middaeg | octeuril catchall - open & closed prompts

[Now that the weather in the Wilde has shifted, the time the lioness spends there has increased substantially. Cold has never really been her favorite, even before she the preferences of her turnskin species took more of a hold, and growing up, she usually only worried about it at night when the sun would disappear and the temperature would drop substantially.

Four seasons only came after she left Africa. The weather and seasons here though, were even stranger simply between the City and the Wilde, but it’s become her new normal, this weirdness. So might as well make the best of it.

The fresh emergence of living activity draws her, both from a practical standpoint and a more emotional one. Spring always brought the reminder of hope and a fresh start to the young woman. It’s calming and beautiful, even with the added dangers that accompany the new life.

Except today, the peace she expects is not what she finds. It’s not long in her walk that she hears the oddly familiar snap and crunch of bone that pauses her movements, causing her hand to grip tighter around her weapon as she focuses. The increased heart rate of someone (or something) draws her in further, and when the wind kicks up, the identifiable scent allows for a clearer picture of the possible situation to be painted.

It’s then that she resumes her movement, adjusting course to intersect her new objective.]

[ Geralt, meanwhile, has exactly the opposite feelings about the change in weather: someone who grew up on the mountains and largely traveled through the northern realms. But the city proper's not ideal what he plans. So he's taken off to the spring-warmed Wilde while the temperatures are still mild enough.

After the first interruption -- the redheaded woman -- he relocates deeper into the trees. Quieter, more hidden from view. He sheds his clothes, leaving them on top of a nearby stump. In truth, he's not a clue where to start. His experience with his transformation has only ever been involuntary. Snapping his bones under the force of the full moon is one thing; doing it on purpose is another.

Meditating helps. A bit. He searches, eventually deciding to draw on the bond. With luck, it won't alarm Jaskier too much.

The change that comes along is not near as rapid as it is under the moon. Nor as precise. The joints in his wrists twist with a pop, then spring back with a jolt of pain. Loose teeth fall to the ground, but the usual thicker, sharpened ones don't come in.

Fuck.

He's got a handful of said teeth, stained with blood in his palm, when he catches a scent in the air. A familiar one. Geralt pauses, the nails on his fingers now sharp, black claws. He shakes himself in an attempt to revert the changes before he's discovered. Feels a hell of a lot more awkward being caught mid-transformation than being caught in the nude. ]

[It just so happens that she passes by the stump with the clothing, and even before she catches sight of Geralt, the turnskin is quick to finish piecing together her earlier assumptions into something more concrete. Still, it only can prepare her so much for what she actually encounters.

Sheva has never bore witness to her own transformation, nor watched the transformation of another in close quarters, mostly due to personal choice. The noises were bad enough, but to witness the breaking of bones beneath skin into unnaturally transitionary stages, to watch human teeth tumble to the ground, painting blood across residual snow and new vegetation alike?

It should be stomach curling, but she’s deeply aware of the pain he feels. It's a tedious struggle of learning to shift outside the magic of the moons. So instead, she feels empathy.]

Focus on how your body normally feels... If you want to go back. [She suggests as she steps more pointedly into his space, while still allowing him a personal buffer. Might as well help now that he’s noticed her arrival.]

[ Oh. Recognition crosses his face. He knows her. Sheva.

Geralt takes the advice; he has, at least, mediated enough that he's had practice drawing focus to his body. His claws turn closer to sharpened nails, and most of the fur recedes.

He shifts his weight. Well. She's seen him in worse states, so there's that. ]

Thanks. [ The teeth in his palm shuffle. After a second, he simply puts them on a stump and reaches for his trousers, tugging them back on. ] Didn't expect to see someone this far in.

[Already they are more a tangle of limbs and motion. All it took was a few words exchanged, the touch of a hand that was enough to cause a subtle chill, and the pulse of magic. That's all it usually takes before one or both of them finds themselves eager to conquer or to worship. Sometimes both. Which is exactly how they found themselves askew upon the couch with their clothes in states of disarray ranging from simply pushed to completely tossed aside, Sheva straddled atop Ozymandias. Both of their hands trail along one another, but one of his stops its journey over her curves abruptly to catch hers once she finds the fly of his pants.]

