Chapter Text
“Sorry for the wait, boys,” the woman wiped her hands on her tight, dark jeans as she made her way over to them at the counter, “how can I help you?”
Geralt swallowed heavily, plenty of nerves already making his throat feel dry and scratchy, even without the added pressure of seeing her. The artist was stunning; shoulder length raven curls framed sharp cheekbones, a shiny gloss drew attention to her lips and her simple black tank top did nothing to take away from her figure, but it was the brightness of her violet eyes that really held him captive.
The sight of her was almost enough to distract him from the anxiety about why he was there, but brought on a whole new set of nerves.
“Yennefer, hey,” one of his friends pushed to the front of their little group, shouldering men out of the way as he went, “you got a spot for us?”
Geralt watched as she glanced at the broad frame making his approach, recognition quickly flashing across her pretty face.
“Eskel,” she greeted, “back so soon? Depends on what you need done, you know I’m a busy woman.”
Geralt jumped when Eskel clapped a large hand on his shoulder and pulled him up next to him, right in line of her scrutiny.
“Not me,” he clarified, “my buddy here lost a bet. Nothing big, he’s an ink-virgin so we’ll spare him any serious work for now, but knowing the both of you you’ll have him hooked and turned into a regular before you know it.”
For the first time since entering the shop, the woman’s gaze found him directly, and he had to try not to cringe under the intense weight of her eyes. He tried his best to look comfortable with the idea of getting tattooed as she assessed him.
After a moment something behind her eyes lightened, her near expressionless professionalism making way for a slightly crooked grin.
“A virgin, hm?” she purred, “in that case I promise I’ll play real nice.”
And he wasn’t usually easily thrown off by flirting or light bullying, but for some reason he was sure if he was more prone to blushing her teasing would’ve stained his cheeks red.
“I’m sure he’ll appreciate it,” Eskel said with a chuckle, before he launched into his explanation as to what exactly Geralt would be getting tattooed.
It wasn’t long before she’d pulled up a tablet and started drawing along with his friend’s descriptions, Eskel hanging across the counter to give specific pointers here and there. He was clearly familiar with the shop, its practices, her- Geralt was new to it all, but he found with some mild apprehension that he really didn’t want to be an outsider to any of it.
He'd wanted to look around, get a feel for the business and any other occupants, but he found it difficult to tear his eyes off her. Her nose crinkled slightly when she concentrated, Geralt noted, and every time a strand of hair escaped from behind her ear she huffed an annoyed breath as she shoved it back behind her ear but she did nothing to tie it back more securely.
At some point, in the middle of one of Eskel’s sentences, the woman looked up from her screen, and as though she’d been able to feel his eyes on her she met his gaze without missing a beat. The small, knowing smile on her face was as beautiful as it was intimidating, and he wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or bereft when she looked back down just as quickly.
Distracted as he was by watching her work, time seemed to fly him by, and before he knew it both the artist and Eskel were content with what she’d produced. He was sure she’d turned the tablet towards him at some point to show him what she’d drawn, but he was entirely too stuck in his own head to be sure, let alone remember what he’d looked at or what he'd thought of it.
His friends had been crowing and hollering behind him the whole time, but their presence had faded so far to the background that he hardly noticed when they fell quiet at a sharp clap of her hands.
“Come with me then, little wolf-pack.”
The teasing reference to the subject of his imposed tattoo as she led him and his unwelcome entourage over to one of the big, black chairs made his friends’ idea sound all the more cliché and juvenile. Half of the group protested against the remark while the other men immediately pretended to howl at the moon like deranged werewolves, but they all followed her obediently as well-trained puppies all the same.
“So, where are we doing this?”
Geralt opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, the rest of the guys had already started chanting the word ‘chest’ over and over like the herd of cavemen they were.
With an embarrassed grunt he shook his head.
“I’m sorry about them, they’re-”
“They’re hardly the first group of rowdy idiots I’ve had in my shop, trust me. Bachelor parties, frat boys, drunken birthday crowds- they somehow all think getting tattoos is a fun group activity. Your friends are hardly the worst I’ve seen.”
“I’m both glad and very sorry to hear that,” he answered with an apologetic chuckle as she indicated one of the stations to him.
His friends started forming a half circle around him as he awkwardly sat himself on the edge of large chair at Yennefer’s indication. Their incessant chatter did nothing to calm the nerves that’d started rising again the second his eye had fallen on the tattoo machine she’d started setting up.
He’d expected Eskel at least to be a voice of reason, but his old friend seemed to have forgotten himself entirely in favor of playing into the group dynamic, jostling and heckling along with the rest. It was Yennefer instead that came to his rescue unexpectedly.
“Out, boys. Go sit in the wait area,” she shooed the other guys, waving them away, “I’ll not have you distracting us, or sneezing into clean needles or open wounds. You’ll still be able to see him from there. Get out of here, go!”
His friends all booed and grumbled, albeit goodnaturedly, but moved out of her way without needing to be asked again, and before long they’d piled into the front of the shop. He could still feel their eyes on them and hear their jovial jeers about having been sidelined and cheers about him going through with it, but at least the area around them was calmer now.
