#flunktober

Tissaia has a point though, so she leans over the woman’s shoulder to set the brush down on the vanity. She runs her fingers through the length of Tissaia’s hair, finding no snags, and breathes satisfaction. She doesn’t get to do this often; she can’t resist savouring it. And Tissaia knows, of course—watches her in their shared reflection, expression softening at Yennefer’s undisguised contentment. Yennefer meets her eye again, and this time the smile that tugs at the edge of her lips is almost, almost shy.

When she returns to the task at hand, it is with an unrivalled single-mindedness. 

The back of a comb parts Tissaia’s hair neatly into sections. Yennefer smoothes the hair against her scalp, sets to plaiting the thick chestnut waves with no more efficiency than the brushing. She likes the feel of Tissaia’s hair in her hands—the sleek weight of it, the way Tissaia relaxes into her touch despite any complaints she may have about Yennefer’s lackadaisical speed. The knowledge that she is the only one who sees this side of Tissaia. 

It’s relaxing, too, this methodical weaving of strand over strand—Tissaia’s slow, even breaths and the stillness in the room.

It is a gift they give to each other, despite Tissaia’s original hesitation to let someone else do her hair, and in spite of any complaints she might make about the length of time it takes Yennefer to finish. Because as much as Yennefer enjoys doing Tissaia’s hair, Tissaia too enjoys the touch, though she’ll never admit it in as many words. She has always reserved physical contact for occasions that warrant it; for Tissaia, touch has meaning and weight. There’s a heady indulgence to times like this, to the trust and the abundance of tactile sensations.

Yennefer finishes the first plait, starts on the next. Weaves just as slowly, just as methodically, smoothing the sections of hair all the way down to the ends so as not to allow any tangling between the strands.

Tissaia often watches her; today, her eyes flutter shut and she sighs softly, contentment settling across her own features as Yennefer works.

When the plaits are done, Yennefer twists them together with a now-practised finesse, looping one over the other to form Tissaia’s signature chignon. She places the pins carefully; as much as Yennefer likes seeing Tissaia a little less put-together, it won’t do to have her hair falling down before the day is through. 

Yennefer steps back to admire her handiwork. Satisfied that the chignon is secure and that the pins and the ends of her braids are tucked out of sight, she hums softly and steps forward again, placing her hands on Tissaia’s shoulders. Tissaia’s eyes are open now, and she arches a brow when she meets Yennefer’s eyes, a gleam in her own that makes Yennefer flash another grin. She bends, presses a kiss into the space below Tissaia’s jaw.

“I did a wonderful job,” Yennefer murmurs, lips tickling Tissaia’s skin when she speaks.

Tissaia makes a quiet tutting noise, tilting her head towards Yennefer to force her to pull away. “I’m sure you did,” she says as Yennefer withdraws with a pout. No matter how many times Yennefer does her hair for her, she’ll always assess it; it’s in her nature. She does so now, reaching back with both hands to circle the chignon, feeling for flaws with deft fingers.

She makes a thoughtful noise, then stands, turning to face Yennefer with her lips curled into the smallest smile of approval. Framing Yennefer’s face with her hands, she tilts her chin upward, and Yennefer lowers her face to meet her in the middle. The kiss Tissaia presses against her brow is expected, but the display of tenderness solely for her still makes Yennefer’s heart thunder after all this time.

“You did a wonderful job,” Tissaia echoes in affirmation, lips twitching into a brighter smile. “Thank you.”

Yennefer raises her eyebrows playfully, scooping Tissaia’s hands away from her cheeks and dipping her head to brush a kiss against the woman’s knuckles. “My pleasure.”

Tissaia’s sigh of exasperation is full of fondness when she snatches her hand away from Yennefer’s with an imperious squaring of her shoulders. “Tch. Ridiculous girl.”

Yennefer’s responding snort is undignified at best. “Just remember,” she says, turning sideways and ushering Tissaia past with a little shove, “that you chose this. Now go; be Archmistress of Magic. I promise I’ll be much quicker about disassembling this when you return.”

