says, and that’s all the encouragement the ambassador needs to keep talking.

It’s the emerald green of Rita’s gown that finally catches Tissaia’s eye. She’s across the room, caught up in a conversation of her own—only Rita’s companion doesn’t seem to be nearly as dull as Tissaia’s is. As Tissaia watches, the woman Rita’s talking to—some minor noblewoman from Kaedwen—lays a hand on Rita’s bare arm, the invitation unequivocally clear, even from a distance. Rita smiles, her expression radiant, accepting the forward gesture as naturally as a goddess accepting tribute.

It goes on like this all evening. Tissaia grovels to one self-important patron after another, and every time she catches sight of Rita, she seems to be basking in attention from every corner. Tissaia watches the same tedious Redanian ambassador she was talking to earlier trip over himself to bring Rita caviar, returning only to find a visiting scholar from Ban Ard plying her with Erveluce.

Tissaia hates their transparent flattery, and she despises how graciously Rita receives it, too. Damn her for making this look so easy, for doing effortlessly what Tissaia has never been able to manage. The Rectoress of Aretuza is infinitely practiced in the art of diplomacy, but she’s never been able to make anyone believe she liked them when she didn’t. Even genuine compliments don’t fall easily from her lips, to say nothing of false ones, and receiving such facile blandishments tends to annoy her when they ought to please her. On occasions like this, Rita shines, reflecting others’ praise back onto them as naturally as a mirror reflects light. Tissaia, on the other hand, considers it a victory when she can get through one of these events without razing the whole building to the ground.

So perhaps it’s no surprise that Tissaia is in an ill humor by the time the last of the guests has departed and she is finally able to retire to her chambers. She is sick to death of pleasantries and platitudes, of playing the role of obsequious matron for fools who can’t comprehend even a fraction of her true power.

When the door to her room opens and Rita steps inside, Tissaia considers sending her away. They’ve never formally discussed their sleeping arrangements, but since they began this little scholarly project of theirs, Rita has spent more nights in Tissaia’s room than in her own. Generally, she doesn’t mind sharing her bed with the other sorceress, but tonight, Rita’s arrival feels like an invasion of the only space Tissaia has all to herself, her hard-won respite from the outside world. This is what she’s been craving all night—the two of them alone together, free from all their other odious obligations—and yet now that she has it, she’s hardly in the mood to enjoy it.

“I’m exhausted,” Rita says, shutting the door behind herself. “Isn’t it a wonder that in all the centuries mages have been practicing magic, no one has yet invented a spell that will stop your shoes from pinching after a night on your feet? You’d think some enterprising royal sorceress would’ve cracked it by now, but it’s more difficult than you might expect.” She toes off her shoes, leaving them by the door where Tissaia prefers them. “Maybe I’ll set it as an exercise to my fourth-year students, what do you think?”

Tissaia says nothing, watching Rita trail around her room, shedding her jewelry as she goes. With her bare feet and tousled curls, she looks like some sylph that wandered out of a woodland dream. Tissaia should send her away on principle. Nothing so lovely could withstand the withering atmosphere of Tissaia’s mood tonight.

When she comes to rest in front of Tissaia’s full-length mirror, Rita stretches luxuriously before glancing back over her shoulder. “Would you be a dear and come undo me?”

Tissaia obligingly goes to stand behind her and begins undoing the hooks at the back of Rita’s dress. “I suppose it must be tiring, to be admired by everyone in the room.”

Rita looks up and catches Tissaia’s eye in the glass. “What’s this, now?”

“Nothing,” Tissaia says drily, working one particularly intractable hook free from its eye. “I can hardly fathom how you endure my company, after the charming society you enjoyed tonight. Perhaps you should have gone home with that Baroness from Ard Carraigh.”

“Is this really how you want to end our evening?” Rita asks, her exasperation tinged with something like amusement. Even in her irritation, she is impossibly charming. “Haven’t we both had enough tedious conversations for one night?”

