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

[ A moan is plenty in reply. He indulges her bites, until it turns into a kiss and then he indulges that, too. His hand travels up her spine to the back of her head, her hair. He coils a few pink locks around his fingers and holds her close as he continues to explore. To find that spot that makes her breath catch.

She certainly makes his do so—a stutter as he draws one leg up, bent at the knee. His toes curl. Blood rushes between his ears, and then sinks straight down.

Her fingers are soft, warm; he grows firm before long in her grasp. There's a lightest brush of coarseness when the glitter on her nails brush against his skin. He almost wants them a little rougher, a little sharper. He leans into her, steals another kiss. ]

[ Sorry, Geralt, next time she decides to do her nails, she'll make sure to get your input first.

It's not difficult for him to make her gasp, find the place that sends sparks up her spine. Her grip tightens, stills for a second as her back arches. She pulls away to pant, pressing her face to his neck, her eyes squeezed shut. The rhythm of her hips quickens against his hand and she groans, speaks with a thick voice, stilted. ] More. Geralt, please. Baby.

[ With her face buried in his neck, he gives her more: stroking, pressing deeper. He lifts back into her hand, her fingers curled around him.

Her name falls from his lips like a curse. He pulls a little on her hair—tangled up in the thick locks. If he was sated before, it's easily replaced by a hunger that matches hers.

He grinds against her, into her. Her heart thunders in his ears, and he coaxes her along. He feels his own tightness, a sharp heat that snakes through his body. There's a rough wanting noise against her shoulder, rolling from inside his chest. ]

[ Her breath trapped between them makes her face hot, makes her head swim, and she sobs his name when he moves his hand just the slightest bit to one side. She bites him again, whimpers around the mouthful of flesh, and there are fireworks behind her eyelids when her back bows. For a moment, she loses her own rhythm; her hand stills except for the involuntary tightening of her fingers.

The arm she has her weight on shakes, nearly gives before she catches herself and shifts, turning her head to gasp in fresh air. She feels like her limbs are made of snapped rubber bands, but she's able to rise slightly, enough to kiss him hard, still panting. She bites his lip with a purr before she moves away and down, watches him with big doe eyes as she takes him in her mouth. ]

[ His grip on her arm is meant to steady her as much as it is to pull her close when she kisses him. He cups her cheek, lets her slip out of his hold as she slides downward.

He's always run hot, and he runs even hotter now. Her lips close around him, slick, warm. In the lights, against the green of her couch, her eyes shine even greener. He's got one hand buried in her hair, the other grasping a cushion, fingers sinking into the plush velvet. If he's often been prone to thinking too much, he's not really doing that anymore for once.

Her tongue draws another sharp curse out of him. He's watching, attention fixed, because he wants to see: the shine of her lips, the curl of her lashes, the tangled sweep of her hair. ]

[ He is so hot, so focused on her, and the corners of her mouth curl up. Her gaze gets heavy, self-satisfied, and only casts back down when she's so far down that the angle is too severe to keep it up. She digs her nails into his skin when she grabs his hip, thumb running over the furrow that runs along the bone.

Bobbing her head, she coos around him, then looks back up with hooded eyes. She drags the flat of her tongue along the entirety of his length, licks her lips and wipes her chin with the back of her hand before she absently kisses his thigh. ] What do you want?

[ He likes it, that pleased look in her eyes. There's something catlike about her—always was, he thinks, but especially now, and it's. Good. So are her nails in his hips, leaving behind faint imprints. His own fingers trail after hers, tracing the small grooves before they fade.

When she finally lifts off, he finds himself licking his lips, too, an unconscious mirror. He reaches down, sweeps his thumb slowly across her lower lip. Slips it inside and encourages her to suck on something else for a moment.

What does he want. What doesn't he want? (There's truthfully nothing he doesn't want from her right now.) He hums. ]

Your mouth on me. And your hand yourself. [ Wherever she likes, however she likes. He just wants to watch her explore herself at the same time. ]

[ Her lips close around the base of his thumb without hesitation, her teeth scraping over the ridges of his fingerprint. She hums and shifts her weight, balances a little better on her knees to free the hand she was using to hold herself up, which then slides up his thigh, over the big scar there, to catch his wrist. Her grip is loose, and when she releases his thumb, she licks over his other fingers, where she can still vaguely taste herself.

There's a pang of red-hot desire, a throb between her hips, and she flashes a coy smile up at him before she obeys with a soft croon as she takes him back into her mouth, down her throat. While she has to let go of his wrist, her third hand, unseen, ghosts over his fingers to guide his hand back to her head. ]

[ His lids are lowered—heavy, wanting, only the faintest edge of a yellow glow peering through. He watches her lips wrap around his fingers. Thinks about them wrapped around his cock.

He shifts as she glides back down between his legs, both to meet her and to give her more room. There's a quiet huff, something close to a knowing laugh. Because yeah—she does like to remind him she's got an extra hand. Which is nowhere near a complaint. He's had a taste of what it can do.

