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She hadn’t meant to drink so much. Iskra invited her over, so she thought it would just be the two of them. But when she knocked on her front door, instead of the black-haired elf opening the door, she saw her own girlfriend standing in the doorway. Mistle had looked fucking gorgeous, but she always did. Her jaw, that didn’t look sharp until the light hit it right, the spark in her hazel eyes when she got someone to admit a secret, the way her smile looks like it's full of canines.
She’d gotten there at eight. She planned to leave at ten, be home before the midnight curfew her dad had set. She never stayed out past it, or stayed at anyone’s houses without warning. Even though she tended to hang around the ‘bad crowd’, she was always a good kid.
Mistle has her hands trailing up under her grey sweatshirt, looking at her with a spark in her eyes that look almost black in the dark. Her head fucking hurts. She tries to say something, but the words come out as a groan. It was somewhere around one AM last time she checked. That was awhile ago. She was sitting in Iskra’s lap, with the elf pouring a shot into her mouth. She glanced at her phone, before Kayleigh pushed it out of her hand so she could focus on drinking. Mistle hops into the bed of the truck, straddling Ciri’s hips.
Now, she’s being pushed into the back of Kayleigh’s truck. Kayleigh was inside, passed out on the couch. At least, he was last time she checked. She’s staring down at Ciri. The moonlight catches her jaw in a way that makes it look sharp. The comfort she usually finds in Mistle’s mischievous grin is gone. Her head hurts too much to think now. She can’t think of why Mistle looks different. Mistle’s hands are fondling her through her bra.
She squirms until her arms come free from where they’d been under Mistle’s thighs. But she’s still thinking about the time. Every time she thinks, her brain is replaced with soup.
“Stop, please,” Ciri begs, and to her, it's the least slurred thing she’s said in the past few… hours? Minutes? The words are as clear as she can make them. “I’m not feeling good, and fuck, my head hurts, and I gotta get home-”
One of Mistle’s hands moves off her tits to cover her mouth. She leans in close, and there’s no alcohol on her breath.
“Shhh, c’mon, be quiet. Don’t wanna wake up Iskra’s neighbors now, do we? And don’t worry, I’ll take care of you, just what you like. I won’t hurt you, unless you want me to. Promise.”
She doesn’t move her hands until Ciri gets tired and stops flailing like an animal. Ciri starts to struggle again, and she responds by pinching her nipple between her thumb and pointer. There’s a yelp, and her girlfriend goes tense. Without her pushing back, Mistle’s able to make her sit up straight. Once Ciri’s started to fight back, it's too late.
Mistle breaths in every breath she lets out, her cold hands pulling her bra open. There’s another struggle as the ‘Kaer Morhen Pest Control Agency’ hoodie she stole from her dad is pulled over her head. She’s naked from above the waist. Teeth sting Ciri’s shoulder. One of her hands grips at the scratchy, blonde hair on the back of her girlfriend’s head. She doesn’t know if she’s pulling her away or closer. She’s always been weaker than Mistle, and if she truly wanted, her girlfriend could overpower her. She hadn’t when they’d play fought before, or when they’d fucked before, but now she was using her weight to keep Ciri still.
Ciri’s limp like a ragdoll when she’s pushed further up into the truck bed. The fights drained from her at this point, and tears well up in her eyes. The throbbing in her temples, and the angry bite marks, and the dull ache between her legs keep her in just enough pain that she can’t move. She can’t focus. Mistle rolls her onto her side and crawls up behind her. Mistle uses the arm she’s thrown over Ciri’s hip to unbutton her shorts, even while Ciri fights her. Her chest shakes. Her face is warm and wet. There’s a knee jammed between where her thighs try to press together, and she can’t fight. There’s something warm on her cheek, it’s Mistle’s tongue. Is she licking her tears?
