Lessons Learned

Eight Months Later…

Nearly a year of taverns and cities had brought subtle changes to Tommon, not the least of which was the tentative mustache adorning his upper lip. He prodded at it speculatively in the mirror, pondering whether it added a distinguished touch to his bardic persona or merely looked misplaced. Deciding it lent him a certain rakish charm, he gave a satisfied nod.

A room in an inn with a mirror - what a luxury! Tommon grinned at his reflection. Definitely keep the mustache.

Suddenly, the door swung open with a force that made Tommon jump. Ciri strode in, her appearance every bit the rugged witcher, cloaked in road dust and the vague aura of recent battles.

"You've got to stop doing that," Tommon sighed, half-amused, half-exasperated.

Ciri, brushing off her cloak, shot him a wry look. "I have to keep going to fancier and fancier taverns to find you," she grumbled. "At this rate, I'll be dealing with royal guards next."

Tommon smirked, leaning back against the dresser. "What can I say? My reputation grows."

"Tell the maid to keep it down,” came a muttered voice thick with the remnants of last night’s indulgences.

Tommon and Ciri turned towards the bed where a busty woman lay amidst tangled sheets, her hair a wild cascade around her pillow. As she leaned up, blinking sleep from her eyes, she caught sight of Ciri. She blinked again, confusion evident on her features.

"You certainly have a taste for buxom women," Ciri remarked dryly.

"Better buxom than bruxa," Tommon said, his grin widening.

"True," Ciri conceded, her smile taking on a teasing edge. "Though you still owe me for saving you from that actual bruxa. Remember how you nearly sang your last note?"

"Yes, yes, my dearest darling witcher, thank you for saving my life from that horrid thing," Tommon replied with a dramatic flourish, bowing deeply.

At the mention of "witcher," the woman in the bed sat bolt upright, morning lethargy forgotten. "She’s a witcher?! What does she want?" she stammered, her voice trembling.

Ciri's strides were purposeful as she approached the bed. The woman, still partially tangled in the sheets, scrambled to the far side, her frantic.

"It's time to go now; the bard and I have some important business," Ciri stated plainly, her voice devoid of malice but firm in its intent. She had a way of commanding a room that left little room for argument, her presence as much a force as any spell she could cast.

The woman looked from Tommon to Ciri, her expression showing reluctance and resignation. "But—" she began, only to be interrupted by a sigh from Tommon, who had started to fetch her clothes from where they lay scattered on the floor.

"I’m sorry, my pookins," he said, handing her the garments, presenting them with a courteous, if somewhat detached, smile. "This nasty white-haired woman brings a load of trouble anywhere she goes; you’ll want none of it. I’ll see you tonight." His tone was gentle, trying to ease the sting of the dismissal.

“He’s right, I’m no good,” Ciri said, pursing her lips and narrowing her eyes for dramatic effect.

The woman clutched the clothes to her chest, her eyes darting nervously between Tommon and Ciri. "And what will you do with her?" she asked, her voice tinged with a hint of jealousy.

Tommon's response was swift, a touch of impatience from oft-repeated words coloring his tone. "Pookins, you know I can't be tied down," he said, his words lilting. "What, do you want to follow me from tavern to tavern, mewling as I go?"

She shook her head, a slight, defeated nod. Tommon helped her into her dress, his movements gentle. "That’s right, beautiful," he murmured.

As she made to leave, she paused at the door, looking back at Tommon with a mixture of hope and uncertainty. "Tonight?" she asked, seeking confirmation.

"I’ll be back tonight," Tommon reassured her, his smile tender.

Ciri, who had been watching the exchange with a raised eyebrow, interjected, "He might be back tonight."

With a huff, the woman shot a sour glance at Ciri, then exited the room, closing the door with a soft click. Tommon sat on the bed next to Ciri.

Now alone, Ciri turned towards him. “‘Pookins?’ Really?”

Tommon shrugged. “Behold, the monster of a bard you’ve created.”

