"Hm." Eskel rolls his shoulders, thinking. "The way I see it, I'm gonna let you go but I need to keep you from sticking around here. There are witchers in the world who don't play by my forefathers' rules, and I know intimately what a pack of even the most wretched humans can do when they get their mind up to kill something. If you're spotted, there'll be nothing to protect you and I'll probably catch hell if I pass back through here in living memory. So..." He cocks his head thoughtfully. "I'm gonna solve your mystery, expose the mayor and his buddies. Can't promise I'll kill them myself but I can make sure the shit with the women stops."
He reaches for the strap holding his swords across his chest, but rather than do anything threatening with them, he unfastens the buckle, lays the blades aside, then his absurdly bright jacket. Shrugging out of it with a jingle of hardware.
"So that's one reason to stick around town gone." He reasons, shedding his leather vest so that now he sits across from bull on just his shirt-sleeves. "Figure I can get rid of the last one too. Satisfy you enough that you can get away from here without the temptation of your intimacies with these villagers. Don't care where, just somewhere you aren't actively being hunted. And you did say you'd make it convincing, sending me back to town looking like I went a couple rounds in the ring with you." He grins. "Guess we can decide what kind of rounds those turn out to be. How about it?"
Bull makes a low sound that feels like it’s coming from somewhere deep in his chest, eye sharp on the witcher, his little smile going hungry and pleased. He rolls himself up from the ground, graceful and slow, doesn’t look away from the witcher’s eyes. He’s letting something unfold inside of him, the loneliness, that empty, aching pull, in anticipation of the moment he gets to feel that pull loosen a little. The moment won’t be too far off, if things go well; the moment when he smells the witcher’s arousal and the succubus part of him lets those pheromones start to slip into the air, deepen that smell the witcher had been so baffled by and let some part of him start to ache a little less, at last.
So Bull rises to his knees, he lifts himself a little more to look down at the witcher and he lifts a hand to the witcher’s hairline, just to the side of the place that scar disappears into the witcher’s hair, half to get a hand on that face and half to see how he reacts when Bull comes just shy of touching it.
“Tell me what to call you,” he breathes against the witcher’s lips, his murmur low and rough. “And I’ll call that a deal.”
It's not often-- if ever-- that Eskel finds a partner that can lean over him. The novelty makes him feel something electric and inexplicable slide down his spine and settle somewhere in his hips.
He balks slightly when Bull touches his face, but only to bring it around to the other side, brushing his rough cheek against the back of Bull's fingers.
"I can't feel much of that side anyway so...don't pay any mind to it. And I'm Eskel." The growl of the witcher's voice has melted into a whisky-rough murmur. "What do I call you?"
"Call me Bull," he says, and maybe another time he'd make a joke there, something about not being called that just because of the horns, something about endurance or just having a big dick - but that's the Bull the Chargers know, and the people who need fun as much as they need a good lay, and he's trying to create some kind of atmosphere. Hissrad would have been a better name to give for that, maybe. 'Bull' is kind of a weird name inherently depending on which people you talk to, but Bull's the Chargers' name - his name, for all that it's newer.
He keeps his hand on the side of Eskel's face that the witcher wants him to be touching, moves his fingers into Eskel's hair and keeps them there, moving his thumb over Eskel's skin. His other hand goes on Eskel's shoulder, a normal, everyday kind of touch until Bull starts to inch his hand down, his movements slow and deliberate as his voice. "And tell me how you like it. We can start with the last time you fucked. Was it any good?"
The question catches him off-guard. When was the last time? He blushes at the realization that it was quite some time ago.
"It was alright." He says. "Sometimes during the winter, you know, stuff happens. You get drunk and nostalgic. And cold." He had crawled into Geralt's bed in the freezing dark. They should have been too old for such foolishness: fooling around with one's own sex was for novices who knew nothing of the world's pleasures waiting for them on the Path. Eskel had just wanted something familiar and to see something other than pity and fear in his partner's face.
The last thing he wants now is something familiar. He feels drunk on what he imagines must the slow build of Bull's succubus power.
"I don't want it like that was: slow and quiet in the dark." He looks a little sheepish. "And, uh, I'm not with men a lot these days. If I hang back a little, it's not you, it's just me being out of practice." Even if he had just admitted his last lay was a fellow witcher-- but Geralt almost didn't count, having been practically Eskel's other half since they were barely more than toddlers, their bodies as familiar to one another as the crumbling fortress around them-- and therefore he hadn't been with a woman in ages either. He raises a broad, rough hand and marvels at the way it doesn't look so large and rough at all when he lays it on Bull's chest.
