(open) wind's howling

[decoctions]

● WHO: geralt & all
● WHAT: event open post, closed starters, & monthly catch-all
● WHEN: throughout june
● WHERE: anywhere!
● WARNINGS: sex, aphro, violence

i. wind's howling. (rain)

[ When the rain starts, Geralt is glad he'd had the forethought to weatherproof his little campsite. It comes in starts at first, at times even while the sun is still shining, but when the storm really rolls in, it pours nonstop from the darkened sky. There's so much water all at once that Geralt worries about flooding, but the soil seems to be porous enough, thankfully, to soak up much of the water. Still, it means an uncomfortable day and night of hunkering down to wait out the weather.

Used to living outdoors, Geralt accepts it as an inevitable inconvenience; he's got blankets, a mattress on a tall (if shoddy) bedframe, a fire built in one part of the half-collapsed building he's set up in, and makeshift canvas tarps laid out on the floor and beneath the roof of one of the more intact rooms. Roach, his horse and such a constant in his life that the Augur had apparently thought to bring her here with him, is tethered near the fire to keep her warm and relatively dry.

Out of necessity Geralt ventures out at least once while the rain is heaviest, retrieving a bucket he'd put out to collect clean water for both himself and Roach and pluck up some of the grass that's already started to sprout for her to munch on. If anything could convince him to brave this miserable weather, it's caring for his horse.

But he isn't the only one out. Eyes narrowing to see through the gloom and the water cascading from the sky, Geralt approaches. ]

You trying to catch your death out here?

[ His low growl might be hard to hear over the pounding of rain against the ground, so he gets closer, nodding his head back in the direction of his camp. ]

Come on. Got somewhere warm to sleep, if you want.

ii. after the storm (plants, love darts)

[ There is plenty to be done in the aftermath of the rain. Shelters need to be repaired, supplies need to be gathered, and all of this new growth of flora needs to be investigated. With a pretty extensive knowledge of flowers, plants, root, and berries, he's looking for anything that might be familiar or prove useful, whether to create decoctions, blade oils, simpler poultices, or just to eat. A lot of the plants, especially the flowering ones, are entirely new to him. Given his experiences so far he hadn't exactly expected to find a whole lot he'd recognize, but some of these things are so strange-looking that he has to take his time examining them.

Footsteps nearby make him turn instinctively toward whoever might be drawing closer, and as he moves, so does the plant he'd been looking at. Whether with a cloud of pollen, a spray of nectar, or the shooting of a sharp burr, Geralt stumbles back a step with a snarl. ]

Shit. Careful.

[ It's as much a self-admonishment as it is a warning. He has no idea what these things are capable of. While he's immune to most known poisons and toxins, that doesn't mean he won't have a really bad time of it anyway if something proves to be particularly concentrated.

The effects of these plants are varied, from a simple but fast-acting aphrodisiac dart to a nerve-stimulating pollen that draws pleasure out of even the simplest touches to a nectar that brings out baser instincts. ]

iii. wildcard

( open to robot fights--with planning!--and options for other plants apart from passionfruit. open to gen for all, smut for characters 21+. if you're going for smut and we haven't discussed it already, please pm or leave a comment here so we can iron things out. )

 

Comments

[decoctions]

[ Geralt remains by Roach's head, a hand resting over her forelock, as Gladio strokes her nose as well, cautious and gentle, but with an almost immediate smile. She twitches her head up, but doesn't shy away. Geralt trusts his own instincts, but he trusts Roach's as well. If she doesn't mind this guy petting her, there's probably no immediate danger.

And now that they're both indoors (as near as they'll get, anyway) and side-by-side, there's plenty to take in about Gladio with a witcher's senses and observant eye. The smell of his wet skin, for one, and how the damp strands of his dark hair stick to his neck. The tattoos are obviously notable, and he considers asking about them at some point. He's never seen a design so large and well inked. His scars mark him as no stranger to combat even more so than his impressive physique. He's thick with muscle, broad, and tall; taller than Geralt by, he would estimate, about half a foot. But the Witcher's attention keeps getting drawn back to that big scar slashed across his chest. Geralt is no stranger to sustaining wounds that would have killed a normal man; he bears such marks in several obvious places. Which only makes him even more curious about how Gladio survived that injury particular. His wolf's head medallion lays flat and unmoving against his chest, which means there isn't any magic at play, and Gladio isn't the sort of creature that would set it off, either. The possibilities eliminate themselves.

Catlike gold eyes glance skeptically up to Gladio's face as Geralt admits, ] Never heard of a Chocobo.

[ While context tells him about the purpose of this mysterious creature, Geralt is quickly coming to the conclusion that this might be Gladio's first time seeing a horse. And out of all the strange shit he's encountered so far here, that might just be the strangest. Not knowing what a witcher is--odd from a personal perspective, but sure. No magic? Weird, but acceptable. Giant robots? Ciri had told him once about a world where people wage warm from a distance using flying machines. It had sounded ridiculous to Geralt then, but now less so. But not knowing about horses? Horses are ubiquitous. Everyone should know what a horse is. Except everyone apparently doesn't.

It occurs to him only belatedly that maybe Gladio feels exactly the same way about his lack of knowledge about the animal he'd mentioned. ]

I'm sorry he has Crystal hammerspace

[leatherdaddy]

Really? [ Genuine surprise is evidence enough that Gladio hasn't had this conversation often enough to realize that their feathered friends are fairly unique to his world. So for one moment, beyond all of the immeasurable differences between them, their worlds... they share one thing in common. Utter disbelief that the other has never heard of what they take for granted.

Gladio decides a better man would at least admit to mutual ignorance, so he tries to get on equal footing. He gestures towards the best girl in the room - Roach. ]

...So what's this called?

