Life of a fangirl fujoshi in letters and images.

"Passed all my exams, straight A's just like you wanted Mr. Holmes", you spoke innocently.

"Is that so?" he smirked, leaning back in his chair, his knees falling wider open.

"Uh uh", you nodded coyly, chewing your finger.

You took a few steps closer to him, keeping your eyes glued to his. You debated crawling into his lap and kissing him silly, but took a seat on his desk instead. "So I think I deserve my reward now, don't you?"

He was trying to contain himself a little longer, trying not to show how much of an effect you had on him. But the glimmer in his eyes told you enough. You couldn't help but smile at him. A warm genuine smile that told him how much you adored him and how badly you'd missed him.

He couldn't hold back the grin that broke free on his face and he stood up. Wasting no time before grabbing your face and crashing his lips to yours. The kiss was full of heat and passion. Your hands tangled in his beautiful brown curls before trailing down his neck and fiddling with the buttons on his shirt. It took every fiber in your being not to rip the fabric off him, but you decided to behave. You the last thing you needed was a punishment when you came here for a reward.

Luckily he noticed what you were doing quite quickly, and since there was not much left for you to take off, he decided to help you.

"Fuck...I missed you, little one", he mumbled against your mouth as he undid the final button on his shirt.

"Hmm...missed you too, Sir...so much", you sighed back, your hands sliding over his shoulders, under the fabric of his shirt, making it drop on the floor while your fingers tangled in his hair again pulling him in for another kiss.

The kiss became more heated, more impatient, and you felt yourself starting to buck against the front of his trousers. The growing bulge pressed perfectly against the thin fabric of your panties. The panties that were slowly but surely starting to get very sticky and damp...

He pulled his lips away from yours, only to trail kissed from your jaw to your neck, groaning into your nape once he got there. His large hands trailed up and down your waist, squeezing at your flesh wherever he could.

You wriggled your hands between your bodies, your fingers eagerly searching for the buckle of his belt.

“Need you now…right now…”, you whined as you pulled his belt from his pants, your desperation made him chuckle.

“Hmmm…my perfect pretty princess…”, his voice was low has his fingers trailed down your jaw. Your breath hitched when his hand made its way down your throat, you expected him to stop there, to squeeze it as punishment for being so impatient…but he didn’t.

His hand moved down a little bit further until he pressed his palm flat, right in the middle of your chest. You were sure he felt your heartbeat thumping.

“Lay back for me”, he commanded. His tone combined with the slight press of his hand left little room for arguing, so you did what he asked.

Your back his the cold wood of his desk and you stared up at him. He held your gaze while his hands moved to caress your legs, starting at your knees, up to your thighs and back to your knees, where he held a firm grip to keep your legs spread (as if you needed any help with that?)

You enjoyed every second of it, every single touch, every look…but you needed more.

“Please Sir…”, you whined, “haven’t I been a good girl?”

He once again chuckled at your shameless display of pure desperation. “Don’t frown like that little one, you’ll get wrinkles”

“Then don’t give me a reason to frown.”

Your inner brat was starting to show and you hated it. Not that you didn’t love your bratty side, because you absolutely did, but today it meant that he was winning and you had worked too hard to let that happen.

He was staring down at you with his usual raised eyebrow. “Come on, Mr. Holmes..please?", you tried, your foot inching up his waist until your toes touched the now massive bulge in his trousers. You moved methodically, creating a friction you knew he craved.

"Behave", his voice was stern, no doubt a cover-up for his neediness, but stern nonetheless. You ignored it, continuing your movements shamelessly until he growled. "Enough!"

In a matter of seconds had pushed your legs open again and he was on you. Your wrists pinned to the oak desk just like the rest of you. "I told you to behave, little one."

"Why? When I do you give me nothing", you argued, staring him dead in the eye. "I came here for a reward, but if you insist on punishing me go ahead. Either way, I refuse to leave here empty-handed. I worked my ass off for the past few weeks, haven't even touched myself once. I kept my focus, I got perfect grades, and now I wanna cum. I deserve to cum."

You had never spoken to him that way. Ever.

The two of you looked at each other in silence. His hands still had a firm grip on your wrists and the look in his eyes gave little away. For a split second, you worried you had gone too far. He was still your professor after all, and by far the most intelligent and respected man you'd ever met.

You were simply a young girl who happened to be in his class and sucked his cock the way he liked it. You were nobody. And yet here you were, sprawled on his desk demanding orgasms.

"I'm proud of you, you know that?"

His deep voice broke through the silence and with that also through your thoughts. "Huh?" you managed to get out.

He grinned down at you, but different than before. Less devilish, more pure. "You're right, you worked incredibly hard...and you deserve a reward..."

He dipped his head down, his curls brushing your face as he pressed kisses against your neck and shoulder.

The second you felt his warm lips press loving kisses on your skin your eyes fluttered shut. A relaxed sigh left your lips as you basked in his touch.

“Such a good girl…such a…an amazing woman you…”, he panted out his praises while kissing his way down your body.

You moaned when you felt his warm lips press against your core through your panties, he kissed and licked until he could taste you through the fabric, leaving it even more soaked than it already was.

“Fuck sir…” your fingers tangled in his curls again when he pulled your panties to the side and finally ran his tongue through your sopping wet folds.

He ate you out with vigour, humming and groaning into your pussy like a man possessed.

It wasn’t long before your thighs squeezed around his head and you shook with pleasure, letting out one final loud moan as your orgasm rushed through you.

“Fuck…” you giggled while staring at the ceiling, you swore you saw a couple stars fly around.

You could feel him grinning against your skin as he pressed a few more kisses on your inner thighs.

“C’mere…” your hands grabbed at him again, this time he didn’t even try to refuse. His large body stretched over you and his hands found the sides of your face.

You both smiled into the kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue was always such a turn on. You tasted great together, every time.

It wasn’t long before hunger consumed you again, and you could tell even though he just ate…he was still starving.

Your legs locked around his waist and you bucked your hips up into his bulge, whimpering a little from the overstimulation.

He didn’t need to be told what to do. He grinned as he leaned up. Never breaking eye contact with you while he lowered his pants and boxers, allowing his thick cock to spring free.

“My sweet girl….”, was all he said before slowly…ever so slowly…pushing inside of you.

He dropped down close to you, one hand on your hip, using it as leverage while he pumped in and out of you.

The other one right next to your face, keeping him from leaning his full body weight on you…not that you would complain…

“Fuck…s-sir…” your voice was barely above a whisper given that his nose was practically touching yours.

He pressed a gentle kiss against your lips, “call me by my name…please”.

You moaned and he slowly picked up the pace, “S-sherlock…Sherlock! Oh god, Sherlock”, you pulled at his hair as he fucked you passionately on his desk, fucking you deeper and harder each time you screamed his name.

“Yeah fuck…that’s it princess…shit”, he angled his hips while his hand slid down between your bodies, “cum for me baby…cum on my cock while I pump you full…can’t hold it much longer sweetheart, you feel so fucking good, fuck” his almost whiny tone and desperate look melted you to your core, and so you did what he asked, you came on his cock, hard.

“SHERLOCK! please please please….”, your walls squeezed him tightly and with one final thrust and a guttural groan he came inside you.

Sweaty foreheads and plump lips bumped against each other as you rode out the highs of your orgasms together.

“I love you…I love you”, he spoke quietly after a few beats of silence.

Once to himself, and once to you.

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“You know how much I love you,” he said softly, voice deep and smooth as velvet. “But tonight…” He stepped closer, the tie dangling loosely from his hand. “…you’re mine.”

Your breath hitched. “Clark—”

“On your knees.”

The command left no room for argument, and your body obeyed before your mind caught up. You sank to the carpet, heat rushing to your cheeks, your pulse roaring in your ears. Clark towered over you, broad shoulders filling your vision, his jaw tight with restraint.

He brushed his fingers along your cheek, gentle despite the authority in his voice. “Good girl,” he murmured, his thumb grazing your lower lip. “You listen so well for me.”

You shivered at the praise, leaning into his touch. But then the tie slipped around your wrists, his large hands binding you with practiced ease. The silk bit softly into your skin, not tight enough to hurt, but firm enough that you couldn’t escape.

He crouched down, his lips ghosting your ear. “You give me everything when you let go like this. And tonight, I’m going to take all of it.”

Guiding you up, he pressed you onto the bed, your bound wrists tugged above your head. He hovered over you, his weight caging you in, his eyes burning. “Look at you,” he murmured, dragging his knuckles down your stomach. “So beautiful. So ready to obey.”

His mouth claimed yours, the kiss harsh and consuming, his tongue forcing yours into submission. His hands roamed possessively, gripping your thighs, your hips, your chest, until you writhed beneath him.

“Please, Clark,” you whimpered, squirming.

He pulled back, his expression sharp. “Did I give you permission to beg?”

Heat shot through you, your words dying in your throat.

“That’s what I thought,” he said, his voice low and commanding. “You’ll take what I give you. Nothing more. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” you whispered, trembling.

“Yes, what?” His grip on your chin forced your gaze up to his.

“Yes, sir.”

His groan was guttural, his lips crashing back into yours, clearly pleased. He dragged his mouth down your neck, biting hard enough to make you gasp, then soothing the sting with his tongue. “That’s better.”

His hands slipped lower, teasing you through your clothes, the restraint maddening. Every touch was calculated, meant to break you down, to remind you who was in control. He didn’t give you what you needed until your body was arching, your voice cracking on desperate whimpers.

“Clark, please—”

His hand snapped back, gripping your jaw firmly. “What did I just say?”

“I— I’m sorry—sir,” you stammered, heat flooding your body at the correction.

His expression softened into a smirk, and he pressed a kiss to your lips. “That’s better. You’re learning.”

When he finally gave in, his fingers slipped past every barrier, firm and unrelenting. You cried out, but he covered your mouth with his, swallowing every sound. His control was iron, his pace devastating, until your body convulsed beneath him.

“Good girl,” he praised, kissing your damp cheek as you shook. “You’re perfect when you let go for me.”

But he wasn’t done.

Clark freed himself with a low groan, positioning between your thighs. He looked down at you, bound and trembling, and his voice dropped into something primal. “I’m going to ruin you.”

And then he thrust into you, deep and commanding, pulling a scream from your lips. His pace was ruthless, every movement calculated to remind you who held the reins. His forehead pressed to yours, his voice ragged but steady.

“Mine,” he growled with each thrust. “Every sound—every inch—you belong to me.”

You shattered around him, your scream muffled by his kiss, your body giving him everything he demanded. He followed with a guttural groan, holding you tight, his body trembling as he buried himself deep.

When the world finally stilled, Clark untied your wrists, gathering you into his arms. His lips pressed soft, reverent kisses across your face.

“You did so good for me,” he whispered, his voice tender now, grounding you back to safety. “My perfect girl.”

In his embrace, spent and safe, you realized there was never a contradiction — Clark’s dominance was just another way he worshipped you.

𝒩𝑜𝓉𝑒𝓈: I’m so excited to share this with yall, as it might be one of my last fanfics for a while because I want to shift towards OC’s and fleshing out a few ideas for potential books. Anywho, hope you guys like it. Banners by @cafekitsune !

𝐸𝓃𝒿𝑜𝓎 🖤

There’s something about the silence in the woods that’s wrong, like it’s holding its breath, waiting for you to slip. The woods are thick with mist, the air damp and heavy, clinging to your skin like a warning.

You should have stayed at the inn; you should’ve kept your head down. But you didn’t. Not this time. And now you’re in a place you don’t belong, looking for a man who’s more myth than man.

Geralt of Rivia, the Witcher.

You don’t know what you’re expecting to find when you locate him. In the stories, he stands out in every room; he shouldn’t be hard to find, which were your exact thoughts when you left the inn and headed into the forest that Jaskier said the Witcher would be riding in from. It was only a 20-minute walk, and you had been waiting on this supposed White Wolf since the break of dawn. Every step forward is a gamble and the moment you step into a clearing, you realize you’ve lost the bet.

The clearing is not empty. It’s filled with the noise of metal on bone, of vicious growls and heavy breathing. You freeze. A figure cloaked in battle-worn leather is in full swing against… what is that thing?

He’s fighting—fighting something—someone. It’s not the first time you’ve walked into danger without meaning to, but this time, it’s different. This isn’t the same as a drunken noble’s leering hands or a back-alley brawl. No, this is life or death.

You should leave. You know you should. But you don’t.

You step forward, not thinking, not planning.

“Geralt!” You call out, way too loudly.

He doesn’t even flinch in your direction.

The sword in his hand moves with terrifying ease, slicing through the air. It’s the creature, that thing, some twisted shape of beast and man, that’s the focus of his ire. You’re invisible to him.

The creature, too quick, too feral, lashes out. Its clawed hand strikes, barely missing Geralt but connects with a nearby tree, shredding the side of it.

The world seems to stop as Geralt’s focus shifts. His eyes snap to you, and a single syllable leaves his lips.

“Run.”

You don’t.

Instead, you take a step forward, propelled by some stupid instinct to survive, or it’s something else. Maybe it’s the gnawing knowledge that waiting any longer will leave you trapped in a life that isn’t yours. And right now, even this forest, this creature, this man, feels safer than the suffocating pull of the noose tightening back home.

“Geralt, I—”

The words choke in your throat as the creature turns its attention to you. It’s fast, rabid, and it’s snapping at anything in its reach. Geralt curses under his breath, his shoulders tensing as his blow slices into the leg of the creature. The monster’s blood splatters across his face, and he doesn’t flinch. He never flinches. But when he steps toward you, when his movements are a blur of motion, you feel the urgency, the danger.

There’s a flash of light, the sickening crack of bone, and the creature drops. Silence.

The thing lies crumpled at Geralt’s feet, its twisted form unnervingly still. The quiet that follows is asphyxiating, pressing in on your ears as though the forest itself has collapsed inward. Your fists tremble, but you keep them closed at your hips, forcing yourself to hold steady. The fear claws at the edges of your resolve, but you push it down, shove it deep where it can’t stop you. You’ve survived worse, or at least you tell yourself that you have.

Geralt straightens, his blade dripping with something too dark to be blood. His gaze is on the corpse, but you know, you can feel, that he’s aware of every breath you take. He wipes the blood from his blade with a cloth you don’t remember him pulling out, his movements methodical and swift. The weight of his attention shifts to you slowly, like a hunter debating whether the effort of pursuit is worth it.

“What,” he begins, his voice low, “are you doing here?”

It’s not a question. It’s an accusation, one that cuts deeper than you thought it would. His eyes, yellow, and cold as winter’s wrath, meet yours, and it’s as if the forest stops breathing again.

You can’t find your voice immediately. The scene, what’s left of the creature, the way the Witcher’s chest heaves, the still-damp blood streaked across his face, pins you in place. Your words stumble out before you’ve fully caught them.

“I—Jaskier—he said—”

“Jaskier.” Geralt’s lips press into a thin, humorless line. He steps closer, his boots crunching against the blood-soaked earth. He towers over you now, his expression carved from stone.

“Do you have a death wish?”

He doesn’t look away, doesn’t give you room to breathe, the question hanging there like a snare waiting to snap shut. His lips tighten, and for a moment, he looks as though he might simply turn and leave you standing there. But he doesn’t. Instead, his hand lingers near his sword, his jaw clenched tight.

“You shouldn’t be here, much less yelling my name in the middle of the forest. Jaskier told me to meet a woman by the name of—“

He takes a deep breath and exhales dramatically, making his distaste for his next words. “The Court Swan, at the inn. I’m assuming that’s you?” His words are laced with disbelief, as if Jaskier has played one of his infamous jokes on him about your nickname.

You hesitate before nodding. “Yes. That’s me.” You take a step forward, ignoring the shake in your knees. It’s a dance, you tell yourself. Every movement calculated, every breath measured.

Geralt studies you with a scrutiny that feels more invasive than any gaze should, like he’s peeling back every layer of pretense with those sharp, wolfish eyes. You’ve felt the prestige of a royal audience before, the way their eyes skim over your form with detached judgment, but this is something else. This is dangerous. He’s dangerous.

“You’re a dancer.” It’s not a question, but you hear the skepticism in his tone. He casts a wary glance around the forest as he continues. “Why is a dancer running errands for a poet?”

“I’m not—” Bile rises into your throat, and you swallow hard. You shift your weight, your boots sinking into the damp mud as your hands clench at your sides.

“I’m not running errands. I’m here because… because I saved his life.”

Geralt’s expression doesn’t change, but something flickers behind his eyes, and a dry smirk etches across his lips. “And that turned into my problem how?” His voice remains flat, cutting.

The weight of his gaze, his questions, presses down on you, and suddenly you’re spilling the truth before you can stop yourself.

“The royals I dance for—danced for—found out. They didn’t like that I helped him.” You pause, swallowing hard. Geralt’s gaze doesn’t waver. If anything, it sharpens. You can feel the sting of it, like a blade poised just above your skin.

“So they decided to punish me for it.”

He wipes his blade again, the motion deliberate, and sheathes it with a muted click. The admission hangs in the clearing, and for a moment, Geralt says nothing; neither of you moves, the world around you held at bay.

“I saved his life,” you repeat, your voice stronger now, gaining resolve. “Jaskier has these friends; they—” You pause, searching your pockets for the letter Jaskier sent with you to give Geralt. Finding the small envelope, you hold it up to him. “They’re victims of… one of the royals… habits.”

Geralt shifts slightly, his shoulders still tense, his eyes narrowing. “And what do you expect from me, exactly?” He grabs the envelope, it growing smaller the instant it leaves your hands and enters his. The forest presses in around you, the trees whispering secrets in the breeze, as if the woods themselves are listening and waiting for you to shatter under all this pressure while he opens the letter and reads it.

“Help,” you say, almost pleading. “I don’t know where to go or what to do. Jaskier said you might—that you know things I don’t.”

Geralt exhales sharply through his nose, the sound closer to a growl than a sigh. “Of course he did,” he mutters, dragging a hand through his damp, blood-matted hair. “And what exactly does he think I’m supposed to do? Take you in? Fight off your enemies? Play bodyguard for a dancer who thought it was a good idea to get involved in politics?”

“I didn’t ‘get involved,’” you bite back, heat rising in your cheeks. “I—” The words catch in your throat, shame and anger tangling together. “I didn’t have a choice. What do you know about me? What did Jaskier tell you?”

His eyes narrow further, the yellow of his irises growing colder, more assessing as he studies you. His staring is almost rude; you would have called him on it in any other situation. But you guess this is a situation where you too would be cautious of the strange girl coming to you for help. Especially in the middle of the woods. “Jaskier wasn’t being entirely honest when he mentioned my ‘help’,” he says finally, his voice low and deliberate. “Damien—Damien…?”

“Damien Clyde.” You clarify quickly, before the monster’s name can burn your tongue.

“Clyde,” Geralt repeats, testing the name as his eyes unfocus slightly. He shifts again, his gaze returning to the shadows of the trees around you. “I know Damien Clyde well—well enough to know that he’s ruthless.”

Geralt’s gaze returns to you, sharp and penetrating. “He’s got a lot of enemies,” he continues, his voice lower, almost a whisper. “But he also has a lot of loyal followers—people who will do anything to protect him. Even if that means hunting down a pretty little dancer.”

“Which is why I need your help,” you say, your voice steady despite the tremor in your hands. “I’m not asking for much. Just a place to hide, a way to keep ahead of his hunters—”

“You’re asking for a miracle,” Geralt cuts in, his voice sharper now, a low exclamation that seems more a reaction than an accusation. “And that’s not something I can provide.”

You feel the strike of his words like they were physical, your heart sinking. “I don’t know what else to do,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “I need something—someone—who knows the way Damien thinks, knows how he operates.”

Geralt looks at you then, really looks, his eyes searching yours as if trying to find some hidden truth there. “And what makes you think I can help with that?” he ventures, his voice softer now, almost gentle. “What do you think I know about Damien Clyde that you don’t?”

You hesitate for a moment, considering his question. “You’ve faced monsters like him before,” you finally say, your voice firm, though the anxiety still ripples through you. “You know what makes them tick. Damien is a monster in his own right, just… different. I think you’ve seen enough to understand,” you insist, your voice holding onto that firmness despite the doubt that claws at you. “More than most.”

He doesn’t respond immediately, letting the silence stretch out between you while he contemplates your words. When he does reply, it’s with a shake of his head and a heavy sigh.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” he admits, his voice low and laced with frustration as he crumbles the letter in his hand. “But I can’t leave you to fend for yourself either.”

“Then what can you do?” You countered, desperation edging into your tone. You take a quick step, closing in on his personal space. His whole body tenses, and if you thought he was scary before, getting closer only tripled his effect. Regardless of his enhanced presence, you keep his gaze, your head tilting up as you add, “If it’s not a miracle, what’s left?”

Geralt takes a deep breath, his jaw flexing as he peers down at you. “I can give you a head start,” he states, his arms crossing while he rolls his shoulders. “I know some places, some people… ways to get you out of sight for a while, to keep you safe. But Damien’s going to keep coming after you.”

You shake your head, your eyebrows furrowing before you speak up, your voice rising slightly. “No, I’m not leaving your side. You know how to evade him; you know everything I need to know in order for me to live. I’m not going anywhere without you.”

Geralt’s eyes slim, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. He hesitates for a moment, as if weighing his options, before letting out a slow breath. “Dammit,” he mutters under his breath, as if cursing the situation more than you.

“You’re asking for more than I can give,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “But for now… I guess it’s enough.”

“Then let’s go,” you cut in, determination in your voice as you turn and start walking deeper into the woods. Geralt doesn’t move immediately, watching you with a mix of frustration and something darker; resignation, perhaps. Finally, he sighs and shouts, “Where do you think you’re going?”

You stop, confused, and turn back to him. “What? I thought—”

“Wrong way,” Geralt interrupts, his tone sharper than you expected. He glares at you, and his eyes flick around the woods as if he’s checking for threats.

“Rule one: always follow me.”

You blink at him, taken aback by the sudden correction. “I didn’t—”

“You didn’t think,” he cuts in, his voice tinged with frustration. “Keep close and do as I say. No more running off, no more going your own way. No more thinking, just listen.”

You swallow, nodding quickly as you step back to where he stands, his judging eyes never leaving you. “Got it,” you say, trying to keep your voice from wavering. “Lead on.”

Geralt grunts, but there’s a hint of reluctant approval in his eyes as he turns and starts walking again, this time in the right direction.

“Let’s move,” he mutters, not looking back to see if you’re following. “And keep your head down.”

One Month Later…

The forest and a small, tucked-away hut have become a sanctuary for the two of you, away from prying eyes and the ever-watchful hunters sent by Damien. The rules that Geralt laid down, the ones you initially dismissed with an eye roll or two, are now second nature. Rule one: always follow him. Rule two: don’t ask questions unless he allows it. Rule three: never assume you’re safe. They’re becoming etched into your memory as much as the steps you now take in combat.

You haven’t felt this alive in years. Every day is a test, a dance of a sort. Although you did miss just dancing. It’s grueling, Geralt’s training regime, but it’s given you purpose.

Today, the clearing outside the tiny hut is quiet, the only sound being the rustle of leaves in the breeze. Geralt is off to the side, sharpening his sword with deliberate strokes. You approach him, your own blade feeling unfamiliar in your hands. It’s a strange sensation, not just the weight of the sword but the unfamiliarity with its use.