As much as... I am appreciative of... the compliment, [he says, his words occasionally disrupted with the lazy drag of lips and occasional teeth against her throat. He's trying to catch his breath now that he's managed to disrupt and redirect this visit, but Ozymandias is neither mad nor a fool. He does not particularly want to be disrupting or redirecting. And so, he does not even begin to attempt disentangling himself from her or discontinue paying his respect and affections to her physical form.] That wasn't what I meant when I said I had something to give you.

[Ozymandias kisses her pulse point beneath her jaw, nosing her there for just a brief moment before. With just the tips of his first two fingers gently pressing at her chin to turn her face and have her look over in the direction of his coffee table, Ozymandias offers his clarification.]

That is what I was referring to.

[Placed center of the coffee table sits a flat albeit long box tied with golden twine and wrapped neatly in a paper matching the deep blue of the gemstones Ozymandias so often favors. The neatness of its presentation stands as a stark contrast to and undisturbed by the mess they've made of themselves on the nearby couch. Not that any harm would have come to its contents, of course. The blade within is well-crafted and not meant for pretty display even if the ornate pommel bears a finely detailed visage of a goddess now likely familiar to Sheva.]

[Against her neck, he murmurs,]

I think you would agree with me that you would be cross if I were to delay you being able to open it once you see what it is.

[There’s a low, but soft, growl in her throat when he catches her hand, halting its progress even as he continues to indulge his mouth along her throat, which is clearly one of the key reasons she hasn’t pressed a more physical battle for dominance. She does shift and grind her hips to match his adjustment to a lazier pace, intent on tormenting him as he torments her, perhaps more. She will also refuse to admit she’s contributing to said torment with those additional, focused movements. He’s the one who stopped, or rather, slowed the sexy fun.

Still, her thin line of patience holds enough that she merely tilts her head to allow him more space to continue running his mouth in both regards.]

Oh? [It’s a shame he can’t see the amalgamation of dubious frustration and genuine intrigue twisted together in quite the expression, but she imagines he can formulate a pretty good guess through their connection.

She’s about to say something with a bit more bite when he turns her attention manually to the crisply packaged box atop the coffee table, both of which are now decorated in strewn articles of clothing. There’s a delay in a proper response where she simply hums, clearly intrigued, but also torn on what to do next. Sheva would rather not have to fully stop current activities, but Ozymandias is a notoriously good gift giver, which may also have her a smidge apprehensive.

Look, she just wants to have and eat both cake and ice cream. Proverbially speaking. Is that too much to ask?]

A bold assumption. My level of ire depends on what’s in the box. And, if this is a trade or addition to our interrupted activities.

[So low is Ozymandias' laugh in response to that little threat that it ends up more vibration than sound. He adjusts their position enough that she can safely lean over and collect the present from the table. Not that she particularly needs much assistance in that department. Sheva may be small, but there's no denying her physical strength. If she really wanted to, she could probably throw Ozymandias straight onto the floor and be agile enough to remain on the couch herself. Still, it is only the polite thing to do since he's already provided so much disruption to their earlier activity.]

Open it then, [he says, his confident smile still pressed against her skin.] And we shall see what my fate is to be.

[Once Sheva collects the package, he shifts them back a little more comfortably on the couch. He also lies back a little further, allowing her to sit up. It makes it a little easier for him to settle, not giving in to the temptation to have more of her prematurely, but he does not completely cease his attentions to her. Ozymandias' finger traces shapes into the soft fur of her thigh, slow and lazy.]

[A future lesson in creative throws no doubt, and likely the start of some more rambunctious worshiping. The additional strength from her turnskin transformation certainly gave her visually slight frame an advantage.