[ Gladio reaches out and his hand connects with the Witcher's back with a dull, wet slap. He smiles and turns to the welcoming glow of the fire. ]

Know what? Tell me over dinner. My treat.

[ The Witcher will probably notice that his leather jacket, while it does have pockets, doesn't clearly have enough to be packing what would constitute "dinner". He might also notice a light flickering in his hand as Gladio prepares to access the Armiger. That light fragments in the air to the distant sound of something crystalline before he produces a few skewers he'd saved. Opening up what is effectively a pocket dimension likely qualifies for setting off some magic-related alarms. ]

NO it's great

[decoctions]

[ Blissfully unaware of the mutual confusion she's caused, Roach munches away at her dinner, her ears flicking back and forth as she listens to them idly. With a final pat to her flank, Geralt leaves her to it. He's just about to answer Gladio's question, actually, when a firm slap on the back interrupts him. The force of it is enough that if he didn't have a witcher's reflexes, he might have stumbled forward. As it is, he braces himself and endures, used to similar expressions of camaraderie from his fellow wolf school witchers. Of course, those are men he's known for half a century or more rather than just a few minutes.

The offer of dinner, thankfully, is more than enough to mitigate his feelings about over-familiarity. And he'd rather have friendliness than hostility, anyway.

The question of what Gladio intends to feed him is quickly answered. His medallion stirs at last as the other man performs what seems to Geralt like a particularly flashy spell. A moment later, he's holding several skewers worth of better food than Geralt's eaten since the party several nights ago.

Speaking of that party--the spell reminds him of something he'd seen there that night, a similar method of summoning shown to him by a young man he'd spoken to. But that's something that can be discussed over dinner, too. ]

Sure. Thanks. [ Geralt nods to emphasize his gratefulness. Food in exchange for shelter is a fair trade. On top of that, he's undeniably curious about Gladio. ] Sit where you want. I'll grab some blankets. Might get colder tonight.

[ Against the back wall near the fire pit, Geralt opens the only surviving door in the house. It leads to a small room with a mostly intact roof, a makeshift tarp stretched beneath it guaranteeing that the things inside will stay dry. He doesn't close the door behind him, so Gladio can see as he sifts through his belongings. This is where Geralt has stored most of his things. His armor is stacked against the back wall, both of his swords sheathed and leaning beside it. Roach's tack is there too, along with the things he's managed to collect since arriving on the island, whether from scavenging or from the robots. The most notable is a narrow bed, a simple--and shody--frame with a thin mattress, on top of which several blankets of varying quality are piled. He picks up two, one of which he offers to Gladio as he returns to the fire. ]

[leatherdaddy]

[ Perhaps it's a unique power play, a way to assert himself by breaking the unspoken rules of etiquette, a casual invasion of personal space. Gladio's no stranger to using his imposing appearance to charm or intimidate, but there's no malice behind the gesture. He is friendly to an uncomfortable degree, and as subtle as a train wreck when he views someone as a hostile. Essentially, he's knows he's charming and he abuses that to the greatest extent possible. ]

Good call, I'll get these heated up.

[ Pushing the skewers into the ashes, he stands them up so they can warm up at the fire. It'll mean they're a bit tougher from being reheated, but it's better than an empty stomach. They're seasoned well, however, they did come from a dubious source and whether or not they've been seasoned with aphrodisiac is yet to be known. Whatever happens, Gladio at least won't be cold tonight.

The job done, curiosity leads Gladio to crane his head to peer into the other room. In terms of shelter, it's abysmal for a city boy, but practically lavish for an island so unprepared to house so many in such a short amount of time. Gladio knows just by looking at him that Geralt is no stranger to the martial arts -- it's not just the scars, but his muscular frame betrays years of sword-use, but it's unusual to see armor like his without it being augmented by Insomnia's advanced technology, or some Niff's magitek.

Gladio watches the ghostly shape of the pale witcher as he returns to the orange glow of the campfire, takes the blanket with a note of gratitude. After days of being soaked to the bone, the dry fabric feels fantastic on his skin and he feels himself start to warm up the moment he drapes that blanket over his tattooed shoulders. ]

You're doing pretty well for yourself. All things considered.

[ Of course, everyone is trying to gather what they can, but if he's going to snoop, he might as well make conversation. ]

So, Roach. The faithful and unique steed to a swordsman.

[ He's ridden dragons and other creatures, admittedly while punching it in the head, but nevertheless, he doesn't know if he can keep a straight face if he saw someone riding her. ]

[decoctions]

[ Used to tasteless hardtack and stringy jerky, slightly tough meat is no issue for Geralt. He smells the meat as it begins to warm and feels his stomach clench with hunger. He hasn't eaten since this morning, and it was a meager breakfast at that--for a witcher, anyway. With his metabolism, he should be eating even more than a man his size might normally. He wraps his own blanket around himself and settles beside Gladio, legs crossed. ]

I'm used to living outdoors with less than this.

[ He looks at the fire rather than at his companion as he answers in a nonchalant rumble. Those who have visited him here have either commented on how luxurious or how poor his accommodations are, and he can tell much about the person in question depending upon their judgement. Gladio, he decides, is likely a man used to living rough as well. ]

She's a horse. [ The delivery of this statement is absolutely bone dry. ] And I'm a witcher.

[ Not that he expects that to mean anything in particular to Gladio; he just finds it's more prudent to state the truth rather than be thought of as a simple swordsman. By way of explanation, he adds what he's told most people here who ask. It's only half of what a witcher really is, of course, but he's found that the explanation suffices. ]

A monster hunter for hire. Roach carries me and everything I need to do my work.

