Santa Claus Reads, “THE CLOWN PUPPET” And 2 More Scary Stories For Kids!...  Creepy XMas

An Opticien torture.  You see him continuing raise up his glasses and you know it’s because they need adjustment and you just want to get in the screen and adjust those dawn glasses...

Sir! Everything about this is unacceptable!

That is great i hope this guy will do more videos!

Unmute !

Crazy For Christmas (feat. Bonnie McKee). For those who are like me and feel like they are not understand for enjoyed Christmas just after halloween is done...

Wait for it 😂 

via @edge_taylor

Holiday Concert 2022 Livestream - #1 of 3 - Dec. 17th 2022 - 3 p.m. EST

Summoning dash magic

Summoning Loki… but for some reason, he looks a bit roughed up when he lands on your floor?

from @thehissingshrimp​​ and @smolangstbean​​

Blue Raspberry, or, Oh No! It's Jotunn Mating Season! (Loki x Reader)

Summary: A continuation of the series where I write my take on my favorite fanfic clichés.

It's a heat wave at Avengers campus in New York, and Reader is desperate for relief. When she suspects that one of her teammates has a way of beating the heat, she goes on a quest to find it that leads her to Loki. The only problem is that Loki's in a bit of a situation of his own, and it's not the heat that has him feeling a bit blue...

Author's notes: These one-shots are meant to celebrate frequently used story tropes. The intent is to add new stories bi-weekly unless life gets in the way. Please feel free to comment with your favorite fanfic clichés, and I'll add them to the list!

Pairing: Loki (Marvel) x Female Reader

Content Warning: 18+ smut ahead (Reader is of age) with the tiiiiiniest bit of 🍑 content

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“It's Jotunn mating season. And I can’t fight it. Not any longer.”

You first knew something was wrong when you started seeing frosty patches all around the Avengers compound. Just one, in the kitchen at first, explainable, somehow, you thought. After all, this building was full of miraculous oddities. But then you saw them in the gym, on the floor and on the rack that held the weights. Then you saw them in the upstairs common area - the television’s remote was frozen solid to the coffee table. Pretty soon you saw them almost everywhere - on door knobs, on chairs, and occasionally you even saw a window frosted over.

You might not have normally made much note of these occurrences, strangeness was your business as an Avenger after all, had it not been for two unique facts:

The first was that campus had been relatively empty those last few weeks, with many of the senior Avengers off-world with Nova Corps, and the rest touring the globe on a campaign of peace and safety. Other than normal non-enhanced staff, it was just you, and Banner, and Loki.

The second unique fact, and perhaps the most relevant one, was that it was the middle of summer. In upstate New York. It was sweltering. You were sweltering. The whole idea of frost seemed rather inconceivable.

As part of an energy reduction campaign, Tony and FRIDAY had set the campus’s thermostat to precisely 76 degrees Fahrenheit, and there was no changing it. You found it was an acceptable temperature for desk work and for lounging, but you were used to much milder climates than New York summers, and after only ten minutes outside, or ten minutes of exercise in the gym, or even ten minutes walking around the expanse of the campus, it was almost impossible to cool off. You found yourself taking cold showers to wash away the accumulated sweat, and standing in front of the open refrigerator door until the polite but firm voice of FRIDAY warned you of your energy consumption.

The mysterious icy patches proposed a tantalizing mystery. Perhaps someone had discovered a way to bring the chill inside - something that wouldn’t raise any of FRIDAY’s alarms. Maybe you could even get in on that action, you thought. And so you began your investigation.

Bruce seemed like the obvious choice to have some sort of personal cooling device. He had the skills to make something like that - pretty easy for him, you assumed - and the motive. After all, if you were hot, you couldn’t imagine how overheated the Hulk must be. Plus, he had the kind of rapport with Tony where you thought he could get away with just about anything. But you watched him, for many hours, almost the whole day, in the full heat of the sun beating on the campus’s enormous windows… and nothing. No sign of frost or cooling. In fact, the way that he unbuttoned his mauve shirt suggested that he was perhaps just as uncomfortable around the machinery and bunsen burners in his lab as you were after a run.