Day 1: Boba Fett x GN!Reader x Sarlacc (Winning the other a teddy, bound, and masks)

Day 2: Dave York x F!Reader (choking/gagging, sneaking out together, asphyxiation, public sex, orgasm denial)

Day 3: Marcus Pike x GN!Reader (lazy Sundays, licking, pet play, anxiety)

Day 4: Dave York x F!Reader (Sparklers & Fireworks, taken hostage, gags)

Day 5: Comandante Veracruz x F!Reader (watching the sunrise, broken nose, swallowing, gun play)

Day 6: Pero Tovar x F!Reader (Fireman’s carry, touch-starved, hunger, masturbation, nipple play)

Day 7: Marcus Moreno x F!Reader (meddling friends, numbness, blindness, accidental stimulation, massage)

Day 8: Din Djarin x F!Reader (cooking lessons, exotic illness, pegging)

Day 9: Dave York x Reader (text messages, tears, cock worship)

Day 10: Max Phillips x F!Reader (pillow fight, impact play, aphrodisiacs, hospital)

Day 11: Agent Whiskey x Reader (Love Notes, overstimulation, fucking machines, dehydration)

Day 12: Frankie Morales x Reader (Sleepy kiss, begging, biting)

Day 13: Boba Fett x Din Djarin (pillow talk, This Is Gonna Leave A Mark, anal, sex toys)

Day 14: Boba Fett x GN!Reader x Sarlacc (sequel to Day 1, slow dancing, under pressure, orgy)

Day 15: Ezra x Reader (delirium, fever dreams, silly traditions, ass worship, spanking)

Day 16: Zach Wellison x Reader (falling asleep together, recovery, role reversal)

Day 17: Pero Tovar x William (Great Wall) (“Please don’t move!”, dread, knife play, restrained/bondage)

Day 18: Frankie Morales x Reader (uniforms, costumes, doctor’s visit)

Day 19: Max Phillips x Reader (bitten, bleeding, flowers, food play)

Day 20: Marcus Pike x GN!Reader (sequel to Day 3!) (lost & found, secret crush, roleplay, object insertion)

Day 21: Din Djarin x Fennec Shand (bleeding through bandages, blood-matted hair, knuckle kiss, size difference, seduction)

Day 22: Din Djarin x Boba Fett x F!Reader (they made me do it, cursed/demon/obsession, flirting at work, cunnilingus, spit-roasting)

Day 23: Maxwell Lord x Reader (you break it, you buy it, hold me in your arms, lingerie, forced (consensual) orgasm, angry sex)

Day 24: Zach Wellison x Reader (flashback, caught in the rain, praise kink)

Day 25: Max Phillips x F!Reader (cuddling & snuggling, escape/flight/hiding, bite fetish, being recorded during sex, body swap)

Day 26: Elder God!Boba Fett x F!Reader (art of second place) (fallen, new hobby together, sleepy sex, mirror sex)

Day 27: Agent Whiskey x Reader (“I’m cold” “here, have my jacket”, passing out, collapse, clothes swap, daddy kink)

Day 28: Zach Wellison x Reader (nightmare, panic, soothing baths, empathic bonds)

Day 29: Javier Peña x Reader (too weak to move, overworked, up against the wall kiss, creampie, face-sitting)

Day 30: Boba Fett x Din Djarin x Fennec Shand (threesome, suspension, ghosts, fall asleep in my lap)

Day 31: Oberyn Martell x Reader (holiday traditions, disaster zone, stockings)

They keep her locked away in dimeritium shackles for a time, but the wise among them know that Tissaia de Vries, Archmistress of Magic, may soon escape such bonds. She is one of a few powerful enough to resist the effects of dimeritium on the chaos around them, and although she spends the better part of three days overcome by bouts of nausea and vertigo, writhing upon the mattress when she’s meant to be sleeping, she adjusts to the cuffs - to the metal and its foul brand of magic - as the days wear on. Soon, she might be able to overcome her human guards. Later, to hold her own against the lesser mages. Sooner than even Philippa thinks, perhaps, if the rage burning in her chest continues to blossom within her.