They truly weren’t bad guys, just genuinely excitable in a way he didn’t always understand, and more than a little receptive to the chaos that came with a group of men constantly playing off each other.
He tore his eyes away from them just as Yennefer leaned closer, placed a slim, tan hand on his pale wrist. When she spoke her voice was quiet.
“You sure you wanna do this? It’ll be permanent, and I don’t want anyone getting ink done that they’ll regret. I can pretend something’s wrong with my equipment or something.”
Her offer, while clearly kind and thoughtful, had a wave of embarrassment washing over him.
“No,” he said quickly, “no, I mean- thank you, but it’s fine. I agreed to the bet knowing what would happen.”
She sat back with a knowing smile, and he found his hands itching to reach in to pull her closer again. He managed to control himself, just watched as she rummaged through the supplies she’d set up.
“What was that bet about anyway?”
He chuckled slightly awkwardly.
“Oh, it’s dumb.”
“I can’t say I expected anything else,” she cast a glance at his friends and then turned back to him with a grin, “no offense.”
“None taken, that’s fair enough,” he agreed.
“Well, if we’re doing this you’ll need to get rid of the shirt. I’ll place the stencil, and then you’ll have your last chance to change your mind,” at his nod she rolled her stool closer, “so, fill me in on that bet.”
“Roll over a bit for me,” she requested, her slender hand putting the barest pressure on the side of his leg. He followed her order quickly, shifting his weight to his other side to allow her more space to work.
He cleared his throat.
“That alright?”
The sound of her quiet hum pulsated through the very core of his bones, settled more heavily under his skin than any other sound ever had. Her gloved fingers traced where he knew part of the unfinished linework to be for a moment, and it was likely only to see whether she’d be able to reach it in this position, but it made a shudder run through him all the same.
He had to tip his head forward and slightly awkwardly to the side to see her, but the crane of his neck was worth it to watch her work as diligently as she did, her eyes focused so fully on him that it was a sensation almost as physical as the sting of needles he paid her generously for time and time again.
“Perfect,” she said eventually, with a brief, almost affectionate pat to his thigh, “thanks, wolf.”
“Anything for you, you know that,” he replied, despite his mild embarrassment at the old nickname she kept bringing back against his wishes. He hadn't been able to shake it since the very first time his friends had hustled him into her chair, and though she'd come up with many nicknames he much preferred since this one had stuck all the same.
She hummed again, just as the pitchy purr of the machine in her hand started up again as well.
“You’re my favorite client for a reason.”
Her words came right as she put her needle back to a sensitive spot at the underside of his thigh, and his laughter was too close to a huff of discomfort. It wasn’t the worst spot he’d gotten tattooed, but it wasn’t exactly comfortable either.
“Don’t let Esk hear you say that, he might start withholding your tips.”
The monotonous drone of the machine didn’t drown out the thrilling sound of Yennefer’s laugh, the shake of her head causing her shoulder length curls to bounce distractingly around her. His eyes felt glued to her.
“If I wanted to be dependent on tips I’d have stayed in food service after high school. I charge enough to cover my time and effort fairly.”
He’d been nervous, the first time he’d gotten work done, that allowing Yennefer to talk to him while she tattooed would cause her to be distracted or him to move too much, and result in him walking around with crooked lines forever. She hadn’t allowed that disrespect of her skill to stand though, and he’d learned quickly that their easy banter made time pass much quicker for both of them. He’d been a blank canvas when she’d met him, but he’d come back again and again, and by now he wasn’t far from a veteran in the art of sitting still through the sharp ache of ink saturating his skin.
“Believe me, I know,” he teased with a chuckle.
She glanced up to meet his eyes for a split second before aiming her eyeroll back down towards the patch of skin she was working on.
“You calling me expensive, Rivia?”
“Worth every penny?” He attempted to smooth his remark over half jokingly, and despite the fact that she wasn’t looking at him he raised his hand in a placating gesture, an apologetic grin on his face.
The pinch of the needle stopped as she reached for a paper towel to rub some excess ink out of her way. She took the momentary break to look up at him again, her gloved hand brushing his thigh blindly as she wiped at his skin.
“Smart answer,” she said, “I knew you were more than just a pretty face.”
And he knew she was just continuing their banter -which had, to his great torture, teetered on the edge of flirty from the very beginning but was now just blatantly so- but he still had to try his best to not respond outwardly to the teasing compliment.
“Gee, thanks,” he managed with an eyeroll of his own, proud of himself for not sounding too genuinely pleased.
With a raised brow she gave one last pass over his skin and then discarded the wipe. Her eyes roamed over her own handiwork for a moment as she prepared to get back to it, and he watched her carefully as she assessed the state of their session.
"We're really getting somewhere now. You're doing really well for me, sitting this out," she said, "you're going to love this when it's done."
His heart summersaulted behind his ribs unnecessarily at the simple remark.
"I'm sure I will," he managed, "it's hard not to love anything you've created."
She hummed, clearly pleased.
"I can only do my best work when my clients are on their best behavior for me, so you've got a hand in that yourself." This time when the pressure on his leg came, Geralt shifted to accommodate her before she’d even opened her mouth to ask. He was watching her closely, didn’t miss the pretty smile flitting across her lips. The hand holding him steady squeezed his thigh appreciatively. “Good boy,” she joked, “so helpful.”