So that left Loki as the next logical candidate. He had been on a streak of good behavior those last couple years, but you didn’t put him beyond a contraband air conditioner, or even some sort of magical ice packs. He seemed somewhat more impervious to temperature fluctuations compared to the human Avengers, but even he was known to break a sweat after…

It was just then that it occurred to you that you hadn’t actually seen Loki in several days. It wasn’t uncommon for you and him to train together (his balletic ways of fighting challenged and elevated your scrappy self-taught form) or go for runs on one of the compounds tracks (his easy pace with those long lean legs was always a sight- you had to really push yourself to match him). You had also grown accustomed to his chiding, playful taunts haunting the halls and the dinner table. In your preoccupation with the heat, you hadn’t even noticed his absence.

And that’s when you began to worry. Thor was usually responsible for keeping an eye on his brother - for Loki’s sake and for everyone else’s. But Thor had gone off world, and perhaps you and Bruce had been negligent in making sure that Loki was relatively happy and well.

You tried to think back to the last time the you’d even seen him. It was two days prior, and you were standing in the kitchen having just shut the freezer door after FRIDAY’s chiding, robotic remarks. You’d retrieved a popsicle after your run, your favorite kind from childhood, high-fructose corn syrup be damned - Blue Raspberry. You remembered it distinctly - trying to beat the heat, wearing only a sports bra and your shortest running shorts, watching the surface of the lurid blue treat cover with frost before licking is slowly with long laps of your tongue. You did this over and over again, just waiting for your body to cool down, still glistening with a sheen of sweat.

It wasn’t until you’d slowly devoured over half of the thing that you noticed Loki standing in the entryway, watching, looking slightly uncomfortable. When you noticed him you caught his eye and held it, not sure what to do. Maybe he wanted a popsicle. Maybe he found your lack of dress indecent. Maybe he was just mad that you hadn’t asked him to go on your run. Whatever it was, your brain was too foggy with heat and exercise endorphins to ask, so you just stared at each other until you were snapped out of your revery by the sensation of the popsicle’s sticky liquid slowly dripping down your arm.

Startled, you lapped it up with more long licks of your tongue, and stuck the remainder of your treat into your mouth entirely, slurping and sucking on it hard to remove the accumulating juice on the treat’s surface lest it drip further. You heard Loki groan, sort of a deep whimper, before he ran off and left you to cool down in solitude. Those Space Boys are weird, you remembered thinking, but quickly forgot about it. After all, if you were to analyze every peculiar interaction you had with the collection of weirdos known as the Avengers, you’d simply never get anything done.

You decided you’d bring Loki a popsicle. A sign of good faith, and perhaps a bargaining tool. You’d give him one of your popsicles in exchange for a few minutes in front of whatever freezer situation he’d contrived. You knew processed sugar was relatively new to him, so it might actually work.

When you reached the door to his rooms you could see the distinctive fractal pattern of ice starting to grow around his doorframe. You knew you’d got your guy. You prepared for the sweet bliss of contraband AC and gave his door three swift taps with your knuckle before it slid open.

“Ha! Busted,” you said, used to trading quick quips and playful banter, ready to be vindicated for your suspicions.

But Loki’s arm grabbed you, and pulled you in his room before you could even think, much less protest. The door slammed behind as you struggled to comprehend what you were looking at. Every piece of furniture in Loki’s room was edged with the crystalline glimmer of frost, and on the floor was a path of tracks on an icy white ground, like footfall in the snow. And standing there, beside you, was Loki, shirtless and clammy, and rather blue in the gills. He looked wracked, and uncomfortable. His eyes were tinged red, like he hadn’t slept in days, and his usual pallor was even colder than normal.

“What do you want?” It was half growl, half choke and he glared at you with those bloodshot eyes of his.

“I came to bring you a treat, and check to see if you’re alright. Loki, are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” he reached out to grab the frozen snack from your hand, his chilled fingers brushing yours, “Thank you. Now you should leave.”