But no, they have made quick work of setting wards in place around one of the guest rooms, and these are wards that even she cannot break. She is free of the shackles, free to roam the modest - very modest - accommodations, but she has been afforded the comfort of a bed and writing desk, at least. And clean clothes. There are no luxuries, but it is as good as a gilded cage.

Those who deliver her food and clothes and firewood are servants, nothing more. Often, they are kind or frightened enough to share what day it is, to verify for Tissaia that her mind is still keen enough to count the days.

In the beginning, Philippa visits a few times. To berate her for failing to see reason. To ingratiate herself into Tissaia’s good graces. To gloat over the Archmistress’ capture. Any number of reasons, all of which are thinly veiled and vary by the day.

Now she sees only the servants and guards. Occasionally, one smuggles in a book for her. Even some of the guards have taken pity, but she doubts they would hesitate to draw a sword on her if need arose. But she is a quiet prisoner. Calm, collected. She offers them no reason for distrust.

One savaed passes, and then another, and she is alone.

Her memory may be sharp, but the animal parts of her, the pieces of her mind which are still human, have begun to fall to despair.

Human beings were not meant for isolation. Perhaps she is yet more human than she thought. One night, she weeps. Another, she opens the window and lets the biting chill of the snugly-fitted iron grate sink into her forearms for the sake of any new sensation at all.

Another savaed. And another.

She is pacing the floor as she often does, lest her body fade away completely in this space which affords so little room for movement, when the door opens one evening. A meal. Wood for the fire. If she is lucky, there will be freshly-washed linens and another book. For all that she dedicates a not-insignificant portion of each day to washing herself, she has not had a proper bath, nor proper care for her hair, since she was locked away; in spite of her efforts at cleanliness, she feels filthy.

Yes, fresh bedding would be the greatest gift - 

“Tissaia?”

Tissaia blinks, pausing to stare out the closed window, the dimming light casting shadows across the room.

She’s finally gone mad.

The door has closed, and for a long moment, there is no movement. And then, finally, a quiet sigh.

“I should have visited sooner. I’m sorry.”

Tissaia turns slowly toward the door, and - no, no, she has not gone mad. She’s there, laden with a tray holding too much food - simple fare, but enough to share.

The times have changed her.

“Rita.”

“There are other things for you, outside. Firewood, and - you really have no reflectors?”

“One.” She nods at the tiny table beside the bed, at the candle with the curved sheet of brass attached to its base. “I have little need for light, even when the nights are long.” At Rita’s expression, Tissaia thins her lips. “If you have guilt to feel, let it be for aligning with them, not for leaving me.”

“For the school,” Rita cries, taking two paces forward, then sighing her frustration and spinning to place the tray upon the little desk that doubles as a table. “For the safety of the students! Our students. Our girls. Times have changed, Tissaia; the Continent is in shambles, and - ”

“You do not need to tell me of the things I knew would come to pass in the event the Brotherhood fell, Rita. Who engineered that fall, I wonder?”

Rita’s hand lands on her arm, her grip firm, the contact a sudden rush of warmth as Tissaia’s heart races. Rita, who she has not seen since before the Coup - has not touched since that last night at The Silver Heron.

She has touched no one since that night; been touched only by those who took her captive when, weakened by the excessive use of her magic during the fighting, she had been overcome. By those who had shackled and unshackled her.

And so, after seasons of solitude, in the midst of the despair that began weeks and weeks ago to gnaw at the edges of her mind, she begins to cry.

She fights it at first, drawing herself upright as she glances down at Rita’s hand. Her throat feels thick; there is something wrong with her body, something much too primal, much too human. Sensing the blame in her, Rita loosens her grip, but when she begins to pull away Tissaia twists her wrist suddenly, bending her elbow to clasp Rita’s forearm in desperation.

