Not sure if you're taking requests or ideas st the moment, but I saw this cool idea on reddit and thought I'd give it a try with a few of my fave tumblr authors.
Okay, I'm gonna say some stuff and you tell me how you feel about it. Charles Brandon. Primal/Feral. Breeding Kink. Size Kink. 5 foot nothin' reader. Also, if you wanna turn it into a story or longer concept, also time travel.
Pass it on to some of your favorites with your own prompt words and phrases and see what they come up with!
So umm yeah - hi anon! Sorry this took me a while but when I say this ask had me in a chokehold I - 😳 Well see for yourself:
Behind the Bar
Pairing: Charles “Charlie” Brandon x Short Female Reader
Warnings: as per the ask really but primal/feral sex, breeding kink, size kink with a short reader. There’s a hint of time travel as its set in modern times but y’know. Otherwise standard rules apply when touching Charles Brandon… (hazmat suit anyone? 😂) But this was written in fits and starts but mostly today and so is very much unedited 😅
Notes: This may be waaay out of character for him but I reckon if he lived long enough, he’d reinvent himself 😏 Basically this feral energy:
You sighed to yourself as you climbed on the step stool for what felt like the billionth time that night. You should never have taken this job. Reaching for the bottles on the top shelf was humiliating at best and back breaking at worst. But you’d needed the money and everyone seemed friendly enough, even if the regulars seemed to like ordering from the top shelf just because you were short. It was the end of a very long first week, that was for sure.
Just when you were reaching to change one of the bar optics, a broad, tall stranger appeared behind the bar. A quick glance at his uniform told you he worked here. Curious. You thought you’d met all of the staff in this bar but apparently not.
“Oh I’ll get that for you.” He reached over your head to remove the empty vodka bottle from the stand. You stood in shock for a moment before hopping down from the step to face this intruder.
“Name's Charlie.” He grinned, resting his left elbow on the bar. “You?”
You raised an eyebrow at him but said nothing. His face had a boyish charm but the longer brown curly hair and thick, dark stubble placed him well into adulthood. His shirt was rolled up to expose his forearms where a curious array of floral tattoos disappeared into the crook of his elbow.
“Oh the silent type are we?” He grinned, flipping the bottle around his wrist nonchalantly, like it weighed nothing in his large hands. “Oh well, I guess I’ll see you around short stuff.”
And then he was gone again. Or so you thought.
——
You let the back door to the bar slam shut behind you, relishing in the sudden silence for a moment before hauling the empties bag you’d brought with you over to the giant bin. Thankfully this bin wasn’t too high and you accomplished your task with ease, even in the poor lighting. Sighing, you wiped your hands on your jeans and turned back towards the bar, ready to face the last few drunks of the night.
“Come here often?” A deep voice came from behind you.
It was him again.
The humiliation of this Charlie, coming in and treating you like a damsel needing to be rescued, boiled in your veins again and words spilled out of your mouth before you had a second to think.
“Oh shut up.”
He stepped out of the shadows then, flicking a cigarette back into the darkness.
“Mmm, make me.”
You swallowed nervously, the tone in his voice sending a shiver down your spine that wasn’t altogether unpleasant.
“If you don’t leave me alone, I’ll report you to the manager.” An empty threat, but he didn’t know that.
Charlie’s face split into a grin that didn’t quite meet his icy blue eyes. And it really shouldn’t have but it made your insides clench.
“Oh that’d be a shame little one.” He stepped into your personal space, resting an arm over your head on the cold brick wall. “But I feel he’d be on my side, seeing as I own the place. So it’s really not worth your time.”
Your mouth ran dry, any retort quickly dying on your tongue. You shivered, blood turning icy as his other hand rest on your cheek. You could smell the acrid sent of tobacco as his thumb brushed your face.
“Oh fuck off.” You spat, feeling the hollowness of those words as they yawned into the space, little though there was, between you.
“I like one of those words.” You felt his hot breath against your throat, each word sealing your doom as the thought of fucking this man in public seared itself into your brain.
Charlie mistook your silence for refusal and pulled your chin up so that he could look into your eyes.
“Oh don’t play naive. I saw how you looked at me. Do. You. Want. This.?”
Your heart thudding in your chest, all sense of reasoning and logic gone, you nodded.
“In that case…”
In your next heartbeat he was on you, lifting you against the wall as if you weighed nothing. He tugged at your jeans, pulling them harshly down your thighs and exposing you to the cooler night air. His lips and teeth were no less busy, making a meal of the smooth skin of your neck. He bit into your neck as his fingers thrust into your wet core, eliciting a litany of swear words from your heaving chest.
Your hands were restless, moving from clutching his back at the sudden intrusion to tugging his thick hair when his finger nudged into the soft spot inside you could never find yourself. It only seemed to spur him on further as he hit it over and over again until you came noisily around his fingers.
You’d never felt so dirty and so alive, crushed between a damp wall and this feral bartender. A man knuckles deep in your pussy where anyone could see. But you needed more. He’d opened a door that you weren’t sure would ever close.
“Fuck me.” You gasped between moans. “Make me yours.”
Charlie groaned deeply, pressing his jean clad cock against your thigh for a moment before straightening up. The tell tale sound of a zipper followed and seconds later, the thick warm tip of his dick was sliding through your folds to impale you in one swift stroke. There was no time to adjust before he was pounding into you with abandon, his weight fully pinning you to the wall to leave a tapestry of bruises on your skin. But you didn’t care. Not when every thrust was sending you closer to oblivion. Every touch lighting up your nerves and stoking your core with heat until you could take it no longer. Your senses were overwhelmed with his scent as Charles’ thrusts started to become erratic, his hand finding your sensitive clit to pull you with him, finally pushing you over the edge with scream. You felt his cock pulsing, emptying himself into you as he fucked you through your high, ensuring his seed remained deep within you. He pulled out slowly, savouring every inch of your heat until eventually he lowered your unsteady legs to the ground. Charlie tucked himself away once more before reaching into his trouser pocket for another cigarette.
“Time to head back behind the bar short stuff, there’s patrons to serve!” He supplies breezily, mouth full of cigarette, as if he didn’t just fuck your brains out. He walks past you then, tapping you on the backside and striding indoors.
Summary: It’s always been the Seamtress and her cat. That is until Geralt, and his faithful mare Roach, walk through the village one Summer’s day on the edge of Autumn. Which is mightier, the Needle or the Sword?
Pairing: Geralt x OFC Márta (@wolvesandhoundshowltogether ) (2nd Person POV descriptions are, I hope, left vague enough that it could be read as reader despite the name use)
Words: ~7K
Warnings: Mild pining, oral sex (male and female receiving), penetrative sex, passing references and descriptions of wounds and battles, a dick scar (yup!), references to prey/predator vibes, Geralt being a little bit of switch maybe? And copious amounts of eye contact. Also a cat being a cat.
A/N: It’s been a while since I posted anything I know! I kind of lost my motivation to write for a while with work stress and life stress. On top of that, this was just not flowing right for ages and then when I did get inspo, I was too tired from moving house! This was originally a birthday present for the lovely Márta, (so it’s uh been over a year since I had this idea 😬) So fingers crossed it’s actually good because I cannot stare at it any longer… Enjoy!
All pictures taken from either googling or from the Canva database where the header image was made by me!
Masterlist
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The dawning sun shone weakly through the soft clouds, the warmth just noticeable on your skin. Birds sung in the distant treetops and a cockerel crowed gently as you approached the village. The smell of autumn was faint in the air, the edge of a crisp, slightly cooler breeze fluttering around your ankles. You walked down the gentle slope through the centre, narrowly avoiding a deep divot in the soft mud path that directed your journey. You knew there would be a couple more weeks before the weather turned so didn’t hurry to the marketplace just yet. Instead, you beckoned to the white and ginger feline walking alongside you. Shuffling your basket firmly into the crook of your arm, you tapped your shoulder and up Füge went, settling around your neck to stare at passers by, few though they were at this hour.
A few moments later, you finally stepped into the nearby inn, pushing the loud rickety door open with a grimace. You greeted the innkeeper with a smile and a wave as she spoke to a weary traveller. Not wanting to disturb, you settled near the low fire quietly, rubbing your arms to ward off the slight chill. Füge jumped off your shoulder into your lap to be closer to the fire, curling up into a shape reminiscent of a pastry you were hoping to buy later.
For a moment you stared into the crackling flames, lost in thoughts of your preparations for autumn. You’d just started to think about the darning waiting for you at home when you were interrupted from your thoughts by a deep voice that rumbled through your chest like distant thunder.
“Is this seat taken?”
You look up to see a broad man with snow-white hair, like he’d just stepped out of the depths of a winter storm. His eyes on the other hand were a honey tone that spoke of those hours of summer evenings spent in the wheat fields beyond the village. His clothing was a deep midnight black and a little torn in places but neat darns threaded through the clearly well-looked after outfit. His shirt pulled tight around his biceps as his hand clasped the back of the chair and if you thought too hard about the leather trousers hiding in the shadow behind the seat you might just throw yourself into the fire. You cleared your throat, gesturing him into the seat.