He lets it guide him to where she wants. Buries his fingers in her hair and tugs. A groan falls from him; her name follows after, tumbling together. She feels as good as she looks, curved over him, and he makes that no secret the way his eyes are on her. ]

[ He pulls on her hair and her eyelashes flutter, breath caught in her chest. Her ghost hand lingers atop his for a second, then brushes her hair over one shoulder before disappearing again. It's taken a while, but she now has almost complete control over it (the sole exception being unspeakable rage, in which case it is still prone to throwing things).

The arch in her back is so sharp that it hurts a bit, in the best way, and that reflects in her eyes, dark and keen like she might be able to consume him entirely with them. Resting on her heels, she fulfills the second part of his request, reaches down to where he has made a mess of her twice now, left everything slick and tender. It's more for him than for her, though, because she gets off far more on the power she gets out of controlling his pleasure. That focus is evident in her every move, every flick of her wrist and glance up at his face, the obscene noises that she makes absolutely no effort to muffle. A faint blush colors her cheeks again, makes her face feel hot.

That confidence that Geralt feels when he picks up a sword? Yeah, this is that moment for her. ]

[ Between her hands, her mouth, a heady rush fills him. And though there are few moments where he wants that kind of heavy focused attention on him, here, right now, is one of them. Definitely one of them.

His eyes are equally focused on her, roaming. She's steadily become undone—hair tousled, makeup a hint smudged—and knowing he's the cause of it only adds to the curl of pleasure. There's a bitten off noise, a jerk in his hips when she does. That. He can smell it, her scent and his and all of it soaking the air together. His other hand trails down her shoulder, her arm, fingers eventually digging in without thinking.

The curl grows tighter, hotter. His hand rests on the back of her neck, tangled up in her hair, and it is clear he wants—needs—more in the way the lightest brush provokes a stutter in his breath. ] Fuck. Julie.

Edited 2022-02-15 03:51 (UTC)

[ The only response is a purr, muffled around his cock, a faux innocent "Mmm?". She lets her eyes fall closed when her nose brushes his stomach, stays there for a moment with her nails dug into his leg and then pulls back with a debauched slurp. Her lipstick is smeared in the corner of her mouth, leaving shimmery fuchsia blotches everywhere.

Hips still in the air, she gently dislodges his hand with wet fingers, presses her lips to his knuckles. Her eyes are dark under her lashes and her voice is just a kittenish whine between sweeps of her tongue and hand. ] Come for me?

[ She doesn't wait before she devours him again. ]

[ They are obscene noises, and they send a flush of heat through him each time. His tongue darts out to wet his lips. Her fingers curl around his wrist when she kisses his knuckles; they're slick, leaving herself behind on his skin.

He reaches out to wipe a smear of lipstick from the corner of her mouth just before she dips back down. He does not, frankly, remember answering her or not. Probably isn't important.

His nails dig into her shoulder, or maybe a cushion. He isn't paying attention. An electric tension builds, crackles, and then he does exactly as she asks, his grip tightening. There are a few seconds where his head is just. Blank. And it's good, a more than welcome space that he sinks into. When he blinks back, he coaxes her up, closer, to taste himself on her tongue.

Yeah. Mm. That. He sighs, but unlike most of his sighs, this one is contented. ] You're making it fucking hard to go back.

[ She breathes out a satisfied, almost smug noise, swallows without a blink, and when he pulls her back up to him, she stretches out languidly on top of him. Her fingers curl against his jaw, her kiss slow and indulgent, then she settles into the space next to him with a sigh of her own. One arm drapes over his chest. ]

So stay a while. I'm not goin' back until tomorrow. [ It's a relaxed, almost dreamy murmur. She finds it difficult to imagine that the world will fall apart if he leaves for more than a few hours. It's not like he's caring for actual children. ] And I'll make it out there soon. I don't think we'll stay in Nott past the winter.

[ Nadine's nervousness about Thorne is ever increasing, and Julie's desire to be with the people she cares for is beginning to outweigh her desire to stay away from the politics of Cadens. She can't foresee them sticking around much longer than it takes to actually save all the necessary money to get there. ]

[ Stay awhile. It feels that easy when she says it. He supposes it is. No one's waiting for him back in Cadens; they know he's at Sam's, that he isn't going anywhere any time soon. And he isn't eager to return so he can be slammed with a full reminder of what happened.

Fuck it. He stays. And yeah: he'd feel better with them out of Nott, solely so they aren't alone out there with no one to watch their backs. Especially not when he knows they're out of place in this world: its magic, its monsters, its way of life. He answers with a sound of acknowledgement. When they come, there will be a place for them.

It's the first time, other than their initial trip in, that he's remained in the Horizon through the night. He isn't even certain if the sleep he gets inside counts; time is malleable and strange in the Horizon sometimes—but he does sleep, for what it's worth, and it's more than he's gotten since he was dragged back to Thorne. ]

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

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there is alt text in this tag, your challenge has been set

i had to google it but lmao omg

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wrapping!