[leatherdaddy]

I don't doubt it.

[ Gladio misses the city, the huge screens interrupting the usual broadcast and flashy advertisements with announcements of the crown prince's upcoming wedding. The flawless cell reception. Hell, he even misses the halls of the royal family his own family was duty-sworn to protect, with their black marble everything and richly appointed rooms. But he loves roughing it in the wild, so all this? Kinda fun, if you look past the infuriating inconvenience of having one's fate derailed.

He can feel himself starting to thaw in the warm, orange glow of the fire casting long, cool shadows behind them. Allowing the blanket to open so he can trap more of that dry heat inside the blanket as he listens to Geralt. ]

Witcher. Is that why your eyes...?

[ Gladio waves his fore and middle fingers at his own eyes, indicating the unusual yellow, slitted eyes. The blanket slips off his shoulder from the movement, but he puts it back into place. There's no doubting that there's something different about Geralt -- not just the fact he looks practically grey all over with how pale he is, but there are very few people who could survive the kinds of wounds he has. Gladio takes a moment to turn the skewers to ensure an even warmth and waits until they start to sizzle and spit again before he offers one to the witcher.

He has to ask, but he does so without any change in his relaxed tone: ] Are you human?

[decoctions]

[ Gladio's not the first here to ask about his eyes. Back home people see his eyes and know immediately what he is. That isn't the case here, and he's still getting used to it. ]

Yeah. That's why.

[ Speaking of his eyes--the movement of the blanket slipping from Gladio's shoulder draws his gaze automatically. The briefly revealed skin shows more of his tattoo, which Geralt had already noted for its impressive detail. But he notices the skin itself, too, and the solid muscle it covers. He can't help wondering how strong Gladio is. Not in a fight necessarily--though he tends to consider that by necessity as a self-preservation tactic--but just in general. He's built solid, moves fluidly, a master of his own body. Not all men who are built like him are so at home in their skin. ]

Hair too. Happened at the same time, when I was a kid.

[ The Trial of the Grasses had changed his body in ways it didn't even with other witchers. All to do with the extra mutations he'd undergone, probably. And though Gladio's following question can be a charged one, Geralt has no problem being frank. He is what he is. Other will decide for themselves what to do with that. ]

Mutant. Started out human, but most people don't think of witchers that way.

[ Even he doesn't think of himself as human much of the time. And when he does, it's always with that modifier; mutated human. ]

[leatherdaddy]

[ The aroma of heated, spiced meat and savory tomato hits his nostrils, shouldering it's way to the forefront of Gladio's perception. Rightfully so -- food is hard to come by and Gladio's caloric needs are far greater than what their robotic wards are willing to provide. These are the last of his smuggled provisions, but can they really be called such when the price for eating them are literally baked in? ]

A mutation. [ Gladio assumes wrongly that such a thing was accidental, and that perhaps discussing it or the origin of all those scars, might be a painful topic despite the witcher's impassivity. He waves the skewer, offering it up by tipping the dry end of the stick pinched between his fingers and then brings his own to his mouth to bite off a piece. ]

...I've been playing 20 questions with you so it's only fair I trade a story of my own.

[ Letting the blanket slide down again, he leans forward a bit to show off the back, the large predatory bird with it's vast wingspan stretching out over his arms, and beak hanging open in a silent scream on his chest. The ugly scar that divides his torso. ]

My father has one like it. As did my father's father before him. It's the mark of a Shield. Think of it as a bodyguard.

[ He sums it up, then draws the blanket back over his shoulders as he tears off another bite from his skewer, chewing for longer than usual out of sheer necessity -- the meat is tough and not as juicy as it was days ago when it graced the table in that mingle. ]

So what caused it, if you don't mind me asking? [ He means the mutation. ]

[decoctions]

[ The tattoo was something Geralt had planned to ask about eventually, but Gladio unexpectedly beats him to it. He accepts his own skewer, chewing slowly as he takes in the design. The scar, too. Overlaying the ink, so it had happened after the tattoo. He nods as Gladio explains, familiar enough with the concept of ancestral tattoos, and certainly with important roles passed from father to son. It helps that Gladio is also pretty easy to look at.

There's plenty more he'd like to know about: the significance of the design, who Gladio's family serves. But that can wait until after he's answered Gladio's next question. Geralt shrugs. The information is common knowledge in some way or other back home, so he has no issue sharing. ]

Combination of potions, herbs, and magic. Witchers are made through an alchemical process we call the Trial of the Grasses. The mutagens we're given are dangerous, painful. Most don't survive. But no one alive knows exactly how to do it now.

[ Secrets have been lost and their numbers have dwindled since Kaer Morhen was sacked not long after Geralt had first set out on the Path. That was more than sixty years ago. There won't be any more witchers--for better or worse. He takes another bite, giving Gladio a moment before he asks, ]

Who are you a Shield for? Royalty?

[leatherdaddy]

[ Like Geralt, Gladio is used to questions about his appearance. He's a long way from home and there are few with such an obvious project on his back that stretches to his chest and down his arms, the tail-feathers of this giant bird disappearing down his back. It might be a purposeful tactic to try to draw the eye, and he'd argue there is -- drawing attention away from Noctis both serves to protect him and scratches that vain itch Gladio has.

But back to the topic at hand, to hear Geralt tell it, it sounds like this trial is arguably more painful than his own against the Blademaster, Gilgamesh. As he listens to him, he lowers his hand until it's resting on his bended knee, his skewer lowering. ]

Ouch. [ That's putting it mildly. The story turns his stomach, although not so much that his appetite is abated, only soured... but in him awakens a guarded respect -- anyone who endures that much suffering has to be strong. Not necessarily in those sinewy limbs forged by some obscure science, but the mental fortitude to survive it...