”Help yourself. I’m-” You held one hand out to the stranger while the other pet Füge as she purred.
“Oh I know who you are, Seamstress.” He replied easily, “Your cat is hard to miss.”
“She’s a personality that’s for sure!” You chuckled, scratching under the kitty’s chin.
“Geralt of Rivia.” He continued, extending his hand to meet yours. His hand was warm, his grip firm as he regarded you with interest. You swallowed.
“Pleasure to meet the famous White Wolf in person.” You added and smiled after a moment, letting go and turning to the basket by your feet. You pulled out your latest piece of work, quietly threading a crimson thread through a cornflower blue doublet, hoping to distract yourself from your new fireside companion.
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You’d sat in friendly silence for an hour or so while you worked in the empty inn. Geralt had even taken out one of his swords to polish it and it had taken an inhuman amount of focus to ignore the vision of the silver sword balanced across his thighs for as long as you had. But then one fateful moment he leant forward and the fire highlighted the raft of dark chest hair that disappeared past those tiny buttons and…
“Sweet Melitele!” You broke the silence with a quiet curse, sucking your finger to ease the pricking wound and the embarrassment you felt.
Geralt looked up from his task and grunted his condolences for the pain, before returning to his sword. You internally chided yourself for making such a simple mistake. But resolutely focused back on your work, you barely noticed Geralt leave until he returned a short while later, bringing the smell of baked goods with him. You looked up to find him holding out a crescent-shaped pastry. Your stomach flipped a little at the sight, just out of hunger, nothing else of course.
“Mm?” You couldn’t trust yourself to form words just yet.
“Ida told me it was your birthday.” He replied with a non-commital grunt.
Your head snapped to the side to look over at Ida who was nonchalantly wiping down the counter, trying not to catch your eye, a knowing smile hovering at her mouth. You turned back to Geralt, a similar grunt echoing his.
Meanwhile Geralt returned to his place by the fire, gently lifting off Füge who had stolen his seat in the intervening time. Your heart definitely did not skip a beat at his gentle grip on the mischievous feline.
“Well you didn’t have to.” You groused, clearing your throat, but took the package carefully from his hand. “At least share this with me. No arguments. It’s my birthday after all.” You smirked, pulling the pastry in half and offering the other half to him. Silence fell again as you both ate the treat, savouring the taste of the buttery pastry on your tongue. You glanced over at the mysterious witcher to find Geralt wrapping a new leather band around the hilt of his sword, concentration etched into his features as the muscles twitched in his bare forearms. When did he roll up his sleeves!?
He started to untuck his shirt, showing a tantalising glimpse of muscles and some gnarled scars across his abdomen, when he paused. He let his shirt go and turned to rummage in the saddle bags by his feet, tipping out shirts and wrapped bundles in the process. You stared for a moment too long, the image of muscles rippling against the taut black material seared into your mind; a question bubbling from your lips before you could stop it.
“Did you dye all your shirts Geralt? I’ve never seen material so black!”
“No.” Geralt busied himself with his dagger this time, wiping crusty black gunk off the blade with the hem of his now untucked shirt. “Monster Blood.”
“Oh? What monster?” You asked, a little distracted by the continued appearance of skin.
“Many.” His tone was suddenly cold and gruff. “Do not think that I’ll kill them for you to make you some dye Seamstress.”
“No, no. I’d never ask you for such a thing sir.” You hurried to reassure him, a cold chill descending between you, despite the fire.
He simply grunted, continuing to clean his knife. On an impulse, you leant across to capture his hand in yours and still his blade.
“I’ve heard the tales, I know you only kill when necessary.” You squeezed his hand. “Trust that I will not add to that burden.”
He looked up at your touch and any other thoughts you might have had, fell away like autumn leaves. The burnt amber of his eyes bored into yours for a moment longer and you moved closer, catching the scent of cloves and hay before the door to the inn burst open.
You both leapt back in haste. Geralt’s stern features were already focused on the door, automatically flipping the dagger in his hand, ready for anything. You meanwhile, had dropped your sewing onto the floor in surprise and now stood hurriedly, stuffing things in your basket. The raucous noise of people coming into the inn alerting you to the time that had passed in his company.
“Come find me later.” You blurted out, finally gathering up your basket, before clicking your tongue for Füge to follow you. Geralt watched you and the orange bottlebrush tail leave and turned back to the fire with a sigh, picking up his sword to resume cleaning it.
On the other side of the door, out of sight of the morning crowd, you leant against a nearby wall. A shaky breath wheezed from your lungs and your skin tingled where his hands had touched yours. You startled when Füge jumped up, her soft cheek rubbing against yours as she curled around your shoulders with a quiet chirp. You reached up to absentmindedly scratch at her ear.
“Well I’m awake now, that’s for sure. Let’s get to the market.”
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You stood, hands on your hips as you surveyed the small set up in the grass at your feet on the bustling village green. It would do for now but you really could do with a little table. Füge sat in the basket at your side, leisurely licking her paw as she regarded the passers by with the kind of superiority only a cat could possess.
Examples of little swatches of repairs and darns were spread across the russet coloured cloth from the moth eaten, to snags and rips, there was little you couldn’t repair or embellish. You’d even managed to lovingly restore a deep blue horse saddle blanket that had been discarded from a Temerian patrol near your small cottage. You smiled at the tiny dandelions you’d painstakingly sewn around the edge to cover the temerian symbols, it was one of your favourite projects, a forgotten flower for a forgotten garment. You sat down in the grass, the sun lightly warming your skin and set about unpicking the neck of the doublet, repairing the terrible job you’d done this morning in his company.
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After finishing his sword repairs, Geralt had journeyed out to the stables to check on Roach, spending an hour or two washing and brushing the faithful mare until she was almost dozing off in his arms. He laid the clean but almost threadbare horse blanket over the door of the stall as he left, hoping it would be dry enough by the end of the day to saddle Roach back up again.
The sun barely at its peak, Geralt found himself at a loss. He’d not had so much free time in a village for a while. No-one here seemed to mind his presence and simply carried on as if he was any other traveller passing through.
He passed by the bakery on his left, nodding lightly, awkwardly, as the baker waved at the witcher. He’d only meant to stop to gather some basic bread to restore his pack, but they’d been so kind, pressing a few other treats into his hands at the ungodly hour he’d arrived in the village. He was only saved further awkward refusals by spotting the inn owner unlocking the front door and ducked out of the quaint building and hurried across the path to greet her and buy board. A few hours rest was all he had needed and he'd just come back down to inquire with Ida about Witcher contracts when you’d arrived.
You hadn’t seemed like a distant traveller but it was clear you didn’t stay near the village from the large basket on your arm and the well-worn boots on your feet. When Ida had caught Geralt staring, she’d cleared her throat and he turned back a little embarrassed. Ida had chuckled then and explained that you and her were friends and that you repaired the bedding for the inn on a regular basis. It was your birthday today he had learned and when you’d not recoiled in horror but instead smiled at him, he’d been seized with the urge to bring you a gift. Jaskier had always told him that a gift was rarely unwelcome and a perfect way to ingratiate yourself. He had of course heard the grumbling of your stomach and the bakery was only too kind as to oblige with your favourite pastry.
Geralt shook his head to clear his mind of this morning, hearing the noise of market stalls now in full swing before the village green came into view around the corner. He saw you almost instantly. The way your deep red skirt lay out around you in the grass and the easy way you conversed with others at nearby stalls made something in his chest expand a little. Geralt turned away and looked towards the sun for a moment until the feeling passed.
But no matter the reluctance, his feet seemed to follow a path directly to you within moments. He almost made to turn away but you caught sight of his swords in the sunshine out of the corner of your eye and called to him.
“Hello Wolf. Taking in the sights?” You smiled, hand shading your eyes as you looked up at him.
“Something like that.” He murmured, before clearing his throat. “Any notices posted in the village?”
“Maybe. I’ve not checked myself today but they’re usually outside the alderman’s house.”
“Thanks.” Geralt replied, a little absentmindedly as your refurbished blanket caught his eye.
“You like it?” You held it up for a closer look and he nodded, the ghost of a smile appearing on his face.
“I have a friend who’d find it amusing to find this particular flower on my horse.”
Your heart skipped a very cliche beat as his amused countenance met yours.
“Well then you must take it. It would not be kind to prevent such a wonderful smile from lighting up your friend’s face too.” You felt your cheeks heat as the compliment left your mouth.
“I’m afraid it is too fine of a garment for Witcher’s work. Beautiful though it is.” He bowed his head a little, though his eyes remained on yours for a moment. “Maybe another time.”
Before you could gather up the words to protest, he was gone into the crowds, his sword glinting briefly in the heavy sun. You sighed, flopping back onto the grass. Today was going to be a long day if the disappointment curdling in your stomach was anything to go by.
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Geralt moved away at pace, finger and thumb rubbing nervously together as he focused on the feel of his sword calluses smoothing over one another. He would be gone soon and he could put even more distance between himself and you, the woman that made his chest feel tight and heart thud like it did before he took one of the many potions in the holster strapped to his thigh.