“Loki, you’re freezing! What’s going on?” You ignored his words, and instead reached up to touch his forehead, then his cheek with the back of your hand.

Loki let out another groan, not dissimilar to the one he’d released days before in the kitchen, “It… It’s embarrassing, now please go before I… Before I lose control,” and with those last two words something inside Loki released, like floodwaters cracking a dam. His eyes turned crimson, and his pale, sickly skin shifted to a robust blue - the color of a clear summer sky. Brilliant and gleaming. Marks trailed along his skin, adorning his chest and face and arms with intricate, curving patterns.

“What… what is this?” You stammered as he stalked even closer to you, backing you up against the chilled door.

“This…” his head hung low, brushing the cool tips of his fingers against your flush and nervous lips, “It's Jotunn mating season. And I can’t fight it. Not any longer.”

Loki’s thumb pressed on your mouth’s opening, and you let him slide inside, your lips now parted, partly from astonishment, partly from relenting to his thumb’s soft pressure. Your mind raced recalling the slurry of facts and fictions you’d been told about the demigod in front of you. It had been hard to parse the man from the myth, especially after a thousand years of stories making him larger than life. You’d heard he was adopted. You’d heard he wasn’t quite Asgardian. You’d heard he’d had a rocky falling out with his father. You knew the old stories of Odin’s battles against the Frost Giants. All of the pieces were coming together. The secret Loki must have been hiding for so long. It broke your heart a little, but also thrilled you. It was a rare occurrence in your line of work to be genuinely surprised by something.

You closed your mouth around his thumb, relishing in its chill against your tongue, and the icy tinge of his fingers along your jaw.

“When I was young, I was told brutal stories of Jotunn warriors whipped into a frenzy every fifteen hundred years, when the cosmos were aligned just-so, their appetites became insatiable, and they spread across the nine realms, taking whoever they pleased to satisfy their primal need to breed,” he tossed aside the snack you’d brought him, and placed his hand on the curve of your hip instead. He drank in the scent of you off your hair, moaning into a whimper once more, “I do not wish to take you, but these urges are becoming hard to quell on my own. My biology is taking over. Leave now or submit yourself to my whim,” his hand already tugging at the waistband of your pants.

Everywhere he touched you, you felt a sweet icy release from your blistering condition. Instead of pulling away, you leaned into him, acquiescing.

Loki pulled down your pants on one swift motion, leaving you bare from the waist down, As you stepped out of your shoes, he removed your top, exposing you to the decidedly cool air of his room, making your sensitive skin prickle with delight and arousal.

With a firm and steady pressure, Loki pressed on your shoulders, urging you to your knees to kneel in front of him, his lower half clad, for the moment only in grey, standard issue Avengers sweatpants. The bulge was pronounced, formidable in its cloth trappings. You pulled at the elastic hugging his sharp cerulean hips - partly from curiosity, partly from growing desire. It had been so long since you’d indulged with another, your duties making it difficult. And you had to admit that you’d spent more than one night alone in your room thinking about Loki’s broad shoulders, and thin hips and sharp jaw, and what he kept hidden underneath all of that black leather.

You were not disappointed.

Loki only left you a moment to admire his glorious erection before he was guiding it into your mouth and pressing it towards your throat. The chill filled your mouth with wanton arousal. It was so much more satisfying than Blue Raspberry. He ran his brisk fingers along your scalp, grabbing fistfuls of hair. You braced yourself, hands on his hips and forearms flush against his thighs. The warmth growing between your legs contrasting deliciously with his wintry skin.

You relaxed into the rhythm of him pushing and pulling you from him, slower at first, then reaching a fervent pace - his animalistic groans reverberating in your core, making you slick with elation at the unexpected turn the afternoon had taken. Your eyes watered from his size, his speed, and his temperature. Your hot spit clung to him, condensing, not unlike your frozen treats. Before long, Loki’s grunts became deeper and more rapt, he pressed himself into you as far as he could go, nearly gagging you with his desire as he let loose, coming with great wails into your gaping mouth.

Almost before you could swallow or blink back your tears, Loki’s hands were on you again, grabbing your upper arm, leaving a chilled pink impression, pulling you upright, leading you, and throwing you against the bed.

You broke your fall onto his mattress with your hands and knees trembling with confused anticipation, hot slick between your groin. If you didn’t know better you thought your skin might be actually steaming from the flush of your body in Loki’s frigid presence. Your experience with other men would have you thinking that this was the point where your amorous interactions would be finished, leaving you horny and unsatisfied, but nothing about Loki’s actions left you feeling like he was done with you.

Loki’s chilled hand ran down your spine, and you could feel his still somehow still erect tip lightly kiss your eager entrance. He grabbed your hair at the same time he entered you with one deep, forceful thrust. You moaned in unison, deep and desperate. The velvety cool contrast of his penis sliding against your slick, sultry walls was as thrilling as it was luxuriant. As he pulled out and pushed in again, and again, and again your knees began to tremble - your pinned body’s only supports against Loki’s muscular weight were beginning to weaken from the full, chilled pressure he was pushing into you.

Loki relaxed his grip on your hair, dropping his forehead low, gently touching the nape of your neck. He puffed hot breaths on your spine in an increasing rhythm that opposed the frosty brushes of his cheek and forehead. Your fingers gripped at his snowy white sheets as you braced against your inevitable fall. Your moaning into the mattress became whinier and his grunts into your back became more insistent.

Loki leaned back, running a hand down your back, spreading an exquisite chill along with it. He stopped for a moment at the base of your spine, then added his thumb, drawing it down, slowly to your other entrance until there was a firm, bitingly cold pressure at your opening.

All he had to do was press gently to send you over the edge into euphoria.

The delightful contrast of temperatures playing across your body, and the weighty fullness of your cunt pushed you to elation. Your own glorious undoing in the hands of a Frost Giant. As you squeezed and clenched around his cock, Loki followed, letting your spasms pull him deeper as he let loose his second burden inside of you, filling you up once more.

When Loki pulled out you collapsed, still face down in his sheets as you slowly leaked and calmed your satisfied breath, cheeks flush, but the places where his skin had so recently met yours still remembering the refreshing, frigid chill. Loki sank into the bed beside you, catching his breath and placed one long, toned arm on your back, pinning you there, as if your legs could ever regain the strength to carry you anywhere ever again. But the brisk weight of him was as comforting as it was possessive. AC and the cold air of the freezer were distant and intangible delights, but Loki was real, and he was physical, and he was the most beautiful blue.

The reality of your act was settling on you then. His alienness was an abstract concept before, but there he was, in all his outer-world glory, big and beautiful and unique in this world. You stared at him through the blur of your afterglow, trying to memorize the lines on his skin through your haze.

“You’re staring,” he half-growled, eyes still closed. He dug his fingers onto the flesh of your rear, a little harder than was playful.

“You’re beautiful,” your words slightly muffled by ecstasy and his sheets.

Loki eased his grip and rolled his head towards you, opening his eyes so that his red gaze met yours, “You don’t fear me? Not even like this?”

“It’s a little late for that,” you smirked half into his sheets, “No. I think you’re exquisite.”

“I’ve often thought about you. Late at night. But I told myself you were off-limits,” his gaze was intense but sincere. You were so used to him hiding his feelings behind humor.

“How long is Joutunn mating season?”

“It lasts for one more week at least.”

You smiled slowly, lazily, “Just as long as this heatwave.”

“Well then, it seems we’ve found relief from both of our predicaments,” he rolled on top of you once again, hips low so you could feel him grow wanting once again against your leg. He kissed at the base of your neck then across your back, ticking you with the frosty tip of his nose.

“Loki!” You bubbled up a laugh, “Aren’t you satisfied?”

He shifted his weight, bringing his lips back to your ear.

“Oh darling, you should know by now that satisfaction is not in my nature.”