Gladio feels it, the familiar bite of chemistry. He's felt it before, those sparks that set a handful of encounters apart from scores of romantic pursuits. Many were diverting sports, but few lit him up like this. Here, one could accuse aphrodisiac purely as the only reason for the gravitational pull Gladio experiences, but only time will tell here. ]

You could say that. [ He bites off another piece and feels a blistered tomato burst savory-sweet, a remedy for meat that's a touch too dry. Gladio pulls away from the skewer, leaving only a layer of mostly burnt onion and a few threads of desiccated meat clinging to the wooden stem before he decides to toss it into the campfire as fuel. He swipes his mouth with the back of his hand and leans back, laying onto the rumbled layer of his blanket on his elbows. ]

So what you're telling me is... you're the last of your kind. Guess I can relate to that. In a way.

...My family is sworn to protect a dynasty that has been overthrown. But we are duty-bound to shoulder the fate of our king. So it has been, so it shall be -- as Shield, I share the same burden of fate of the kingdom as my charge.

[ Those warm, amber eyes rake across the pale, scarred body of the witcher. ]

Your body tells a saga I could only hope to tell on my skin alone. Who do you serve?

[decoctions]

[ Nodding, Geralt both confirms what Gladio guesses--that he's the last of his kind; or he and his few contemporaries are, at least--and encourages him to go on. He eats as he listens, not minding the slight toughness of the meat in the least. It's still flavorful, far better than what he'd be eating around his campfire on a rainy night back home. It's warm and the spices linger on his tongue.

Learning that Gladio protects the former royal family is a great deal more interesting than what he'd been assuming. It tells him much more about who Gladio is, too. Serving whoever is in power is easy. It's what most people strive to do out of a desire to improve their own station. Gladio's principles, his loyalty to both his family's traditions and to the line he protects, are far more admirable. Neither his life nor his role were handed to him without struggle. He's had to face hardship, and yet clearly still serves proudly. That's something Geralt can respect.

But he can't relate. He's both worked for kings and has been accused of killing them, but he's never served in the way that Gladio means it. He looks him over again openly, doesn't care enough to disguise it. In the flickering light of the fire, Gladio certainly looks like someone who could be called a Shield. He's young, healthy, and handsome, with an extensive tattoo, scarring, and a frame that all speak of strength, endurance, and dedication. But Gladio has been studying him too. When their eyes meet again Geralt feels drawn in by the earnest interest and admiration he finds there. It's a pull that begins somewhere in his chest, an unexpected pang of genuine emotion, but continues lower to warm the pit of his stomach.

The ends of his hair still drip with rainwater, but he lets his blanket slide from his shoulders, turning his body subtly away from the fire and toward Gladio. ]

A witcher doesn't serve anyone but himself. We're meant to remain completely neutral. No loyalty to any king or country, no stake in wars or political maneuvering. [ Finished with his dinner, he tosses his own stick and what little remains on it into the fire. ] I kill monsters for whoever will pay me. Got these scars making a living that way.

[ He snorts under his breath, glances back toward the fire. ]

Not exactly something anyone should aspire to. Least of all you.

Gah, typo! That rumbled should be rumpled SIGHS HEAVILY

[leatherdaddy]

[ Well, if it hadn't been literal, 'last of his kind' would have definitely been the case considering their indefinite stay under the care of their robotic wardens far away from those grasses that made him the man he is now. Kinda puts everything on a perpetual hold, which isn't the worst thing that could have happened per se, but it does mean his world will continue to suffer from the starscourge without the chosen king there to fulfill his fated role.

Reclining in the glow of the fire is nice, but he's keenly aware of just how drenched his leather pants are. Gladio still feels damp, and the burden of sodden leather pants -- a workout in and of itself to slog around in -- makes drying off near impossible. Perhaps when the witcher retires for the night, Gladio will slip out of them. Or, more likely, struggle out of them as anyone who has tried to strip off wet denim or leather would know that this is no easy feat. ]

Hey, everyone's gotta make a living somehow. Where I'm from, hunters are respected, even if they're just in it for the pay. They keep their communities a little safer, and it's riskyt work.

[ For all the grandness of life the court, it did involve a lot of standing around in the presence of greatness. Or watching Noctis fish. Hunters live dangerous lives, and they've collected enough of the dog tags of the fallen to have seen proof of it. ]

That counts for something, so... don't sell yourself short.

[ Despite the discomfort of feeling uncomfortably damp, Gladio keeps feeling more and more drawn to the stranger. Less of one, after their discussion. He thinks if he gets out of this place, off this island... maybe he would extend an invitation to this guy. He'd fit right in with some of the hunters back home.

Or maybe it's because he's feeling a gentle fondness growing, something the aphrodisiac clings to as suitable soil from which a seed of arousal quickens and takes root. Twists that admiration and surface-level attraction into something bolder. He gazes at the witcher, noting the barely-there shift in his stance, less basking in the warmth of the fire and turning his attention toward him. It draws him in, and it's with far less subtlety that Gladio rolls onto his side, resting his head on his fist with his elbow dipping a depression into the blanket. ]

So... just you and Roach, huh? No partners in crime?

[ He's definitely not limiting the question to hunting companions. ]

[decoctions]

[ Hunters might be respected, but a witcher? That's something different. If Gladio knew the popular mythology on witchers being little better than monsters themselves, emotionless mutants who care only about killing and coin, they may not be having this conversation. Not that Geralt or any witcher ever does much to dispel those rumors. But that is part of what has been so baffling and incredible about being here on this island. No one knows these things. Everyone's he's met here has treated him like any other stranger.