Ciri punched him. It hurt. “I don’t regret it for a moment,” she said, her gaze lingering on the expensive-looking stationery with a fancy seal on the dresser. "You certainly are making a name for yourself," she remarked, the corners of her mouth twitching upwards.

Tommon shrugged, a hint of pride flickering across his features. "The people of Novigrad have a taste for the classics," he said. "Valrin plays well here."

"And I hear your originals are making the rounds, too," Ciri added, her tone teasing. "Seems you're following closely in the great bard’s footsteps."

He shrugged again, his nonchalance opposing the ambitious gleam in his eyes. "I try my best to imitate the great masters; what can I say?"

Ciri picked up the letter, unfolding it to reveal a sheet of parchment. She scanned its contents, her eyes moving quickly over the lines. She started reading aloud, her voice dripping with disbelief. "‘Oh, sweet nightingale, sing thy sweet night song, let thine nightly voice carry me along, this night…’" Her expression soured. "What is this?"

Tommon grimaced. "It’s from a wealthy fan," he admitted. "They often want me to sing their 'originals.' You know, personal compositions."

Ciri shook her head, dropping the letter back onto the table. "You really are going places, Tommon," she said, her voice conveying concern. "And fast."

Tommon looked at the letter, then back at Ciri, his expression thoughtful. "I just hope I’m going in the right direction," he mused.

“Well, at least you still have some reflective instinct in you. Never forget your humble origins as a strapping farm boy,” she said as she fiddled with his other personal effects on the dresser. Ciri's fingers paused as they encountered a nearly empty potion bottle among Tommon's belongings.

She held it up to the light, examining the small amount of emerald green liquid left. Her expression shifted from casual curiosity to sudden concern. "Did you really go through all of this in the couple of weeks I've been away?" she asked, her voice colored with astonishment and worry.

Tommon glanced at the vial, then met her gaze with a shrug. "Yes, and it’s good you're here—I’m running out," he admitted, taking the bottle from her and giving it a light shake to prove the point.

Ciri’s frown deepened, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Tommon, you should be dead. You can’t have nearly that much in this short amount of time. What did I tell you? Are you ill?”

He gave another shrug, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "Never felt better. I’ve got a tolerance or something; I just need more and more to feel the same effects."

Ciri’s eyes narrowed. “Witcher potions aren't like ale or pipe weed; you don’t just 'get used' to them. You could die."

Ciri set the bottle down with a soft clink, her expression thoughtful, tinged with a hint of frustration. After a moment, her gaze returned to Tommon, a heat in her eyes. "You know, if you need more, these potions are expensive and take a lot of work for me to make," she remarked casually.

Tommon raised an eyebrow, detecting the undercurrent in her tone. "And how do you propose I earn more?" he asked, his voice low.

In response, Ciri stood and began to unlace her breeches. She let them fall to the floor and gracefully stepped out of them. "I can think of a few ways," she said, her voice sultry, as she approached him. You could start by making yourself useful."

As Ciri closed the distance between them, her intent clear, Tommon felt a familiar thrill of excitement and the edge of danger that always seemed to accompany his interactions with her. His reservations about the potion were momentarily eclipsed by the immediate and tangible reward promised by her approach. With Ciri, there was always something—challenge, sex, friction… command.

Ciri reached him, her hands finding his shoulders as she looked up into his eyes. "Well?" she prompted, a mischievous glint in her gaze.

Not waiting for him to respond, Ciri pushed Tommon backward until he found himself seated on the edge of the bed. Her hands remained on his shoulders, steadying him as she positioned herself just out of reach.

"Show me what you've learned, bard," Ciri teased, a smirk playing across her lips as she took a step closer, positioning her sex inches from his face.

Tommon reached out, his hands tracing the lines of her thighs, feeling the heat of her skin beneath his fingertips. He leaned in, his breath cool against her warmth, teasing her with a gentle exhale. Ciri’s breath hitched slightly, her body tensing in anticipation. Her eyes locked on his with an intensity that dared him to continue.

For a moment, Tommon continued to tease, his lips hovering just inches from her, enjoying the slight quiver that ran through her body with each breath. But then, her fingers were in his hair, pulling him into her warmth. His lips met her folds, his tongue licking the length of her slit before delving deeper.

Ciri’s hands pulled him in hard as she ground her hips into his face, pressing him closer. Her control was evident, even as her breathing grew more erratic. Tommon had indeed improved his skill with his tongue, and lapped at her pussy reverently, driven by the dual desires to satisfy her and to prove himself worthy of whatever this complex relationship between them might entail.

After a few intense moments, Ciri pulled him back by his hair. She guided him down onto the bed entirely, her movements swift and sure. Then, with a fluid motion, she mounted his face, her knees planted firmly on either side of his head.

Tommon looked up at her, his hands instinctively reaching up to caress her body. He felt along her taught stomach, reaching up to palm her breasts. Then his hands wandered lower, gripping her hips first, then her ass, pulling her closer, encouraging her movements as she straddled his face.

Ciri set the pace, grinding down against his mouth and nose, controlling the pressure and the pleasure with precision. Her hands remained firm in his hair, her control unyielding even as her body began to betray the building climax. Tommon felt her shudder above him as she fucked his face, her movements growing more desperate, more urgent.

Her thighs framed his vision, the muscles taut and defined. They quaked against his ears as he did his best to contribute to the wild rocking of her hips against his tongue. Tommon's hands roamed with intent, tracing the contours of her ass and grabbing her cheeks hard, his fingers digging into the soft flesh as if to anchor her to him.

He savored her taste, the subtle changes as her excitement built. Ciri's responses were uninhibited, primal even. Her moans filled the room, each one a note in the symphony of their encounter. She rocked against him, her movements becoming less controlled, more shuddering. The pressure of her hands communicated her needs without words, guiding him, commanding him.

His tongue swirled around her, delving deeper into her wetness, then retreating to graze lightly across the burgeoning peak of her arousal. He could feel her body tensing, the building pressure that signaled her approaching climax.

Ciri's breaths became shorter, sharper. Each inhalation was a gasp, each exhalation a moan. Her skin glistened with a fine sheen of sweat. Tommon was relentless, driven by the desire to see her undone, to witness her surrender to his tongue.

As Ciri’s moans crescendoed, her body arched beautifully, straining his mouth. Tommon continued, his hands, his mouth, his entire being focused on her climax. As the tension mounted, Ciri reached back with a sudden, decisive movement. Her fingers, skilled and sure, quickly found the fastenings of Tommon's breeches. She deftly undid them, her hand slipping inside to grasp his arousal. Her touch was firm and knowing; her movements synchronized with the rhythm of her rocking hips.

Ciri’s hand moved on Tommon, stroking his cock hard and fast. Ciri’s body began to tremble as she edged every closer climax, her movements becoming less rhythmic, more erratic. Ciri trebled on him, her sex vibrating against his lips. She tightened her grip on Tommon, her hand on his arousal becoming almost painfully tight.

Then, with a long, drawn-out moan, Ciri came, her body convulsing in waves of intense pleasure. She rocked hard against Tommon's face, drowning him in her release, even as she held onto him, her hand still moving as she held his cock.

Ciri's climax washed over her in relentless waves, each one bringing her pussy shuddering against Tommon’s lips and tongue. A squeeze of her hand punctuated each shudder, each one mirrored by a groan from Tommon as he felt the surge of his approaching release.

Finally, she finished coming on his face. With little ceremony, she dismounted, catching her breath momentarily as she lay next to Tommon. After just a few moments, she began to fondle him, her touch now gentle and tantalizing. Her fingers were light, yet each brush against his skin was laden with promise, an exquisitely torturous teasing.

Tommon lay back, his breathing still uneven, as he watched the slow dance of Ciri’s fingers. She allowed her fingertips to wander across his chest and abdomen, drawing idle circles that gradually spiraled toward his waist. With a coy smile, Ciri moved onto her knees.