She expects nothing less than the level of confidence that he displays, and despite her outward grumping, Sheva's actually quite excited to see what could be in the box. While objects don't buy her affection and friendship, Ozymandias is a notoriously fantastic gift giver. And, part of her has learned to enjoy indulging.

With a lazy, yet careful lean so as not to interrupt his mouth work, the lioness reaches out to pluck the box from the table, giving him a bit of a 'you better be correct' peer before turning her attention back to the gift. Some precise drags of her claws make quick work of the wrapping, which could easily be reused if it pleases her, and she lifts the lid back.

Her eyes widen at the sight of it. This was not what she expected, somehow.]

[He held no doubts that was the sort of reaction that it would receive, but still Ozymandias' smile grows as she reveals the blade. The surprise on her expression and echoing ever so slightly through the Bond is delightful, and precisely what he aimed for in commissioning the blade.]

Were this crafted in my lifetime, it would be made of bronze. But fortunately for you, they have the luxury of steel in this place. It shall hold its edge for far longer. Should you have need of it.

[It is less of a question of whether or not Sheva would throw herself into the frontlines or not, and more a matter of if she would abandon the use of weapons in favor of her Turnskin traits. Not something he could fault her for as while she's able to be precise and delicate with her claws to unwrap this gift, those claws can do far worse if she willed it. Never mind if she were to be shifted right now.]

[The lion-headed pommel is not the only decoration to the blade. Along its grip is a cartouche that has likely become familiar to Sheva. Ozymandias signs his documents and does not hesitate to decorate his walls with his name after all. On the opposite side of the grip is another cartouche, different from Ozymandias'. It's familiar to her given that it's her name, but she's probably not quite accustomed to seeing it written as such.]

[The weapon is breathtakingly stunning, and she's again speechless while taking in the details of the blade for several almost reverent moments. She has no doubt that he had taken great care in laying out the details of this design when he commissioned it. He likely remained involved heavily in the process to verify the quality and placement of his vision.

Carefully, she picks up the blade so that she can feel the weight of it, but only after she admires the rest of the artistry in the pommel and grip. The lioness remains quiet as she takes in the gift, thumb rubbing over both the familiar cartouche as well as the more foreign one.]

It's stunning. [She sounds surprised, perhaps a bit overwhelmed (again), but she's learned to at least not try and refuse such a gift from such a man. Her gaze shifts to his.] Thank you Ozymandias.

[There's been a smile playing on her lips for some time, even through the slight shock, and her attention drops more comfortably back to the weapon.]

I hope this comes with free training lessons. I am more accustomed to other weapons.

[He smooths out the fur of her thigh as she gets a feel for the weight of the blade in her hand. As Sheva likely anticipated, the craftsmanship there is far from lacking as well. Ozymandias' standards are high, after all, and he paid the cunes necessary to ensure it. Its weight feels evenly distributed, only the most minor of weight at its hooked tip to assist with leverage when needed.]

Of course. [Remaining mindful of the sharp object in her hand, Ozymandias only jostles Sheva slightly as he shifts beneath her to sit up. He keeps one of his hands at the small of her back to keep her steady, leaving it there even once he is upright.] I would not have you wielding any blade with my name written upon it poorly.

[He's teasing, but it's not the usual sort of teasing that Ozymandias so frequently indulges in with Sheva. It almost seems half-hearted as there's no anticipation, a clear attempt at baiting for a quip in return. Instead, it is a bit...quieter. Ozymandias brushes aside some of her hair from her face before kissing her forehead, allowing her to keep her attention on the weapon where it seems most comfortable. Ozymandias allows his own gaze to move there as well. When he speaks again, although there is no one around, Ozymandias keeps his voice low.]

Usermaatre. [The title Ozymandias in his own tongue. Placing his hand over hers, he has her turn the blade over for the other cartouche.] Sheva.

[It's subtle, but the way he pronounces her name is not entirely the way he normally does. The 'v' in her name is softened so much it becomes more of an 'f' because he is not simply saying her name. He's reading it to her.]