Even so, he's shared more with Gladio than most. ] Thanks. [ The word is muttered, and he doesn't add more, unsure of how to respond to praise like this.

He busies himself by placing another plank of wood on the fire to feed it, warming his hands near the flame afterward. His pale skin is still chilled, and he's slow to warm up. It's a direct contrast to the warmth gradually filling his belly, a feeling that's become familiar. Gladio's movement draws his attention again, and he watches the younger man shift onto his side. The warm light plays nicely over expanse of skin and muscle on display, and it's pretty obvious that's no mistake. Gladio knows what he's doing. If Geralt hadn't been considering him as a potential partner before--and he had, though perhaps not as earnestly--then he certainly is now. That's the sort of probing question he might expect from someone who was also interested. ]

Sure. A few. [ If that's what they're calling it. ] Usually travel alone, though.

[ He picks his blanket up, lays it out beside Gladio's. A smile flickers over his lips, small but genuine. ]

It's nice to have some company.

[leatherdaddy]

[ Gladio comes from a world where technology and magic have blended together with no less horrific results than those this witcher has experienced. Gladio has seen MTs, but he also is close friends with (and closer than that, these days) with one of the clones that comprises those ranks. He's no stranger to the ugliness of modernized warfare and magic, and progress is often the excuse when justifying why such methods are used.

So it was, so it shall be... and after all, there are many other worlds than these. So is it any surprise that things like witchers and magitek exist so long as humankind seek to become more than they are? Progress is often measured by the broken and outdated things, and lauded by those that survive the process.

Gladio wishes his mind was fixated so religiously on this train of thought. But he isn't, he finds himself distracted by the glow of the camp fire reflecting off his body, the cool and long shadows formed in the depressions of it. The furrows of his scars and his muscles stretch out into the dark blue beyond hedged in by shabby walls of tarp and old wood.

Gladio feels a longing grow and grow, to explore the ragged edges of his form, the overgrown facial hair, the wisdom implied in his stance and his gaze. He seems older than he looks, despite the unnatural pale sheen of his skin and the white hair. He has more vitality than makes sense. And Gladio wants more than anything to taste and test it. ]

...Mm. Then I consider myself fortunate, witcher. To make for fine company enough to share the warmth of your...

[ He makes a point for his eyes to track where Geralt shifts his blanket with a small curve on his lips as well. The warmth in his stomach inspires him to smooth his hand over the front of his sodden, leather pants. ]

Fire. [ As subtle as a guillotine's swift decent, Gladio cuts to the chase. ] What say we get you out of those wet clothes?

[decoctions]

[ Geralt can tell when he's being watched, and Gladio's gaze is heavy with intent. It's flattering to be given such scrutiny, even if Gladio is over the top enough to prompt Geralt to snort under his breath, almost a laugh. Fortune and fine company--all a very grandiose way to say that he wants to fuck.

But that's fine. That's what Geralt wants too, given that the weight of his own gaze much be no less than Gladio's, lighting on the smooth curves and hard edges of his body--and lingering, feeling his mouth dry a little, on the way that big sturdy hand of his rubs over the front of his pants. Geralt feels his pulse jump, a distinct lurch that travels all the way down to his gut.

Fuck. ]

Yeah. [ His voice is a quiet, deceptively even rasp as he agrees. ] You too.

[ Having ascertained Gladio's definite interest and decided his course of action, Geralt doesn't hesitate any longer. He swings a thigh thick with muscle over Gladio's hips, kneeling over them as he lays a hand against his stomach just above the waist of his pants. Gladio's skin feels warm against the relative coolness of his palm and Geralt breathes in slowly, taking in Gladio's scent beneath the smell of rain and damp earth. His hand slides down, open, over the wet leather, over Gladio's fingers, until he can find the shape of his cock beneath the fabric and press down against it, following it with the heel of his hand.

Geralt's eyes, when he trails them back up along Gladio's body to his face again, are a molten gold in the firelight, the thin black slits at their center seeming somehow even darker in contrast. ]

[leatherdaddy]

[ It's a cheesy line, a playful (if gratuitous) offer delivered with a smirk. Amusement is written all over his face as that smirk transforms into a broader smile when Geralt snorts to stifle a laugh. Despite the way the aphrodisiac unhinges his restraint, Gladio isn't so far gone that he can't crack a joke.

Aphrodisiac ensures that his sexuality is keyed up, ready to go, but it's the spark of attraction that sets him ablaze. The transition from conversation to sex is of course speedier than is normal for him, particularly at hello, but it feels natural given the refreshing swiftness with which Geralt straddles him. A tumble together because the mood was right and because Geralt is just the kind of heat he's been looking for.

Gladio's free hand grasps one of the thick and muscular thighs on either side of him, over the clinging, soaked fabric to feel the man underneath as it crawls up towards his belt. He gets there, but not before the witcher's hand proves more demanding of his attention. He feels his hand cover his, over his cock and Gladio's lungs empty of air. Somehow, those catlike slits in his golden eyes seem more intense, perhaps even hungry. It should unsettle him, but instead he wouldn't mind lingering under such scrutiny as he fucked him, sucked him, rode him.

Not one to let his fleeting dreams stay dreams and certainly too aroused not to act, Gladio grabs his hand and makes it replace his, covering over warmed leather, bulked up by his burgeoning erection. Despite the thick layer of sodden leather, his cock pushes up behind it, thick like the rest of him. He twitches upwards, bending at the waist as his hands run up his stomach and sides. He presses forward to press his mouth to his stomach, nuzzling into his scarred skin. ]

...This isn't a thank you.

