If you want to practice here you are: 18, 22 34 or 38 with Regis/Geralt would be awesome ! :p (Couldn't choose just one...)
I love me some mutual pining, so 22 is my jam. I feel this would fit better in the hansa era, but I’m only partway through Baptism of Fire so post-game it is.
Again, a prompt that wasn’t supposed to be this long but things happen.
for this ask meme
Fic: Biting Your Tongue
“I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I don’t notice.”
Regis freezes entirely, hand hovering halfway above a bag of allspice. He’d felt Geralt’s approach, yes, but thinking back that should have been the first sign: the witcher knows better than to bother him when he’s brewing. So he’d let the man get close, curious as to his reasoning, and was met with this.
When his mind finally parses the words, Regis’ first move is to douse the fire under alembic. “I’m sure I have no idea what you mean,” he says, well aware how short his voice falls from the disinterested tone he’d been reaching for. It’s far too late, anyway. Geralt can hear his heart pick up as surely as Regis can do the same. The witcher moves close enough that Regis can feel his breath hitting the back of his neck and has to fight a shiver. He braces himself against the table, silently cursing when he notices his control’s slipped far enough that his claws dig into the hardwood.
“Regis…” Geralt starts, then hesitates. A hand lands gently on his shoulder and Regis doesn’t fight it when he’s turned around. He doesn’t quite know what expression he makes, but some of his burgeoning panic must show on his face because Geralt brings both hands to his shoulders, squeezing bracingly as he gazes straight into Regis’ eyes.
“I…know I’m bad at words,” he pauses, rallying when Regis says nothing, “so I told myself to wait until you came to me. But you haven’t.”
The words aren’t an accusation, but the stab he experiences in his chest makes them feel like one.
“Geralt,” he rasps, “I couldn’t- I would never-”
“Never what? Tell me how you feel about me? Ruin our friendship, because the bonds we’ve forged are that fragile?”
Regis tears his gaze away, not wanting to admit to himself that, yes, that was part of his reasoning. “No, I just think… a vampire and a human, we’re not that compatible, regardless of my personal feelings.” He is sorely tempted to simply leave – with a thought he can be a puff of mist and out the window in mere seconds – but perhaps something in him has been waiting for this too. Waiting for Geralt to start this conversation, even if Regis thought himself rather adept at keeping his longing under wraps. He grabs nervously at the strap of his satchel, only to remember he left it on the worktable. However, the aborted tic is enough to have Geralt release him, though he doesn’t step away.
“We’re not Syanna and Dettlaff. And I’m not human,” the man retorts, tone flat. “That’s not the problem and we both know it. Don’t lie to me, please.”
“Your Yennefer-”
“Hasn’t been an issue for a long time, as you well know.”
Regis bites down the words on his tongue, yet another deflection to try to ward the witcher away.
His thoughts are a jumble – the fear he has, of a confession destroying what they have and being forced never to see his friend again. Of a confession being accepted, only to find their friendship doesn’t translate well to romance and sharing a bed. Of them building a loving relationship only for death to take the witcher away far too early, destroying Regis’ heart in a manner he is terrified he will never recover from. Myriad fears crowd into his mind, jockeying for position as the worst-case scenario.
When the silence goes on for too long, Geralt sighs. “Hey, look at me.” And his voice is so gentle, coaxing in a manner he hasn’t heard in a long time. He meets the man’s golden eyes and softens, just a bit, at the warmth in them even when Geralt’s mouth is set in a neutral line.
“Be honest, just for a minute, and tell me what you want from me. Because I want to give them to you.”
He sounds so confident, and that surety is enough to make the last of the vampire’s resolve crumble.
“You,” he murmurs, words dragging out with a longing he can no longer contain. “Just, all of you.”
Regis is blessed to watch his words hit home, to see up close the way Geralt’s eyes spark in response and the shift of his body as he reaches up to put a hand behind Regis’ neck and lean their foreheads together. Without forethought Regis settles his hands around Geralt’s waist, the fabric of his white shirt surprising soft to the touch.
Then Geralt is kissing him, firm but not quite edging on demand. Regis gives as good as he gets and more, pulling the man into him with a strength that has the witcher gasping in surprise then closing his eyes as he leans his weight into him. Regis takes it without hesitation, mind gone silent of everything but a small, nearly inaudible voice in the back of his head. It sounds quite a bit like Dettlaff as it breathes, “Finally.”