[There's a soft shiver in reaction as he plays with the fur on her thigh, her pleasure still clear through the Bond. Sheva doesn't allow herself to be distracted by it, even if there's still an ache to continue their interrupted activities. Though, she can't help but subtly rock her hips against him as he rises to sit up with her, be it habit or residual need.

Or perhaps just to gently torment him a bit.

There's a chuff of a murmured chuckle at the note about his name as her thumb carefully smooths parallel along the edge of the blade, testing it's edge without putting herself at great risk of being sliced from it.]

No doubt it would bring great shame to be written as anything less than perfection.

[There's no great edge to her teasing either. Sheva's genuinely impressed with such a grand gift, and the thought that went into every detail. Though, without any particular occasion aligned with it, there's a shadow of wariness that looms and creeps like a fog along a moor.

Thankfully, he's physically there to distract her from that pathway of thoughts, so they remain compartmentalized for now. She'd rather lean into kisses and the physical connections they're maintaining than the implication of such a gift important enough to interrupt sex, but there's another hook that snakes her attention.

Usermaatre.

While she's not taken up any formal learning of his native tongue or the hieroglyphics that littered his home, Sheva's adept at new languages, having learned to speak many well enough at a young age through her many trips to the melting pots of markets for supplies. She recognizes several of the glyphs, but more importantly, she picks up on the nuance in pronunciation of her own name, head inclining to listen closer to him speak in his own language.

And so, she does her best to mimic his pronunciation, soft and slow, as he had done.]

Usermaatre and... Sheva.

[His reaction to hearing his name is subtle enough that if they were not Bonded, Sheva could not be faulted for missing it. Particularly while her attention is less directly upon him. Although technically, nearly everyone calls him by that name, it's never in his own language. Language that he has not heard spoken by others in so long that he's almost as pleased by it as he so often is at hearing his true name rather than one of his many titles. And yet, pleased is perhaps an understatement as joy, a bit stronger and more vibrant than even what is typical, makes its way into the Bond.]

Very good, [he says quietly before offering his praise a little more physically in the form of a kiss. The smile on his lips is obvious then. When he pulls away from the kiss, he presses his forehead gently against hers.] How does tomorrow morning sound for training?

[Except that they are Bonded, and she absolutely doesn't miss it. There's the smallest hitch in her breath at noticing it, or more accurately, at feeling it. It makes sense that he'd react as such. It's likely very few, if any mirrorbound here, speak his native tongue, a situation she understands herself. The feeling of home one can find in hearing the language of your childhood, especially now that they're a questionable quantity of time and space from their homes, be they places or people. Or, both.

Still, she keeps her attention on the weapon until she's perfectly distracted by his mouth, leaning into it while minding the blade between them. Her lips curl into an easy smile at the mention of training so soon.]

You know I enjoy vigorously wrecking you in the mornings. [That's a yes, then.] Do you think you can handle it more than once tomorrow?

Those are some bold words! [Ozymandias says with a laugh. He brings a hand up to hold her face, thumb stroking along her cheekbone.] You do realize that I've wielded a khopesh longer than you have been alive, do you not? Even if you are a quick student with an exceptional teacher, you will have some time yet to match me.

[The challenge she lays out for him is most certainly accepted.]

[There's a toothy grin to answer his exclamations, even as she instinctively leans into his touch, rubbing her face against his hand. There's a soft rumble in her chest that sounds somewhat like a purr collided with a low chuckle.

When he finishes his accurate evaluation on the matter of her training, she leans in to brush her lips slowly over his, voice dropping back into that seductive tone from earlier.]

Just so we're clear Usermaatre... I was speaking of vigorous morning sex.

[Although not as strong as the first time, there's still an unmistakable little thrill at hearing his name again. Ozymandias chuckles quietly against her lips, hand finding hers around the handle of the khopesh.]