[ Gladio admits, realizing perhaps a little too late that the optics aren't great. He wants him, and it just so happens that this scenario played out the way it did. But he says this without missing a beat, his hands feeling their way around his waist and hips in an effort to figure out how to even... how do you even open these?! ]

[decoctions]

[ Without Gladio's hand in between, Geralt now curls his fingers around his cock, feeling out the shape of him through the fabric as he fills out. But what he really wants is to find a way inside. Much like Gladio, it seems, as the warm hands exploring his sides trail down to his waist. The witcher hums in silent agreement and general appreciation for the feel of Gladio's mouth on his stomach, the softer brush of his lips and the light scratch of stubble around them. ]

I know. [ Murmured, almost gently. ] Wouldn't be doing this if it was.

[ If this situation had occurred at any other time, Geralt would normally have ascertained this before moving forward. But Gladio had made him comfortable enough and expressed his own interest clearly enough that Geralt hadn't considered it. It's nice to be freed from outside worries, to trust a connection that feels genuine.

With his free hand he finds one of Gladio's, leads it to one of the ties at either side of his waist that will open the front of his trousers and enable him to get them off--once he's not settled comfortably on top of him, of course. But he's determined to do a few things before he gives up that position. The first is to open Gladio's pants as well. The second, which he achieves more immediately, is to lean over him, seeking his mouth for a heated kiss which makes the hunger in his gaze all the more apparent. ]

[leatherdaddy]

[ Without his hand in the way, Gladio only has the clammy layer of sodden leather in the way of that warm, eager hand feeling out the shape of him, grasping for his erection as it grows beneath his touch. His breath stutters in his chest, fingers guided to the laces on either side of his pants before Gladio realizes he's being taught their function and tangles his fingers into them -- knotted with tough callouses and scar tissue and re-healed joints, he pulls them loose, inch by slow inch, as his mouth melds against the witcher's.

He's not exaggerating when he remarks that he hasn't kissed someone like this in longer than he can remember: slow, sensuous... like a sultry summer night with only a tent to shield him from the cloying humidity that lays heavily over his body, shining with sweat.

There's an honesty found in the battlefield, and those who know it well. Gladio reads his scars like an open page and likewise the witcher measures him with a similar stick. Finding the other worthy, Gladio knows he feels his attraction growing more and more until it's the hungry thing that pushes his tongue into his mouth, feeding it to him, searching for his to take and caress. Gladio pulls his tongue eagerly into his mouth, swirling his over it and tasting his way into his kiss before he pulls reluctantly away -- and only because he needs to peel his fingers off him to draw down the metal zipper at the front of his pants.

Gladio pulls it apart and then struggles beneath him to pull them down, enough at least to expose his cock, but he's too eager to return his hands to each side of Geralt's face to kiss him. In his haste, his fingers dive into the white hair hanging in a curtain as he looks down at him, gathering his locks into his hands as he kisses him. ]

[decoctions]

[ Their mouths part and come together again over the course of a few heavy breaths and some scrambling between them at the wet material of their pants, collectively. Once the front of Gladio's are open Geralt helps to push the fabric down over his hips, enough at least so that he has access to his cock. He groans low as his tongue slides into the warmth of Gladio's mouth and Gladio takes his face into his hands, tugging loose wet strands of hair from where they'd been half tied in a knot behind his head. The ends skim across both their faces as they kiss.

Geralt's releases the sodden leather to finally free the hot, stiffening flesh of Gladio's erection instead. Rough fingers tracing the length of his shaft, exploratory and perhaps surprisingly tender. He wraps a strong grip around it entirely soon enough, palm textured with callouses. Ignoring the front of his own trousers hanging loose, he pumps slowly with practiced twists of his wrist, aware that the roughness of his own hand means he can't keep this up for long without oil, but enjoying testing the heat and the heft of Gladio's cock in his palm.

He can imagine this going one of several ways, but doesn't feel the need to either predict or direct. Whatever conspires between them, he couldn't have asked for anything nicer than intimacy like this on what he'd anticipated being a lonely rainy night. But with the fire crackling nearby and the heat of Gladio's body stretched out beneath him, he's beginning to feel warm. Mutations have made Geralt largely unable to flush, even with his unnaturally pale skin. But when he breaks their kiss to ease back and look down at him again, there is a faint hint of color in his face and chest as his arousal grows more pronounced.

But damn, Gladio looks glorious. He can't help pausing just to appreciate the sight of him laid out in the firelight, half undressed, hard cock in Geralt's hand. While Geralt has extensive experience with men as sexual partners over the course of his long life, historically most of the people he tends to feel the strongest connection with or desire for individually are women. But every so often there are certain notable exceptions. Gladio, young and strong and handsome, with his admirable loyalty and easy camaraderie, is quickly proving to be one of them. The witcher, for all he is cautious and carefully discerning in most things, makes determinations like this quite quickly, and almost without any thought at all. It's more feeling and instinct.

At the moment, it is entirely feeling and instinct. ]

Should take off the rest, [ he voices, a reluctant rumble. While he'll have to move from his current perch, it's the only efficient way to be rid of their soaked pants for good. ]

[leatherdaddy]

[ The dry warmth of the fire was good enough, but continuing to wear wet clothes makes getting the rest of him warm nearly impossible. Even as the witcher the fat length of his cock is borderline clammy to the touch, but warms easily once freed from the confines of damp leather. Even better is the warmth of that kiss, the heated hiss of stolen air between them, arousal making more demands for air than Gladio's wiling to give into until he's left panting.

It's quickly evident that Gladio doesn't seem to mind a rough touch -- his cock firms up, muscular like much of him, beading up with slick arousal. His brows knit briefly and his eyes close, his breathing heavier when he squeezes and tests the strength of his erection.