“Come on,” Geralt says without looking up, his voice rough from disuse. “You’re better than this. Focus.”

You take a deep breath, gripping the hilt tightly. He watches you from beneath his tousled white hair, his eyes sharp as always. It feels as if he can see right through you, to the fear and doubt lurking beneath your surface.

“Show me,” he instructs, his eyes never leaving yours and his tone even. “What you’ve learned.”

You move forward slowly, cautious. The blade feels like a stranger’s hand in yours, and you thrust forward with a hesitant jab. It’s clumsy and weak, nothing like the smooth, deadly movements you’ve seen him perform. Geralt barely reacts, just steps back and shakes his head.

“Again,” he orders, his voice low. “But faster this time. You’re thinking too much.”

You nod, trying to ignore the way his gaze follows your every move. There’s an intensity to his focus that makes you want to prove yourself, to show him that you’re not just a dancer who stumbled into his world by accident. You gather your courage and lunge again, more confidently this time.

Geralt blocks the strike effortlessly, his own blade moving in a blur as he counters with a series of rapid jabs. You dodge, your heart pounding in your chest as you scramble to keep up. Each strike feels like it could be the last, and the sweat on your skin isn’t just from exertion, it’s fear.

“You need to relax,” he says, lowering his sword and stepping closer. “Focus on your breathing. You’re too tense.”

You try to listen, but the pressure of the situation—of Damien, of everything you’ve left behind—makes it hard. “It’s not that easy,” you admit, your voice shaky with toil as you lower your own blade. “I don’t even know what I’m doing here. Why did you agree to this?”

Geralt’s cheek twitches slightly as he looks at you, his eyes keeping yours for a moment too long. “You’re not the only one who needs to survive,” he says, his voice low. “I took on your burdens the moment you screamed my name in those woods. Your end will be mine; that’s assured.”

You swallow hard, feeling something tighten in your chest. “So this is just about survival?”

He hesitates, then steps closer, his fingers brushing lightly against the blade in your hand. “Maybe,” he admits quietly. “But it’s more than that. You’re not just some dancer to me anymore, are you?”

“What does that mean?” you ask, your voice on the edge of silence.

Geralt hesitates again, then steps back, his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “Later,” he says, his tone clipped. “Let’s just finish for today.”

Disappointment floods through you, and you don’t bother to hide it. Your hand gripping the hilt of your blade harder. “Fine,” you mutter, squaring up to him. “Later.”

Geralt watches you for a long moment before raising his blade, stretching it out between you two, his hand steady and practiced.

“Rule one,” he says, his gaze locked in on your eyes, “always follow me.”

You fight with a ferocity you didn’t know you had, pushing yourself to keep up with his quick movements. Every thrust and parry brings you closer to frustration. Your arms ache, the weapon in your hands feeling heavier with each swing. It’s a cruel reminder of your mortality, how little separates you from failure.

Geralt’s moves are sharp as he counteracts each of yours with ease. “Focus,” he snaps after one particularly errant swing. Another parry, another twist of his wrist, and your strike falters… Again.

“You’re letting your emotions get in the way.”

Of course I am, you bastard. I’m not a machine.

“I don’t have time for this!” You bark, your anger bubbling over. Your vision blurs; whether from sweat or tears, you can’t tell. “I don’t have time for you and your rules, Geralt! I need to find a way out!”

His face darkens, the pale skin stretched tight over a grimace as he steps back, and you hate the way your stomach twists at the sight.

Why does his silence feel like a punishment? Like I failed some mysterious test?

“Then leave,” he says, his voice calm and flat, dangerous in its restraint. “Go somewhere else. I’m not stopping you.”

You freeze; your sword dips, the blade scraping the dirt. “You know I can’t,” you mutter, teeth clenched against the truth as you abandon your blade. Your eyes are barely able to lift from the ground to meet his as you continue, ”he’ll find me. And if I go alone—“

“Then you’ll end up dead,” he growls, finishing for you, his eyes hardening. “And Damien will still win.”

I know that. I know that, but do you think I want to hear it? Do you think I haven’t imagined my own corpse lying in his shadow?

The thoughts press down on you, but your voice cuts through them, bloody and breaking. “Then help me!” you yell, your voice cracking. “Don’t just stand there, judging me and shit! Fight for me!”

An unmistakable glow overtakes his eyes, fire behind the gold. His tone lowers, softer now but somehow more threatening. “Is that what you want?” He’s in front of you in seconds, his long legs carrying him quickly and placing him inches away from you. “You want me to fight for you?” He whispers, his head leaning down.

You take a shuddering breath, your heart pounding as you look up at him, his expression more vulnerable than you’ve ever seen it.

He’s testing me. Always testing.

“Yes,” you whisper, your voice breaking as the admission drags itself out of your chest. “Yes, I do.”

Geralt’s gaze softens ever so slightly, though his jaw remains tight. He reaches out and takes your chin gently between his fingers, tilting your face up to meet his. “Then you need to fight for yourself too,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing against your bottom lip. “I can’t do it alone.”

Haven’t I been doing that?

You swallow hard, your heart pounding as you meet his eyes. “I’m trying,” you plea, your words shaking as they exit your mouth. “I just… I don’t know how.”

“Let me show you,” he states, his voice low and steady. “But you have to listen, and you have to trust me.”

Do I even know how to trust anymore? When was the last time someone asked me to? When was the last time I didn’t regret it?

Tears well up in your eyes as you nod, feeling smaller than you ever have.

How did I let it come to this? When did I become so helpless?

Your voice shakes as it leaves you, and your hand comes up to clutch your stomach. “I want to.”

His bright amber eyes search yours, as if looking for some kind of answer to this mess. “Good,” he finally replies, his tone soft and deep. “Then show me.”

He closes the distance between you, his hands cradling your face as his mouth captures yours in a kiss that’s both angry and gentle.

Angry and gentle. How is that even possible? How is he pulling me closer while it feels like he’s punishing me?

“Show me you can fight,” he murmurs against your lips, his hands tracing the curve of your neck, gliding down to your shoulders, urging you closer. “Show me you’re not afraid.”

Afraid?

You kiss him back, your movements clumsy, desperate, as if to prove something; to him or to yourself, you’re not sure. Your hands find the buttons of his shirt, your fingers trembling as they work to undo them. “I’m not,” you mumble, the words quaking. “I can handle this.” 

A low sound escapes him, somewhere between a growl and a hum, as he shrugs his shirt off the rest of the way.“That’s what I wanted to hear.” He breathes, his voice rough.

His hands move slowly as he peels your shirt from your body, pulling it over your head and tossing it aside. The cool air kisses your skin, but it’s his mouth you feel most. You let out a soft gasp as his mouth reconnects with yours, then moves, trailing along your neck, kissing and nipping at the sensitive skin as his hands roam down your back. His calloused fingers mix with the cool breeze, leaving goosebumps to emerge along your body.

He lowers his kisses down to your collarbone, hands slipping under your waistband to touch your skin. You gasp as his teeth graze the sensitive curve. His hands are everywhere, on your waist, your back, your face, his lips never leaving your flesh, which causes your words to fly out with little thought. “Show me how to fight; I’ll listen this time.”

Is this what surrender feels like?

“I’ll show you, but first,” he promises as he leans down, hooking his hands under your thighs and lifting you. You cling to him as your heart hammers in your chest. “you have to let go.” He murmurs against your lips, the words less a challenge and more a demand.

Let go? Of all the things Damien has done? Of all those poor women? Or is he meaning let go of my old life, the one I worked so hard to achieve? Maybe he means all of it, and if he does, how am I supposed to just… let that go?

Your hands find his face, cupping his cheeks as you search his expression. His wet lips, his golden gaze, they’re too much, too honest. You press your forehead to his, closing your eyes tightly. “I don’t know how. I—I can’t.” You admit, your voice a fractured whisper.

“Yes, you can,” he says, the conviction in his voice stronger than your doubts. His eyes remain on yours as he carries you toward the hut, taking large steps while keeping a tight hold on you. “You’re stronger than you think.”

He doesn’t bother with closing the door as he maneuvers you inside, the hut’s worn frame groaning under the sudden shift in weight. You barely register the dim interior, your focus consumed entirely by him, his grip, his heat, the way he sets you down on the makeshift straw bed with a care that feels at odds with his rough edges.

His hands find your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks in a way that sends warmth spiraling through you. His lips crash into yours, this kiss deeper, hungrier.

“Just trust me,” he mutters against your mouth again, his breath warm as it mingles with yours. His hands are already at your waistband, his fingers deftly unfastening the fabric. “Trust me.”

How does he make it feel like he’s taking something from me and giving it back at the same time?

The words linger in the air, heavy and unfamiliar, before spilling from your lips. “I trust you.” You whisper as the faint rasp of fabric fills the space, his hands pushing your pants past your ankles.

You let out a soft whimper as his fingers graze your skin. His hands, steady and searching, make their way down your body, his touch a mixture of need and tenderness. His mouth finds your neck again, lingering at the tender spot beneath your ear.

“What’s my third rule?” He questions, his voice a low growl while his lips brush against the shell of your ear.

The words come to you like a reflex.

“Never assume you’re safe.” You reply, your voice barely a breath as his fingers brush against the sensitive skin between your legs. “Good girl,” he praises, the depth in his tone making the two single words vibrate through you.

I’m not safe. Not from Damien. Not from myself. Not from him.

“Don’t assume anything right now.” He commands, his hands starting a slow, deliberate tease against your clit.

“This is about trust,” he murmurs, his voice softening as his fingers find their way inside you, the sensation tame yet overwhelming. “Show me you trust me.”

You can’t hold back the moan that escapes you, your hands tangling in his hair. His thumb finds your clit, brushing it before circling the swollen nub with an infuriatingly slow pace.

“I trust you,” you gasp, clutching at him, desperate to pull him closer. “Please, Geralt.”

Please what? Please stop? Please keep going? Please make me forget everything but this?

His lips return to your neck, trailing a line of heat down to your collarbone, where he pauses, his breath fanning. "You keep saying it," he mumbles against you as two fingers curl inside you, his thumb stopping its circles as he shifts his focus to finding that sweet spot inside of you. "but trust is more than words." His teeth graze your shoulder, each edge marking your flesh with a maddeningly gentle scratch.

A choked gasp leaves you as his fingers find it, and he presses again, firm and deliberate, sending a jolt through you that makes your body arch into him. His lips curve into a smirk against your shoulder, his breath warm as he shifts his angle; his fingers press and release in rapid succession, as though he’s flicking a switch that ignites something molten inside you.

"Trust is letting go."

Letting go. The words land heavily, like a challenge. Your thoughts spin out of control, colliding with the steady rhythm of his touch. His fingers move deeper, his pace increasing ever so slightly, causing the most beautiful, juicy noises to leave your soaking heat.

It’s too much. It’s not enough. It’s everything.

Your control splinters under the sensation, the rest of the world dissolving into nothing but the relentless pace of his touch and the way your body reacts to him. His thumb resumes its place over your clit, pressing firmly, circling, teasing, in perfect counterpoint to the rapid release and maddening pressure of his fingers inside you. It’s as if he’s playing you like an instrument, coaxing sounds from your lips that you didn’t know you could make.

“Like that?” he murmurs, his voice low and knowing. The meticulous motion of his fingers quickens, not frantic but punishing, each thrust landing with perfect accuracy to help prove his point.

Your answer comes as a broken moan, your hands gripping his shoulders, nails biting into his toned muscles. “Come on beautiful,” he growls, his voice slicing through the haze, grounding you and yet setting you further adrift. “Don’t hold back.”

It’s not a request. It’s a command; an answer.

You can’t even think of resisting, not when his lips find the edge of your jaw, his teeth grazing the delicate curve with just enough pressure to make you shiver. “That’s it,” he growls, his voice a low mix of admiration and darkness. “That’s my good little dancer.”