Do you think me so easily overcome? [Carefully, he moves her hand to place the blade back onto the coffee table before lacing their fingers together.] Just a hair's breadth from swooning every time you so much as look at me, nefermai?

I would think if that were the case, I would never find you in my bed again.

[If there wasn't motivation to learn his native language before this (there was), then it's certainly at the top of her list now, right along with learning to handle this new weapon. These reactions are too delightful to Sheva to ignore and delve into further. Absently, she licks her lips and steals a kiss, mind wandering to all the things she could say to him in his own tongue, and perhaps the other way around if he's game.

There's a toothy grin that lingers as he questions her with his sass, her tail lashing as a more playful, devious urge bubbles to the surface, even more so when he sets aside the sharp and slice-y weapon.]

It sounds like you're accusing me of preferring to play with my food. [She leans in to nudge her nose against his.] What does nefermai mean?

[While she doesn't move to kiss him again, not yet, the lioness does rock her hips slowly against him.]

[It's not picking up exactly where they left off, though the hint of how her mood shifts back in that direction within the Bond and the roll of her hips against him would suggest it might not take particularly long for them to get there.]

Mai is the word for lion, [he explains.] And nefer...

[Ozymandias dips his head down to kiss at her throat again as their hips find a rhythm with one another again. There's a little pulse of magic with each of his kisses. It lingers there along her skin, tingling with warmth. Unlike the magic from his hand at her thigh. As fingers move through fur, he pushes mana through his fingertips that travels from the top to along her inner thigh. It just makes it to between her legs, as though he were just barely beginning to touch her. Ozymandias smiles against Sheva's skin.]

That means beautiful.

[There's still a tug and pull within her, slight is it may be, it's rooted in long seated fears and experiences, keeping her from entirely letting go at times when her mind engages. Like that rough, still healing scar that snags on the high-quality, fancy fabric until it fully heals over. Hers hasn't quite healed, but it's snagging less often.

Somehow, it doesn't snag here. The shift of her mood helps buffer that potential snag, for her. That combined with her fascination with language.

She's pleased with the rough translation. Beautiful lion carries none of that fancy, easily snagged fabric. It's comfortable, a truth and compliment well-worn and received with her. As are the lips against her throat, which she shifts her chin to accommodate, tail sweeping against his legs behind her. There's a soft noise of pleasure at each pulse of mana, but there's an extended one accompanied by a toothy curl of her lips at the teasing promise his fingers offer.]

Nefermai. [She repeats, voice low.] I like that. Teach me something else of your tongue.

[Ozymandias huffs a low laugh as he begins to shift their position. He slips out from beneath Sheva, moving her to lay on her back instead. Ozymandias remains between her legs, but he allows for some distance between them for a moment.]

An anatomy lesson then? [he asks, knowing full well she has no idea what he's saying.]

[Still, it won't take much for Sheva to piece it together. Ozymandias takes one of her hands into his, bringing her fingertips so very close to his lips. And then he teaches her. One part at a time, rewarding each word she repeats back to him correctly with a kiss to that part. The better the pronunciation, the stronger the pulse of magic that passes from his lips to beneath her skin. Much like his earlier touches, it travels from where he's placed the kiss to add to the growing heat low in her belly and between her legs.]

[In some ways, it is perhaps a bit of an obstacle and distraction as teasing this way progresses into genuine strokes of pleasure from his mana, the Bond serving as a minor feedback loop as he relishes in every sound and reaction she makes. Ozymandias does not wait for it to pass before moving onto the next, expecting her attention to remain on his voice just as much as the sensations he is pulsing through her. And he is certainly cruel enough to withhold it from her for any mispronunciation, merely smiling and repeating the word until she says it correctly.]

[Ozymandias tosses her bra aside, but he does not peel off her panties and she is left with the heat of his mouth through fabric instead. And of course, it's the last place he kisses her before returning to kiss her on the mouth once more. He rocks his hips into her for a bonus word for her to learn. Ozymandias smirks as he cants his hips into her again mid-word, interrupting her on purpose. He looks at her daringly, as though he may or may not allow her to try again as he begins to tug at her underwear.]