For a man who feels he doesn't have the luxury of settling down, and won't for the next decade, his romantic pursuits have been a series of one-night-stands. There are the occasional revisit, time permitting, if his travels take him there and only when other obligations permit him the rare night off. Geralt isn't what he would call the kind of man he'd usually find himself with, but then again there are no witchers in his world and no one with those eyes and who has survived with those old wounds. Closest match would be the legendary Cor, but he's nowhere near as 'exotic'. Contrary to the man-made mutations that molded and shaped him into the witcher he is today, Geralt has a raw honesty about him that Gladio likes, straightforward and direct even in the way he kisses, with experience literally carved into him in ways Gladio can touch. His palms slide down his chest, over gnarled scars and firm muscle on their way to those laces, pulling the ties loose by the end of each lace. ]

Yeah, yeah --

[ He needs these off yesterday, and the urgency in hid voice betrays that want. He wants to feel this witcher's unnaturally pale, battle-worn body and all of his hard-won keepsakes. His hands move to his pants, thumbs hooking into the waist of his pants and the abbreviated boxer briefs underneath and with a gruff sound he struggles to shimmy them down his damp body. Too eager to divest himself of these wretchedly uncomfortable clothes, he has to scoot himself backwards and very carefully shimmy out of them, taking care to kick them off preferably without incident. The witcher is, of course, still straddling him and a accidental junk shot would be extremely inconvenient.

Wearing only his sweeping tattoo and nothing else, he crawls up to his knees, mouth picking it's way up from the witcher's navel to his chest, finally taking Geralt's face in his hands and kissing him full on the lips. One hand drops away to skim beneath the front of his pants, searching for the other man's cock from the confines of his now loosened pants. ]

You too.

[ Gladio's completely forgotten about the mare and the fact that it's probably still chewing it's sad pile of soggy grass in full view of his bare ass. Please don't judge him. ]

[decoctions]

[ No judgement here. Geralt's mind is also elsewhere, focused on moving to make things easier for Gladio to divest himself of the remainder of his clothing. This means sitting up a little on his knees and releasing the other man's cock, but as soon as Gladio is undressed they come together again. The way he reaches for him, drawing him close and kissing him soundly, is nearly as good as the first brush of his fingers against his cock.

Even that hint of contact has Geralt groaning against Gladio's mouth, hips involuntarily rocking forward. He wants to feel that hand around him, kiss as they stroke each other--yeah, that wouldn't be bad at all. ]

Fuck, [ he rumbles between them, nudging his brow against Gladio's before he reluctantly draws back. ] Just let me--

[ He hooks his hands around the waist of his trousers to begin pushing them down, but quickly realizes there isn't going to be a way to do this while straddling Gladio's lap. With another muttered curse he swings one leg carefully back over, then drops down at Gladio's side instead. It's much easier now that he's also on his back to push both pants and simple undergarments down his hips, over his thighs, and off, left in a rumpled pile near the edge of the blanket.

It's also easier like this to reach for the saddle bag leaned against the wall by his head. While one might expect the moment's pause he takes while he sits up to look through it to cool his ardor somewhat, the opposite is true. He's impatient with quickly intensifying desire, and when he finds and produces the decently sized jar he'd been looking for, he shoves the saddle bag away with very little care. Conveniently, blade oil is good for more than the upkeep of swords. He leaves it within easy reach for now.

Rather than climbing back over him Geralt rolls into Gladio's side instead, pushed up on an elbow so that he can press exploratory kisses across his chest, working his way lazily up along the skin above the slashing line of his scar. ]

[leatherdaddy]

[ It's that moment, raw and real, that Gladio finds himself adhering to, like his being melds against it. The open honesty in that kiss, his touch, even if it's coaxed out under chemically induced pretenses, cultivated through falsehoods and bound by aphrodisiac. Gladio knows himself to recognize his own attraction, particularly where he never has the luxury of anything long-term.

The problem isn't attraction, it's attachment. In time, Gladio will learn that this is his undoing, the very thing that unravels him as Shield... he doesn't know it now, not when this is the first unraveling of himself.

He doesn't attach himself needlessly nor recklessly. He knows his place, he knows his value in society -- and he finds a similar recognition in the witcher. It makes him feel like he belongs, that he's not strange after all.

It's way too easy to get tangled up when trying to peel off clothing that sticks wetly to the skin especially when one starts to feel their patience fraying at the edges.

Gladio watches him, standing on his knees with his hands hanging at his bare sides, smiling at him in mild-amusement as he struggles with his pants next. Amusement takes a back seat, though, as that hunger asserts itself in his gaze, drinking in the inches of bare witcher that follow as he divests himself of his own clothes. ]

Nice of you to come prepared.

[ Gladio doesn't ask, he assumes. He reaches out and grasps the bottle of blade oil in the same breath as he uses to nestle his hips between the witcher's, pushing his lithe thighs aside. ]

...Relax. [ These are the only words he offers before his fore and middle fingers join together to spear through his puckered hole, stretching him out with only a thin layer of saliva to ease the way. ]

[decoctions]

[ That assumption isn't wrong. Or rather, whatever he assumed would have been right; Geralt is as happy to have Gladio pushing between his thighs as he would be the reverse.

Or maybe, for tonight, this really is for the best. His breath hisses out of him sharply as Gladio pushes two broad fingers into him, just barely slick enough. The stretch is sudden and edged with discomfort, but he takes it without complaint, realizing as he does that this is exactly what he wants.