He paused as the winding path gave way to a few more houses, one of which had boards nailed to the fence as a rudimentary notice board. There were a few dull beige scraps of paper fixed to the board, curling and faded. Geralt adjusted his swords and stepped aside the soft mud of drying cart tracks to the other side of the path and approached the house.
On closer inspection the notes were mostly minor grievances and lost items, the ink running down the pages or turned dull grey from exposure to the sun. Geralt almost turned away before spotting a neatly scrawled but muddy note in spiky black ink jammed in between the boards. Geralt pulled the dirty piece of parchment from the town board and skimmed the contents. A drowner. Simple enough. He stepped past the board and up the short path to the house beyond. Geralt knocked firmly on the alderman’s door and stepped aside as the wooden door creaked open moments later.
A grizzled old man in a neat and well cared for tunic peeked out into the midday sun with a wrinkly hand shading his eyes. His eyes travelled up the broad frame of the witcher, a curt nod of acknowledgement as the man’s eyes alighted upon the dull grey of the witcher medallion around Geralt’s neck.
“Ah yes, Ida told me a Witcher was in town. Come, let's discuss the terms.”
Geralt ducked under the doorframe and followed the man into the house.
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The sun was setting when you finally arrived home, the golden early evening sun searing into your eyes as you gazed across the distant paddocks for a moment. Füge was happily snoozing among your purchases in the basket at your hip but perked up at the sound of the latch. She didn’t move when you put the basket down inside, only peeped at you from over the edge of the wicker, eyes getting a little wider in the fading light.
You leant down to light the fire, stretching as the warmth filled the room. Moving towards the larder, you pulled out some dried fish for the cat and mashed it into a paste with some melted fat from last night's meal. Füge hopped out the basket with a soft meow and circled around your legs as you finished up your task. You chuckled as she tried to get to her dinner with some enthusiasm only to bump into your boot as she stepped directly in your path.
“So much mischief in a little package!” You exclaimed sweetly, as you placed her food down, much to the cat’s excitement.
"If only it was this easy to tell what he wanted." You sighed, thinking of the white haired Witcher and hoping that today's contract was an easy one for the wolf.
You were just tidying away the remains when you heard a soft knock. Your heart leapt into your chest as you stepped towards the door, just knowing in your gut that it was him on the other side of the door and that he'd definitely just heard you speaking to your cat. Stopping briefly, you took a deep breath, adjusted your dress and opened the door.
“Good evening Seamstress.”
Geralt filled the doorframe, the setting sun casting a deep shadow over his face but not enough that you missed the slight smile around the edges of his mouth. You almost forgot to be embarrassed and simply stared a moment at the man. The white was almost gone from his hair at this hour, the sun's rays settling between hair strands to set his whole head on fire with bold strokes of ochre and umber. It took a moment for you to gather your thoughts into an actual sentence.
“Uh hello. Please… call me Márta. Come in dear Witcher.”
Geralt stepped into your home, ducking a little under the frame.
“If I am to call you Márta, then you must call me Geralt. I insist.”
“Can I offer you a seat by my fire then… Geralt?” You asked with a cheeky smile, warming to the man’s presence again quickly.
He nodded and shrugged the swords off his back, placing them carefully by the door and rummaging in his pack. He clearly found what he was looking for as he straightened up and turned back towards you, a leather pouch clenched in his fist.
The silence was palpable, standing a few steps away from each other it seemed as if the world had stopped for a brief moment. And then sped up all at once.
“I-“
“Thank-“
You both began to speak at the same time. Geralt sighed and you smiled, gesturing for him to go ahead.
“Thank you. Roach looks beautiful.”
“She’s a sweet girl and deserves nice things.”
“Yes, but you didn’t have to.”
“But I did Geralt. You needed one and I had one. I saw the state of the last saddle blanket.” You raised your eyebrow, eyeing the leather pouch. “I won’t accept coins for it either.”
“What will you accept as payment then Seamstress?” Geralt asked softly, tucking away the coin purse. Your mind definitely went to unsavoury thoughts about the gentle beast standing in your home. Coughing lightly, you were about to quip about how seeing the pair of them happy was enough, when you saw the darns in Geralt's shirt once more.
“Let me work on your shirt.” You blurted out, your cheeks heating rapidly at your boldness.
Now it was Geralt’s turn to raise an eyebrow.
“I- The colour fascinates me and I want to know what it’s like to craft with.” You explained in a rush, to fill the silence. His silence was telling and you looked away, saddened that you'd managed to upset the man once more.
You saw his sturdy looking black leather boots step into your peripheral vision, rough fingers suddenly gripping your chin, forcing you to look at him. You could scarcely breathe as the scent of cloves and hay washed over you once more. His eyes searched yours intently and you were sure he could hear your heart beating harshly against your ribcage.
“Very well” Geralt murmured after a moment, seemingly finding nothing amiss, leaving the ghost of his touch against your cheek and some less than innocent feelings in his wake.
Geralt turned to his pack and dug out another couple of dark shirts, both worse for wear than the one currently stretched tight across his torso.
You took the shirts from him and gasped at the unusual softness, completely different to the texture you had expected from a man who lives from inn to inn - if he’s lucky. Gesturing for Geralt to sit beside you, you took a seat closer to the firelight to see more clearly, the low sun having cast large shadows across your home. Both shirts were full of neat darns and rips, grey and deepest black shades splattered across it. One was fit for nothing better than rags or bandages, Geralt nodded at your running commentary. But the second was reparable… just. Even despite the charred rip across one shoulder.
“Uh..” You hesitated a little, “For damage this severe, you’d uhh… Need to wear it. Makes it easier to make adjustments.”
Your cheeks felt hot again and you looked down at your lap where Füge had arrived and was kneading away at your skirts. If Geralt found the request odd, he didn’t make any suggestions otherwise and you felt his weight rise from the furs beside you. Eyes elsewhere, you missed the slight smirk that appeared on his lips for a fleeting moment. When his voice filled the warm silence a moment later, you could have sworn it was deeper and richer than before.
“Of course.”
It absolutely did not make you clench your thighs together to relieve the building tension. Not at all.
You heard rustling and resolutely looked at your fingers threading through Füge’s fur, not looking at the bare expanse of skin in the corner of your eye. A moment later he was covered once more; well, as covered as someone wearing a ripped shirt could be. You placed Füge on the floor gently and stood, brushing the fur off of your lap. Stepping closer to Geralt, you cleared your throat hesitantly and reached out with slightly shaking hands.
You held the shirt hem gently in one hand, concentrating on the feel of the fabric on your skin and not on the heat radiating from the man wearing it. You felt the texture of every single thread, the slip of the monster blood and slime between the fibres and the permanence of the stains. You felt every true strike of the sword and every missed swing as you held the fabric tighter.
Your other fingers traced the charred fabric along the thick muscles of the Witcher’s shoulder and such was your focus you missed the vibration of his medallion and the sharp inhale as your skin touched his again. Geralt remained still, only the twitch of his finger against his thigh showed that you had any further effect on him.
Under your touch, the fabric began to knit itself together, the char of the burnt fibres falling away like ash to the floor between the pair of you. Buttons pulled back into the fabric, dents in the metal fastenings popped back into place with a faint ping. The fabric began to pale a little and you wobbled, a little unsteady on your feet. This was a very different sensation to the fabric dyes that felt like meadows, mud and animals that you normally encountered. Here it was dark and intense, almost living, creeping into your mind and-
Geralt’s hands grabbed your hip as you swayed, holding you upright with gentle force. His bronze tinted eyes were the last thing you saw before your own slid shut to focus on the task. The tingling started at your fingertips, working its way up your forearms and through your limbs until your whole body sang with the vibrations.
A deep exhale and you pushed with your mind, the colour spreading back out from your fingers like ink across a ledger, writing of his adventures in every splotch of colour.
Geralt had never encountered magic like this. Every hair on his body stood to attention, the magic thrumming along his skin as if he’d dipped into the coolness of a shallow pond on a summer’s day. His focus narrowed down to the vibrations of the wolf medallion nestled against his chest and tension of you clutching his shirt. Your knuckle brushed the edges of gnarled abdomen scar unbeknownst to you and Geralt almost leapt out of your grip, the electric sensation almost overwhelming. He straightened his back quickly, gritted his teeth and resolved not to move much, lest he become unsteady on his feet too.
Devoid of vision, you felt the heat of his skin through the fabric, running only slightly warmer than your average human but magic crackled underneath his skin like a second heat that felt like it could scorch your fingertips. The fire at your back felt intense, droplets of sweat rolling down between your breasts as you held on for just a moment longer. You felt the last stitches fall into place as a wave of dizziness overwhelmed you and you lost your grip on him.
Barely coherent for a moment, Geralt caught you before you hit the floor. You opened your eyes to find Geralt leaning over you, his eyes as orange as the flames dancing in your periphery. The dizziness faded quickly, but the crackling, fizzing undercurrent of magic was still singing in your veins. But you’d never been tempted to act upon this residue of magic, not until this unusual man had come into your life.
You reached out to feel the dark grey stubble, rough against your fingertips. The grounding sensation brought you back to your senses a little more even as his hand wrapped around yours, thumb rubbing across your palm as he gently pushed your hand away.
He looked hauntingly beautiful like this, strands of light hair casting shadows across his chiselled face. His pupils were widened with curiosity and something else that you couldn’t quite place until you shifted your leg, a secret smile gracing your lips for a moment.
“If you are not so interested dear Witcher, then by all means leave with my well wishes.” You paused for a moment, looking down between the pair of you. “But something pressed against my thigh would suggest otherwise.”
Geralt growled at the jest, teeth flashing in the cosy darkness of your home. It should have at least made you second guess yourself but the frisson of magic still strong within you had other thoughts. Instead you grinned, grabbing the wolf medallion dangling over you to tug the man down for a kiss.
Geralt’s lips were remarkably soft for the weather his body had to endure and his touch so gentle despite the hardness of his life that you’d felt deep in the fibres of his shirt. Your head spun with the languid kisses he served as his hard body pressed you into the stone floor, all pretence forgotten. Moments passed and you broke for breath, tilting your head back, lungs heaving. The beast of a man took this as an invitation of submission, of need, and grazed his teeth along the slender planes of your throat before biting down at the juncture between your neck and shoulder. You gasped, the bright sensation of pain battling for dominance with the lust and magic coursing through you.
His strength was plain in the way he easily rolled you above him moments later, hands moving to your hips to hold you against him tightly. He rocked his pelvis upwards, making you feel every inch of his interest. It must have shown on your face as a raised eyebrow and a gentle sneer quickly followed, exposing the points of his teeth again in a way that ripped the last vestige of patience from your grasp.
You scrabbled at his shirt, pushing it away from his skin and replacing it with your hands for a moment. Your fingertips caressed the scars and gouges, feeling the stitches and repairs of the surface of his skin, knowing that each one must have caused him pain and cost him more with every potion he consumed. The taut muscles layered underneath seemed strong but exposed as they vibrated underneath your touch. Seized by the need to feel him further, you bent your head to place your lips along a pink scar with translucent grey flecks that arrowed downwards, disappearing below the buttons of those leather trousers.
As your kisses reached the waistline where the scar was removed from your sight, his hand seized the nape of your neck, pulling you up into a sudden, almost violent kiss. Your lips clashed with his teeth in a meeting of passion as he sat up, lips still glued to yours as you remained in his lap, legs wrapping around his back.
You tugged at the hem of his shirt again, it getting stuck between the pair of you to some quiet chuckles against your lips. Your heart melted then, to hear joy out of this worn down man’s throat and you struggled harder but with laughter, trying your best to divest him of his clothes, to make him feel that joy again and again.
Eventually you succeeded, the newly mended material seeming to crackle a little as you eased it over his head. Geralt returned the favour quickly, his large hands making short work of your dress, the fabric falling away from your shoulders with only a whisper and only a couple of ripped stitches.
Quickly, his mouth followed the path of his hands, seeking more desperate contact, before coming to rest over a nipple, breath ghosting on the peak. You heard him swear under his breath as it pebbled under his attention before all sense of words were lost and your thoughts melted into the sensation of his lips against your sensitive flesh.
Your hips moved of their own accord, seeking the delicious friction of Geralt’s hardness against the dewy wetness that had long since formed between your thighs. You were so close to succeeding too, lips moving across his bare skin, his scars and his lips in quick succession. Your hands delved between you both to undo one of the last barriers, the laces of his trousers, when Geralt changed his mind.
His hand moved to hold you tighter against him with the strength of a Witcher, leaving no room for your hips to continue their dance and trapping your hands in an illicit crush. You could only meekly wiggle your fingers against the leather. He growled deeply against your bare shoulder then and you felt like prey and predator all at once. Your heart raced like a rabbit caught in a hunt but the urge to bite and claim in return came swiftly behind it until all you could think was need need need.
Want.
But what Geralt wanted, he got. His lips resumed their painstaking pace across the bare skin of your chest, being sure to leave the telltale indents of pleasure his teeth make along the way. All you could do was take the blossoming heat as it washed over you. Only when your chest was painted in a few marks and you were nothing but a puddle of want, was he satisfied. But he merely loosened his grip to seat you on the bench you’d vacated a lifetime ago.
You felt the soft furs against your bare skin and warm hands pushing your thighs back, the fire heating your damp petals enough to make you squirm against the hold. And for a moment he held you there exposed to his gaze, to the warmth. But it was nothing compared to the feeling of his feverish tongue pressing between your folds suddenly, the stubble of his chin rubbing against sensitive flesh and tiny pinpricks of his teeth occasionally making their presence known against your tingling skin.
As with everything you’d seen from this friendly but stoic witcher so far, Geralt took on the task with clear intent and purpose. He seemed to know your every thought before it even struck you. Every stroke of his tongue was intentional, reading the pulse of your core and the scent of your arousal as the markers of your steady, inevitable path to bliss. You were no stranger to pleasure but this? This was like every moment of lustful magic you’d ever experienced, rolled into one.
You shuddered as he stopped for breath, the warm air of his laboured breath gusting over your glistening pussy. But the air that he languidly shared with your body he stole from your lungs once more as he dove back down and resumed his charge of your undoing. A hand, tanned darker by the sun and hard labour, reached up to grasp at your breast. The other stroked deftly at your entrance with the gentleness of a man that knows how to calm even the most skittish of beasts. Your back arched as his strong fingers beckoned you from within your walls.
"F- fuuuck!"
Rolling with sensation, your hands delved in among the silver threads of the Witcher’s head. This particularly strong wave of pleasure rewarded him with a sharp tug to his hair. He growled into the depths of your pussy without hesitation, his eyes flicking up to capture yours for only a moment. But that was enough for you to tumble over the edge into the abyss of pleasure, mouth agape but no words able to leave.
Geralt continued to taste your pleasure as your high abated, standing once he was satisfied and unashamedly wiping his mouth and chin on the back of his hand without breaking your gaze. You shivered a little as Geralt moved from between your thighs, cooler air moving in where the bulk of the Witcher had vacated. He stood in front of the fire once more, his silhouette proving no less tempting in profile.
You bit your lip as Geralt finally divested himself of those trousers, the ones that would surely haunt your dreams from now on. His cock sprang free, deep throbbing red with a thin white scar running from the base to about half way up. As your mouth watered at the idea of your tongue running along those mysterious ridges and wondering what exactly had been there before you to cause such a scar, his calloused thumb swept across the pink head smearing the pre-come across his skin. You could hear the audible sigh of relief from where you lay, torturously close. He turned back towards you and the look in his eyes was enough to have you panting once more. Geralt’s pupils were blown so wide, only a thin golden ring remained and his veins stood out in relief against his forearms, his hand idly stroking along his length.
You slid off the bench to kneel in front of the man, hands reaching out to touch the broad man in desperation. You felt the wiry soft hair of his thighs under your fingertips as you swept over his skin to your target. Up close he was thicker than you expected and felt like soft velvet as you wrapped your hand around his length, eagerly knocking his hand away in the process. He hissed as your tongue darted out to taste a drop of the pearly liquid that proved his interest in your form and your pleasure.
The salty taste of the Witcher’s essence on your tongue made your mouth water and you eagerly settled between his thighs to investigate further. His hands grasped for you but you plunged your mouth down his length, leaving Geralt to swear this time.
“Fuck. Márta!” He all but choked out as your tongue brushed along the underside of his length.
You opened your mouth wider, hands moving to brace yourself against his thighs, bobbing your head faster along his length. Geralt’s hand reached under your chin and lightly against your throat, forcing your eyes to meet his.
You pulled your mouth away from his length to take a breath, a cheeky grin lighting your features as Geralt’s thighs trembled under your hands. You sat back on your heels, tugging the lust-drunk witcher down to your level by your grasp on his length. He crumpled to his knees in front of you, punch drunk on lust. The Witcher was helpless but to follow your lead until he hovered over you, arm braced on the floor by your shoulder. His eyes sought yours to ask that age old unspoken question.
That unreserved yes lingered on the tip of your tongue but you merely nodded as words seemed impossible. You guided him between your thighs, squeezing his length in a moment of cheeky levity. He answered with his own light smile, before brushing your cheek with his thumb.
A moan and a few choice swears left your throat as he breached that final barrier between you. Slowly but surely, you felt the true measure of the witcher with every inch he pressed closer, deeper until you were surrounded by him. Just when you thought he had bottomed out, he shifted, changing the angle of his excruciatingly slow thrust. He pulled away equally slowly and you shivered as he left you empty for a moment that felt like an age. You opened your mouth, a frown etching into your forehead, when Geralt lent forward quickly, spearing you open once more in one deep thrust.
Air left your chest in a rush, your lungs wheezing with the effort of trying to inhale against the feeling of fullness, of him taking up all the space. The sound of skin on skin was loud against the crackling of the fire as his thighs crashed into yours again, splitting your legs impossibly wider, as if he still couldn’t get close enough to you.