His hand never falters, fingers thrumming inside you with care, his thumb rubbing your clit with a focus that borders on cruel. You’re unraveling, thread by thread, piece by piece, until you’re nothing but raw nerve endings responding to him.

This is surrender; you’re sure of it now.

“Geralt—” His name is a plea, a prayer you didn’t know you had in you.

“Let it happen, baby,” he murmurs, his golden eyes locking on yours while his free hand grasps the inside of your thigh, spreading it open further. The calluses on his palm feel rough against the tender skin, a downright opposition to the soft, devastating rhythm of his other hand. “Don’t fight it.”

You don’t even know what it is anymore. The trust he keeps demanding? The fear you’ve been holding onto like a lifeline? Or this—a brutal, undeniable pleasure that’s tearing you into eight million different pieces?

Your hips buck against his hand, chasing every stroke, every press, every flick of his fingers as if they’re the only thing keeping you alive. And maybe they are.

He leans in, his lips brushing over yours. Just a breath, a glimpse of contact that steals the air from your lungs. “You’re close,” he says, his voice so deep it almost sends you over. “I can feel it.”

You shake your head, a wordless denial, though you don’t know who it’s meant for.

“You are,” he insists, his fingers quickening, pushing deeper, as if to prove it. In seconds he’s replaced his thumb with his free hand, that thumb taking over and having a better angle to rub your swollen clit with more ferocity as his other fingers continue their assault against your sweet spot. Your body betrays you, the denial caught in your throat unraveling as your thighs quiver against his hands.

Your eyes shoot open, locking with his as his voice rings out, “And you’ll take it,” he says, his voice a low snarl. His eyes bore into yours, molten gold burning through the fog of pleasure clouding your mind. “You’ll take it because I’m giving it to you.”

“Geralt,” you manage to yelp, the name cracking on your lips as your nails dig into him.

“Don’t fight me,” he growls again, but there’s something different now; a hint of frustration, a flash of unapologetic desire. His pace quickens and he adds a third finger, thrusting harder, each motion a declaration of his lesson.

Your head tips back, your lips parting as you let out a sound that’s somewhere between a moan and a sob, the pleasure climbing higher, threatening to crest.

“Yes, yes, baby,” he purrs, his voice softening but no less commanding. He leans in, his lips retaking their place by your ear. “Don’t you dare hold back now.”

You don’t. You can’t. It feels like he’s everywhere, filling every part of you, dragging you down until there’s nothing left but the electric pulse of your own climax.

“There she is,” he grunts, a harsh whisper against the shell of your ear. “Don’t stop now. I want all of it.”

The tension inside you coils tighter, until it pulls taut, stretching to the breaking point, then fractures, an eruption that floods your veins with unbridled energy and a rush of power. Cries tear from your throat, and your body convulses around him as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you, leaving you shaking, gasping, unraveling completely in his hands.

He doesn’t slow. Doesn’t stop. And the sounds spilling from your lips are unrestrained, a language you don’t recognize but can’t suppress.

He watches you like he’s orchestrated the entire thing, some maestro of chaos and submission. “There,” he rasps, his voice dragging across your skin like gravel. “That’s what I wanted.” His lips trail and hover at the edge of your jaw, close enough that you feel every syllable. “No masks. No more dancing. Just you. ”

Your hands tremble against his shoulders, searching for some way to anchor yourself as the tremors pulse through you. He shifts, his movements slowing, fingers easing their pace but never truly stopping.

He’s still there, still consuming, like a river that flows faintly beneath a hidden surface.

“Look at me,” he breathes, and there’s no question in his tone. It makes your eyes flutter up to his, barely able to keep them focused on his face.

“Did you feel it?” he asks, his voice lowered, yet holding the same harsh charge. His fingers remain inside you, his other hand stills on your sensitive clit while his fingers inside rub small circular motions against your bulging g-spot. “That breaking point? That moment when you let it all go?”

You can only nod, your throat too raw for words.

“Good,” he says, his lips ghosting over the corner of your mouth, not a kiss, but enough to make your heart skip. “Remember it. Because that’s trust.”

“It’s too hot,” he says.

“Don’t stop.”

You rock your hips back, desperate to make him move again.

“Please, Bruce. It feels too fuckin' good.”

He refuses to let the metal burn you, but he does not pull out. One arm wraps around your waist while the other hooks beneath your thigh, and he lifts and turns you without slipping free, pinning your back to the cooler driver’s door. Your legs lock around his waist as he supports your weight, letting him drive up into you and reach even deeper than before.

A small bulge moves low in your stomach. Bruce covers it with his palm and pushes into you again, watching it rise against his hand.

“You feel me here?” he asks.

You can only nod before he resumes, his eyes fixed on the bulge shifting beneath his palm.

“Touch yourself.”

Bruce:

Bruce is surprisingly tender. He’s spent so much of his time playing up his persona and acting wild, that when he’s with you, he wants to take things slow, to pull you apart and put you back together. He doesn’t really care about prepping you to take him, because that’s not just what this is for.

That being said, he wants you to sit on his face. And I mean sit.

His movements are sweeping and carry a depth that makes you writhe. He’s at his best when you drag your hips across his face, catching your clit on his nose while his tongue bullies its way as deep as possible into your cunt. Bruce doesn’t care if your thighs are trembling and barely able to hold yourself–in fact, he’s more likely to push your knees further apart and force you to sink lower. He doesn’t often add fingers into the equation, content to take his time with you, to squeeze your hips and urge you to ride his face, to take whatever you need.

It’s hard for him to turn his brain off, but moments like this are when he can actually sit back and relax. He’s methodical, knowing exactly what movements make you twitch, what brings you closer to the edge, what makes you grasp the headboard in a white-knuckled grip, and he uses all of that to his advantage. He knows precisely what to do to drag the exact sound he wants to hear out of you. Sure, he could get you to your peak quickly, but where’s the fun in that?

Dick:

Dick unapologetically loves to eat it from the back. Don’t get me wrong, he’s just as happy to watch your face twist with pleasure when you’re on your back, but there’s just something about having you from behind.

Dick likes how easy it is to manhandle you, to drag your hips up until you can barely keep yourself balanced on your knees with your chest pressed to the bed. God, or better yet when you’re standing at the foot of the bed with him kneeling behind you. He’d happily bruise his knees every day if it means he gets to see you arch on your toes and sway, chasing his tongue. If you try to lift yourself up on your elbows, you know he’s just going to push you back down with a firm hand just below your shoulder blades. His hands are most often on your hips, dragging you impossibly closer, or massaging the globes of your ass because Dick is an ass man at heart.

He’s messy about it too. He’s sporadic, trying to be everywhere at once because he wants to experience all of you at once. He never lingers anywhere for very long, swiping a tongue through your folds, then a harsh suck to your clit, then burying his tongue as deep as he can get it. You’d think it would be hard to reach your peak with how often he shifts tactics, but really his voracious need to taste every bit of you pulls the knot in your belly tight far faster than you would ever expect.

Jason:

Jason likes to have some sense of control–not authority per se, because this should be entirely mutual. Rather, he wants to know that either of you can change the pace at any point. He might be quick to anger after a lifetime of hardships, but he’s also just as quick to soften. Jason is ultimately indecisive.

He likes to have you on your back where he can see your face, gauge your reactions, and most importantly reach all of you with ease. One moment he’s taking his frustration out on you, leaving bruising bites on your thighs and sucking harshly on your clit, and then next he’s slowing his pace at the sight of your watery eyes and dragging his tongue gently through your folds. 

He’s a whirlwind, but not one that you would ever describe as inconsistent. When Jason eases back, it’s not like his touches become any lighter. No, they just become slower, more tender. A sharp nip at your skin turns into a longer, shallower press of teeth punctuated with a kiss to your bruised flesh.  He’s harsh, all rough edges, but he knows how and when to use those edges like a whip rather than a bludgeon.

Jason is a romantic to his very core, as much as he sometimes tries to hide it. He wants to see you, hear you, know that he’s the one making you feel this way. He wants your eyes on him, and if you look away he’ll surely drag you into a messy kiss while his thumb presses roughly to your clit.

Tim:

Similar to Jason, Tim likes having you on your back so he can see your reactions. He’s always evaluating, never satisfied with assuming he knows what makes you tick. He wants to know precisely what angle to crook his fingers at to make your arch your back and whine.

Part of the excitement is you never know what he’s going to do next. Tim doesn’t necessarily mean to keep you on your toes, but he certainly wants to keep you engaged. He'll alternate between sucking on your clit or massaging it with his thumb, curling his fingers into your cunt or lapping at your folds. He likes to hear what he’s doing well, even if it’s through half choked words and moans. If he’s feeling mean, which he insists isn’t that often, he might even slow down until you can force a sentence out. 

He does have a bad habit of accidentally edging you, switching his tactic just as you’re nearing your peak so that he can press his lips to yours and swallow your noises. You’ll feel the knot start to tighten then unravel just as quickly. Sometimes you think he maybe does it on purpose–with how thoughtful he is, how well he knows your body, he must, right? Definitely, you think he does it on purpose just so that you’ll push his head back down and squeeze your thighs around his head until his wet fingers are digging into your soft flesh and he’s sucking so hard your eyes roll back. It’s totally on purpose.

Capt Syverson, all man but hidden wolf, has been hooking up with you for months. He told you he was a werewolf; you said "nice". He said he could smell your arousal; you said "good". You fucked then, but he didn't knot you.

"Is this because I'm *not* a wolf", you asked afterward, admittedly with a bit of petulance.

"Naw", he assured you. "I don't wanna hurt ya. That pussy's the best I've gotten in years. I'd rather not get cut off over a stupid mistake." He promised he was working up to it, but it's. been. MONTHS.

The full moon is in two days, and he's desperate, vibrating like a nest of angry hornets. You run him a cool bath, wash him nice and slow, massaging as you work your way from head to toe. He relaxed finally. Well, not Lil Captain. His ample girth has let you know what it wants: first, flopping up onto his belly; then bouncing and throbbing whenever you touched a spot he likes; and then, oh fuck, it seemed to curved toward you when you leaned over him to grab the shampoo. You knew he'd caught your scent full in the face. He was absolutely going to give you his knot tonight.

You had him on his back in bed, a faint sheen on his skin from the oil you'd rubbed into him. He was good and spoiled, looking half-asleep but ready to fuck you senseless. So you climbed aboard, took him all at once, nice and slow. He sighed happily as you did, letting you run the show. You also rode him nice and slow, and for the first time, you felt his knot swell at the base. You swirled your hips, switched back and forth on it, teasing. Then you reached down and lightly scratched at it.

Syverson croaked out a moan, eyes open and pupils blown. He was panting, watching you watch him. His hands clenched your hips, and you knew what he wanted, but he held back. So you kept swirling and scratching, tickling at his knot, driving him crazy. His hips canted beneath you in a staccato rhythm: he was close, but still not ready for total surrender.

You leaned forward, kissing up his chest to his neck. You nibbled at him. You knew he loved it. It was a wolf thing. The mating ritual required broken skin and blood, but a gentle bite was erotic. So you focused on the area where his neck met his shoulder, licking and grazing with your teeth. He held your hips with a vice grip, his own pounding you from below.

"Yer gonna make me cum", he groaned. "Yer gonna make me cum... fuck" Syverson was begging and insistent, needy. You bit him properly, and that was it: He pushed your hips down firmly, your slick heat slipping around his knot until you were fully seated. Your eyes rolled back in your head, and you came instantly. "Aw, please", he whimpered, your cunt squeezing him so deliciously tight. "Make me cum."

You felt Syverson's cock swell, then he released a hot, thick load, more than he'd ever cum with you before. He held you tight to him, grinding and moaning like his soul was escaping his body. He throbbed so hard, so deep that, combined with the ropy jets still filling your canal, you found yourself shuddering in pleasure again.