If you liked this, please comment and reblog!

You can find me on Ao3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aesir_Alchemist/pseuds/Aesir_Alchemist

Limerence

credit to dravenxiv for the gif.

(*Apologies for the use of Sindarin but there is not enough Elder speech in the Witcher books to correctly formulate what I wanted to say.)

The mattress at the inn is underfilled and sags beneath Eskel’s weight, rolling you gently towards him. He lies awake, watching the hours drift by in the stuffy room but sleep eludes him.

He runs through the day’s events, mentally tallying your remaining supplies, wonders if he’ll be able to pick up a couple more contracts before you reach Kaedwen.

The shutter at the window is broken and the moonlight that spills through the cracks gilds your skin and renders the rest of the room shabby and uninviting. Your hair has slipped free from its ties and spreads like a stain across the pillow.

You stir, pressing back against him, lips moving in silent prayer. The curve of your cheek is flushed, your breathing erratic and shallow. He can hear the quick thrum of your pulse, the twitch of your carotid under his fingertips. Your heartbeat is fast but steady, you have no fever but yet you are restless, eyelids fluttering, body rippling.

This is not good business, he’s your escort to Ard Carraigh - a hired sword, no more, no less. A muscle in his jaw begins to tic as he watches you, hears you moan softly into the threadbare pillow. He knows he should have insisted on taking the floor, that this would only lead to awkwardness and embarrassment for him, would only lead him back into the familiar dance of longing and rejection but you had been utterly wide eyed with innocence and so insistent that he had relented and slipped his tired body under the sheets next to yours.

He closes his eyes, wills himself to find sleep, but it slips eel-quick through his grasp. He sits up with a gentle huff, readies himself to swing his long legs off the side of the bed and sleep on the floor, stilling at the sound of his name on your lips, breathy and needy and gods it sounds so beautiful when you say it.

He is an aberration, unworthy of you and yet, curled next to your sleeping frame, his humanity is all too stark, all too real.The dull itch of his scars flares up and he releases a breath he didn’t realise he was holding, fingers flexing over the dark rivers of twisted skin on the right side of his face. Again, he hears it, his name on your lips and he is half hard with want already. He palms his twitching cock, squeezes it lightly as it thickens and fills his hand, resting his head back against the tattered headboard.

He is all too used to taking his pleasure at his own hand but this feels different - he knows he’s running a terrible risk, knows this is oh so wrong. He will have to be discreet, the thought takes him back to being a teenager in a draughty shared room in Kaer Morhen all those years ago. No, it would be improper and unprofessional. Gods she’s attractive though, she’s fucking killing me.

It has been too long since he heard his name on a woman’s lips, too long since he felt desirable. Here you are, moaning his name in your dreams and just for a second, he thinks it could be real. Just for a fleeting moment he allows himself to imagine you fucking him, whimpering out his name as he buries his face in your hair and oh gods its so good.

You roll over, arch and stretch, reaching for the gentle warmth of his body to anchor you back to your slumber. Your eyes, leaden with sleep, open to see Eskel, eyes closed, cock in hand, mouth slack and lost in his pleasure and a thin coil of heat unfurls low in your belly.

The sharp intake of your breath snatches him back to his senses. A wash of shame, hot and bitter rolls over him. He wants to tell you to leave, that it is too much to let you see him like this but the air eats his words and it is all he can do to stutter out his apologies in the desperate scrabble to pull his trousers on.

Had he felt, with his witcher senses, the hammer-blows of your heartbeat as you curled against him, had he heard his name on your lips as you dreamed?

Your hand on his forearm tugs him back towards the bed, slim fingers pressing with surprising strength on the corded muscles, swelling the growing silence between you both. You slide your hand slowly up his arm your fingers lingering over the shift and play of his muscles and bring it to rest on his chest. His skin is warm, soft dark curls peek out from the worn linen of his shirt, and you count the spaces between each slow heartbeat.