Fuck, she is. She’s whispering low praises in her ear. Her shorts and panties were off her hips, the hand that pulled them off stroking the inside of her thigh. She’s so warm, but she shakes. Mistle holds her still. A ragged sob tears from her mouth, when her girlfriend’s thumb strokes her clit. That was her girlfriend. That is her girlfriend. That’s the girl she’s loved for the past five months. Why does it feel like this, if that was her girlfriend? It feels like some criminal is touching her. Who is this?
“Shh, baby, don’t cry. It’ll be okay, you’ll be okay. I love you, alright? I’ve got you.”
Mistle keeps whispering in her ear, hot breath on her neck. The hand moves from her clit for a moment, and she doesn’t know where it’s going. There’s pressure against her slit and Ciri gasps. Two fingers slide into her, refusing to move for a moment.
“You’re so fucking tight,” she feels the words against her shoulder. And then Mistle bites. The hand pawing at her breast squeezes. Ciri screams. She isn’t stopped.
She screams, and she screams, and she screams. Mistle picks up the pace, two fingers in Ciri and two stroking her. One of her hands moved to her clit. Ciri was too far away to notice. She shakes and sobs while it feels like something presses down on her stomach. The pressure’s gone. The hands slip away. Mistle slips away. The world slips away. For a moment, she’s in a void. She’s falling. There’s nothing… she crashes.
Ciri is forced back into her body. Mistle has her body cradled in her arms. But it’s not her body. Nothing was hers anymore. Mistle coos these soft words to her. Ciri goes limp. They shift again, and her head is on her girlfriend’s shoulder. She straddles the older girl’s lap.
“I know you need me, I know, I know, I know, I'm not leaving. Just calm down. That was a lot, wasn’t it? But you needed that. You needed me. You didn’t have to tell me, I just know. You’re mine.”
The words melt together. She knows the words but she doesn’t understand them. Ciri can’t understand them. She just cries into Mistle’s shoulder while she rubs her back. Mistle’s fingertips are rough. When she smells her own breath all she gets is alcohol. When she kisses Mistle the smell goes away. Her shaking isn’t so violent. She tries to pull away but she can’t. She’s Mistle’s.
Ciri doesn’t remember being carried inside. She doesn’t remember Mistle putting her clothes back on. She doesn’t remember the car ride.
She remembers stumbling into the house. Her mother sits in the leather armchair, Geralt lays on the couch. He’s asleep. Mistle has her arm around her waist. Her mother asks why they were out so late and why Ciri’s crying. Mistle says she fell asleep, and she’s bringing her home. And that Ciri cries when she’s drunk. Mistle talks too clearly to be drunk. Her mother says she’ll take her upstairs to bed, but Mistle says she doesn’t have to.
Her girlfriend tucks her into bed. She kisses her face. It's sickly warm. She’s too distant to feel anything. She rolls on her side, and Mistle rubs her back and tells her she loves her. Ciri tries to tell her she loves her too. She stays for awhile but she leaves eventually. Ciri starts to cry again. Her tears are warm and wet and make her pillow wet.
She cries for herself. She cries for what she feels. She cries for what Mistle made her feel. She cries for staying out too late. She cries herself asleep.
The next morning, she wakes up with a headache and a faint memory of the night before. Upon checking her phone - which Mistle must’ve plugged in before she left - she sees a text. It’s a kissy face emoji from Mistle, thanking her for the good time, followed by a ‘Goodmorning, sunshine’ text sent half an hour ago. Ciri sobs again, but she doesn’t cry. She can’t get up that day, and tells her parents it’s period pains. Mother brings her a cup of water and her medication, which she takes with less energy than usual. She reminds herself that she’s lucky it’s only Saturday, and she doesn’t have school tomorrow. At least that’s good.
Ciri doesn’t feel herself again for the rest of the weekend. Or the week. But she feels better, next time she’s with Mistle. When Mistle plays with her hair and tells her how pretty she is. Mistle always makes her feel better, even if she makes her feel worse first. She loves her girlfriend, and her girlfriend loves her.