His chest pressed against yours, pushing you into the floor just a little harder than before. Surrounded and all consumed by the witcher, you felt the heat build slowly, spreading like syrupy, thick lines of lust along your limbs with every stroke of his length inside you.
His mouth busy leaving marks on your neck too, the dual sensations overwhelming and he fucking knew it. He stoked the embers of your fire with precision and dedication until your entire body was burning but holding you just on the edge of pleasure. You felt every unique ridge of his cock, your core clenching each time his pelvis pressed against yours but it wasn’t enough. Your kiss bruised lips spread into a secret smile that Geralt couldn’t see as you curled your wrist around in a circle, seizing an opportunity to flip the pair of you until you were on top, spread across his thighs and impaled deeply by the witcher. Magic crackled in the small space between you, Geralt's expression hardening a little, until you rocked your hips just so and it faded into an all encompassing lust. Your nails dug into the fur on his chest as you rose and rapidly sunk back down onto his punishing girth, chasing the long held back high. Geralt met you thrust for thrust, his hands gripping your hips in a way you were positive would leave muscle aches for days.
You leant forward, and mirroring Geralt’s actions from earlier; sought out the sensitive skin of the white wolf’s neck with your teeth. The growl that rolled from his chest at the sensation was almost enough to make you come for the second time that night. But not yet, you needed to see the stoic come unravelled like the poor stitching he had inspired this morning.
Geralt’s thrusts became more uncoordinated and sloppy until he ceded control to you entirely. His hands became soft and supportive then, encouraging you to take what you needed from him as you rolled your hips over and over again. You sat up to better hit that spot and locked eyes with Geralt once more. Something about the way he stared into your eyes was always going to be your undoing as, once again, you fell over the edge into pleasure, calling his name. Geralt followed shortly after, his arms pulling you close enough to kiss you earnestly and deeply as he emptied himself into your warmth.
⚔️🗡⚔️🗡
The moon was bright tonight, the light casting a surreal glow over the open fields nearby. The soft whickering to your right appeared to agree with you. You held an apple out to the horse waiting patiently in the small pasture outside your cottage.
"Here you go Roach. Sweet apples for a sweet horse."
You felt Roach’s soft lips brush against your palm as she took the fruit. Only the kindest of men would have such a gentle horse.
You wrapped the blanket around your bare shoulders a little tighter as you stroked Roach’s neck. A few moments passed, nothing but the quiet crunching of Roach to disturb the peaceful night.
“She likes you.” Geralt’s deep voice wafted out from the doorway a little while later. “But I think she’s been spoiled enough today. Come back inside.”
You laughed and turned back towards the bare chested man waiting for you. He leant just inside the door, the moonlight rippling across the planes of his muscled torso, dipping into scars you kissed only hours ago. You clenched at the mere thought.
“And I suppose you think that’s going to convince me?” You retorted, stepping towards Geralt.
“Mmm. Maybe not.” He took a step forward too, meeting you on the doorstep of the cottage. “But this might…”
No further warning was spared as he lifted you into his arms, your hands clutching at the shifting blanket. He strode back into the cottage, kicking the door shut behind him to make sure you were thoroughly convinced. He’d go all night if he had to.
Warnings: Temperature play, abuse of superpowers, semi-public sex, semi-public touching, consent negotiated, unprotected sex, tiny bit of exhibitionism implied and I think that’s about it?
A/N: Properly watching Man of Steel gave me some ~ideas~ and here we are… I started this a while ago now and finished it recently but abandoned it for the Dirty 30 prompts 😅. Man really can do it all, heat vision and icy breath all in one! Thank you to @littlefreya and @the-soot-sprite for encouraging me to actually write it! And I made the banner, images from Pinterest.
Clark Kent is a man full of contradictions. The most obvious being the two identities he bounces between. One the ever stoic superhuman capable of so much damage. The other, the capable and resilient journalist full of ideas. For you, the lines blurred long ago, the characters bleeding into one another.
He holds himself back but feels everything. An ironic human quirk of personality for the superhuman. Skin sensitive to touch, a simple side effect of his DNA but one you loved to exploit. God, you’d give your soul to bottle the laughter that spills so easily from his gut. But he’s also capable of withstanding great stress and his heart is so wide open and vulnerable despite the likelihood of getting hurt. Unwilling to do anything but believe in the best of people. He loves easily and languidly, but the worries of the world crease his forehead even as he sleeps.
Today, despite the universe at his beck and call, he is washing dishes next to his mother. The smile he has for his mother coats your heart in soft marshmallowy goodness that expands in your chest as you watch him. A testament to his family, the way he viewed the world, viewed you. For him, time is nothing. Not when he can appear and disappear in a flash. Instead it is peace that he craves.
Clark is full of surprises though. For one, he’s not the innocent Kansas farm boy that Smallville thinks he is. But he’s not always that measured and careful Superman that Metropolis needs either. The real truth lies somewhere in the middle, a man that is soft and full of humour but not afraid of standing up for others, for justice. A man that loves and fears in almost equal measure.
So when he’s feeling playful, you see a whole different side to him, the clash between both personalities that has you shivering with anticipation before he comes anywhere near you.
He loves to toy with you. That heady mix of contrary personalities is perfect for a long tortuous development of tension he loves to provoke in you. His steely patience and cheeky demeanour would be the death of you but damn if it wasn’t the way to go. He barely has to move to have you pinned down at his mercy if he wants. You can almost feel that one hand splayed across your wrists, willingly subjugated under the gentle but inhumanly strong man. It doesn’t take much more imagination to relive the other hand alternating in cupping your face and caressing your skin, showering you with touches of affection that made your heart race and your underwear wet.
You turn away from watching him doing something so domestic, trying to reign in your less than innocent thoughts. You continue to prepare vegetables for dinner, concentrating on your task. You really do try hard not to think about the previous night, your nails digging into the muscles on his back as you rode him, hips rocking together in a tight embrace. But it’s too late. When did you ever stop thinking about him? You squeeze your thighs together, letting your thoughts meander over his body in your mind, hands slowing at your task.
A light cough from behind you brings you back to earth with a bump. Panicked, you helplessly turn towards the sound. Did you say something outloud? It’s obvious he’s tense, his shoulders tight under the soft shirt he wears. You quickly flick back to the table and hurriedly finish up, intent of leaving the kitchen to save yourself any further embarrassment. You pack away the excess into the fridge, relishing the cool air on your warm face. You can feel his eyes on your back though, following you from across the room.
Your stomach drops and your face heats up again despite your location, as you belatedly realise his x-ray vision and superior senses leave nothing hidden from him. You are an open book, a blooming flower, exposed to his gaze. He’s usually kind with it, never really alluding to his extra senses, allowing people to feel at ease in his presence. But it means you forget. You hear Clark drain the sink and reluctantly you shut the fridge door to face the music.
The tall man is casually leaning against the worktop, dish towel slung over his shoulder. He continues to chat amicably to his mother who’s busy at the stove. But his eyes move over to you. It’s then that you feel a warming sensation, the ghost of his touch. It moves as if it’s his fingertips caressing your skin and you think for a moment that your mind is running wild with your unsavoury thoughts.
But it isn’t your imagination. Perhaps it never was. The tingles increase in intensity, centering on the peak of your breast through your dress. You’re stuck, frozen to the spot as the knowledge that Clark is abusing his super powers ricochets around your mind. The innocence of the farm boy gone in a flash to be replaced with the thrilling abyss of not knowing where this could go. You hiss quietly, fisting the edge of your dress as his molten stare grazes over a nipple. The heat softens a fraction in response before fading away completely. A dark, heavy humour not unlike the humid night outside, fills his eyes as they meet yours. You know that look. Or do you? It’s far more intimate than the nights between the sheets and the air in your lungs feels thick, almost as if your body is waiting for permission to breathe again.
But the air is chased out of your lungs not a moment later leaving you gasping. Your skin ripples with goosebumps like someone is plunging you into the snowy depths of winter. You cough, trying to cover the shocked gasp even as the cold sensation melts away. You move back to the table to clear up your mess but stop in your tracks as you feel something cold touch your ankle, a strangled whimper stealing from your throat.
"Are you ok dear?" Martha asked, her voice barely registering to you.
Your mind was consumed with the insidious cold creeping along your skin, tendrils of icy want winding around your ankle before heading higher and higher. As it reaches the back of your knee you try to compose yourself.
"Yeah, I'm fine - thought I felt something on my ankle for a second."
Martha nods and continues stirring at the stovetop. You surreptitiously rub your arms, suppressing a cold shiver as the cooling fingers relinquish their grasp on your thigh.
Clark chuckles then and you glare at him, folding your arms over the evidence that the slight chill is having an effect on you. A cheeky wink and he turns away, pulling the dish towel off his shoulder slowly, knowing you were watching his every move.
You continue to watch him for a moment, but never once does he break or falter in his conversation with his mother. You stand dumbfounded, a little hot and bothered for a moment until Martha turns towards you fully this time.
“Close your mouth dear or you’ll catch flies!” She smiles and hands you a pot. “Put the carrots in here with some water.”
You diligently slide the carrots off the chopping board into the waiting pot and then move over to the sink. Clark however, remains. He looks down at you, smirking as you try to reach around him for the tap. The hand wrapped around the pot, shakes a little but eyes fixed on the frustrating man in front you, your hand not-so-innocently brushes his crotch. Clark’s mouth opens but before he could retaliate, Martha interrupts.
“Now, don't be so rude Clark or there won’t be any dinner.” she chides with a smile. “Go set the table. Both of you. Go on, shoo!”
Martha waves her arms exasperatedly at the pair of you. He goes reluctantly but not before sending you another underwear-melting smile, accompanied by a cool breeze as he slides past you into the other room. You try your best not to think about walking into the other room as you fill the pot with water and hand it to Martha.
Only silence meets your ears outside the kitchen but a fog of cold ghosts across your skin. Before you could move further into the next room to get something warm to keep the chill from your bones, his hand closes around your wrist. His calloused fingers are rough against your goosebump laden arm and his touch makes you feel as if you’ve been dipped into a warm bath, nerves lighting up with the rapid change in temperature.
"Clark!" you whisper angrily. "What are you doing?"
He isn't even looking at you either, his eyes are focused somewhere much lower. You don't get much further in your anger as the heat doesn't abate but ripples down your body to rest firmly at your apex. The searing feel of his gaze suffuses quickly through the thin layers of material to reach your most intimate parts. There was no doubt now that his gaze was no longer a metaphor for lust but a physical manifestation of the desire coursing through his veins. It takes a second before you realise the low groan you can hear is you and in the next moment Clark has you pinned to the wall, just out of sight of the kitchen, hand hastily clamped over your jaw. You can still hear Martha pottering around in the kitchen and you know if she took even a step closer she’d see how Clark crowded you into the small corner just outside the room. The smirk that he wears only inches from your face, has your heart beating like a hummingbird in a cage.
“Sweetheart, do you want to play?” he all but whispers into your hairline.
You hesitate for a moment. His mother is right there and it’s a family dinner and, and...
You nod. Oh surely you were going to hell for this.
“What are the rules?” you choke out as he presses his body against yours, the hardness of his muscles putting delicious pressure on your damp skin where his literally heated gaze had been focused only moments before.
“No touching yourself” he murmurs, kissing your neck between words, “No coming without permission”
Burning lust bursts into your gut at the mere thought of these rules and you know it's the kind of challenge that leaves you feeling him for days. You give your consent, barely managing to get out the single word that stands between you and an evening of endless seduction by the superhuman pining you to the wall.
“And everytime you try to get me to speed up, I will go slower.”
With that he pulls away to start to set the table quickly. He leaves you where you stand, contemplating what you’d gotten yourself in for.
----
The rest of the evening feels like a blur, anticipation making a home in your veins. It makes it difficult to eat around the butterflies in your stomach. But the moment that Clark’s warm hand eclipses your thigh and starts to hike up your summer dress is seared onto your mind, leaving you to explain away the low moan that leaves your lips as your appreciation for Martha’s cooking.
But Clark doesn’t stop there. His fingers creep up to the edge of your underwear, just light enough to frustrate you endlessly as he dares not pass the barrier to your weeping pussy. Not yet.
In the moment you forget his promise and your hips shift, seeking more friction against his sinful fingers. So he stops. And waits. You know he can hear your heart ricocheting inside your chest and he can sense the droplet of sweat that winds its way down your spine. So he moves so slowly it feels like nothing and everything all at once.
With one final glance of his thumb across the front of the cotton, taking in the steadily growing damp patch, he pulls away from you. You shovel some food into your mouth to stop the whine that threatens to spill from your lips, murmuring along with the conversation.
His fingertips don’t return for a while after that. But his hand does brush across your shoulder as he excuses himself from the table to get dessert, leaving goosebumps in his wake. And he presses his pelvis against your back as he helps you into your cardigan when you leave.
A fingernail, harsh but somehow soothing, grounding, glides along the plane of your arm as he does so. A real touch this time. Not a phantom ghost of sensation rippling across your skin. You stand almost impossibly still, trying desperately to control yourself as you feel his erection hard against your rear and feel his hand rest against the back of your neck, swiping his thumb through the perspiration gathered there. He exhales a cool breath against the damp skin, whispering in your ear.
“Who knew having powers could be this much fun?”
—-
He places you down in the conveniently situated alley near your apartment a little while later and simply walks towards your building without a word. It’s even hotter and humid in the city and in the few moments it takes for Clark to lead you to the front of your building, you’re reliving the hot flushes that Clark wrote across your skin this evening and just wishing he would touch you. But he only holds the door open for you, nothing more, nothing less. With some amount of trepidation, you step into the building in front of him. You head for the elevator but he interupts.
“Stairs.”
To amuse yourself, you sway your hips just a little bit more with each step to tease him. But you only get a few flights up before you hear a growl and suddenly your back is against the wall and his hands are on your skin. Each touch feels like the midday sun beating down on you and every breath feels like a winter storm, until you are dizzy with lust. Your moan echoes up the stairwell as he presses his thigh between yours, daring you to use him to satisfy the ache that’s been burning inside you since dinner. You whimper, your entire focus solely on obeying the rules and not on the thought that someone, anyone, could walk past or hear your lustful cries.
He gives you no quarter as he pushes harder, grinding himself against your hip in unconcealed lust. His hands come to pin yours against the wall too, leaving your back arched and your clit throbbing with the friction against his jeans. The heat vision is unashamedly directed over the peaks of your breasts once more, Clark’s smirk tattooed onto the back of your eyelids as they flutter shut. Every limb shaking, eyes squeezed shut, you scream as the dual sensations of friction and warmth drive you to the edge. Unable to trace the searing heat, the white hot pang of overstimulation. You murmur swears and plead to the nearest deities to be set free from the sting of overwhelming sensation. But Clark pulls himself away before you can fall into the abyss of pleasure promised. In frustration, your hands automatically lower to finish the job.
He just tuts at you.
You're doused with cold then and like a cat in heat, you hiss at the super human. He only chuckles, his eyes dark with lust as he watches you struggle and squirm to get closer once more. He almost takes pity on you then but instead, his fingers fiddle with the straps of your dress to tug them down your chest, exposing you to the cooler air of the stairwell. He palms your breasts one after the other, tugging on each nipple as he pulls away.
Clothed or not, the assault on your senses doesn’t change. Unpredictable as it is relentless. You whimper as another wave of heat causes a trickle of perspiration down your back, sticking the material of your dress to your skin. Moments later, Clark’s hands are at your thighs, pulling one of your legs up to his hip while the other hand skims underneath your dress to slide a finger around the waistband of your underwear. He waits until your eyes focus on him again to snap the garment, the sting of breaking elastic tempered by the searing kiss he allows himself on your panting lips.
Finally, torturously, Clark pulls the tatters of the garment off your raised leg. His smile is devilish as he smears the dampness of the cotton between his large fingers. Seeing the contrast of the delicate cotton pattern of your underwear against his farm-tanned hands drives you to a fever pitch. You keen, back arching as the temperature rises once again on your newly exposed flesh.
“Please Clark!” Whimpered treaties stream from your lips as you sag against the wall, only held up by Clark.
“Hold still sweetheart. The rules, remember?” Clark smiles knowingly. He watches your face fall into shock as he guides your raised leg around his hip, rubbing the growing bulge lewdly against your wet pussy.
He wasn’t going to… not here, not now? But you hear the unmistakable sound of a zipper in the silence of the stairwell.
Clark holds you tight as he pushes into you with a grunt, filling you so full at this angle that he pushes the air out of your lungs to leave you gasping against his neck.
You wheeze with the enormity of him when he eases out, his pathway slicked by the mindless teasing he’d visited upon you. He feels like hot iron spearing you open with every thrust, only to douse you with cold disappointment when moves away again. You tried desperately to focus on pleasing Clark, on winning the game you two had started to play. But you could feel your control slipping, victory moving further away as lust clouded your vision.
You barely hear the choked groan leaving Clark’s throat as he empties himself inside you. Because you can’t help it; the world shatters at your feet and you crash into a wall of bliss, clenching around Clark until you are sure you could feel every ridge of the man buried deep inside you. He kisses you sweetly on the forehead in the next moment, holding you in his arms.
After a moment, he gently eases out of you and sets you back on your feet, searching your eyes for any hint of pain or sadness. Finding none, Clark pulls your clothes back into place, his tenderness fading away before levelling you with a glare that defies definition. It was neither an icy stare that chills your bones, nor an angry grimace that has a heat pooling into your cheeks. And yet it does both.
“Stairs.” He demands, waiting for you to comply.
You turn your back to Clark and move carefully up the stairs one by one, feeling his come drip down your bare thighs with each step and knowing he’d be disappointed if there was none left by the time you got to your apartment.