He exhales a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding, waits mute for the arrows of your contempt to rain down on him, scans your features for distaste or pity. It has been such a long time since anyone touched him without anger or fear.

“I should leave”, he says, his voice barely a husky whisper.

“Wait”, you say as your gaze lands on his stiffened cock.

He colours, rubs a hand over his scarred face, “…it’s been a while…I heard you say my name, you seemed…” he trails off, not wishing to cause further embarrassment to either of you.

“I apologise for any offence caused”.

“Do you often take your pleasure at your own hand?”

He shrugs, “I’m not human. I am not to everyone’s taste.” He keeps his voice dispassionate but the loneliness is palpable and your heart breaks for him.

Who ever said witchers don’t feel?

You trace a lazy pattern over his heart and he stills, casting his gaze down at your errant fingers.

“I’m not offended,” you say with studied insouciance.

Oh it is too much. He can feel the warmth of your hand on his chest, hear the rapid staccato of your heartbeat, he sees the steady blush that creeps across your cheeks. The boldness of your touch thrills him but he needs to be sure, experience has taught him not to trust a human’s words. His stubble prickles and rasps against your skin, as he presses his face to the crook of your neck and drags his nose along the curve of your jawline and you register with a faint flutter that he’s smelling you.

Your heart skitters and your breath hitches in your throat, it is so easy to forget that beneath his quiet, thoughtful demeanour there is magic in him, coiled beneath his skin, dark and ancient.

His nostrils flare, he indulges himself with the fragrance of your skin, the faint hint of summer blossoms and warm hay peeking through the heady scent of your arousal. He closes his eyes, lets it envelop his senses and drowns in it.

You have grown impatient so your kiss, when it comes, is a taste of honey to a starving man and he freezes, knowing better than to push his luck but your lips are so warm and full and soft that just for a second he presses his lips back against yours and allows himself to imagine a life where he is loved by someone other than the whores he pays in heavy coin.

You take his lower lip between your teeth and tug gently and oh gods the moan he lets out is sinful and wicked. He cradles your upturned face in his massive calloused hands, returns your kiss with a deliberate intensity that leaves you feverish and glassy-eyed. You lick up into his mouth, your hands splayed against the soft curls and broad planes of his chest before divesting him of his shirt, teasingly slow.

There is so much horror writ large on his frame, each ridged and puckered scar a silent testament to a life bereft of tenderness. The scar across his lip is surprisingly soft and his kisses are not gentle but rather, urgent, insistent, as he licks into your mouth, nips at your lower lip. He tastes unexpectedly sweet, like midsummer ale but too soon the spell is broken and you break apart, panting pressing your forehead against his, your mouth curling into a slow, sweet smile.

“I didn’t know witchers could kiss like that”

“We lack emotion, not ability,” he quips.

Gods but your smile is like the sun, he thinks and a part of him hates himself because he knows come tomorrow there’ll be regrets and awkwardness when you wake up next to his ruined face, but if he closes his eyes he can make believe you’ll stay.

A sinuous curving scar snakes its way from his shoulder to his hip and you run a fingertip along its length before pressing a kiss to it. He lets out a low groan, those amber eyes widening.

“So Witchers do feel”, you say.

Your words catch him unawares and a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. It is a curious thing, a cruel trick of nature that at his happiest he should look so abhorrent. He checks himself and carefully composes his face into his usual scowl.

“Hmmm”, he growls as your kisses sear his skin, he chases your lips greedily, wine drunk on the taste of you. A gentle tug at the laces of your nightdress, and he teases each one apart like pulling petals from a flower. Slipping the fabric over one shoulder, then another until it pools at your waist, his eyes darken, no longer the colour of sunlight on newly minted coin.

You suddenly feel exposed, the night air no longer stuffy, you shiver, moving your arms to cover your breasts. He slides his fingers down your shoulders, skates over the warm skin of your arms, takes your hands in his, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles.

“My Gods”, he rasps, “may I?”

