abraxaslogs | [ CLOSED ] eyes black, big paws

[John sits at the desk he has claimed for his own at the Beefsteak -- he had never had his "own" desk at the club, but since he had technically built this place from his memory of the original and has already taken certain other, larger liberties, he does not feel that laying such a claim on certain pieces of furniture or indeed, rooms of the establishment is much of a stretch of the imagination. Before him sits a piece of paper and a quill. He understands that such things are not needed to draft a message that one sends from one mind to another, but even so, old habits die hard.

He understands as well that there were reasons, and very sound ones, which had interrupted the moment they had found themselves in, that evening in the Feasting Quarters. The moment had passed and there had been important business to attend to, Geralt running off and throwing himself into all sorts of danger and John...

Well. He had helped, to some degree, but there had been less danger involved, and at the end of the day he had mostly been left feeling: Exposed. Uncertain. Unresolved. There had been a tension between them allowed to build that had withered once they'd gotten down to other business and John finds himself wondering... A great many things, which leads him to where he finds himself, sat before this blank piece of paper, quill in hand, staring blankly out the window at the stormy sky beyond. Listening to the growl of thunder growing in the distance.

...no. Not thunder. Closer to hand, and loud enough that John pushes himself up from his desk, crossing the hall toward the front door to investigate the source of the noise.

He still can't say he understands what he's looking at once he's seeing it, but he knows it's Geralt sat astride it, which is a welcome sight.]

That's quite the machine you have.

[ John emerges looking put-together, as usual. Geralt, meanwhile, has a thick layer of mud caked on his boots; his hair is damp from the rains northeast of the Horizon, and several strands have come loose from the leather cord at the back of his head. A worn cloak is tossed over his shoulders.

He lifts an eyebrow in greeting. ] I'd offer a ride, but the weather's shit.

[ Thunder claps overhead. Next time, maybe. His gaze roams over John before he says without preamble: ]

We were interrupted. [ He swings off the bike and steps towards the entrance where John is peering out. ] In Ikorr.

[ Whether John is interested in resuming where they left is another matter. He won't take it personally if the other's changed his mind—though he doesn't think John has. ]

[John's heart gives a funny lurch in his chest. For the fact that Geralt is here. That he has come, without prompting, and this is the first thing he says. That it has been on his mind as well. Their kiss. The promise of what might have been to come.]

We were.

[A simple fact, but there is weight to it as well. John regards the other man carefully, wetting his lips as he takes in the measure of him. Weighing his options before he steps back, holding the door open for him to enter.

An invitation.]

You should come inside. Dry off.

[Among other things...]

[ He takes the invitation. As much as he disliked the interruption, the quiet privacy is preferable. And there are more plush surfaces here than on the festival streets.

His shoulder brushes lightly against John's as he passes through. He lowers the hood of his cloak. The smell of liquor and aged wood permeates the air. He's only set foot in this place once, but something about it speaks to him.

Maybe it's to do with John's fondness of it. A warmth that bleeds into the atmosphere. ]

I think, [ he begins, slow and deliberate, ] you should show me where I can dry off.

[John would be pleased to know that Geralt finds comfort here, at the Beefsteak, for all that it is not necessarily a familiar place to him. There is time to change that yet. Time to familiarize Geralt with the Beefsteak specifically.

Of course, John does not particularly care about such things in this moment. Not when Geralt is stepping forward through the threshold after him to stand, dripping slightly, on the oriental rug of the Beefsteak's entry hall before him.

John blinks slightly, staring up at the other man as he shuts the door behind him and takes in the measure of the man. Show him somewhere he can dry off. Geralt had come here -- for him. Come here because they had been interrupted. Explicitly so. Here and now, there will be no interruptions. Despite the fact that they are not meeting in person, much as John might want, he still finds his pulse begin to pick up with the possibility of the moment.]

I. [John says eloquently. Swallowing thickly and wetting his lips before forcing himself to continue on.] Feel that I should make myself quite plain in the fact that I want you.

[His cheeks flush with color but he carries on, bravely enough.] Just. In case I have not made that clear. I realize you have come here of your own free will and in acknowledgment of our previous interruption, but I...

[He does not want to overstep, over-assume. John's sexuality has always been a treacherous tightrope to navigate at the best of times, and now? He needs a little guidance. Where does Geralt stand? Draw the line? John has mistakenly ruined friendships with far less than what they have done already, after all.]

[ Geralt pauses. His head cocks. Had they not kissed, he could understand the desire to be explicit, but frankly, unless John were to have stripped naked on the spot, he can't say it could've been any more transparent than that night.

Lightning flashes through the windows. He rests a hand against the curved bannister. ]

You were clear. [ It's true they didn't necessarily speak about it first, and though Geralt seldom needs to, John's hesitation makes him wonder if the man sees more unfolding than a simple exchange of pleasure. Which. Don't misunderstand, he enjoys John's company. He can even admit he's become fond of John more quickly than with others in the past.

But his attraction to John is separate from that; he isn't here to evolve things between them beyond friendship.

A second passes. ] What's on your mind?

[ The question is candid, but not unkind. ]

[What is on his mind?

A part of John wishes he had not opened his mouth. Wishes he had just continued leading Geralt through the hall and up the stairs, to the room he had claimed as his own. The way he had wanted to. The way he does want to. But he cannot say that this is not important too, and that there would not be a part of his mind still wondering.

John presses his eyes shut tight, forcing himself to take a deep breath through his nose in an attempt to center himself before he glances back to Geralt. Feeling vulnerable for opening himself up to the other man in such a way. The expression on his face vulnerable as well.]

Where I am from, it... is not easy. To be -- as I am. [A man attracted to other men. Only men. There are words for it, of course, but John does not know any that are particularly kind.

He presses his lips together tightly, before forcing himself to admit:] It is, in fact, illegal. Punishable by death. I have not -- I have had to be so careful. All my life. And the moments I have slipped have cost me dearly. The friendship I had known...

[John stops himself, stepping forward to close something of the distance between the pair of them. Gazing up into his companion's golden eyes and searching for what he might find there as he continues:]

I do not wish to repeat the experience. Please. Tell me -- you... This? Is all right.

[It's foolish, really. Geralt had kissed him once already. Geralt kissed him. And now he has come here to seek him out, likely intending to kiss him again. This is nothing like John's one accidental advance on Jamie. And yet. That one advance had ruined everything for years between them, and John cannot stomach it happening again, here and now.]

[ Geralt waits, patient. Would it be simpler had John taken him upstairs without question? Possibly, but he imagines whatever has John fretful will not easily leave him. May as well get it off his chest now.

Besides. He can understand, when John says as I am. He supposes men will always look for monsters in their neighbours. It doesn't matter what they find troublesome—pointed ears or who you might fuck. Arbitrary lines. But even if the latter were to be a point of contention where he's from, Geralt remains far removed from that sort of horseshit. He's a Witcher. His entire existence is an aberration to the world. Nothing he does or doesn't do will change that.

His expression softens. John is so fucking earnest, it sometimes feels as though he's stumbled upon a particularly rare bird. Hard not to want to see it again.

Hard not to want to coax it into landing. ]

John. It's all right. I promise. [ He takes a step forward, too. In case there are any lingering doubts, he leans down and kisses him again. As he intended when he arrived. ] Now, do tell me you've a bed somewhere. I have a shit back these days.

[ He's partly teasing, but also. It's not wholly false. ]

Edited 2024-03-23 08:23 (UTC)

[There are men where John is from who do exist outside of the rules of society. It is much easier to do, in the new colonies. Make your own life, your own choices. But John still holds a position in the army. He is a member of nobility. His brother is a member of the House of Lords. Even in Virginia, in Philadelphia, John has never been his own man. Not really.

Not until he found himself here. And it’s a bit like learning to walk on his own once more, while watching everyone else around him run by unhindered.

