#owlfreckles

[sargassostories]

concept: Triss pegs Philippa while being told exactly what to do and how she's doing

[sargassostories]

into the wishy-washy dark that cannot let go

My @merrywitchermas gift for @squiddviscous! I hope you like it! I'm so sorry it's not more game-focused, but I really wanted to tell a hurt/comfort story about what Triss lost at Sodden, and how Philippa heals her. I used Netflix canon for a bit because I liked this healing starting in secret.

summary: Triss Merigold survived the Battle of Sodden Hill-- and wished she hadn't. That is, until she experienced a mysterious mage healing her in her dreams, whose teasing, tempting touches begin to bring her back to life.

Philippa Eilhart has taken a particular interest in a little witch's recovery, but what begins as a purely mercenary effort to gain an ally grows... complicated.

please please please mind the content warnings on ao3

excerpt:

She couldn’t feel life anymore. Not in the mages surrounding her. Not even in the plants and grasses and trees, the connection to which she had always felt, even from an infant. That pulsing green throbbing push of pure life reaching and reaching. For sun, for water, for nitrogen, for connection.

She was withered.

One endless, ceaseless day, she felt her chin be tipped, and a draught poured down her throat, and she moved back into grateful unconsciousness.

Until she dreamt again.

She dreamt of dark eyes in a field of soft white, their gaze clear and strong.

She dreamt of dark hair, curls swinging.

She dreamt of thin, strong fingers softly prodding her dress aside. Gently dancing across her skin, warm and sparking with life, snaking across her chest.

She awoke with a soft gasp.

read on ao3

[sargassostories]

femslash february - day 2 - transformation

for @witcherladiesamirite's amazing event! Have some predator/prey Merihart (now with implied vore!)

Triss sees the older mage transform in a whirl and flap of feathers, and that's all the warning she'll get.

She is running into the woods; the trees afford better cover (a lesson she learned early and thoroughly). She fastens the cloak around her shoulders and pulls the green hood over her hair. It's not much in the snow, but it will cover her auburn curls enough.

She ducks behind a tree, crouching low. She knows movement will give her away faster than anything else, but she can't help how loudly her heart is beating.

She can feel her blood shooting through her veins, the deep, sharp flutters of her lungs, the shiver across her scarred chest, and her pulse between her legs, thick and wet. All she can think of is escape.

Escape, and sharp talons.

What they'd feel like tearing into her flesh, ripping her to pieces.

Her breath stutters, and she's running again.

She doubles-back, her course frantic and looping, and she hears the wings above her. She runs faster.

Suddenly a flash of white darts toward her, and the tie of her cape is cut. She looks back and sees green fall to the forest floor behind her. She keeps running. Her efforts will keep her warm.

She darts down a gulley and into an older grove, the heart of the forest. She almost tumbles but keeps her footing. She's come this way before. She can find her way in the dark if she has to.

Without warning, she hears feathers again, and this time feels the light drag of powerful claw against her skin. She gasps in shock, but her legs keep moving, and it's several paces before she realizes her bodice has been torn off. She gasps again, shivering with the realization, and tries to cover herself with her arms.

For there are hunters in the woods, and they might see her laid bare like this. What would they think? She wouldn't look like a mage, left so powerless, but perhaps a whore, with her hair long and loose as it is. Ripe for the taking.

She trusts her legs to keep moving and can feel her muscles burn with exhaustion. She can feel the keen eyes watching her.

A third swoop and she knows her skirts are shredded. Her legs are bare, cold between them where she's wet, and her mind darting, her breathing shallow and panicked, and it's bliss, it's all she can think about, lost in this.

She knows what's coming. It's inevitable.

But she doesn't know when it will happen. And the anticipation is a drug.

She runs through the woods in only her boots, cold and vulnerable. She can see thin streaks of blood where her skin was torn by talon. And she wants more.

In these moments, she knows her purpose.

To be devoured.

She runs down another gulley, fueled by the simple certainty of her role, then trips and finds herself surrounded by the high banks of the old forest.

She's trapped.

She looks up, marking the flutter of wings that seems to echo around her, unable to place the source of the sound.

Her heart is beating so loudly she's sure the owl can see it through her marred skin. She stands frozen, arms spread, back against the mossy bank as though she could blend in there. She can almost hear her lover chuckle, before she sees white and feels the scrape of talon across her chest, her hips. She wants to feel them everywhere, and especially where her cunt is pulsing with need. She's aching for her touch, her body sobbing for it, open and offering and desperate to be taken.

She begins to beg and closes her eyes, lost.

When she opens them, the forest has grown, and her heart is beating very, very fast. She sees her owl lover in all her vicious glory, talons spread, beak open, coming for her, and squeaks with anticipation.

It's the last thing she sees. This time.