"You know we're stuck like this until I calm down", Syverson muttered into your ear, a few minutes later. You nodded, just catching your breath. He flipped you over, a lascivious glint lighting his eyes. He started thrusting again, grinning as your eyes got wide. "That ain't gonna be for awhile." He pressed against you, grunting when you reflexively clenched. "Yer too good a fit, darlin'. I might be here all night." He accentuated his point by raising your hips and putting a pillow under your bum. "Hang on tight, girl". You chuckled as he began Round Two.

*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it, ideas or parts of it and claiming it as your own or feeding it to AI*

He found that out the hard way.

You were drawn to your grotto each time the full moon was out, developing a particular habit of trying to escape the apartment, each time causing Clark the most distress to try and find a way to soothe you while also keeping you contained.

You also became a bit more loopy than average.

Clark likes to call it your moon drunk. You slurred your words saying the strangest, most endearing things to him. It was his favorite when you got like this. So chatty and clingy, just spilling everything that came to your mind.

But the most notable way the full moons affected you was the sudden insatiableness for him that you developed.

It was a fact that he learned after the third full moon with you, something he assumes was when you fully found yourself trusting your nature with him to reveal the full depths of how the full moon's energy affected you.

Usually just before the full moon reaches its apex, you become insistently needy, a fact that you always denied the next day.

At first, Clark was hesitant to indulge you, not wanting to seem like he was taking advantage of your nature, but you were so, so persistent.

And the one time he denied you, you became so pained and humiliated that you locked yourself in the bathroom, wailing and weeping pearls until Clark had to pry open the door and coax you into the bedroom just to stop the cries that were so loud and heartwrenching, he was sure the neighbors heard.

He knew not to deny you again after that incident.

In fact, he made sure to take careful consideration of the full moon nights, either getting off work early or taking the whole day off to help you through your needs.

So when Clark found out through work that there was a rare supermoon approaching, he made sure to call the day off at least a few weeks in advance to help ease you through the effects of however this full moon might affect you.

This would be the first supermoon the two of you experienced together after all.

The only other special full moons that the two of you experienced are the occasional blue moons, which Clark tends to find make you sadder than a typical full moon.

Clark turns over in bed, admiring your sleeping figure. He awoke before you today, not unusual for these types of days, where you tended to stay up all through the night. He took in your beautiful resting features, hoping that tonight would be a supermoon that brought you peace.

You started to stir, rustling around, until slowly peeling your eyes open. The sunlight seeping through the windows caught your attention first, realizing that you slept in later than usual. You rolled over to face Clark's side, smiling when you noticed he was already awake and watching you.

"Good morning love," he says, brushing your sleep-tussed hair out of your face.

"Good morning," you reply softly, nuzzling your nose into his neck, suddenly eager to take in his scent.

"How are you feeling?" Clark assessed while tucking you in closer, his eyes scanning over you. The full moon effects rarely started so early, but he could never be too sure, especially not with a rare one like tonight's. He would have to be extra attentive today.

"Good, today's going to be a good day. I can feel it."

"Oh yeah?" Clark smiles.

"Yeah." you nod assuredly.

"What else can you feel, hm?" Clark asks back, nuzzling back into you, placing soft kisses to your exposed neck and shoulder.

"I feel," you exhale softly as Clark sucks into the sensitive spot behind your ear and you pull his muscled body even closer atop you, you giggle softly before saying, "Your lips."

"Mhm," Clark mumbles against your skin, moving to kiss lower near your collarbone, "What else?"

You chuckle, squeezing his muscled arms, "And your perfect body on mine."

"And?" Clark sucks on your chest now, not quite reaching your soft breasts. Your fingers entangle into his messy soft curls, pulling his face flush against you.

"And your soft hair and skin."

Clark sighs against you, his warm breath sending a ripple down your spine.

"I think I can also feel you making me salmon for breakfast? Maybe on that strange bread with a hole you like?" You ask with that higher tone of voice that makes Clark fold every time.

It's his turn to let out a small laugh, and he pulls back to gaze into your eyes. "A bagel? Is that what my love is craving this morning?"

You nod against him, finally placing a kiss to his awaiting lips. Clark deepens it, chasing the kiss whilst rolling you flat on your back so he hovers over you. "Okay, I'll go make it for you."

"Extra salmon?"

"Of course."

Clark places a few more chaste pecks to your lips before getting up completely from bed. He smiles at the soft whine you let out at his absence.

Clark finds himself in the kitchen taking out all the necessary items for your salmon bagel. On days like these, he usually cooks for the both of you, bringing it back into your bedroom for breakfast in bed, followed by a lazy day and eventful night.

So he's a bit shocked when he feels your arms wrapped around him from behind just twenty minutes later. You snuggle into the hard planes of his back as he works to cut thin slices of fish for you.

He turns around in your arms, holding a small piece of fish in between the pads of his fingers, he brings it down to your lips, feeding it to you. You sigh contentedly.

"Hi."

"Hi."

"You feeling okay? You're usually never out of bed this fast."

"I know, but it's like I said. I can feel that today's going to be a great day. And I missed you. You were gone too long." You pout.

Clark kisses your pout, before turning around and finishing up your bagel. You follow him around as he makes coffee and your tea, washes the dishes, turns on the tv and finally settles into the couch together.

If his observations are correct, you're definitely more clingy than normal already. But it's not like he minds.

Clark was expecting this to happen.

And its like that for the rest of the day too. You are glued to his side, not even realizing that you haven't broken apart from him since those twenty minutes in the morning. He moves, you move. You shower him with kisses and cuddles, remaining tucked into his side all day and only get up to leave to pee.

Which happens a lot because you've also been strangely thirsty today.

Clark (and you) get up multiple times to refill a large cup of water for you to gulp down in seconds. He's never seen that from you before, but you see nothing wrong with it.

You just smile shyly and hand him the cup again twenty minutes after downing the other. "One more, please?"

It isn't until after your shower, right before sundown, does it seem like you start to feel any outward effects.

"Clark?" you start, approaching him with damp hair and fiddling fingers, quickly glancing out the window and back towards him.

"Yes?"

"I want to go. To my grotto."

Clark's lips curved. 

It's begun. And right on time, too.

"Not today, love. Another time." He meets your stance in the middle of the living room and places his large hands on your shoulders. He hopes you won’t give him too hard of a time on this. He hates telling you no.

"But I feel it, Clark. It's so strong, and it's calling me. I have to go. Right now."

You try to walk around him towards the front door, but Clark is quicker.

He stops you in your tracks with a gentle but firm hand to the waist. "I know, I know. But we've talked about this before. It's too dangerous tonight. It's a full moon, baby, and I don't want you to get hurt out there."

You glance out the window one more time, before facing him with large glassy eyes, and nodding your head in defeat.

"Okay."

Clark's brow shoots up.

That was it? No arguing back? No trying to make a run for it? This was so unlike you to give in so easy. He expected more fight this time around.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, you're right. I don't want to get hurt out there." You nod again, walking back towards your room to plop on the bed.

Clark follows behind, studying you carefully. The moon was still rising, at least another hour before its apex. He wasn't sure whether to accept this reaction from you as a win just yet.

He makes sure to watch you cautiously. The next hour passes in a haze of soft touches and murmured words.

You've migrated to the center of the bed, limbs sprawled out like a starfish, your head resting in Clark's lap as he sits against the headboard. His fingers card through your drying hair, the motion rhythmic and soothing. The tv plays some nature ocean documentary neither of you are paying attention to, the soft narration a distant hum in the background.

"Clark," you say, your voice carrying that telltale slur he's come to recognize, "Do you know how many stars there are?"

"I don't, love. Tell me."

"More than I can count on my fingers. And toes. And yours too."

Clark chuckles, his chest vibrating against your back. "That's a lot of stars."

"Mhm. But you know what's prettier than all of them?" You tilt your head back to look up at him, your eyes glassy and unfocused, pupils blown wide. There's a soft pink flush spreading across your cheeks and down your neck.

"What's that?"

You reach up, fingers fumbling, trying to trace the line of his jaw but missing by a few inches. Clark catches your hand gently and presses it to his face, guiding it to where you were aiming. You giggle, the sound light and airy, and your thumb traces the strong line of his jaw.

"You. You're the prettiest. Prettier than stars. Prettier than pearls. Prettier than anything in the ocean."

Clark feels his heart squeeze at your words. He turns his head to press a kiss to your palm. "Thank you, that's a high compliment, coming from a mermaid."

"I'm not a mermaid right now," you say, your voice taking on a petulant edge. "See, no tail. I'm just yours."

"Always," he agrees softly.

You shift in his lap, suddenly restless. Your fingers curl around the fabric of his shirt, tugging at it. "Do you remember the first time we met, Clark?"

"How could I forget?" He watches your face carefully, noticing how your pupils are beginning to expand even further, how your breathing is becoming just a little more shallow. 

"I was so lost," you start. "When I washed up on that shore, I thought they were going to sell me. Or worse. I thought I was going to die. I could feel the air leaving my body, and I was so scared, Clark. I was so scared."

Your eyes are bright now, a sheen of wetness gathering at the corners. "And then you came.. You held me so gently. You said it was going to be okay."

Clark's throat tightens. He remembers it vividly, finding you on that rocky shore, your beautiful tail glinting silver under the pale moonlight.

The way you'd flinched away from him, terrified, your sharp teeth bared. And how he'd spoken to you in the softest voice he could muster, the same voice he used with scared animals, with children, with anyone who needed to know they were safe.

"I thought you were a monster at first," you continue, your words tumbling out faster now, the moon's pull clearly taking hold. "So big. So tall. You were glowing in the light, and I thought, oh no, I've died and now a sea demon is coming to drag my soul to the depths."

"I was not glowing," Clark protests, but he's smiling.

"You were! You were—" You struggle to sit up, and Clark helps you, his hands firm on your waist as you turn to face him. You straddle his lap, your legs on either side of his hips, your face inches from his. "You were so beautiful. Like a prince from the stories the elders used to tell. The ones who come to rescue princesses from sea witches."

Clark's hands settle on your hips, steadying you as you sway slightly. "You thought I was a prince?"

"I thought you were an angel," you correct, your voice dropping to a whisper. "My angel."

Clark swallows hard. "I'm just a man, sweetheart."

"No," you insist stubbornly, shaking your head. "No, you're not. You're so much more. You're stronger than anyone. You're braver than anyone. You saved me. You saved my life. You gave me a home. You gave me everything." Your voice cracks, and a pearl slips free from your eye, rolling down your cheek.

"I love you so much, Clark. Do you know that? Do you know how much I love you?"

Clark catches the pearl with his thumb, brushing it away. "I know, baby. I know."

You press your forehead to his, your breath mingling with his. "I can't wait to surprise you tonight."

Clark's brow furrows. "Surprise me?"

But you're already moving on, your attention fluttering away like a butterfly. You lean back, your hands braced on his broad shoulders, and start babbling about something else entirely. "The moon is so bright today. I can feel it in my bones. It's singing. Can you hear it? It's singing to me. It sounds like whales. Do you like whales? I love whales. They're so big and gentle, like you—"

"Love," Clark interrupts gently, his hands tightening on your hips. "What did you mean by that? 'Surprise me.'"

You tilt your head, blinking slowly, your eyes unfocused. "Hmm? What did I say?"

"You said you can't wait to surprise me."

Your face splits into a wide, loopy grin. "Oh! Did I say that? I don't know. Sometimes I say things. It's the moon's fault." You nod sagely, as if this explains everything.

Clark's eyes search yours, a flicker of concern mixing with deep affection. He hopes you’re not planning on running away.

Before he can press further, your body does something strange. He feels it. A ripple of energy passes through you, a shiver that travels from your core outwards, and suddenly your eyes are clearing, the dreamy haze sharpening into something else entirely.

"Apex," you breathe, the word barely audible.

Clark glances at the window. The moon has risen high in the sky, a luminous silver disk so large and bright it seems to fill the entire frame. Moonlight streams through the glass, pooling across the floor in a shimmering puddle that edges towards the bed. A beam of pure silver light lands directly across you both, illuminating your face.

And Clark watches as you transform.

You gasp sharply, your hands flying to his chest, and he sees it. Your eyes. The soft color that he fell in love with, that he dreams about, that he's memorized in every detail—they've changed. Your irises have become something otherworldly, a luminescent silver that glows faintly in the moonlight. A shiver runs through you, and when you arch your back, your skin takes on an iridescent sheen, tiny scales catching the light like scattered diamonds along the curve of your spine, your shoulders, your cheeks.

"Clark," you whimper, and your voice is different. More desperate. "Clark. I need you. Oh, I need you."

"Baby—"

"Please. Please, I can't—" You're already moving, grinding down against his lap, and Clark feels the heat of you through both your clothes. "It hurts. It hurts so bad. I need you to help me. I need you inside me."

Clark cups your face, his thumb stroking your glowing cheek. "Slow down, sweetheart. Let's take our time—"

"No!" The word is a sharp sob, and your fingers dig into his shoulders, claws extending just slightly, not to hurt but to hold on. "No slow. No time. Clark, I need you now. Right now. I can't wait. I can't. It's too much."

"Okay, okay baby, let's just ease into it yeah—"

You ignore him, trying to lean down and capture his lips, but he leans back before you can make contact.

You feel your frustrations rise, and try not to let it get to you. Instead, you use your words, your slurred, loopy, words. 

“Did you know that when there's a supermoon, most mermaids enter their mating heat,” you whisper sensually into Clark's ear. 

Clark stiffens. No he did not know that. 

You nod, continuing on, “The supermoon makes it stronger. It makes us just want to fuck, and fuck and fuck. I need you. I need my mate. Please, please, please—"

Clark gasps at your vulgarity. He knows for a fact that you did not learn that word from him and he plans to address your language later.

But right now your hips are moving frantically, your body acting on instinct, and Clark can see the tears starting to stream down your face, each one a perfect pearl that falls onto his chest.

"Please don't deny me," you beg, your voice breaking. "Please. I can't take it. I can't. I'll die, Clark. I want my mate."

Clark's jaw tightens. He's seen you desperate before, seen you in the throes of the full moon, but never like this. Never this frantic, this pained, this utterly undone.

He can hear your heart, can feel the fevered heat radiating from your skin, can smell the salt of your tears and the sweet, heady scent of your arousal.

He could try to soothe you. He could hold you, speak to you, try to calm you down. But he remembers what happened the last time he denied you. The wailing. The pearls. The broken sobs that nearly destroyed him.

And the words you just said: I'll die.

There's a chance it's the moon talking, the hysteria of the moment. But there's also a chance it's not. And Clark would never, ever risk that chance.

"Okay," he says softly, his voice like warm honey. "Okay, love. I've got you. I'm going to take care of you."

You sob in relief, your hands immediately going to his shirt, trying to pull it off. "Yes. Yes. Thank you. Thank you, thank you—"

"Easy, sweetheart. Easy." Clark helps you, tugging his shirt off and tossing it aside, then working on yours. Your skin is glowing now, beautiful and ethereal, and when you're finally bare before him, his breath catches. The faint scales have spread further, delicate shimmering patterns along your collarbone, down your ribs, curving around your breasts. You're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

"Touch me," you beg, grabbing his hands and pressing them to your chest. "Touch me, Clark. I need you to touch me."

He does. He cups your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples, and you cry out, your back arching, your hips grinding down harder. He kneads the soft flesh gently, watching your face, gauging your reactions. You're oversensitive, he realizes. Every touch makes you jolt and moan.

"Please," you whimper. "More. I need more."

Clark flips you over gently, laying you flat on the bed. The moonlight streams down over your naked body, making you look like a goddess, like something born of starlight and saltwater. You whine at his absence, reaching for him, but he shushes you softly.

"I'm here, love. I'm not going anywhere."

He trails his mouth down your body, pressing gentle kisses to your neck, your chest, the soft curve of your belly. You writhe beneath him, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. When he reaches the apex of your thighs, he pauses, looking up at you.

"Let me taste you first," he murmurs. "Let me make you feel good."

"Yes," you gasp. "Yes, yes, yes—"

Clark doesn't wait. He lowers his head and licks a broad stripe up your center, and you scream.

The taste of you is different tonight. Saltier. Sweeter. More potent. It’s delicious. 

He moans against you, his tongue diving deeper, lapping at your folds. You're so wet, so incredibly wet, and you're trembling, your whole body shaking beneath his mouth. He can feel your muscles fluttering, your arousal coating his tongue, and he drinks you in like he's been lost in a desert.

"Oh" you pant, tugging at his hair. "Yes, Clark, please—"

He slides a finger inside you, then another, curling them just right. Your legs tighten around his head, your hips bucking up to meet his mouth. He works you relentlessly, his tongue flicking over your clit, his fingers thrusting and stroking.

And then you shatter.

You cry out his name, your body seizing, your climax crashing through you. He feels you pulse around his fingers, feels the gush of liquid that floods his mouth—sweet and salty and so much of it. He drinks it down, moaning, his eyes closing as he savors every drop.

God you’ve never tasted this good before.

"Clark," you sob, still trembling.

He rises up over you, shedding his remaining clothes in a hurry. His cock is achingly hard, leaking precum, and when he sees the desperate, pleading look in your glowing eyes, he knows he can't wait any longer either.

"I'm going to give you what you need, baby," he says, his voice low and thick with desire. "I'm going to take care of you."

"Please," you whimper, spreading your legs wider. "Please, Clark. I'm ready. I'm so ready. I need to feel you inside me. I need my mate to breed me."

The words hit him like a freight train. He stares down at you stopping his movements, his heart hammering. "B-breed you?"

"Yes," you nod eagerly, glad that he’s understanding. "It’s a supermoon, Clark. The best time to make babies. Don’t you want me to have your babies?”

Clark inhales shakily. He knows that he has to be especially careful with his words to you right now. The wrong words could set you off completely. 

But this is so new. You’ve never discussed children before, gosh, he didn’t even know if it was possible for a mermaid and kryptonian to have kids.

There's a deep, primal part of him that roars to life at your words, a part he's always kept carefully controlled. But he pushes it down, forcing himself to stay gentle, to stay present, for you.

Besides, the longer he contemplated, the more squirmy you got underneath him. He decides not to overthink it, for both of your sakes. You’ll cross that bridge if when you get there.

“Oh, of course I do, love. I’d want nothing more. You’d be the most beautiful mama,” Clark agrees, finding that the words are more truthful than he’d like to admit right now.

You light up at his words, clearly turned on even more by his agreement, evident by the wetness seeping from your core. You reach up to cup his face, nodding quickly. "Please fill me up."

Clark doesn't need to hear more. He lines himself up, presses the tip of his cock to your entrance, and slides inside you.

You both gasp. You're so tight, so warm, so welcoming. He sinks into you slowly, inch by inch, watching your face as he takes you. Your mouth falls open, your eyes rolling back, a broken moan spilling from your lips.

"Gosh" you whisper, your legs wrapping around his waist, your heels digging into his lower back. "More, Clark. Give me all of you."

He does. He sinks to the hilt, buried deep inside you, and you both stay there for a moment, breathing heavily. You're clutching at him, your claws digging into his back, but he doesn't feel the pain. He feels your pulse, feels the rhythmic flutter of your walls around him, feels the moonlight on his skin.

"Oh," you breathe, your voice trembling. "Oh, it's so good. It's so good, Clark. You feel so good inside me. So big. So perfect."

"Yes baby," he groans, his forehead dropping to yours. "You feel amazing. So wet for me. You’re dripping."

"I'm always wet for you," you pant, your hips starting to move. "Always. I'm always ready for you. I need you inside me. Always—"

Clark begins to move, slow and deep, thrusting into you with measured strokes. He wants to go faster, wants to pound into you, wants to satisfy that desperate, primal need he sees in your eyes.

But he also wants to savor this. To be gentle. To remind you that you're safe, that you're loved especially during this vulnerable time.

But you have other ideas.

"Harder," you beg, your fingers digging into his shoulders. "I need it harder, Clark. Faster. Please. I'm not going to break."

Clark obeys. He starts to thrust in earnest, his pace quickening, the bed creaking beneath you. You cry out, your head thrown back, your body arching into his. He drives into you deep, hitting that spot inside you that makes you see stars, and you shatter again.

This time, you don't just tremble. You convulse, your walls clenching around him so tightly it almost hurts. 

And you gush. A torrent of liquid floods around his cock, soaking the sheets, soaking him. He moans loudly, thrusting through it, and he feels your liquid hit his chin, his chest, dripping down his stomach.

"Water," he breathes, suddenly understanding. "All that water you've been drinking—"

You smile sheepishly. “Surprise.”

“Oh love,” Clark groans, his cock hardening and twitching inside of you.

"Taste it,” you insist. “I made it just for you.”

Clark stares down at you, his heart pounding. Your eyes are glowing, your body shimmering, and you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. He can't help himself. He lowers his head and starts licking the liquid off your skin, moaning at the taste. Sweet. Salty. Perfect.

"Oh my" you gasp, watching him. "Clark—"

"It tastes so good," he murmurs against your skin, his tongue lapping at the curve of your breast. "So good, baby. Thank you. I want more. I need more."

"Yes," you sob. "Make me come again. Make me come again and I’ll give you more. Every drop."

Clark obliges. Anything to get another taste of the sweet liquid you make.

He positions you on your hands and knees, the moonlight streaming down onto your back, illuminating the faint scales that shimmer along your spine. He slides back inside you, deeper now, reaching parts of you he couldn't before. You cry out, your body shaking, and he begins to thrust again, faster this time, his rhythm a little more desperate, snapping against you.

"You're so beautiful," he groans, his hands gripping your hips. "So perfect, baby. So perfect. I love you so much."

"I love you too," you sob, pushing back against him. "I love you so much. I'm so close—"

Clark drives into you, hard and deep, and you climax with a scream. You gush around him, flooding his cock, soaking him, but he doesn't stop yet. He fucks you through it, chasing his own release. He can feel it building, a pressure in his core, a white-hot heat that's almost too much.

"Fill me," you beg, your voice breaking. "Fill me up, please. I want it."

"Gosh baby—"

"Come inside me," you urge, your walls clenching around him. "Come in me, Clark. Fill me up. Make me yours. I want to feel you. I want to taste you. Please—"

That's all it takes. Clark groans, his hips stuttering, and he comes. He pours into you, thick and hot, filling you to the brim. You gasp, feeling it, and the euphoria is so strong you start crying in pleasure, more pearls falling from your eyes as you shake and tremble beneath him.

Clark holds you steady, riding out his orgasm, and when it's over, he collapses behind you pushing apart your legs and drinking up every last drop of your shared juices. 

He can’t get enough, the taste so addicting, he’s almost upset you’ve never squirted for him before.

"I love you," you whisper, your voice small and exhausted. "I love you so much, Clark."

"I love you too," he murmurs in between laps of your sopping cunt, "More than anything."

The night goes on just like that.

Clark loses track of time. He loses track of everything except you and your divine taste.

You're insatiable. Every time he thinks you're satisfied, your hands find him again, your mouth finds his, your body presses against his. He fucks you in every position—on your back, on your knees, on your side, in his lap, against the wall. He makes you come until you're hoarse, until your voice is gone, until you're shaking so hard you can't hold yourself up. He drinks every single gush of liquid that you produce, licking it from your skin, from his skin, from the soaked sheets.

And each time, you beg for him to do it again.

"More," you pant, straddling him, bouncing on his cock. "I know you want more Clark. Come, I’ll give you more—"

He comes inside you again and again, his seed mixing with your arousal, your liquid, your tears. You release again and again and again as well, leaving everything soaked. The bed, the floor, the walls. Everything is wet, glistening, and beautiful.

Clark's tongue finds you again. He's on his stomach between your legs, his hands gripping your thighs, his mouth buried in your folds. You're crying, trembling, your fingers tangled in his hair as he works you with his tongue and fingers.

"Clark," you sob, your hips bucking. You felt that this was it, all that you had left to give to him "Clark, I'm—"

You gush against his mouth one final time, letting go of the most release, and Clark drinks it all, moaning like he's tasting the finest nectar, not wasting a single drop. He doesn't stop until you're limp beneath him, your body finally still.

"Just one more" you whisper, barely audible. "Please—"

He doesn't need to be asked twice. He slides back into you, fills you, makes love to you one last time. He comes inside you, and you come with him, your body clenching around him, milking every last drop.

When it's finally over, you're both completely exhausted. Clark holds you in his arms, your back against his chest, your body tucked into his. The moonlight has started to fade, the apex passed, and your eyes are slowly returning to their soft brown.

"Are you okay?" he murmurs, kissing your hair.

"I'm perfect," you whisper. "That was... that was incredible."

"Was it what you needed?"

You turn in his arms, your eyes meeting his. There's something soft and vulnerable in your gaze. "Everything I needed. And more."

Clark smiles, pulling you closer, cuddling you to his chest. "Good."

You rest your eyes, feeling the moon’s effects finally easing down.

“Love?” Clark starts, and you have a feeling you know what he’s going to ask.

“Yes?”

“Why haven’t you…uh, you’ve nev—never done that before. You know…” He trails off not wanting to voice the actual words out loud.

You grin, hiding your face, “It only happens on supermoons. The energy just makes it easier for us.”

“Oh, I see.”

You turn around, crawling to lay on top of him, face to face, your voice dropping back into that seductive tone, “And we know that men like you get wayyy too obsessed with our taste.”

Clark simply hums in agreement. You were right, he was already obsessed and addicted, itching for more, as if he hadn't gotten enough already.

You continue, “So it’s better that it only happens rarely. Makes us less likely to get used for it.”

Clark's brow furrows, a flicker of hurt passing through his eyes. He cups your face, his thumb stroking your cheek. "I would never—"

"I know," you interrupt softly, pressing a finger to his lips. "I know you wouldn't. But there are others who would." Your voice drops, a shadow of old pain flickering across your features. "That's why I was so scared when I first met you. I thought you were like them. I thought you wanted me for... what I could give you."

Clark's arms tighten around you, pulling you impossibly closer. "I'm sorry," he murmurs against your hair. "I'm sorry anyone ever made you feel that way."

You shake your head, pressing a kiss to his chest. "You don't have to be sorry. You're the one who showed me it could be different. You're the one who showed me what love really is." You tilt your head up to meet his eyes, a sleepy smile on your lips. 

"And now you're the only one who gets to taste me. Ever. Got it?"

Clark laughs softly, his chest rumbling beneath you. "Got it."

"Good." You settle back against him, your ear pressed to his heart. "I'm exhausted."

Clark hums in agreement, his hand finding its way to your hair, stroking gently. "Sleep, love. I've got you."

The next morning, Clark wakes up to you sleeping peacefully beside him, your hand resting on your belly. The sheets are in tatters. The room smells like salt and sex and love.

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PART 1

Today had been rather uneventful so far, your husband’s been on his morning run and you prepared breakfast while he was showering upstairs. You loved a quiet Saturday every once in a while.

While stirring the scrambled eggs, big warm hands suddenly embraced you from behind and a deep rumble sounded against your ear: “You smell so sweet, love. Could eat ya right up.” His statement was accompanied by his nose pressing below your ear, his breath tickling your skin.

You leaned against Sy’s broad chest, tilting your head back and smiling up at him: “Oh don’t get ahead of yourself. If you eat dessert now, it’ll only spoil your appetite.”

That made him laugh loudly and before you could do anything else a big paw of his pinched your behind, making you squeak.

“Cheeky, I like it.” And with that, he went to set the table outside.

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Once everything was set, Sy and you settled onto the patio chairs and looked out onto the small garden, where the grass was still a little damp from the morning dew.

“Thank you.”

“What for?”

“Convincing me that we buy this house, even though it was more expensive. It was worth every penny.”

Sy’s startling blue eyes crinkled in delight,” You’re very welcome my love.”

Back then you were very hesitant about spending so much money, especially because Sy only had begun his new job at the local police department. He’d left the military (honourable discharge) to become a detective and now earned less money than before. But he convinced you that buying the house would be the right choice and now you were very glad he did.

You began eating, only now noticing that he was watching you intently. So you raised your eyebrow in question. But your husband had no intention of answering you verbally. He just smirked at you and brought his coffee to his lips. Just as you were about to avert your gaze, the tip of his tongue darted into the milk foam and he lewdly licked it into his mouth, never once breaking eye contact with you.

Ending his performance by loudly smacking his lips together. He reached his hand across the table, forefinger tapping against your chin, tutting,” Tsk, tsk, tsk. Darlin’ gotta close your mouth else you’ll catch some flies.”

You hadn’t even noticed that you’d opened your mouth but as soon as his finger had touched you, your lips automatically closed and you huffed in fake annoyance.

Sy was always a bit playful but today was something else entirely. But who were you to say you weren’t enjoying every single second of his teasing?

Then he muttered,” Atta girl,” under his breath, as if he didn’t know that, that had you wet in milliseconds. And to your absolute frustration he just retraced his hand and focused back on his breakfast as if nothing remotely interesting had just happened.

You blinked a few times before getting your bearings again. Oh that mean tease, he knew exactly what he was doing to you, seeing as he was currently smirking into his coffee. That bastard…

But very well, two could play this game.

You ate your breakfast silently, air between the two of you charged like an electrical current. Though neither one of you broke the silence.

When you finished eating, you started carrying the dishes back inside, Sy hot on your tails carrying his own plate and coffee cup. As you reached the dishwasher, you opened it deliberately slow and bent down at the waist. Perfectly presenting your rear to the man behind you.

As slowly as humanly possible you put your cutlery and plate away then you turned your head slightly to look at Sy and to your utter frustration he wasn’t even standing there. You immediately straightened your back and whirled around looking form him.

The smug bastard had left the kitchen the minute you tried to tease him. He only now returned hands full with the bread basket and the remaining items from your breakfast.

As he caught your gaze, your eyes narrowed and his smirk widened:” Somethin’ the matter love?”

You really wanted to smack him, but you also wanted to get the rise out of him, so you tried playing it cool.

“No nothing. Was just wondering where you went.”

He winked, lifting the retrieved items to show you where he went. You just nodded once, trying not to acknowledge him further. And then you had an idea, turning your back to him so he wouldn’t see your devilish smile.

“I think I’m gonna head back upstairs, maybe for some me time.”

Sy sounded as surprised as you’d hoped,” What?”

You turned back around, tiptoeing your way to him and running your index finger teasingly down his t-shirt clad chest.

Biting your lip for good measure,” Oh you know. For some inexplicable reason I feel…a little…hot.” You only breathed the last word to really drive your sentence home.

You continued as his Adam’s apple bobbed visibly:” And since I’m the only one feeling that way, I thought I’d quickly take care of that.”

Just as he wanted to pull you closer by your hips, you side stepped him and began to run upstairs, giggling as you clearly heard him follow you.

Once you reached your bedroom you looked behind, only to find him pressed against your back suddenly, burly arms slung around your form.

“Gotcha.”

You couldn’t suppress your grin, letting yourself be lifted into his arms completely. Sy turned you around, easily lifting you higher so you could wrap your legs around his midsection.

He immediately leaned in to capture your lips in a searing kiss. Groaning against you, when he felt your heated centre moving against his stomach in circles. One of his hands slit down your back, gripping your behind and pressing you even harder against him, making you open your mouth in a loud moan.

“That’s it, let me hear ya.”

His hand kneaded your bottom while he growled,” Let’s get you what you so desperately need.”

You nibbled the skin below his earlobe, wanting to make him groan again, as you knew it was one of his sensitive spots. Sy placed his other hand on your nape, pulling you back baring his teeth, “I know whatcha doin’. Knew from the start that you just wanted to bait me didn’t ya?”

Before you answered, he moved you both into the bedroom and you felt his strong hips below you with every step he took. A gentle reminder that those would be slotted against you very soon.

“Well to be fair you started it,” you pouted up at him just as he dropped you onto the mattress.

“That so?” His endlessly blue eyes roamed over your body, from your naked thighs over your bunched up shorts, to your white t-shirt and settled on your heated gaze.

“Yeah,” you breathed back. He stepped closer and you opened your thighs further in invitation.

Sy’s hands cupped your face tilting your chin up so you’d have to lean back a little, to actually still see his face. “If I remember correctly the very t-shirt you’re wearin’ is mine, no? And wouldn’t ya agree that those shorts are dangerously short, mmh?”

You placed your hands above his, letting your fingers wonder to his wrist and up his forearms, then you gently pushed them to the sides so he’d let go of your face and you could scoot closer to the edge of the mattress.

He let you, more than curious to see what you’d do next, your hands settled on his belt. “Mmh maybe.”

“Such a little tease.” When you didn’t carry on, he nudged your calf with his,” Come now, don’t be shy. Take what you need.”

Your eyes flickered down and sure enough the huge bulge right in front of you twitched as you licked over your bottom lip. For good measure you pressed the heel of your hand into his crotch, making him hiss. His right hand shot out, circling both your wrists in his.

“Tsk, tsk behave,” he reprimanded you sternly.

Just the display of strength from before had your pussy already drooling and now his deep voice combined with his dominating demeanour would be the death of you. Certain, if he touched you where you wanted it most, you’d burst into flame.

His intense eyes pinned you into place, while his left hand slowly opened his belt buckle. He easily pulled down his zipper then stepped back, pulling you off the mattress. “On your knees darlin’.”

Once he let go of your wrists you quickly sunk down to your knees, feeling pathetically weak and small as his massive form stood over you. You loved how big and strong your husband was, it turned you to mush in minutes every time he’d displayed his strength or made you feel extra small.

When you’d settled onto your heels, he tucked down his jeans and stepped out of them. Now standing over you just clad in his black boxers and t-shirt.

You waited patiently for his permission to touch, nearly vibrating with want as his big cock tented his boxers and left nothing to the imagination.

He approached you and then gently petted your head,” Such a good girl, now go on get your price.”

Your hand’s reached for his waistband, pulling it down and freeing his manhood. He groaned deeply as your hand caressed his balls on the way down. Leaning forward you took the tip into your mouth, suckling at the throbbing end. Though his hand pressed into the back of your head pushing you to take more of him into your waiting mouth.

You relaxed your jaw so he could slide further into your mouth, praising you all the while, “That’s it, yeah takin’ it so well… fuck…mmh.”

Not even halfway down his big cock and your eyes began to water, though you liked how heavy he felt on your tongue so you tried relaxing your throat as well to take him deeper inside.

Just when you thought you were nearly choking on his length, suddenly a phone rang loudly.

Sy’s head whipped to the side, eying his stupid phone on the bedside table as it continued to ring. You narrowed your eyes trying to signal him with your best death glare “don’t you dare”.

He grimaced apologetically, though when you tried shuffling back, Sy’s hand on your head held you in place, “Sorry gotta take that, it’s Marshall.”

Your resounding whimper had him raise an eyebrow intrigued, before he finally reached for the phone and answered it.

“Hello yeah, better be somethin’ important.”

You couldn’t understand how this didn’t affect Sy at all, he answered the phone so casually it actually made you mad that he could do so. His hand petted your head softly.

Oh you’d show him casually.

With renewed vigour you moved your tongue to his slit wet with precum, pressing into it meanly. And to your satisfaction he couldn’t stop the groan from escaping.

“Arrgh…no, yeah that was nothin’.”

Sy’s thigh jumped as you repeated the movement while moving your head back and forth.

His voice sounded rather pressed when he answered,” Mmh my wife huh?”

That caught your attention, why did Walter ask for you? Your eyes never left Sy’s, though you still continued languidly sucking him off.

He clear his voice noisily,” Um, no I suppose not. Why so soon?”

It was Sy’s turn to glare at you, nearly imperceptibly shaking his head in warning as your hand wrapped around the rest of him you couldn’t fit in your mouth.

“F-fuck…”

His head tipped back and he closed his eyes, “Not-thin I…I just stubbed my toe. Okay, listen Marshall don’t appreciate the short notice but I’m sure my wife will gladly accept anyway.”

Now you were really curious and maybe something else, as you rubbed your thighs together to relieve you at least a little bit of the wicked throbbing between your legs.

Sy had noticed right away that you’d gotten particularly antsy ever since he picked up the phone, wondering as to why. So he’d come up with something to test a theory of his.

“Wait before you hang up…my wife’s busy at the moment but I’m sure that you could apologise anyhow. I’ll just put ya on speaker, so she’ll hear you.”

Your husband smirked down at you as he put the phone very close to your face, after he pressed a button.

And sure enough Walter’s deep voice sounded right against your ear while you kneeled, frozen in place, massive cock inside your mouth still. You swallowed audibly, because it felt like Walter was kneeling right beside you when he spoke.

“Um hey Mrs. Syverson, I apologise for the short notice but it can’t wait till Monday. I um hope I..I don’t inconvenience you too much. Anyway I look forward to seeing you soon.” And with that he hung up rather abruptly, fortunately before you let out the most desperate whining sound you ever made.

Sy put the phone away, then slowly removed your mouth from his cock, so he’d see your expression better.

You looked utterly embarrassed not even meeting his gaze until your head snapped up when you heard him chuckle darkly.

“Interestin’. Real interestin’.”

He signalled you to stand up and you did, though on wobbly knees. Sy pushed you backwards so you’d sit on the mattress staring up at him, waiting for him to reprimand you.

Instead his next words made your cunt flutter around nothing,” Seemed like you enjoyed that a little more than I’d thought.” You were beyond words just whimpering again when he continued,” Yeah? Did Walter’s voice turn you on, mmm?”

You nodded slowly, unsure if he was mad.

Though his smirk said otherwise.

“Arms.”

He wanted you to raise your arms up, when you did, Sy pulled his t-shirt over your head exposing your tits and erect nipples to the cool air of your bedroom.

“You’d love it, if my colleague were here, mmh? Sittin’ in a chair watchin’ you slowly be undressed by your husband before he fucks you into the mattress like there’s no tomorrow. That what ya want?”

He didn’t wait for your affirmation, and simply continued his dirty tale while removing your shorts and panties in one go,” Imagine Walter moaning once he sees your perfect tits completely bared. I bet he’d grip himself real tight, fistin’ his cock just thinkin’ about this wet little hole. Wishing he was me so badly.”

“Fu-uck Sy.”

“Oh I intend to, just you wait.”

Without warning he shoved two of his big fingers into your pussy and pushed you into a laying down position. If you hadn’t been so wet it would have hurt, but now it was just a slight stretch still taking your breath away though. He immediately searched for your sweet spot with a come hither motion that had you seeing stars in seconds. You let your knees fall to the side holding onto his biceps as he leaned forward, closing the distance.

He blew cold air on your already sensitive nipples, pinching one between his thumb and forefinger, making your back bow right off the mattress. Now nearly mewling as his fingers moved quickly in and out and his mouth descended, his tongue circling the neglected nipple.

“Sy….mmmh please…”

He sucked your nipple inside his mouth adding a third finger down below and tapping your clit. Never before had you come that fast, but you exploded with bliss, writhing wildly under his still t-shirt clad chest.

Once you had calmed down a little, Sy still hadn’t removed his fingers from your spasming channel, making you whimper quietly in overstimulation. He stopped moving his hand briefly to remove his shirt one-handed, though didn’t retract his fingers from the vice grip of your cunt.

His pupils were so blown out, if you didn’t know better you’d think he was high as a kite. Though you did know better.

The incessant press of his hot cock against your thigh told you, he was just as turned on as you.

“That was fast.”

Your voice sounded rougher than usual, but at least you were able to answer verbally this time,” Mmh yes. Very…”

“Anythin’ to do with the mental picture of Walter watchin’ us, watchin’ you?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe? Alright…you think he’d just stay over there on the chair?”

You shook your head, “That’s right, he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He’d need to be closer, get a better look at this beautiful, wet pussy of yours.”

And with that he slowly removed his fingers from your weeping cunt, just to replace them with the tip of his cock.

Growling,” You think he’d believe I can fit in here? In this tiny, little hole?”

“N-no,” you croaked.

“No? Well maybe I’d just show Walter…show him who this tight, little snatch truly belongs to, mmh?”

Without warning he canted his hips forward and pushed all the way inside to the hilt.

You gasped loudly, and he gritted through his teeth,” That what you wanted?”

“Yeaaarh.” It was more a moan than a word but your husband understood anyway.

His big paws grip your waist, holding you in place as he shifted back only to drive his cock forward again, full force.

“Mmh fuck…still so damn tight.”

You feel like a ragdoll as he easily uses your body and pulls you, so you meet every single one of his powerful thrusts. You could swear he’d never fucked you this animalistically and he’d been never this verbally during sex, though you loved every second.

Sy leaned down, placing his mouth right next to your ear, now holding you by your shoulders so you couldn’t escape his never ending onslaught of thrusts. “Walter would lose his damn mind just gettin’ a feel of this heavenly pussy.”

The thought of Walter watching you, get railed by your husband drove you wild, your nails racking over Sy’s back as you clenched around his fat cock so hard he choked on a moan sounding like a wild animal.

“Aargh fuck…ya like that, huh? Thinkin’ about my colleague while takin’ my cock!? Thinkin’ about what his cock would look like when he comes all over your tummy?… because of course only I’m allowed to come inside…yeah?!”

You moved your hips in sync with his, desperately clinging to his torso, pleading, for what you weren’t sure,” Ple-ase…Sy…”

You felt so full, so stuffed, as Sy’s balls repeatedly slapped against you. Nearly sobbing, when he growled,” That’s right. Beg for me…”

“Please-plea-se Sy, gonna…gonna come…”

“What a dirty, dirty girl…comin’, thinkin’ about another guy while bein’ fucked by her husband…”

“No you…I…I…please…”

Your clit was throbbing maddeningly, then his thumb finally slipped between your bodies circling it with just the right amount of pressure.

“Look at ya….such a good girl. Comin’ stuffed full of her husband’s cock…that’s it…that’s it come for me!”

“Sy…Sy…mmmh…”

You didn’t stumble over the edge no, you shot over it like a rocked. Your orgasm ripped out of you so suddenly, you felt like you’d lost control over your bladder. The only sound you could hear, the cursing from Sy above you, and then the warmth that came from him filling you up.

He could barely hold himself up, halfway to crushing you beneath him, though you enjoyed the slick feeling of his sweat covered body against yours.

Fingers absentmindedly caressing his nape and shoulders, before you were suddenly aware of how wet your thighs actually feel…eyes opening wide…oh god had you? No, right?

Sy felt you stiffening against him, conceded blue eyes finding yours, ”I…I didn’t hurt you, right darlin’?”

He searched your face, eyes flicking between yours and then down your body as he slowly lifted his torso.

Your hand on his nape, stopped him though,” No…no you didn’t…I just, did I um did I…?”

Your embarrassed face told him what plagued your mind, so he gently cupped your face in his hands, nodding, “Mmh yeah, you just squirted like a fountain.”

You slapped his biceps, making him laugh and you in turn, smiled at his crude verbalisation of your own thoughts…bastard through and through.

“Shut up, youuu!”

“Sorry can’t do…you never did this before,” you simply wanted to sink into the mattress and never surface again, though he continued anyway,” and it was the hottest thing ever. Fuck, you catapulted me right over the damn edge with that move.”

“Don’t hide,” he tried removing your hands from your face. Once he successfully pried them away, you had no other option than to face him as he teasingly nibbled on your jawline, murmuring,” Think you can do that again?”

He sounded so innocent, uttering the complete filth that you just couldn’t hold back your laughter. Giggling even louder as he nearly looked offended. Though he chuckled himself, as your happiness and laughter always seemed contagious to him.

In the meantime he’d grown soft and once you both calmed down enough, he pulled out slowly, making you wince as all the wetness inside trickled out. He swiftly got up and returned with a wet cloth, cleaning you up gently but thoroughly.

“There we go, all cleaned up.”

You smiled warmly at him as he pulled you up into a seating position. A brief glance at the clock told you, it was only 11:50 o’clock, plenty of time to laze around a bit.

So you pulled at Sy’s wrist, while scooting back onto the middle of the mattress, he understood what you wanted and crawled onto the bed, lying down on his side facing you.

He knew you needed somewhat of a cuddling session and he gladly gave you everything your heart desired. Sy pulled you into his chest, signing contently when you started to caress his nape once more.

“Mmh, I love you darlin’.”

“I love you, too.”

You felt completely blissed out when you suddenly remembered the conversation between your husband and Walter.

Pulling back a little, so you could look at his face, you asked, “ Um Sy?”

“Yeah?”

“What was Walter apologising for, earlier?”

“Oh that…he’s coming over tonight for dinner.”

“He what,” you stared at him perplexed and a little nervous.

“Well he wanted to discuss somethin’ with me that couldn’t wait till Monday apparently…Think somethin’ about a newbie, not sure.”

“How are you not sure?”

He smirked smugly,” Oh I don’t know…maybe it had somthin’ to do with my woman tryin’ to suck my soul out through my cock, mmh?”

That earned him another meek slap on his biceps, “Sy-yy.”

“What?! That’s the truth,” he winked at you, “ah and anyway it’s not like you didn’t enjoy yourself, right?”

“Right,” you grinned at him, though your smile fell once you realised you had to face the very man that had certainly entertained your wonton desires just moments prior.

Sy’s eyebrows drew together,” What? What’s wrong?”

You buried your face in his chest, ”Oh god…oh no…what have we done…how am I supposed to face him now that…that we, you know.”

Your husband sounded more amused than anything,” Pretty sure he got the gist of what we were doin’ anyway and still played along.”

You pushed yourself away from his chest, completely dumbfounded by what Sy had just said, “Are you serious, how? Why? What did he say exactly?”

“He didn’t say nothin’. But ya know he’s a damn good Detective, yeah? He ain’t dumb. I’m pretty sure me groanin’ and sayin’ you were busy might have tipped him off.”

“Oh god…oh god…oh no.” You rolled over onto your stomach, shoving your face into a nearby pillow.

Sy still had the audacity to laugh, big hand caressing your naked back,” Darlin’ it’s natural. I’m sure Marshall knows about sex.”

You turned your head to glare at your amused husband, “Well…while I’m sure he knows about sex. I’m also pretty sure he doesn’t appreciate being include in our sex life without permission!”

He only shrugged his shoulders,” Could always ask him for permission tonight, darlin’?”

And as terrible as it sounded to your now, once more working, rational part of your brain, your pussy throbbed just thinking about it.

Your husband knew you too well, because his eyes twinkled with mischief as he murmured,” Looks like we have a plan then.”

PART 2

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