“Have you?” Tissaia smooths one hand up the bare skin of Rita’s back. “You seemed to be having quite pleasant time, from what I saw.”

Rita laughs lightly, the sound a mixture of derision and pity. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous.”

“Merely making an observation,” Tissaia says, and slides Rita’s dress down her shoulders so that it pools at her hips. Her nipples, exposed to the cool air of the room, tighten so perfectly Tissaia can’t resist the urge to reach up and cup one of Rita’s breasts in her palm.

“Well, don’t be.” Rita draws Tissaia’s hand down, guiding it under the layers of her dress until they find the rough curls of her pubic hair. “I may be more adept at faking it than you are, but that doesn’t mean I like it any better.”

At Rita’s urging, Tissaia’s fingers slip into the warm crease between her legs to find her clit. Rita shivers and presses back against her. Over Rita’s shoulder, Tissaia watches their reflection hungrily, drinking in the way Rita’s pleasure flickers across her features.

“You of all people,” Rita says breathlessly, “should know that the face a woman presents to the world has little to do with what she really wants.”

Rita’s hand presses Tissaia’s close as her fingers build a swift rhythm, and Tissaia moans at the heat of her, how wet she is already. She rocks her hips against Tissaia’s hand, pressing her back against Tissaia’s front in one long, sinuous line.

“So spare me your sulking, and—” Rita’s words slide into a low groan, her thighs tightening around Tissaia’s hand as she comes. The motion is a surprise to them both, unbalancing them so that they list forward against the mirror. Tissaia only just manages to catch them with her free hand, even as Rita’s orgasm continue to shake them.

Before Tissaia has fully regained her balance, Rita turns so they’re facing one another, but when Tissaia leans in to kiss her, Rita pushes her away. “I’m not finished yet,” she says, and drives Tissaia back towards the bed, shoving her down onto the bed and heaving her skirts up around her hips.

Rita pauses just long enough to shuck off her crumpled gown before she climbs on top of her, and, oh, this is what Tissaia’s wanted all night, only this, the weight of Rita’s body above her, holding her down and blotting out everything else around them. She runs her hands up Rita’s sides, only for Rita to push them back down onto the mattress.

“I said, I’m not finished yet.”

The pressure of Rita’s hands around her wrists makes Tissaia quiver with a mixture of lust and fury. How dare you, she wants to say, but also, Yes, and, Please—none of which Tissaia can bring herself to say, so she writhes in Rita’s hold.

“You’ve no right,” Rita continues, settling her weight on Tissaia’s leg so that her cunt presses against her thigh, “to be jealous, especially considering that I do all of it for you—your school, your students, your vision for the future of magic on the Continent.”

Tissaia moans, bucking up against the slick heat between Rita’s legs. Rita rides her, grinding her hips down against her flesh and it’s maddening—all the right pressure, none of it in the right place. The sight of Rita’s bare hips circling above her makes Tissaia throb with longing. She wants Rita’s attention on her, wants Rita to make her feel—anything, everything—but Rita ignores her in favor of her own pleasure. She whines, twisting her wrists in Rita’s grip, but Rita just presses her hands down harder and keeps on rocking herself against Tissaia’s thigh. When she comes a second time, Tissaia can feel her clench against her skin.

“Now,” Rita says, sitting back on her haunches and releasing her grip on Tissaia’s arms, “what were you saying?”

Tissaia shivers, chilled now that their bodies aren’t sealed together, and loathe to relinquish the weight of Rita’s body pressed against her. Above her, Rita’s serious demeanor breaks slightly and she smiles down at her. “My poor darling,” she says, running a soothing hand up the side of Tissaia’s thigh, “did you really have such a dreadful night?”

Tissaia turns her head on the pillow, unable to face the tenderness in Rita’s eyes. What Rita said before was true—Tissaia has no right to complain about the indignities that accompany the choices she has made, nor does she have any claim on Rita that could possibly justify her behavior towards the other sorceress. There’s no excuse, other than how deep her desire runs, like a low tide pulling at her all the time—but that’s not something she can say, either, not to a woman who is more colleague than lover, with whom she can talk for hours about obscure theoretical principles but never about something so simple as their sleeping arrangements, let alone what she really wants.

Rita finally seems to take pity on her, dipping down to kiss her. “I was missing you, too, you know.” She brushes light kisses along Tissaia’s cheeks, her jaw. “All I could think about tonight was how I couldn’t wait until it was just the two of us again.”

Tissaia closes her eyes against the words, has to, can’t listen anymore, but Rita keeps talking.

“While the Baroness was telling me about her lovely estate outside Ard Carraigh, for instance, I was wondering how long it would be till I could come back here and fuck you.”

A moan works its way out of Tissaia’s throat.

“Would you like that?” Rita asks.

When Tissaia nods her head, she can feel Rita’s smile against the sensitive skin of her throat. Mercifully, Rita doesn’t make her say it aloud, just reaches down and slips two fingers inside into her. Tissaia’s hips rise to meet her.

“Is that what you wanted?” Rita asks.

Tissaia tosses her head against the pillows, but there’s no point pretending she isn’t desperate for what Rita’s giving her. It feels so good to lie beneath her, to be covered by her and fucked by her, and still Tissaia wants more.

“Tell me,” Rita says, slipping another finger into her aching cunt.

What she wants is to be filled, to be utterly overwhelmed. But Tissaia’s breath is harsh in her throat, and she can’t find the words to ask. Instead, she snakes one hand down between her legs to grasp Rita’s wrist, thumbing at the flexed tendons there.

The look Rita gives her is intense, knowing, as if she’s read Tissaia’s mind, only Tissaia knows she hasn’t. With a nod, Rita withdraws, but only to spread Tissaia’s legs wider and settle herself between them. With one hand braced on Tissaia’s thigh, Rita bows her head to press a slow kiss against her aching core. She whispers a quick spell to summon something slick and cool in the palm of her hand, and then she is working her slippery fingers into Tissaia once more.

This time, she doesn’t stop at three, or four. Slowly, ever so impossibly slowly, Rita folds her fingers up tight and works them all inside her. Already the sensation is almost more than Tissaia can bear, and she clutches to the sheets to keep herself from coming apart. Rita’s hands are slender, but the width of her knuckles feels broad as the world as they breach her. When Rita’s hand slips the rest of the way inside her, Tissaia’s entire body shakes.

For a moment, Rita just rests there, letting Tissaia adjust to the sensation of being filled so completely. Tissaia can feel her cunt pulsing around Rita’s hand, and when she finally starts to move, she barely has to do anything at all to make Tissaia quake. Even the slightest motion rocks her, so intense she’s afraid she won’t be able to withstand it.

But Rita is there, in her, above her, all around her—leaning over her, her free hand a reassuring pressure along her thigh. Rita holds her, and Tissaia dares to reach down to touch her clit, her fingers a frantic counterpoint to Rita’s steady movements. What comes over her then is not the ordinary crest of her climax but a churning sea change that threatens to wipe her out completely. Her body heaves, Rita’s fist an anchor within her, the center of the known world. Tissaia is so undone she isn’t even aware of crying out until Rita swallows the sound with a kiss.

When, after a little while, Rita gently withdraws her hand, Tissaia can’t suppress the shudder that goes through her. It’s all she can do to drag Rita down onto her. Rita lies on top of her obligingly, a comforting weight, and doesn’t move away as Tissaia shakes and shakes. If she remembered how to cry, Tissaia thinks she might do it now, but instead she buries her face against Rita’s neck until the shocks subside.

“There now, you see?” Rita murmurs, combing her clean hand through Tissaia’s hair, which has come loose from its pins and lies tangled on the pillows. “Wasn’t that a much better end to our evening?”

Pressed close against the sweat-rich curve of Rita’s neck, Tissaia nods her assent.

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