He ghosts his lips over the juncture of your neck, kisses feather soft over the spot where your pulse thrummed beneath your skin, murmuring endearments as he skims his fingertips down your chest and gently pries your hands away. The skin of your breast is velvet, he cups it in his palm, darts his tongue across the peak of your nipple, gently laving at its stiffened peak before sucking hard.

Gods but you see stars, a whimper of delight slips from your mouth and his dark hair welcomes the sharp twist of your fingers as you lace them to his crown. He teases each breast in turn, releasing your nipples, sensitive and flushed with a soft wet pop. He is slow, deliberately slow, pressing his kisses to every pulse point as he snakes his way down your body, marvelling at the yield of your flesh, so unlike the battle hardened planes of his own. His hand hovers at your hip, his mouth kissing its way down your abdomen igniting a flare of heat between your legs that has you squirming, before stilling and shifting his weight, making his way up your body and kissing your mouth again.

“Tell me you want this. Tell me there’ll be no regrets in the morning.”

He is fervent, voice shaking, his eyes fixed on your face. You wilt under his steady gaze but nod your assent.

“Say it. Please.”

“I want this. I want you, Eskel.”

He sighs, relief crossing his heavy features and resumes his tender assault on your lips, allows himself to lick and suck a meandering path back down your body before pulling your hips down the bed and pressing his mouth to your cunt. His hands curl behind your thighs, holding you open, strong nose pressing against your clit as he drags the flat of his tongue across the seam of your sex.

His mouth is hot and wet, a warm whorl of breath against your cunt that makes your skin tingle. He kisses and licks your folds, feasting upon the sweet slick of your arousal, spreading you wide with deft fingers. A thick finger breaches you, filling you up to the knuckle, catching that sweet spot deep inside that makes your toes curl and your blood sing.

“Fuck”, he groans, as he hollows his cheeks and sucks at your clit, the tiny bundle of nerves licking lightning up your spine, thundering your heartbeat loud in your ears.

The way your back arches off the bed lets him know he’s pleasing you and you are grateful for the flex of his bicep to anchor you in place.

He adds another finger, crooks it just so in a come hither motion, pumps his fingers into the wet, velvet heat of your cunt before returning to his ministrations, his mouth a hot seal around your swollen clit.

Gods but you are beautiful he thinks as you grind against him, your legs shaking and trembling, hands twisting into his dark hair, leaving Braille patterns against your slim fingertips.

Almost, almost. He teases you, curling his tongue, tasting the rapid crescendo of your pulse as it hammers in your chest.

“Eskel, oh gods Eskel!”

His name never sounded as sweet as when it came from your lips in breathy gasps and whines, the flood tides of your orgasm rising as your legs shake and your fingers tug his hair. He lets your legs give out, all sense of reason long abandoned and watches you beneath heavy lidded eyes, lazily lapping at you as you twitch and writhe through your release.

He rises from between your legs, wipes your come from his face with the back of his hand. You rise to meet him, rubbing against him like a sated cat, pushing up on tip toes to capture his lips in a kiss. He tastes of you and you moan into his mouth as you feel the twitch of his cock against your stomach. His massive hand spans your neck, as he runs kisses down the line of your jaw, tentatively at first before pressing his calloused fingers by degrees into the plump flesh of your arse.

His cock is warm and solid in your hand, a small pearl of pre come glistening at the tip. He shudders, cants his hips as you swipe your thumb across it and it emboldens you. Sinking to your knees, you wrap a hand around his shaft and press a kiss to the tip.

He hisses as you gently lave him with your tongue before opening your mouth wider and taking him deeper. You let out a hum of contentment as he becomes slick in your mouth, wrapping your hand around the base, where your mouth can’t reach.

He swallows hard as you peer up at him through dark lashes and it’s honestly all he can do not to try to fuck your mouth.Your lips feel much softer around his cock than he could have possibly imagined. Gods he had tried though.

Bobbing your head you set a slow, intense pace, feeling the the throb of his cock against the roof of your mouth as you palm his balls. You take him to the hilt, watching his knees buckle slightly before releasing him with a soft pop, languidly stroking his spit slicked shaft.

