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“Mine,” Philippa says when they’re alone. When everything Triss is longing for is being touched and her mind is lost in a haze.
“Mine,” Philippa whispers during the banquet. The wounds that came from Yennefer’s words are still visible on Triss’s skin as she seeks refuge in her arms. Philippa’s lips burn on the skin and her mouth tastes blood as she marks Triss as hers. Like she always was.
“Mine,” Philippa growls after lodge meetings. Sometimes not even politics or something as big as the worry for the future of magic in the continent are enough to outclass the hunger in her gaze.
And Triss lets her, because there is nothing sweeter than worshipping Philippa. Because the thought of being consumed by her, the thought of being held higher than anyone, even through Philippa’s denial of feelings, feels so good.
Sometimes she retaliates against the bounds of their relationship. No matter how many times she has been thrown down by Philippa herself before.
In those days where she feels so strongly for the other woman that she’s afraid she might die of heartbreak she dares to speak of her feelings.
In those days where she’s longing for something more than being a fun alternative to the women at the redanian court she dares to do something unacceptable. She dares to be jealous, even if she knows that if there is one thing Philippa doesn’t like in her lovers that is jealousy. Because Triss is hers, but it’s not reciprocal.
She makes sure to show it to her every time they get too close.
She does it by reminding her that she’s nothing and nothing she will remain. Just a pawn in Philippa’s plans, an insignificant dot on the map of her life.
And when that happens the sweet intoxication of love is replaced by the taste of her tears and by the bitterness of disappointment.
Even through that Triss remains. Because one second of bliss is enough to make the tears disappear, even if not for long.