John leans into the kiss that Geralt offers. Grateful that in insisting on speaking his fears he has not ruined this. Grateful for Geralt’s understanding. He moves his hand to rest on Geralt’s arm, bracing himself against the sturdy warmth of his companion, fingers curled in the rain-damp fabric of his cloak.

He huffs a breath of laughter out at the next words and pulls back slightly, reaching up to pinch a lock of Geralt’s damp hair between his fingers, wet enough that it gathers a bead of rain water to drip onto the floor.]

I do. Upstairs. [He hazards the quirk of a smile, the hint of a tease in return as he asks:] I trust your back can handle the climb?

[ He had vague designs of arriving a little less damp, but the Horizon's temperamental skies had other plans. He probably smells like wet earth and leather and fumes from the motorbike. At least his hair is free of unusual substances this time.

His lips curl. Hm. It's good to see John relax again. ]

If you want to carry me, [ Geralt starts to follow John up the stairs, ] I need to be courted a little more.

[ As they walk, he takes in the corridors, the decorations or rugs that might be there. Who else would be here back home? Friends and family? Fellow soldiers? Maybe what calls to him about this place is the sense that it was created for a brotherhood, of sorts. A refuge away from the world.

His eyes wander to the back of John's head. The ribbon holding the man's hair practically begs to be pulled on.

He refrains. For now.

They approach the room. Geralt crosses the threshold, reaching up to undo the clasp of his cloak. ]

[The Beefsteak is similarly decorated upstairs as it is down. A Gentleman’s club, it is designed with its members in mind, and unlike White’s where the intent had obviously been to throw the members’ importance in each other’s faces, the Beefsteak had been very much a home away from home. A place to sit and read, have a quiet conversation. A hearty meal, or a decent night’s rest. John has partaken in all of the above on many on occasion, and considers the Beefsteak as much a home to him as any. Perhaps more so than some, at that.

Pushing open the door to the bedroom he has claimed for his own, John leads Geralt inside. True to the design of the place, there are others, if he were to have guests. They are the only two there today, however, and he is certainly not expecting anyone else.

The room itself is probably somewhat ornate by regular standards, but it’s homely for John. There is a large, comfortable bed (as promised), and a fire in the hearth which John magically has a new stock of wood for each day. He has not found a need for the missing staff so far at all in this place, in fact. A part of the magic of the Horizon, he supposes.

Ushering Geralt inside, he moves to shut the door behind them, turning toward the other man once that’s been done with a somewhat self-conscious smile.]

Courted. [He repeats.] I think I can manage that.

[Maybe not carrying him anywhere, but. He steps forward, closing the distance between them, until his fingers find Geralt’s, replacing them on the clasp of his cloak until he is undoing it himself, slipping the wet garment off the other man’s shoulders with the teasing brush of gentle fingers.]

I am glad you came. [he murmurs]

[ The fire crackles at his back. The room might be ornate, but it's familiar enough. He encountered similar when he would meet Yennefer at her many abodes. It's inviting here. He can see why John is so fond of the place.

And he likes where John's hand is moving.

Beneath his cloak is the same black shirt he seldom changes, the buttons already partially undone. He guides John's fingers towards the ones that remain, taking a few steps back until he bumps against the bed.

John's heartbeat flutters in his ears. The fire is not the only thing warming the room, and Geralt's skin prickles. Desire is a simple thing for him. Men or women—as long as they both get what they need from it, as long as there are no complications, he's never thought twice. (Yennefer aside. That holds a myriad of complications. She's always been the exception in more ways than one.) ]

Is that so? [ His prodding is gentle. He tugs at the fabric tucked around John's neck, loosening the knot to pull it free. ] How glad?

[John takes Geralt’s guidance easily, stepping forward as the other man steps back, walking until he knows Geralt’s knees must have met the edge of the bed. Casting the wet cloak aside (sorry, Geralt, it will dry just as easily on the floor by the fire), then allowing his fingers to be moved toward the buttons of Geralt’s shirt. Undoing first one, then another, the skin of the other man’s chest slowly revealed with the slow, deliberate work of John’s fingers. John’s pulse slowly quickening the further he works.