Ciri’s touch finally moved to his cock, which twitched expectantly under her gentle scrutiny. Her fingers wrapped around him softly, not quite gripping, her touch as light as a whisper. She explored him, her movements languorous and teasing. She ran her thumb over the tip, spreading the lingering wetness, her touch so light it was almost a tickle. Tommon held his breath, his body tightening in anticipation. He felt every subtle texture of her fingerprints as she ran her hand along his length.

Ciri maintained eye contact as she manipulated him, her gaze intense and unyielding. She seemed to delight in the visible effect of her actions, the slight twitches and involuntary thrusts that her teasing provoked. She squeezed him gently, then let her grip relax, repeating the cycle in a maddening rhythm, not entirely stroking him. The motion only built his need.

“Ciri, please,” Tommon pleaded, his voice strained with desire. The frustration was building, a sweet agony that left his nerves alight with anticipation.

Ciri’s response was only a playful chuckle, her hand pausing in its ministrations. “Aren’t you getting plenty from your bruxa– I mean buxom women?” she teased, echoing the playfulness with a firm undertone. “Remember, Tommon, a lack of release makes for better wanting. It sharpens the senses.” With that, she leaned forward, planting a searing kiss on the tip of his length, and then withdrew.

The cool air hit his skin where her warmth had just been, making him shiver slightly from the sudden loss.

Tommon exhaled slowly, frustration and resignation washing over him. At this point, he knew that look from Ciri. She’d make him wait. With a sigh, he reached for his breeches, pulling them up with a sense of finality. He fastened his clothing, watching her with longing as she closed her shirt and shrugged back into her undergarments.

“Did I at least earn my potion?” he asked.

Ciri's expression shifted subtly as Tommon asked for the potion, her gaze sharpening with a hint of seriousness. "I lied. I don't have more," she admitted with a slight sigh. Tommon began to protest, but she cut him off. "Besides, you need to get this tolerance issue checked out. It's not normal, and it's definitely not safe."

Tommon moaned softly, disappointment coloring his voice.

Ciri, now dressed, stood up, her posture businesslike, intimacy already forgotten. "Relax, I just need my alchemical toolkit to make you more. You’ve definitely earned it. But first, we must visit a friend who will help figure out what’s happening with you. Come on, bring what you have left of the potion."

Tommon grumbled, his frustration evident. "I have a performance tonight, Ciri. This better not take long." He wasn’t all that concerned about this potion thing. After all, he felt great. Why should he be concerned? Nonetheless, he fell into line, gathering a small pack to take with him and sliding on his boots.

As they headed toward the door, Ciri paused and turned to Tommon with a critical eye. "And shave that mustache before we go. It’s not working."

It was Tommon's turn to roll his eyes. Knowing there was no point in arguing, he turned around and headed back to the room to shave, muttering under his breath about the whims of witchers.

≋ ≋ ≋

As Ciri and Tommon ventured into the affluent quarter, the stark contrast with the bustling city center became unmistakable. Here, the streets were adorned with elegant homes fronted by meticulously manicured gardens. The air seemed purer, infused with the sweet aromas of blooming flowers and freshly cut grass.

Despite his months on the road, Tommon found the surrounding opulence impressive and intimidating. He watched, slightly wide-eyed, as nobles in fine clothing strolled past, their conversations a murmur of affluence as they cast looks down their noses.

Unperturbed by such grandeur, Ciri confidently led them to their destination—a particularly splendid house near the edge of the merchant quarter. She paused at the door, then knocked firmly, the sound resonating in the quiet street.

Inside, there was a brief silence, followed by the sound of approaching footsteps. Tommon, inexplicably nervous, brushed his hand against his freshly shaved face.

The door swung open, revealing a striking woman with fiery red hair, impeccably styled.

“Ciri! How delightful to see you! And who is this you’ve brought along?”