He nearly choked on his own saliva at the words she purred so casually, only some panicked instinct keeping him from coughing - or worse. He bit his tongue, and willed the shiver that ran down his spine not to shake him so much that she’d mess up the line she was working on.
He should be used to these teasing remarks by now, she’d been making them in some way or another from the second time he’d booked with her months and months ago, but somehow he was unable to be unaffected by them, still.
With a deep breath he was sure she would attribute to the sting of the needles he forced himself to focus momentarily on the 80s music playing over the shop's speakers to gather himself before he did something stupid.
Stupid, like pulling her into his lap right there in the large faux-leather chair, or reaching out to brush her hair out of her face, or like leaning over to kiss her right where she sat.
Her flirting didn’t necessarily mean she wanted him to do anything about it - he couldn’t imagine that was the case, actually. He didn’t want to overstep and make her uncomfortable, when all she'd been doing was joking around with a regular client.
“-Ger? Hanging in there, wolf?”
He forced his attention outward again at the sound of her voice when it finally registered, slightly embarrassed when he realized she’d been talking for longer than he’d been listening.
“Hm? Sorry, what was that?”
She laughed quietly, once again casting a quick, knowing glance up at him before returning her eyes to her work.
“I was asking if you were doing alright, we’ve been at it a while,” she repeated, “you wanna sit this out, or stop early?”
“Ah,” he breathed, “no, uh- I’m fine to sit until the end of the slot, if you’re good to keep going.”
Some pathetic part of him really, really hoped she wouldn’t cut their session short. There wasn’t much more time to go anyway, but lately he’d found himself wanting to cling to any time he could get with her.
He’d been struck by her from the very first time he saw her, he wouldn’t be able to deny under any circumstances that she was stunning, enchanting, really. She was beautiful; not in the slightly boring, picture-perfect sense like the tall, leggy blondes his friends bragged about bringing home on the weekends, but in a way entirely her own that had somehow captured him and refused to release him since.
Yes, he’d been taken by her bright eyes and crooked smile from the moment he’d met her, but that he could have gotten over. It was getting to know her that had truly sealed his fate, and from the moment the first teasing ‘good boy’ had spilled from her lips he’d known he’d been utterly fucked.
“Oh don’t you worry, handsome, I can keep going as long as you can handle me.”
The fact that the innuendo in her words was perfectly intentional was very clear from her tone. He hummed weakly but otherwise bit his tongue. If the smirk she sent him was any indication he hadn’t done a good job disguising the sound as anything but what it was.
God, he knew he’d asked for it himself, but-
He settled in for a painful last half hour of his session. Painful, tragically, for reasons that had nothing to do whatsoever with the needles piercing his skin again, and again, and again.
By the time he left the shop he felt like he was about ready to lose it.
As they always did, the appointment played over and over in his mind as he made his way home- echoing his own every exaggerated response back to him. Every petname and teasing remark she’d made, and every twitch or out of place hum he’d answered with that might give him away - he knew they wouldn’t leave him be for the next few nights, whenever he’d try to sleep.
She haunted him, yes, but even more so did the shame of his own pathetic infatuation.
No matter what he did to attempt to shake the heat of embarrassment that lingered under his skin, he found it quite impossible to focus on anything else. The frustration of it leaked into his steps as he marched up to his apartment.
He threw his keys on the dresser next to their front door and kicked off his shoes.
Their home, for a change, was quiet.
That could only mean Julian wasn’t home. Good. He really didn’t need to face that particular brand of filterless, gossip-driven conversation while he dealt with his own mortification.
He had enough to think about without worrying about his friend’s opinions, or the questions he’d have, or how he’d share his embarrassment with their other friends or the world at large on his moderately well-visited social media pages.
Geralt shuffled into the kitchen they shared, his thoughts somehow both racing and seeming to blank out entirely at once. His thoughts were overrun entirely by the soft, teasing tone of Yennefer’s voice, the near violet of her eyes endlessly hanging on the edges of his field of vision like a vignette on old pictures.
Not to even get started on how close he constantly was to springing an entirely life-ending boner, when she was around. Her scent, her beauty, the slight sting of pain -which he enjoyed more than he should- and the affectionate, flirty nicknames- this woman would be the death of him.
Eskel was seated at their kitchen table, silently scrolling on his phone.
“Hey,” he muttered, mostly out of habit.
“What’s up,” Eskel answered just as mindlessly.
Geralt dropped himself down into one of their old, rickety chairs.
“I’m going to hurl myself off a cliff,” he complained.
His friend only offered a disinterested grunt, not even raising his eyes from his phone screen. With a disgruntled sigh Geralt dropped his head to the wood of the table, the satisfying thump when his skull made contact almost a comfort.
“You should care, Esk. We will both need to find a new tattoo artist, she knows you’re my friend and I can never go back to that place again.”
Eskel’s deep sigh had his shoulders raising defensively before his friend had even spoken.
“What the fuck did you do, man?”
Geralt groaned into the old wood of their table.