You smiled to yourself as you felt the prickly cold of Clark’s breath ghost over your shoulder. Clark Kent is certainly a man full of contradictions.
Can I request something super fluffy and sweet (sweet enough to rot your teeth)? I’m a tad touch starved and have been with neglectful S/O’s and ive lost faith in relationships which is why the idea of being with Henry makes up for it 😅
Ah my wonderful little anon bean - thankyou for waiting so patiently for this! I hope it's to your liking! It turned out a little more poetic than I'd planned haha but I rammed as much fluff in as I could!
Warnings: may cause tooth rot 😅 (maybe some angst if you squint but happy endings only here!)
Title: The Big Little Things
Sunflowers on the table. Sunshine streaming through the window. A gentle warm breeze tickles the little hairs on the back of your neck. Henry's warm hand on your thigh as you sit side by side on the little sofa reading intently in a companionable silence. Thumb softly swiping from side to side over the texture of your jeans. The quiet peace you've found together is so different, so wanted that it scares you.
Scares you in the best way. Those little butterflies in your stomach, that burgeoning light threatening to pour out of your chest when Henry spins you around in his arms. Those little inklings that this is real. Soft cerulean eyes staring into your soul and pouring comfort into the knawing void with every hug and gesture filled with kindness. He loves you.
He dares to show it. Unashamedly, unabashedly yours with every moment of touch. His love language. His body rarely leaving yours. At first, it was difficult to notice but once seen it was hard to stop. Those toe taps? Impatience to hug you, to claim you as his in front of others. That little wrist twist? The urge to grasp your hand in his, trickling through his veins like an addictive drug.
He pulls you along, pushes you higher than you ever thought you could go. But he's never far behind. Eyes trained on you, making sure you can take the next step in your life together.
You smile at the large man taking over most of the sofa by your side. The brown curls just starting to reappear on his head. How you longed to push your hands through those curls. But you could. So you did. His eyes close on contact, the book lax in his hands as he leans into your touch. The sunlight shifts across his closed eyes and he squints a little, the little wrinkles between his eyes becoming more prominent for a brief moment.
He leans down to capture your lips in a searing kiss, his hand still warm on your thigh. His body warmth seeping onto you. You know you'll smell like him when he pulls away. Though that isn't hard when you live curled up inside his shirt and inside his heart. What's his is yours without question. Your turn he waits for patiently, knowing and trusting that you'll continue to share bit by bit.
You break away after a time, foreheads touching for a moment, chuckling a little at the intimacy shared. It was everything you could ever want. You turned to slide into his lap, a sigh leaving your lips. One hand busy with those curls, the other propping up your book as you went back to the written word in front of you. Finally a reality better than fiction.
If you'd been looking up at Henry's face you would have seen the small shy smile that graced his beautiful face. He couldn't imagine anyone better to spend his life with.
Warnings: SMUT, bondage, cockwarming, Dom/sub vibes, orgasm denial (sorta?), implied squirting, some insults, some spanking
Summary: You caved. Begged. But Henry’s not done with you yet.
Notes: Part 3 is finally here! I was struggling to find the words, so this is a little shorter but I hope still forms a nice conclusion to the main event. Part 4 is still coming don’t you worry, you’ll need revenge after this! 😈
[Part 1][Part 2][Part 3][Part 4]
(Tagging in a reblog because Tumblr is shit with tags!)
You’d never known desperation like this. It was like every pore of skin was reaching out for Henry. Every movement was sending electrical pulses straight to your core. His touches on your skin were not enough anymore, you mewled at the loss of contact as Henry unwound himself from you.
“Good girls don’t mind waiting do they?” He cocked his head at you as he posed the question.
You whimpered. He wasn’t going to leave you like this was he? He chuckled.
“Oh I forgot. You aren’t really a good girl today are you? You’re my bad girl.”
You weren’t sure what he was getting at but it was clear he wanted you to agree, so you nodded. He picked you up like you weighed nothing and tossed you onto the bed.
“And bad girls need their mouths washing out.”
You would have snorted at the cliche phrase, but the intensity of Henry’s face made any reaction die in your throat. You licked your lips at the thought of taking him into your mouth.
“Oh I’d love to give you my cock today Kitten but I’m afraid it’s only for good girls. And you’ve got some work to do instead.”
Henry pushed two fingers into your mouth, pressing down your tongue.
“Suck.”
You made a show of sucking his fingers, hollowing out your cheeks around his digits, giving each finger the same attention he gave yours a lifetime ago at breakfast. You fought to keep your eyes focused on Henry’s face, wanting to see the effect you were having. He had to be desperate at this point, didn’t he? But you didn’t see him give an inch as he looked down at you.
He removed his fingers from your mouth with a pop and knelt between your knees at the side of the bed. Henry kissed his way up your inner thigh, not enough to tickle this time but delicious friction from his stubble made your skin tingle as he made his way upwards. His now moist fingers probed deep into your cavern, desperate and oozing with need around his digits. Henry lapped at your arousal, tongue flicking your clit in a way that sent crackles of white heat along your spine. Your back arched as he pushed harder, his lips and tongue working hard to match the pace of his fingers. He broke away suddenly, you whimpering in response. You were so close.
“Uh uh, take your hands out of my hair.”
You hadn’t realised but you’d threaded your hands into his curls. You let out a shaky breath and put your hands back to your sides.
“Better. Now if you want to be my good girl today, you’re going to come all over my face and anything else I choose until I say you can stop. And then maybe I’ll consider us even.”
Your brain screeched to a halt. What? This was a cruel and unusual punishment to flip flop from one form of denial to a completely different denial of your agency. Like your body was his to do with as he pleased and you would be a fool to suggest you didn’t enjoy every second of it. His face returned to the juncture of your thighs with renewed vigour. You jumped as his tongue teased your sensitive nub again, you could feel your orgasm approaching rapidly. You lifted your hips towards his face, trying to eke out every fraction of delicious friction that you could. You flinched as he sucked a hickey on your inner thigh.
“Oh did that hurt? The pain will fade but the mark will take a little longer. So you know exactly who you belong to.”
The word belong in his timbre of voice had no business dripping with as much demand as he gave it. The pain and Henry’s words were enough to push you over the edge. The constant state of arousal and sensory overload meant that when you finally came undone, a hoarse broken cry caught in your throat, stars exploding in front your eyes before your vision blacked out almost entirely. The bed was soaked beneath your hips but you didn’t have the ability to care or to even form a coherent thought. Hot hands flipped you over until you lay on your front, legs obscenely spread behind you, your pussy still spasming with the vestiges of your orgasm. He grabbed you by the silky ropes that still adorned your thighs and slowly pulled you onto his waiting cock. You felt every ridge as he split you open. Your nipples ached against the bed sheets, feeling as rough as sandpaper on your skin. Muffled screams were ripped from your throat as Henry fucked you into the mattress.
“Are you going to come again sweetheart?” he grunted. “That’s it, come on my cock you bad girl.”
You were screaming his name as you spasmed around his manhood, fists clutching into the sheets as you fought to stay on the bed. Henry offered no help as he continued to pound into you, his hands on the bed either side of you.
“Aww, I’m making such a mess of you, aren’t I sweetheart? Maybe next time you’ll think about this before you backchat me.”
He relented a little as he pulled you further onto the bed, setting you onto your back. He slipped in again, path made easy by the slickness now coating your thighs. He groaned as his pelvis hit yours. You rolled your hips, seeking more friction against Henry to relieve the tension. But he brokered no arguments.
“Stay still. Final warning.”
He remained bottomed out inside you, your walls fluttering around him. As he twisted to inspect the ropes that bound you in this position, his hips and thighs pushed your thighs further apart, the strain sending an inviting ache to your groin to join the other aches dotted around your body. He took his time to undo the restraints on each of your legs, kneading life back into your burning thighs and calves. You whined and wriggled underneath him, the anticipation driving you wild as he refused to move.
After one particularly vigorous wiggle that caused you to gasp, Henry tensed, dropping your leg and pulled out of your needy cavern. If it was even possible, his eyes darkened further, the bright blue almost invisible. You were going to regret that. He stretched your aching legs towards the ceiling and gathered them into one of his hands, ankles crossed over one another. You yelped as his other hand came crashing down on the peach of your now exposed ass cheek.
“This pussy belongs to me and you made me work hard for this. So I’m going to fuck you until I come deep in that cunt of mine. You are going to take everything I give you, is that clear?” his eyes flashed as he issued the challenge.
You nodded and gasped as Henry pushed back into you, your crossed legs making the path incredibly tight. Henry’s squeezed shut as he entered your battered hole.
“Fuck you’re so tight.” he grunted, finally seated.
Again the pace quickened, your breasts bouncing with each thrust. Henry’s rhythm quickly became erratic and it wasn’t long before you were squeezing your muscles around him, nearing your own climax yet again. One more thrust and his clenched jaw indicated he’d reached his peak, harsh breaths creating goosebumps on the skin of your tensed legs as he unloaded against your fluttering walls. But as close as you were, you hadn’t come yet. Your eyes sought his hazy spent eyes, but all he gave you was a quirked eyebrow in return as he pulled out.