[There's the slightest of grumbles. It's not quite a protest or complaint, but the shift of moving her beneath him when she'd been perfectly content to be on top of the king, ruffles her regardless. Him withdrawing contact, however momentary, starts to draw more visible signs of hopefully temporary irritation from the feline turnskin. Namely, her tail swishes more vigorously, swatting against the side of him a bit. Nothing too aggressive, particularly not for her.

Her head tilts slightly at his question, squinting just a hair as an invitation to continue. She suspects he's intentionally taking his time, drawing whatever he's planning out longer to tease her. That and Ozymandias tends to have a penchant for dramatic effect.

Thankfully for him, she doesn't have to wait too long for continued attentions, nor does the gist of his question evade her for much longer. Any tint if irritation quickly fades as the lesson begins, and an entirely different mood blossoms in its place, growing with each new word learned. Or, more accurately, with each kiss and pulse of magic, which is a sensation that will never tire her. Honestly, she may have developed a bit of greed on the matter of sexy deliveries of mana to her. It's her Bond's fault for spoiling her, clearly.

She will request to see these words in writing later.

At some point, her concentration slips in favor of the pleasure he's building inside of her, which in turn causes him to back off his mouthy rewards, visibly frustrating her. It's a small miracle that she doesn't simply take matters into her own hands, or claws even, though the growing intensity of fire in her eyes betrays her in addition to what he feels through the Bond.

Her tail's lashing again, and her own hands have long since finding ways to add to her own pleasure, while occasionally deviating to drag finger pad or claw along his form.

All this rudeness? Retribution will follow, eventually.

And when he finally discards her bra and directs his focus on her neglected heat, a low, purring rumble leaves her only to be cut short as his mouth departs. Her eyes narrow and take on a predatory note even as he realigns himself to teach her another word, which is a challenge she's determined to meet, but then he has to be a literal prick, a gasping growl cutting the repetition short. Even so, her back arches to grind against him as her legs wrap strongly around his hips, locking him there.]

Even my patience has limits.

[It's her way of meeting his challenge, coloring outside the lines one might say. That combined with her own claws hooking along the edge of his own pants, ready to slice him free of his fabric barrier with a curl of her fingers.]

[Gods is she not the absolute worst for his tailoring bills? There isn't always a victim and not all of his clothes are left in need of repair, but when she is impatient... Still, it is a small price to pay in the grand scheme of things and Ozymandias really would never offer genuine complaint. Unless it was one of his favorite items in his closet. Then she might have to listen to his complaints for a small amount of time, much as he likely would if their positions were reversed. But he's usually wise with his wardrobe and abstains from anything that might be upsetting to find beyond repair.]

[Still, he chides,]

There were these lovely little inventions, nefermai, [he says as he pulls her panties off at least one of her legs. It's the only slight amount of resistance to being locked in place as he is otherwise quite content to remain.] Surely you have heard of them. They are called buttons.

[His hand moves along the fur of her thigh as he leans down and kisses between her breasts, just above her heart, and then at her neck just beneath her jaw. No extra pulses of magic accompany them; they seem to be purely displays of affection.]

Perhaps you might summon a touch more patience for me, [he says, fingers moving against her outer lips, sliding down and pressing again to rub circles upon her clit. Although he changes the pressure that he rubs at her with every press of her hips, Ozymandias has moved on from his teasing. It's not enough to make her desperate for release, he wants her to come. Which if that is not obvious by the couple of digits he slips inside her as his thumb continues to massage her, it's likely noticeable in the Bond. It's also perhaps a bit contradictory to his case for sparing his pants, but he is a glutton for every hitch of her breath and cry of pleasure that escapes her. If his pants must fall in the line of that duty, so be it.] And make use of them.

octeuril catchall - open & closed prompts

Closed to Geralt | cw: body horror (turnskin transformation)

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sorry for the long delay!

mild nsfw

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