It’s then that she begins to cry in earnest, pressing her lips into a thin line and squeezing her eyes shut in a vain attempt to stop them. But no, there is no stopping the rush of chemicals this unexpected contact has triggered. There is no fighting it.

So she yields to it. Why resist the inevitable? What pride does she have left? Is there any pride to be had in the presence of this erstwhile lover?

“Hold me.”

She barely recognises her own voice, hardly realises that it is she who has spoken, until Rita closes the distance between them and embraces her fiercely, working herself free of Tissaia’s hold to envelop her in both arms. And Tissaia surrenders herself to it, folding her arms around Rita’s ribs and pulling their bodies flush, until there is no breath of air between them.

Because as little intimacy as she has allowed herself these past centuries, she is still human. Because who knows when she will feel the touch of a human hand, whether for good or ill, again? Because Rita is soft, and warm, and right. Always was; always will be.

Because this physical contact after so long without shines a light on the distress of being without it. Awakens irrefutable sorrow and undeniable relief.

“Your poor hair,” Rita whispers into her ear, fingertips light on the back of Tissaia’s head, tracing around the chignon Tissaia continues to wear during most days for the sake of whatever decorum she has left and, for however short a time, to have something to do with her hands each day. But Tissaia doesn’t care about her hair, not now. She cares about the presence of another body next to her own, squeezes Rita all that much tighter. Taking this as a hint, Rita curls her arm more securely around Tissaia again. Still, her lips remain beside Tissaia’s ear, breath soft in her hair. “I’ll bring you some oils. I’ll tend to it.”

The latter part is an empty promise. They both know that if she spends too much time with Tissaia, it will arouse suspicion. To take a meal or two with her is one thing, but much more…

Since opening the cafe, Sunday is Yennefer’s favourite day of the week. It’s a day of shorter hours - a later opening, an earlier closing. Most of the prep can be done the night before, and what can’t, she has staff to do. Hell, she’s started taking the day off from time to time, even.

And so, when she is awakened by movement this Sunday morning, knowing in her very bones it’s far too early to justify being awake, she groans a complaint and burrows blindly into the blankets.

“Hello to you too.”

The loveliness of Tissaia’s voice versus Yennefer’s incredible desire to yank the blankets over her head and lie in bed all day: fight.

She grumbles her displeasure, blinking her eyes open. Tissaia is standing over the bed, fully dressed with a coffee mug in her hand, wakeful and ready for the day.

On a Sunday?

“Oh, gods. You’re a morning person, aren’t you?”

Tissaia frowns pointedly at her. “Yennefer, you own a cafe. Or have you forgotten there’s a business side to this relationship?”

Groaning, Yen rolls onto her side slightly. “Yes, but - ”

“Yes, you’ve forgotten that I grow the veg and you cook it?” Tissaia asks, mirth playing in her voice, and oh but it’s far too early for jokes. Jokes! Yennefer needs at least a full cup of coffee before she can engage with this.

“I’ll cook your - ”

She’s cut off when the pad of Tissaia’s thumb presses gently against her lips, fingers cupping her chin. She opens her eyes again, and sees Tissaia’s unimpressed expression.

Well, it wasn’t a very good come-back anyway.

When the woman speaks, however, the tenderness in her voice belies the sternness written across her face. 

“Seeds won’t plant themselves, my dear.”

“Okay, but they could,” Yen mumbles, Tissaia’s thumb easing off of her lips to stroke along the corner of her mouth. “Just once.” So sue her for sounding like a petulant child.

Tissaia bends to kiss Yen’s cheek. Her lips are soft, the touch certain. “Sleep if you wish,” she murmurs, flashing a smile so quick Yennefer wonders if she imagined it. “I’ll see you later.”

Which is really just about all Yennefer can ask for in this life.

“Mm. Love you.”

And there’s nothing quite like this. Like saying those words, so casually. Like meaning them utterly when she does. Nothing quite like hearing them repeated back in Tissaia’s voice, sweetly and without pretence. Like the curl of Tissaia’s smile when she presses a swift kiss to Yennefer’s lips.