"I gotta say though, you're my type and then some, at least. I like guys built like me, and rough and not inclined to be too careful."
"Hard and loud then, got it." Bull grins at that earlier blush, at the hand on his chest, at the way Eskel watches that hand while he puts it there. Bull moves his own hand from Eskel's bicep to his shoulder, then down to the neckline of his shirt, grabbing it and pulling just a little, enough to tug on it. "I'm guessing you want me to keep your clothes in one piece, though."
He's not saying to make sure so much as he's saying it as a reminder: he could rip it all off of Eskel right now, if he wanted. His other hand, now that he knows Eskel likes it rougher, tightens and he starts to grip Eskel's hair, watching his face for any hint that he should either tighten that grip up or let it go again.
The grip on his hair draws a visceral noise from deep down on his chest. There's few men who could physically overpower Eskel, and it's very startling but gives him the thrill of something new, a rarity in so long and repetitive a life. Which might have how he got in this position last time, though at least Bull has kindly refrained from getting him drunk and ripped on fisstech. He might actually remember this encounter, at least.
"They are my only clothes." He admits. "Shirt's fixable to a point--" as evidenced by the many visible mends in it currently."--just don't rip the sleeves off or anything, deal?" He laughs.
Bull's grin grows and he gives the neckline of Eskel's shirt a sharp tug, tearing it and then pulling to one side so the shirt starts falling off Eskel's shoulder. "Nice," Bull says appreciatively, looking over the newly bared skin. His other hand tightens its grip and he pulls a little, wanting to see if Eskel will move his head back with the movement or fight him on it. "You can try to tear mine too, you know. If you start getting impatient."
The shirt yields along one of those rough mends, exposing a teasing view of defined muscle, decades of scarring and a light furring of black hair across his chest.
The witcher allows his head to be pulled with the movement of Bull's fingers. He might playfully resist him here and there in the course of this tryst but at the moment he's just sinking down into it, allowing Bull to pull him as he likes.
He's not a submissive man, as such. He likes rough play: pushing shoving, biting and blunt-nails catching on scarred skin. And he likes pleasing his partners, when they give him the chance. He finds it distracts from the face, not that he thinks Bull of all people cares about that. He's not at all troubled by the prospect of a hard, uncomplicated fuck. Just two hungry bodies sprawled on the ground and tangled up in each other.
His body is meant to be resistant to most intruders and impairments: poisons, diseases, etc. But there's something in the air now that settling over him in a familiar way that he finds at once intoxicating and slightly embarrassing as the sense-associations with succubus scent that have been quietly building below the surface all this time start to make themselves far more abundantly known. His breathing catches, his abnormally slow heart races, his cat-like pupils growl to wells of dark arousal. His trousers start to feel somewhat stifling.
"Sure, but remember you invited me to do it." He laughs, right before he moves to try and rip open the fabric across Bull's chest. He wants to see what he's working with, after all.
No, he's not just going to lie there like a passive toy, an idle source for Bull to take what he needs. It's an option, of course, but he trusts that Bull will tell him if he wants it like that.
Edited (Tried to open that up a little bit more with Esk's preferences?) 2021-06-10 01:49 (UTC)
What Bull's wearing doesn't rip so much as unwrap, the loose vest coming untucked from his pants when it's tugged and showing more of his stomach and chest. Bull just grins, looks Eskel over, tugs at Eskel's shirt to try and move him into a better angle, then shoves at him, letting go of his hair and trying to push him onto the ground.
Eskel's shirt gives up on its weary, coming apart all down the front along a mend he'd done the previous winter. In the moment, he doesn't mind, laughing as he catches himself on his elbow. His chest his broad and muscular and mapped out in a half century of violence on his skin. There's obviously animal injuries--claws and teeth-- as well as those of human blades. The worst seems to be a series of stab wounds just under the arc of his ribcage the same age and lurid red as his facial scar.
"You gonna get down here with me or what?" He rasps, arching his back as he unlaces his trousers. "Seems unfair that you're the only one who gets to touch."
Bull chuckles, shifting until he's leaning over Eskel braced on one forearm, the other sliding under Eskel's arched back to try and hold him in that position, press the two of them together. Bull's pants never actually dried, and they're thin enough that Eskel will be able to feel his cock that way, even though he won't really get hard until Eskel is.
"This close enough?" he asks, just in front of Eskel's face again and grinning with all his teeth, trying to put a little bit of something dangerous into the look.
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He reaches for the strap holding his swords across his chest, but rather than do anything threatening with them, he unfastens the buckle, lays the blades aside, then his absurdly bright jacket. Shrugging out of it with a jingle of hardware.