It is not, of course, the first time he will have seen the other man shirtless. But it will be the first time that he’ll be allowed to touch. Which is, in John’s experience, an entirely different matter.

John’s light blue eyes flick up to meet Geralt’s golden ones at the question. Teasing, yes he knows, but also: an invitation.

John shifts a hand to press flat on Geralt’s chest, pushing him backwards until he has nowhere to go but down. To sit on the edge of the bed, with John standing over him, looking down at him now (for once) from this change of positions.]

Very. [John murmurs, stepping forward to fit himself between Geralt’s legs. He shifts a hand up to cup the edge of the other man’s jaw, thumb tracing over the note of stubble he finds there, blue eyes still locked on gold before he closes the distance between them once more. Initiating his own kiss this time.]

[ John's palm rests against his skin, warm. Geralt sinks onto the bed. His pupils are wider in the dim light, swallowing the ring of gold.

Content to let John explore where he likes, Geralt slips his shirt over his head, discarding it on the floor by the cloak. The faintest set of marks are raised against the side of his throat, over his shoulder—angled claws that might've spelled the end for a normal man.

Very is a good answer. The demonstration of it is a better one.

He meets the kiss without hesitation, without breaking his gaze. His fingers burrow into soft brown locks; he pushes at John's jacket with his other hand, then reaches for the buttons of his waistcoat, his shirt—whichever is easiest. One of them continues to have too many layers for what they're doing right now, and Geralt meant it when he said there was still plenty left to the imagination. That he is certain John possesses more than his customary politeness beneath his clothes. He has not yet seen John shirtless, and he is no longer satisfied with imagining. ]

[John is more than happy to be free from his jacket, arching back to assist the other man in removing it and finding himself particularly uncaring in where it lands and whether or not it winds up wrinkled or not. He is much more concerned in having his arms, his hands available again, now that Geralt is shirtless. Now that he has been given permission to touch.

And touch he does. Reaching forward to run gentle, pleasure-warm fingers across the lines and planes of Geralt’s chest, his stomach, making a mental map of his findings and Geralt’s responses to the teasing brush of his fingers as he goes. He does not balk at any scarring or imperfection he might find — knowing what he does of Geralt’s lifestyle, he’d be surprised if he were completely without evidence thereof. It would make him quite the hypocrite, in fact, as Geralt will soon find out.

Speaking of — John is all too aware of the fact that he is still wearing far too many layers. It is a predicament entirely of his own making, and yet he still cannot help but be infuriated by it. With a low growl in his throat, he forces himself to pull back from their kiss enough to tear off his loosened cravat and throw it aside.]

Jesus… [John swears under his breath, moving to clutch at Geralt’s arm where he is working on his buttons. But not to stop his actions — far from it.]

[ There's a soft exhale through his nose; he can feel it when John's fingers wander over his scars—some sensitive, others dulled where the skin has grown thick, smooth. His heart quickens, though its beat remains startlingly slow. Much slower than any human pulse.

John's impatience only spurs him on. He moves with deft fingers to loosen buttons and buckles and laces, and whatever other shit happens to be in the way. It all gets shoved to the side, to the ground. He can't give a damn. His attention is fixed on what's in front of him. Bare skin, at last unwrapped and similarly scarred. That, too, is no surprise given the man's lifetime as a soldier.

Perhaps another time, they will exchange stories.

With John still standing above, Geralt tilts forward, lips brushing over his exposed stomach. His hair falls in a tousled silver curtain. He wraps his fingers around John's wrist and tugs, urging him onto the bed already. ]

[John is not ashamed of his body. It has served him well enough all of his life, he may as well be grateful for it. He has survived being shot and stabbed. A canon’s explosion and the subsequent surgeries to remove what shrapnel they could from his chest. He is older now than he once was, but still fit, honed from a life spent riding on horseback and training with swords and guns. Living in a time of war. He may have been born to nobility, but in his heart Lord John Grey has always been, yes. A soldier.