“Do you like this Eskel?” you purr, “do like your cock in my mouth?”

Eskel grits out a growl of pleasure, the sound of low thunder, tangling his fingers in your hair before guiding you gently back to his cock.

You take your time, pressing and caressing your tongue against the underside of Eskel’s dick, sheathing him once more in the wet heat of your mouth before picking up the pace, working your hand over the base of his cock earning a soft moan from Eskel as his hand tightens in your hair.Two, three strokes more and he suddenly pulls back, his cock falling from your lips, bobbing under its own weight. The confusion in your eyes gives him a moment’s pause.

“Not yet…..not like this. Need to be inside you.”

He puts a hand under your elbow and guides you to your feet, tilting your face towards his and claiming your lips in a passionate kiss before pushing you back on the bed.

Eskel kneels, wrapping your legs around his waist, savours the grip of your thighs around his waist as he draws his cock through the slick of your cunt a few times. You whimper in anticipation as he slides his arm under your leg, levering it up to rest your calf on his broad shoulder and presses into you, inch by torturous inch. He grinds into you slowly, watching your face skew with pleasure at the sweet stretch as he seats himself within you. A slow roll of his hips as he bottoms out sends a jolt of ecstasy through you and you grasp him like he is a pillar of safety, his body your refuge as your nails leave a pattern of crescent moons on his upper arms.

Sweet Melitele you have never been so full and you can feel his cock pulse thickly, deep in the recesses of your body. Your cunt’s grip is like a velvet fist and Eskel stills, not wishing to lose control like some inexperienced boy. One heartbeat, two heartbeats and he’s pulling out before snapping his hips forward in a punishing pace, large thumb rubbing your sensitive clit.

“Oh Gods Eskel!” your voice an incredulous whisper at the sweet lick of fire in your veins. Tiny beads of sweat prickle and bead on your skin, the sound of your moans punctuated by the rattle of the headboard against the wall. He growls in your ear, as he drives into you, over and over again, thumb ghosting over your swollen clit, the feel of his heavy balls slapping against your skin and the air thick with sweat and sin.

You chase your pleasure greedily, flexing the muscles of your cunt and gasping out soft curses into the night air as the drag of his cock against your walls makes you see stars. Your orgasm washes over you, makes your body sing a song as old as the ebb and flow of the tides.

His eyes, black as the boundless night skies never leave yours, fucking you through your climax, wallowing in the unfettered joy of your release before spilling into you in a tumble of muttered obscenities. He slumps on top of you, heavy and warm and you revel in the safety of his body. This man has no need to boast of his stamina, his prowess, so unlike the lovers of your callow youth and it thrills you.

He wonders at how you came to lie next to him, sweat slicked and drowsy, sated on pleasure but time remembered does not flow smoothly and he cannot pinpoint the moment he registered with sharp, unyielding disbelief the nature of your affections.

Perhaps it was your eyes, mirror bright with mirth as you rode alongside him,  the warm sun of your dark gaze as he helped you from your horse or the ghost of your touch on his arm that….he groans, rolls off and covers his face with his arm. It doesn’t matter, there is no place for love in a Witcher’s life.

You wonder if you have disappointed him

"Eskel” you murmur, “did I not please you?”

He turns to look at you and you hoard the gold of his gaze like a miser. He looks utterly wrecked, lips pink and puffy, dark hair in disarray. Eskel thinks he may never have the strength to leave your bed and resume the Path. He exhales heavily, presses the ruin of his face into the softness of your hair, inhaling deeply and muttering something softly in Elder speech. “Guren min gaim lín, melethril nîn”

His arm wraps around you, pulls you close, your head resting against his chest. He kisses the top of your head tenderly.

“What did you say?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Then there is no shame in the telling is there?” you look up at him with wide eyes and he colours under your gaze, his voice a low rumble.

“My heart is in your hands, my love”

Ivan Black’s kinetic sculpture. 

Witcher 2 & 3 tribute || ☙ Iorveth's wrath ❧