"So that's one reason to stick around town gone." He reasons, shedding his leather vest so that now he sits across from bull on just his shirt-sleeves. "Figure I can get rid of the last one too. Satisfy you enough that you can get away from here without the temptation of your intimacies with these villagers. Don't care where, just somewhere you aren't actively being hunted. And you did say you'd make it convincing, sending me back to town looking like I went a couple rounds in the ring with you." He grins. "Guess we can decide what kind of rounds those turn out to be. How about it?"
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So Bull rises to his knees, he lifts himself a little more to look down at the witcher and he lifts a hand to the witcher’s hairline, just to the side of the place that scar disappears into the witcher’s hair, half to get a hand on that face and half to see how he reacts when Bull comes just shy of touching it.
“Tell me what to call you,” he breathes against the witcher’s lips, his murmur low and rough. “And I’ll call that a deal.”
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He balks slightly when Bull touches his face, but only to bring it around to the other side, brushing his rough cheek against the back of Bull's fingers.
"I can't feel much of that side anyway so...don't pay any mind to it. And I'm Eskel." The growl of the witcher's voice has melted into a whisky-rough murmur. "What do I call you?"
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He keeps his hand on the side of Eskel's face that the witcher wants him to be touching, moves his fingers into Eskel's hair and keeps them there, moving his thumb over Eskel's skin. His other hand goes on Eskel's shoulder, a normal, everyday kind of touch until Bull starts to inch his hand down, his movements slow and deliberate as his voice. "And tell me how you like it. We can start with the last time you fucked. Was it any good?"
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"It was alright." He says. "Sometimes during the winter, you know, stuff happens. You get drunk and nostalgic. And cold." He had crawled into Geralt's bed in the freezing dark. They should have been too old for such foolishness: fooling around with one's own sex was for novices who knew nothing of the world's pleasures waiting for them on the Path. Eskel had just wanted something familiar and to see something other than pity and fear in his partner's face.
The last thing he wants now is something familiar. He feels drunk on what he imagines must the slow build of Bull's succubus power.
"I don't want it like that was: slow and quiet in the dark." He looks a little sheepish. "And, uh, I'm not with men a lot these days. If I hang back a little, it's not you, it's just me being out of practice." Even if he had just admitted his last lay was a fellow witcher-- but Geralt almost didn't count, having been practically Eskel's other half since they were barely more than toddlers, their bodies as familiar to one another as the crumbling fortress around them-- and therefore he hadn't been with a woman in ages either. He raises a broad, rough hand and marvels at the way it doesn't look so large and rough at all when he lays it on Bull's chest.
"I gotta say though, you're my type and then some, at least. I like guys built like me, and rough and not inclined to be too careful."
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He's not saying to make sure so much as he's saying it as a reminder: he could rip it all off of Eskel right now, if he wanted. His other hand, now that he knows Eskel likes it rougher, tightens and he starts to grip Eskel's hair, watching his face for any hint that he should either tighten that grip up or let it go again.
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"They are my only clothes." He admits. "Shirt's fixable to a point--" as evidenced by the many visible mends in it currently."--just don't rip the sleeves off or anything, deal?" He laughs.
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The witcher allows his head to be pulled with the movement of Bull's fingers. He might playfully resist him here and there in the course of this tryst but at the moment he's just sinking down into it, allowing Bull to pull him as he likes.
He's not a submissive man, as such. He likes rough play: pushing shoving, biting and blunt-nails catching on scarred skin. And he likes pleasing his partners, when they give him the chance. He finds it distracts from the face, not that he thinks Bull of all people cares about that. He's not at all troubled by the prospect of a hard, uncomplicated fuck. Just two hungry bodies sprawled on the ground and tangled up in each other.
His body is meant to be resistant to most intruders and impairments: poisons, diseases, etc. But there's something in the air now that settling over him in a familiar way that he finds at once intoxicating and slightly embarrassing as the sense-associations with succubus scent that have been quietly building below the surface all this time start to make themselves far more abundantly known. His breathing catches, his abnormally slow heart races, his cat-like pupils growl to wells of dark arousal. His trousers start to feel somewhat stifling.
"Sure, but remember you invited me to do it." He laughs, right before he moves to try and rip open the fabric across Bull's chest. He wants to see what he's working with, after all.
No, he's not just going to lie there like a passive toy, an idle source for Bull to take what he needs. It's an option, of course, but he trusts that Bull will tell him if he wants it like that.
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"You gonna get down here with me or what?" He rasps, arching his back as he unlaces his trousers. "Seems unfair that you're the only one who gets to touch."
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"This close enough?" he asks, just in front of Eskel's face again and grinning with all his teeth, trying to put a little bit of something dangerous into the look.