He shudders at the brush of warm lips against his skin, the fingers of his free hand moving to tangle in the hair at the back of Geralt’s head and simply hold him there for a moment. He too wishes for more though, so at Geralt’s urging, he moves. Pressing one hand down flat against the bed to support his weight and use as leverage, as he climbs up onto the bed to straddle Geralt’s lap. It is a somewhat precarious position but he has years of riding practicing training the exact muscles that he needs. And somehow, he doubts Geralt is about to let him fall.

Tipping his head forward, he presses his own lips against Geralt’s shoulder. Strands of his hair, loosened now thanks to the earlier attention, slipping free from its tie to hang loose in his face and tease against the other man’s skin as he moves.]

[ He manages to kick off one muddy boot before he falls back on the bed, sinking into plush pillows and cool sheets. His arm slips under John, not quite lifting but steadying with a casual strength that says he could easily bear the weight of a grown man.

A hum rumbles deep in his chest. He turns his head, granting more of his throat for John to explore. Geralt runs warm as it is, and his blood has only grown hotter. His fingers scrabble for purchase in John's hair, tangling in them until more locks tumble out of the ribbon. It's been some time since he's had somebody new—and though he's a creature of habit, of old comforts, he finds a different familiarity in mapping uncharted territory. Listening for the telltale hitches in breath, a skipped heartbeat.

As John settles more atop him, Geralt hooks his leg over, tangling them together. He lifts his hips. A flame burns low in his belly. Brief thoughts of drawing things out pass through before he decides, fuck it. He dislodges his other boot and loosens the top button of his trousers. ]

[John hopes that they will have a chance to repeat this again, sometime. That they will have opportunity to come together in person, rather than the strange fever-dream of the Horizon. Not that he is complaining, given present circumstances. But once they do, then he will take his time to really savor the moment. Here and now? He does not mind so much if their touch is a little harried.

If Geralt is waiting for a sign of John’s pleasure, he does not have to wait long. His breath hitches, at the hook of Geralt’s leg over his own, tangling them further together. Shudders at the roll of his hips, as he presses up against him.

Needing no further encouragement, he manages to shift his weight enough to free one hand again. Working it between them to lay flat against Geralt’s stomach first, then slide its way down to join the other man’s fingers on the buttons of his trousers. Aiding him in freeing another from its fastenings before his fingers slide lower, cupping the shape of Geralt’s hardening arousal in the palm of his hand. Groaning softly against the skin of the other man’s neck at the feel of it and the heady realization that yes, he really does want this too.]

Jesus… [John says again, cursing softly before turning his head to press an open-mouthed kiss at the corner of the other man’s jaw, the spot so kindly presented to him…]

[ And a little harried it is; where Geralt's movements are normally deliberate, precise, he's now much looser—hand hovering in the air once John takes over undoing the fastenings. For a beat, he simply watches. Then he drops it, gripping the pillow beneath while John makes quick work of the rest.

He wants it. He wants a lot, but he makes no move to demand more. Curiosity overtakes pure desire; he's interested to see what John will do next. When he turns back to catch those lips wandering over his jaw, there's a glint in his eye and a faint tilt to the corner of his mouth. Because he heard it. The small noise of appreciation. The foreign curse that slipped free as careful fingers curled around his cock.

He drags in a sharp breath. His eyes flutter. Fuck. ] Fuck.

[ Far too much fabric still. He yanks his trousers fully off and consigns them to the rug below. Better. Nearly. There's John left, but he leaves it for now, satisfying himself with another kiss as he pushes into the hand between his legs. ]

Edited 2024-03-29 21:49 (UTC)

[There are still John’s trousers left, but he has other priorities at present. Namely: the man underneath him, and dragging other similar reactions out of him such as the one he had just received.

He wishes he had time and opportunity to step back and look at him, fully unclothed as he is. From what he knows already of Geralt’s naked body, he can only imagine that he would like what he sees. But there will be another time to allow himself to linger. Perhaps when they have a chance to meet again face-to-face, at that. For now, however…

John leans into the kiss, hungry for more. For the taste of Geralt’s lips against his own. For the next sound of pleasure he might draw from him and the way his eyes had closed just now, at his touch. For the heat of his arousal, firm and solid in his hand as Geralt presses his hips up into the touch.

John’s sword-calloused fingers wrap around him in return and offer a teasing, experimental stroke, up and down the length of him.]

[ The kiss is eager, and Geralt responds in kind, cupping the back of John's head. Pressed between them, the silver wolf on its chain grows warm.

Long fingers draw another rough noise from him, caught in his chest, and he digs a little harder into John's shoulder—narrow but well-defined. He's careful to withhold his true strength, leaving behind only the faintest imprint from his nails. Perhaps it doesn't matter in the Horizon where nothing will follow them out, but it's real enough while they're here, each breath ghosting over his skin and the heat that continues to unfurl inside him.

It's thoughtless to fall into the steady rhythm. His blood thrums. Beneath the shadow of his lowered lashes, darkened veins spiderweb around his eyes for a blink, then fade—easily missed. He doesn't notice himself, too distracted by. Everything. And those fucking hands.

John's previous caution seems to have been laid well to rest. Geralt isn't complaining at all. ]

[John is not aware of the full extent of Geralt’s abilities, he is not aware of how careful he must be, to hold back as he does. He is too distracted himself, by the press of Geralt’s lips on his own, the heat of his skin, and that sound he drags out from him. A sound that cuts right through him, the pleasure tingle of it running down his nerve endings like miniature lightning bolts, setting his skin ablaze.

It is a pity he has not undressed, that Geralt cannot touch him further in return. But John is otherwise preoccupied, and like a mantra he thinks to himself hazily: there will be time, yet.

In the meanwhile, he has the other man right where he wants him. Pulling back out of the kiss in the attempt to catch his breath and nip at the underside of Geralt’s jaw, his finger stroke, soft yet firm. Teasing yet certain. Letting himself explore with touch alone. Running a thumb across the very tip of him. Sliding down to circle at the very base and squeezing, ever so slightly.

John may not be taking his sweet time, but he is not rushing this either. Enjoying himself and enjoying Geralt, in this moment. Confident in the fact he knows exactly what he is doing.]

[ A pity, but—they've only just started. Geralt plans on making this visit well worth both of their time, even if he's stopped keeping track of the minutes, the world simultaneously now and not. He grasps at John's arm, his back, dragging his fingers over dips and grooves and jagged marks. The lightning and thunder fade into the distance. A storm may as well not be happening.

The soft bite against his jaw is almost tender. Geralt is not a vocal man, in or out of bed, but it isn't hard to discern his feelings from his stuttered breaths, from the way he meets every stroke and tease. And he is not shy about chasing after more. He cants his hips, drawing one leg up and in to trap John against him.

His teeth catch the shell of an ear. He finds the ribbon's silk end and pulls, at last releasing John's once tidily swept-back hair. More for him to hold onto as pleasure mounts low inside him. A heat that pools, then radiates outward.

He lets their foreheads touch, lets the locks of hair stick to his damp skin. The tension of the month's burdens (years, decades) is replaced by something else, something much better he can soon release. ]

[John’s eyes fall shut for a moment as their foreheads touch, as he lingers in the sensation of his hair, now loose about his shoulders. He doesn’t often wear it down, not even when he’s sleeping. Certainly not around others, but here and now.

But does not mind so much that Geralt has freed it from its ribbon. Does not mind the way that Geralt has trapped him against his body, the scrape of his teeth against John’s ear in return, the barely contained restraint. In fact, he rather enjoys all of the above. The way he is coming apart at the seams and the knowledge that he is the one to make it happen. That Geralt is allowing it this way.

Idly, John thinks that he would like to explore in further detail what really gets under Geralt’s skin and drives him wild, but he’d like to think they might repeat this experience another time. For now…

John does take pity on him, enough to establish a solid rhythm of his hand. Rolling his hips forward once against Geralt’s thigh as his own control begins to fray. He is only human, after all.]

[ CLOSED ] eyes black, big paws

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nsfw. →

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wrap soon? 🎀