That motherfucker-
Oh, if that eyebrow raise didn’t fuel your want for revenge.
Warnings: SMUT, bondage, tickling kink, cockwarming(sorta!), Dom/sub vibes but not explicit, implied safe word/phrase, orgasm denial
So here’s part 2! This will eventually be a little like a choose your own adventure with Henry. 😈 Part 3 - What happens if you were a good girl? Coming soon....
Summary: You didn’t want to give in, you refused to beg. Henry is not giving in until you do.
The expectant look in his eyes was enough to make you gather all your willpower around a pause in the onslaught he lavished upon your skin.
“I will NOT -” You yelled, your chest heaving with gulping breaths. “- give you the satisfaction.”
“Give me the satisfaction? Oh sweetheart, I’ll take my satisfaction whenever I want.”
Bound and at his mercy, there was an uncomfortable truth to those words. But they still sent a shiver down your spine. His face was so close to yours, those darkening blue eyes seeing every part of you. The air prickled with tension as your eyes locked. You gave in to the urge to rebel and dig in deeper with the words that had already got you here.
“Fuck you.”
Silence hung in the air and time seemed to stop as he reached towards you again, his mouth set in a firm line. Inhaling what could be your last breath, you focused on the floor beneath you, instantly afraid to look in Henry’s eyes again. So mercurial with his touches, hot and cold, soft and light, teasing and overstimulating. His fingers tapped along your pelvis and up the rib cage, causing you to tense in anticipation with every touch. Light touches bringing bright giggles, harsher touches yielding husky yells. Fresh tears began to streak down your face, adding to the chaos of sensations on your skin as he continued the barrage of devastating touches. He knew you intimately, your last greatest secret exposed for him to take full advantage. So close to the edge but unable to reach the release you desperately craved. A litany of whines and moans overflowed from you between each hard won breath, unsure if you were screaming for relief or for more.
“OH GOD. Fuuuuuuuck!”
You never wanted to give in but you were so close to just begging Henry to do something. You wanted him to claim you as completely and irreversibly his, to take something from you that you desperately wanted him to earn. Your skin was on fire, every nerve clamouring for attention until it all became just white noise like a TV without a channel turned up to one hundred.
“HEN PLEASE!”
Henry’s feet padded into view of your fixed hazy stare, pausing his ministrations. He crouched down in front of you, the front of his trousers tenting around his sizeable erection. Your dry mouth filled with saliva at the thought of him on your tongue. You knew you should listen to the words he was saying but the idea of him filling your mouth to the brim was all encompassing. Sucking him down until he lost all his composure. To make him feel just a little of the inner maelstrom that licked at your brain when he had you at his mercy like this. You bit your lips at the thought, tasting the salt of your tears, a poor substitute for the taste of his arousal. Henry tutted, your distracted sigh reaching his ears. His hand roughly cupped your chin, forcing you to look into his eyes.
“My eyes are up here.” He said amused. “You want my cock that badly huh?”
Panicked at being caught, you refused to answer. He reached over to brush away a stray tear off your cheek. His lips brushed against yours, not quite pressing his mouth to yours. An almost kiss that had you straining against your ties to touch him. A kiss of death.
“Pity.” He moved away again. “Now you’ll have to earn it.”
He stood up, another light brush across your palm as he moved out of your sight. Another squeak of laughter squeezed out of you at the sensation. You shrieked as Henry sucked a bruising mark onto your neck from behind. The sudden contrast of feeling sending lightning through your already trembling limbs, pushed you right back to the edge of unbearable arousal in seconds.
“T-That was unfair Cavill” you glared at him.
“Mmm, maybe you’re right.”
You fell forwards as he deftly unclipped your hands from the bar. Unable to brace yourself with your tied wrists, it was only catching your hands in one of his own that stopped you landing on your face. Henry tilted you back until your aching shoulders hit the floor behind you. He stepped over your prone figure and settled between your thighs.
“Shame that I'm nowhere near done with you yet.”
You squealed, jaw clenched, as Henry ran his fingers up the inside of your legs. His hands wrapped around your bound thighs and pulled them apart, exposing you to his gaze. Your breath hitched as you anticipated Henry putting his mouth on you and making you come apart at the seams. He licked a stripe through your soaked folds causing you to groan and throw your head back on the floor with a dull thud. But he kept going, the wet trail moving up your stomach to circle your belly button. You arched into the sensation, your body flickering with hunger under his touch. You writhed on the floor unsure whether trying to get away from the sensation or encourage him to head back down your body. Henry didn’t try to stop your wiggling, seemingly knowing the quandary going on in your mind now you were free to move.
“Henry! No no no!” your words were broken by giggles and groans as he kissed your belly button like he could have kissed your lips. His tongue dipped in and licked around the dark crevice of your belly button, before suddenly pushing his tongue as deep as it could go, his stubble rough against your smooth skin.
“FUCK. Shit. Henryyyyyyyyyyy.”
You tried to shove his head away from your sensitive stomach with your bound hands but he simply gripped your thighs tighter, shooting you a smirk. Your wails raised in pitch as he stopped tracing your curves with his tongue and blew a very loud raspberry against your wiggling stomach. Your knuckles went white from having gripped Henry’s curls so tight it must have hurt. But Henry just kept going. He took breath after breath and blew raspberries on your stomach and your hips, everywhere but your tingling, desperate pussy. Your knees wiggled rapidly either side of Henry’s hips, your feet trying desperately to tap the floor to relieve some of the sensation. Joyous laughter overflowed from your mouth with every single second of this torture, the copious breathless tears dripping down the sides of your crimson face.
“Just say “I’m begging you” and all of this will be over.” he chided you from his perch, the grin on his face belying the seriousness of his words.
Another raspberry landed directly on your belly button rendering all thought and speech useless while you cried with laughter.
“Or maybe I should keep going as you seem to like it.”
The fear of Henry’s threat must have shown on your face as Henry chuckled. His eyes were clouded with desire but tinged with dark mischief as he took in your dishevelled state. Abruptly, he stood and quickly divested himself of his clothes until he stood before you, naked as you were. Even in your needy, desperate state you could appreciate the god-like stature of the man that towered over you. You wanted him to cover your body with his, to press you into ground with his hulking mass. To pin you and wreck you beyond easy repair.
“Well how about I make you beg to come instead?”
Dizzy with sensory overload, it took you a second to catch up to what he’d said. He was going to what?
Oh fuck.
Thoughts scattered to the wind as Henry dragged you up off the floor and on top of him, pressing his length deep inside you as he lay back underneath you. His manhood pushing past your lips with little protest, gravity giving you no time to adapt to the intrusion. A guttural, wild moan escaped your lips as he bottomed out inside you, brushing against your cervix. Henry grasped your hips rough enough to leave marks, grunting as he thrust up into you once. Twice. You were mewling at the deep bruising thrusts, desperation painting a messy picture across your face.
Then he stopped.
His fingers travelled a celebrated path across your body, fingertips lighting up your nerves anew. You giggled and felt yourself clench around Henry’s length. He hummed in delight on the discovery that your core responded in such a delightful way. His fingers circled your breasts, switching between pinches and only just touching until they were stiff peaks in his hands. Any giggles cut off with moans and sighs as arousal took over. Satisfied at his handiwork, he continued to lightly wiggle his fingers between your ribs, forcing laughter to bubble up your throat with each movement. The lines between you blurring as you took from one another, building higher and higher. You could see his breathing weighing down his chest as the contraction of your walls massaged his manhood from the inside.
“Fuck. Me. Please.” you whined, your restricted hands scrabbling against Henry’s chest like a wild animal as he tickled you mercilessly. He grabbed your clammy hands with one of his warm dry hands, stilling your movements.
“Mmm I don’t think so.” Henry growled, sitting up as he used his free hand to clip your wrists back up to the bar above you.
“Go on then if you want my cock so bad.” Henry demanded and when you didn’t immediately move, slapped your ass. “Move.”
You hissed at the stinging sensation as he lent back, propping himself up on his elbows to watch you struggle. You whimpered as you tried desperately to move but you were stuck, impaled on his thickness and unable to create the friction you craved. Any movement you could make sent deep spasms of pleasure throughout your body. But it wasn’t enough. Your knees slipped either side of his hips, making it impossible to get any purchase with your feet. Your hands bound above you were no help either. You looked up at Henry to see a smirk on his face.
“Can’t you move? What a shame. I guess you’re not going to come then.”
Henry pushed his finger into your belly button once more, but nothing more than throaty gargles came out of your mouth. You shook with unreleased laughter, trying desperately to pull away from the feeling of being prodded from the inside and out. Bound as you were, Henry was taking his time, taking satisfaction in your struggles. He had filled you to the brim, full of sensations and need, thoughts only of him and when he’d let you reach the peak you were so desperate for. Overstimulated and panting, you were under the strain of an overwhelming need to come, of being so close and so far away all at once. You tried to form words, getting more desperate with every second of denial in this position. Finally you uttered the words you’d been denying yourself for so long.
