hey everybody! you can call me dove (my pronouns are... kinda murky right now, but either she/her or they/them work). i've been a longtime lurker in the witcher dead dove community, so i'm really excited to get started! you can find my kink list, preferences, and general blog rules here. please read that post in its entirety before sending me anything.
feel free to send me asks! i of course reserve the right to not respond if the questions get too personal, but otherwise i’d love to chat :)
Not kink-related or anything but your Valdo and Jaskier being brothers got me thinking. Which one's better in your opinion: Valdo Pankratz or Julian Alfred Marx/Jaskier Marx?
hey you! in my last post i gave them both the last name marx to make things easier-- if i’d gone more in depth, i probably would have made jaskier’s mom’s maiden name pankratz just for the easter egg. i think my preference depends on the power differential involved. like, in my story, valdo is the one in control, so i gave them both his canon last name, but if the roles had been reversed i probably would have given both valdo and jaskier the surname pankratz. it makes the submissive party seem more like an extension of the dominant party than their own independent person, and while that is often not true to life in most instances, when i’m writing dead dove fic i like to lean into the problematic nature of patronymic surnames lol
so i’ve got some fantastic prompts in my inbox right now (anon who sent me bimbofication i am kissing you on the lips) that i’m going to start getting to next week. i am very excited to be back online (i’ve had a rough few months irl) and i’m going to try and be more responsive, so feel free to send asks/prompts/etc.!
hi! could you do something with jaskier and valdo marx being brothers? (biological, half-brothers, adopted, i don't care). maybe valdo is the one to take his little brother's virginity and show him how sex is done? 👀
AN: I am so so sorry I’ve been MIA from this blog! I’m just finishing up finals, so hopefully, I’ll be able to get to the prompts in my inbox in the next month or so. I’m not completely happy with how this turned out, but I hope you enjoy it! :)
When Valdo promised to his dad a favor this summer, he had not bargained for being a live-in nanny, but step-mother dearest had wanted to go on a European Getaway, and Anthony Marx was nothing if not amenable to whatever his little whore wanted from him, so Valdo was stuck at home for the summer looking after his kid brother.
Yeah, maybe he hadn’t gotten the internships he’d wanted and his dad was paying him, but Valdo would have rather spent his summer working a minimum-wage gig at a fast food place than spend any time with the little shit. Sure, Jaskier was a nice enough kid, but he was loud and looked like his mom and never. stopped. talking.
“It won’t be so bad,” Pris, Jaskier’s usual nanny, soothed over the phone while Valdo watched the kid squint over one of the Harry Potter books while sitting at the kitchen island, whispering the words to himself as he read, unable to even read quietly. “You’re his big brother, and he adores you, asks his dad for stories about you every night at dinner. Besides, he’s an easy kid. Not too picky an eater, doesn’t really throw tantrums. The only thing that might be difficult is getting him in bed at a decent time, but again, he’s a sweetheart and he likes to please. He’ll back down on staying up late if he sees it makes you upset.”
Valdo rolled his eyes, thanking her for her advice to be polite before turning back to the kid.
“Hey,” Valdo said as he walked over to his brother, stopping behind the barstool to take a peek at what the kid was reading. Jaskier turned immediately to look up at him, blue eyes wide and bright. “What do you want for dinner tonight?”
“Whatever you want, Valdo,” Jaskier hummed, leaning his head back to rest against Valdo’s chest. The barstool was tall enough so that the top of his head brushed Valdo’s chin. “I like anything.”
—
Valdo was going to kill the kid.
“What were you thinking?” Valdo yelled, slamming a fist on the table and taking sick satisfaction on how it made Jaskier jump. Good riddance, he thought. Served the asshole right for ruining the first lay he’d had in months. Brittney had been all for fucking until she thought he’d had a kid. She was out the door before he could explain that Jaskier wasn’t so much his kid as the bane of his existence and the reason his dad married his secretary when he should have just kept banging her on the down-low. It’s not like Valdo’s mom would have cared. “What did I tell you about going into my room?”
“I’m sorry!” Jaskier cried, tucking his knees to his chest as he sobbed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to!”
“What were you thinking?” Valdo asked again, this time a little less angry because, for all his faults, Jaskier did respect Valdo’s personal space and never entered his room without knocking first.
“You sounded like you were hurt,” Jaskier hiccuped. “And I didn’t— you haven’t ever been home for this long in years and I missed you and I didn’t want you to get hurt because what if you had to go to the hospital and I was all alone? She sounded like she was hurting you and you said that I could come into your room without knocking if it was an emergency.”
It took a second for Valdo to realize what Jaskier meant, but when he did he had to stifle a laugh. Jaskier wasn’t even ten. Of course he didn’t know what sex was, much less what it sounded like. For all their dad’s faults, he always locked his bedroom door, so even Valdo wasn’t entirely sure what he got up to with his flavors of the month.
It was actually kind of sweet, that Jaskier barged into his room because he thought his big brother was getting hurt. Obnoxious as fuck, of course, but sweet. