abraxaslogs | [ dec / open ] what even is the point of december without christmas presents?

[ She isn't one to fixate on the scars, make him recount every story and monster, but she does run her fingers over the fresh ones. It's remarkable how fast they healed over, even knowing that he's literally mutated to allow it. It's still incredible to her, as someone who comes from a world where it's not possible.

Eyes rolling thoughtfully, she lazily rocks in his lap as she tries to come up with the best way to explain it. ]

Mm-hm. Well, I don't think it's that unusual, it makes sense to me, but it's not like all the [ She quickly makes a bunch of hand movements, mimicking the things she's seen Nadine do. ] and chantin' and stuff. It's called Wild magic. There's not a lot of memorizin' things or studyin'. Mostly, it's about sorta grabbin' the magic in the air and channelin' it through your emotions and thoughts. I guess that's the best way to describe it. The people in the other cities don't like it much because it's not the most stable kind of magic, it's not as predictable or whatever, and I guess it's easier to teach lots of people how to do stuff that can be taught out of a book.

[ It also appears to require a certain sensitivity to the atmospheric magic that not everyone seems to have. Nadine has made it clear that she doesn't feel it like Julie does, that trying to access that power is not as instinctive as it feels for Julie. The downside, of course, being that it requires a maturity and stability that Julie does not always possess.

The first thing she accidentally did was make fire billow out of the fireplace. So, overall, great omen. ]

[ His hips rise a little to meet her as he bends forward to kiss the dip in her collarbone while she talks. He cups the curve of her breast in his hand. Wild magic sounds like a fitting term. It's something to think about more carefully, when he's less occupied, though he mulls over it nonetheless.

He wonders if it possibly might help Ciri. Her magic is not exactly stable, either, though he can't tell what's truly interference from the Singularity and what is simply Ciri's fear that she isn't capable of controlling herself. Perhaps both is the real answer. ]

It suits you. [ Learning it, he means, the way that she describes. He's curious, but the comment is vaguely distracted, his hand gliding up her leg, underneath where her dress has pooled around them. ]

You callin' me unstable? [ She says it with a low laugh, hand on the back of his neck and threading through his hair, her nails dragging against his scalp.

Looking down, she can see just how raw his back wound still looks, though of course it is considerably more healed than would ever be expected of anyone else. The fact that he's carrying it around even when he doesn't have to does get a mildly disapproving noise from her; it's just not enough to make her actually protest until he expresses pain.

One arm still draped around his shoulder, she shifts her weight to be able to get rid of her dress, which ends up wherever it was his shirt went. Craning her neck down, she kisses him again with a purr. ]

[ His lips curl a hint. ] Full of surprises.

[ Well. Mm. In some ways. In others, he's beginning to learn just who she is. Like that disproving sound she makes, which he definitely sees coming when she peers down at him. He lets himself ignore the vague burning on his back that's pretty much not gone away since in favour of pushing her dress off the couch.

He wraps an arm around her, tilting into the kiss, teeth tugging gently on her lower lip. His nails trail down the bumps and dips of her spine. Her skin is warm, smooth. It's strange, to know that she's met her death, remembers it, and yet bears no mark from it that he's ever seen or felt.

Maybe that's just how it is. Maybe the only marks that matter are the ones that can't be traced, anyway. ]

[ In fairness, her death didn't exactly leave a mark, considering that she was more-or-less exploded, so there wasn't much left to mark. But none of the people that Julie knows are dead have marks from their death, either, and most of them left corpses. Someone more concerned about the timeline aspects of it all would probably have a lot to say about it, but unsurprisingly, people who have died are not keen to think about the subject.

It could just be that death is a scar carried on the soul (or whatever constitutes it), rather than the skin.

Moaning against his mouth, her back arches first toward him, then slightly away as she reaches down to unbutton his trousers, which is, shockingly, much easier when she isn't high as the goddamn moon. She's not exactly willing to move enough to allow for much more than that at the moment, though, and the space between them is gone as quickly as it appeared. Her fingers dig into his shoulders.

She's going to teach him what a zipper is, once they're done. ]

[ His palm splays against her back as she arches. He gives room only when she reaches down for his trousers. His buttons slip free one by one. The second she presses into him again, he's quick to capture her lips once more. His eyes flutter shut for a moment.

He shifts with more care than usual, and distinctly avoids leaning his back to the cushions—but there's no pause, at least, as he tugs her closer. A quiet hunger curls inside him.

Then his arm is under her, moving to either push her against the couch or down on it—he isn't picky about which. ]

[ He leans her back on the couch and she wraps her legs around him as they move, keeping him close. Warmth builds under her skin, around her nerves and in her limbs, and her heart rate is picking up at a steady pace.

Without really thinking about it, she grinds up against him and whines, one hand curling back into his hair. Between the give of the cushions and his weight over her, she feels like she's sinking in the best possible way. Her voice is silky, breathy, when she breaks away just for air, for a second. ] Geralt...

[ The moment she leans back, he curves over her, knees planted on either side. If anything is meant to hurt, he's not thinking about it right now. Her heart flutters, thrums in his ears. A short pause so he can kick off his boots and tug his trousers free, shoving everything off the couch—and then his lips are back on hers, on her skin.

It is, fortunately, a damn big couch. He fits easily on it as he presses down to meet the rise of her hips. Heat and friction draw a sharp exhale out of him; the tail end of his name is swallowed up when he kisses her, thumb tracing the line of her jaw.

There is pleasure and there is forgetting, and he lets both pull him under. She's warm, the cushions plush, the room a dizzying floral pink, and it's all such a distant cry from the cold dark floors that have refused to leave him. It drags more than a deep want through him as he leans into her hands. ]

[ One thing that can be said about this strange, artfully cluttered living space Julie has made for herself is that every single piece of furniture contained within it is incredibly large and comfortable. She has spent far too much of her life being uncomfortable, and she does not intend to continue that in a place where she can have anything she can think of. Anything her ass sits on in this domain will be plush.

His mouth catches a gasp in addition to his name, and her neck arches as her eyes squeeze shut. Her free hand presses against his chest, where she can't even feel his heartbeat over her own pulse throbbing in her veins, until all she can do is clutch his bicep. She crosses her ankles together and digs her heel into the small of his back, rolls against him with a cry.

Behind her eyelids, everything goes away for the first time in ages -- the ghosts and the magic and his back torn open, weeping blood into her sheets. There's only him filling up every one of her senses. ]

[ His teeth catch her lip, fingers buried in her hair. His heart beats slow, as always, if she were to finally feel it, but it's quicker than its usual. Fast, for what he is. Now that they're here, tangled up with each other, her nails digging into his arm, hungry, he wastes little time in giving her what she's seeking—lets himself sink inside with a heavy breath.

As her heel digs against him, he reaches down to hitch her leg over his hip. A jolt sparks up his spine, draws a sharp sound from him. He pins her down with his other hand, with just enough of his weight on her like a promise, or maybe a question for how much more she wants so he can grant it.

For the moment, what happened, the marks he carries from it—none of that's on his mind, and his back arches easily. There are benefits to finding each other in the Horizon instead of the world outside. That, and it can be as quiet as they want, as private as they want, with whatever the fuck they want in it. He's often wary of falling too deep into a plane shaped entirely by a whim, but now and again—perhaps it isn't altogether beyond him to indulge. And Julie has always been especially good at bringing out indulgences. ]

[ There is, after far too long, a beat under her hand. Another pause and then a second beat. It's bizarre and so uniquely him, and before she lets her mind blank completely, it is one thing she makes a mental note to actually inquire about.

She pants and presses her nose to his jaw, swallowing hard before she's able to catch enough breath to speak. Wrapping her hand around his wrist where he holds her down, she opens her eyes again. When she looks up at him, it's with dark, heavy-lidded eyes, and her voice is rough. ]

I ain't made of glass, baby.

Hm. [ No. He imagines she is not.

And that's more than plenty by way of permission for him. His hand pulls free of her grasp, slides down her arm, curls around her wrist in turn—and then he's pinning that down, just over her head. He tightens his grip until he can feel her pulse racing beneath his palm, the heated skin alongside his own.

A need rises as he kisses her, burning hot. She always tastes at once the same and a little different each time—what liquor of choice she's had earlier. He rocks against her, in her; now that he's come to know her, he finds that rhythm with her easily. ]

[ ~~Well, ladies who are made of glass are usually quite transparent about it. I'm sorry for this pun.~~

She meets his lips with teeth and ferocity, thighs tightening around his sides as she matches his pace. Scorching desire ripples through her limbs, her stomach, her hips, burns from the inside. Her free hand drags across his back, shoulder to shoulder, nails dug in. A very dim awareness of everything outside of herself keeps her hand high, though, high enough up that she should be clear of the wound.

When she finally breaks away to catch a breath, moaning, she breathes heavily and puts her forehead to his temple, cooing his name against his skin. ]

[ ~~worth it~~

Her nails send a light shiver through him and his shoulders roll under her grasp. He's not thinking about the gash that splits down his back or that it should more than burn right now. He doesn't want to. There's just the bite of her grip, like pinpricks.

Their foreheads touch and his eyes open again. They gleam where they catch the light, underneath heavy lids—an almost animal shine before they vanish as he presses his lips to the other side of her throat. He gives her his teeth, scraping, and he wants. Fuck. More. More of the same in return, more of the sharpness of her nails digging into his skin and skirting the lash marks there, of the way her thighs squeeze around him where his ribs should be bruising (are bruising, out there.)

The word slips out between a jagged breath: low, rumbling from inside his chest. ] Harder.

[ His voice feels like too-close thunder, dark and reverberating in her head. Her fingers knot in his hair, pulling when he bites. Eyes squeezing shut, she wrenches her other arm from his grip to claw at his side, up his back. She can't feel stitches, so she figures it's fine. That, she decides in the back of her mind, is the line. Being able to feel the stitches under her fingertips. She buries her nails in the meat of his shoulder.

Her legs shake from how tightly she has them wrapped around him. Her hips ache from being splayed, a dull, throbbing soreness that serves only to make her buck up harder as she shifts one leg slightly. Tendrils of climbing, velvet pleasure wind through her body, and she sobs, clutching at him. ]

[ That. Is good. What he's after. She will find no stitches where her hand travels, though there might be bumps and scars—a shifting, a morphing of his skin that he isn't entirely paying attention to. All he's focused on is the slickness of her, her panting breaths. How tightly she's wound around him. The sharp pain from her nails that isn't really pain, is much different than the bite of a lash.

A gasp, and then her name falls from his lips. His hand glides forward, up past her wrist until their fingers tangle together. He feels like he's clinging, a little—to what, he doesn't fucking know, but it also doesn't matter. The rise of pleasure sends a heady rush through him.

Where her hand had tangled in his hair, it starts to unspool, spilling over his shoulders. He traces the hidden spots of bare skin he can find—all the places he normally doesn't get to explore. ]

[ While the scar patterns aren't exactly as they should be, it's basically unnoticeable -- between the fact that she's only feeling for stitches and his normal state of being super scarred anyway, she can't really tell any difference. The main goal is just "don't rip anything open", so the bar here is pretty much on the floor.

He takes her hand and she laces her fingers through his tightly, nails pressed into his skin there instead. Her ankles cross at the small of his back as she pulls him into her as much as she can with a swear and a tremble. Brow knit, she cranes up and sinks her teeth into his shoulder, her whimper muffled.

Everything begins to go slack while she catches her breath, her limbs suddenly heavy. Her grip on his hair loosens until she's just cradling his head in her hand. ]

[ That's a fine place for the bar to be. It's really all he gives a damn about, too, and he's learning to draw more on the parts of this plane that can be bent and shaped.

Her teeth do leave an imprint, though. He grips her in return, just as hard, and either he will leave marks if she wants them or he will not if she doesn't. She hangs onto him with a sort of unrestrained intensity he's come to associate with her, and he rides it out with her. Curves over her as she catches her breath until a fire bursts along his spine and right through him. He shudders. His heart stutters in the spaces between its missing beats.

He rests his forehead in the crook of her shoulder, breathing. Lets her hand stay where it is as he leans into her palm a little. ]

[ There are already bruises forming, she can feel them. On her hips, her thighs, her neck from his teeth. It doesn't occur to her to wipe them away, not even subconsciously, because she has never been the sort of woman to care. Not before Abraxas and certainly not now. Her legs loosen around him and she stops biting him with a kiss to the marks she left behind.

With a deep sigh, she tilts her head to his, closes her eyes as she waits for her heart to slow back down. Idly, she combs her fingers through his hair, runs her fingers over the nape of his neck, then speaks in a thick voice. ]

Better?

[ Geralt waits for it, too, as he listens to her heart. His own steadies out quicker—almost unnaturally so—but he isn't hurried when he finally eases off of her and lays down beside her instead on his side. Is it still a couch or a bed? Both? He can't tell anymore, but there's room as needed, which is all that matters.

His fingers rest on her hip briefly, then her stomach. The question feels loaded, complicated, even if he doesn't think she means it to be, but he answers simply as he often does. There's a faintest curve to the edge of his lips. ] Always.

[ Better. Yeah. It tends to be, with her, and though he's been fond of her early on, it's grown into something more solid than that since. There's a part of him that will forever remain uncertain of whose domain will flicker out of existence next in this place—there's some reassurance, each time he sees that hers is still standing, flashy as ever. Or when he finds his wolf covered in some shimmery decoration or another. ]

[ Yeah, she's almost positive that the couch was not quite this wide before, but it's fine. It's not like the room is cramped. She had a dinosaur in here a little while ago.

Rolling onto her side to face him, she props her head in her hand, elbow pressed into the velvet. She reaches up with the other, runs her thumb over his cheek. Her gaze is more obviously dubious than it might ordinarily be; she knows that something is not right, is occupying him, but she's not going to push him to talk about it. Mostly she just doesn't like it when her efforts are in vain.

Her eyes soften after a moment, and she moves her hand to put her palm flat on his chest. ] How do you get enough oxygen with a heartbeat that slow?

[ She doesn't ask, so he doesn't explain. It isn't anything to do with her. He's always got something on his mind, even at his most relaxed. Feels like that never ends. But for the moment, he can set it aside easier and bring his attention here, to this too-plush couch and her hand on his chest.

He shifts slightly. She means his breathing, he thinks. ] I need less of it. [ That's what he gathers, at least. He can scale higher altitudes where the air is thin, remain underwater a little longer than most. ] Or so I presume. Never was an exact science, our mutations.

[ Some things remain consistent between the Witchers; others do not. They do all emerge with some kind of mark on them, though. His just happen to be especially prominent, for several reasons. ]

[ It actually does not occur to her that he may not know the word oxygen, let alone the fact that it's carried in the bloodstream. It's very difficult to gauge what knowledge people from another time and world have. Explain cell phones? No problem. Explain basic building blocks of existence to someone who has never even heard of them? Not as easy. ]

Mm, who needs exact science when you're messin' with DNA? [ Her voice is drier than the Sahara. The more she learns about Witchers, the less she thinks of everyone in that world except the Witchers themselves.

With a sigh, she closes her eyes and turns back onto her back, though she twists her neck to still be able to converse. ] Oh, I sold that horse. Never woulda thought I'd somehow end up with three fuckin' horses at once.

Is that what you call it? Our genetics?

[ That's the only thing he can conclude, by her use of that term. He tucks an arm behind his head; if he still has any remnants of his injuries, he seems to no longer let it bother him.

Oh. The horse. He'd hoped she'd find a use for the animal, either to ride it or sell it. Makes sense to sell it, he supposes. They're not exactly simple to stable and truthfully, he's just been fortunate Rinwell's grown so eager to look after Roach in his stead while he was limping about. ]

Enough for some of the cost of a portal?

[ He knows Julie's been saving up for a trip of her own, between the three of them, that she'd ended up handing him most of it, if not all of it, instead. She hadn't even hesitated. ]

DNA is what makes your genes. Fuck, I barely remember biology class, but I think the way my textbook said it was... that DNA is the alphabet of your body, and genes are the words arranged to make the story of you. [ That sounds stupid, but she can't tell if it's because it's wrong (entirely possible, if not probable), or because it's a trite, catchy sentence designed to help teenagers pass science exams. At least she thinks it gets the idea across. ] I'm sure there's someone around here who knows way better'n me. Anyway, the idea of messin' with DNA is a big fight in my world. It's too close to playin' god. No good ever comes from playin' god. Present company excluded.

[ Really, she would have kept Roach Two if not for the fact that she had already had stumbled into ownership of multiple other horses first. She'd been meaning to sell off the mare that carried Lloyd and Nadine to Nott anyway, and it was actually easier to sell the pair of them than it would have been to sell just the one. ] Between Pearl and Roach Two, I made back about half. But I can't leave until I... I have to get better at magic. Nott's the only place that we know of where this kind is popular. It'll be too hard to get help in Cadens.

[ She doesn't quite know why she's so determined to learn it, except that Nadine is so sure she can do it. Very few people in Julie's life have ever believed that she had the capability to do something skilled like that. ]

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