A witcher is a master of his own body, can slow his heartbeat in mediation as easily as he can even out his breath. Geralt does only the latter now, as he's very much enjoying the way his blood is pumping hot through him with his elevated pulse, pooling in his stiffening cock. His thighs, thick with muscle and as scarred as the rest of him, spread wide. Geralt holds them himself beneath his knees, pulling them back toward his chest to give Gladio room to work between. The image he presents is wanton, verging on wild with the way his white hair spreads wet and loose beneath his head and the way his eyes almost seem to reflect the firelight, his gradually expanding pupils a void in the center. He's bare but for the medallion that rests against his chest, the snarling head of a wolf.

He does noticeably lose some tension throughout his body, from his shoulders to his calves to his hole stretching around Gladio's fingers. His stomach and his biceps remain taut, but only to maintain his current position. ]

Yeah. [ It's a husky growl as much as it is a word. ] Try to be prepared for anything. [ His upper lip curls back from his teeth in a brief grin as he wets his lips with his tongue. The encouragement he gives isn't much above a growl either. ] C'mon, big guy. Wanna feel you fit every inch of that cock in me. It's gonna feel so fucking good to take you.

[leatherdaddy]

[ Typically, there would be a round of negotiating as a form of foreplay. A verbal investigation as to the other man's desires, accompanied perhaps with touch to keep it hot... but aphrodisiac means he sets those aside, reacts mainly on his desire.

And gods, despite Gladio's inconsideration, Geralt makes it sound as good as he looks. Broad, muscular body spreading for him, his hands grasping behind his knees to hoist his legs up without a shred of shame. Geralt has an incredible body that looks even more divine assuming this lewd position and Gladio drinks it all in as his fingers sink into his body. The husky growl of his voice, the sharp intake of air, even his white hair and bestial eyes heighten that wild look, stirring something primal inside the Shield. Gladio slides up to him, his thighs coming flush against his backside as he lines himself up with his body as he slowly pushes his fingers in, twists them at the thickest part of his knuckles, curling his rough and calloused fingers inside him. ]

Yeah? You feel like you can handle it... fuck, you should see yourself, you're perfect --

[ Gods, even the brand of filth that falls from his mouth fits. The witcher's command over his own body surprises Gladio, who assumes that perhaps he's particularly skilled at anal play, able to control his body in ways he can truly appreciate. It's really a turn-on, prompting Gladio to slide his cock against him -- first against his inner thigh, leaving a smear of arousal against the light dusting of hair. Then deciding to drizzle the oil on his erection, settling over him and gathering their cocks together in his hand. ]

That's it. You're really opening up. Incredible...

[ It's not as if the man is loose, but he relaxes with an ease that Gladio rarely encounters. He watches it happen across his body, it betrays enormous discipline to match the man's fitness. Gladio withdraws his fingers and takes a moment to focus on stroking them together, admiring the way that silver pendant rests against the witcher's body. His bird of prey and that wolf both soundlessly howl in a way that seems so fitting for the near-instinctive urge to fuck.

Impatience and Geralt's words spurn him to act, reassured by the relaxing of the witcher's body. He coaxes him into a stretch with more haste than he usually gives, but the man shows only signs of arousal -- Gladio thinks, therefore, that he enjoys a little roughness. With a grunt, he strokes their erections together just long enough to spread and share that oil between them before drawing back. Aiming to replace his thick fingers with an even thicker length, he lines up his cock and begins to push into him. ]

Mmm. [ His lips tighten over his teeth, trapping the sound of pleasure behind the seal of his mouth as he squeezes in the swollen head of his erection the pliant rim of his ass, watching the glistening sheen reflect the orange glow of the fire slowly disappear into the shadow of Geralt's thigh as he leans over him. He bears his weight down on him and lets gravity do most of the work, his hands buried into the blanket spread out beneath the witcher as he braces himself on either side of his body. Gladio's eyes slide closed as he relishes the snug heat of entry, lifting a hand to skim up the back of one of the witcher's muscular thighs and flexing against it. The heat, the connection, the scent of the other man feels like everything he wanted, but only just a taste. As he buries in halfway, he draws back his hips and rolls into him again, meeting his eyes with his mouth finally falling open to groan. ]

[decoctions]

[ Gladio's praise adds fuel to the warm, satisfied feeling that spreads through him. While Geralt may not normally be much good at taking compliments, admiration is appreciated in this context. Still, being called perfect is a rarity. It settles in him pleasantly, far more so now than if he didn't have several of the younger man's fingers buried inside him.

When their cocks slide slickly together Geralt's eyes drift closed for a long moment, lips parted as he breathes shallowly. The wet grind of hot, hard flesh against his own makes him hungry for more, tension building low in his balls. He has enough patience, enough discipline, not to buck up into Gladio's hand, even when he feels his fingers leave him.

His eyes slide open again, molten, when he feels the wide head of Gladio's dick nudge up against his softened rim. His fingers tighten reflexively beneath his knees, and though he bites his tongue as Gladio begins to push into him, the shaky breath he releases through his nose is audible. The upward tilt of his hips allows him to watch every oiled inch of that flushed length as it spreads him open and pushes slow but relentless inside him. There's little pain, but a satisfying stretch and a sense of fulfilled fullness.

Gladio withdraws and grinds in again, creating friction that could be the start of something very promising. Their eyes lock, an electric connection, and Geralt murmurs encouragement. ] Fuck, that's good.

[ As Gladio presses down over him, holding his legs where they are becomes less important. Geralt releases his grip beneath one knee, reaching up to skim his rough fingertips along Gladio's jaw, then curling his hand around the back of his neck with a firm grip, fingers carding into his dark hair. ]

Want you deeper. [ The guess that he enjoys roughness isn't off the mark at all. Geralt encourages it with a rough whisper, a flex of his hand at the nape of Gladio's neck. ] Don't need to hold back with me. I can take it.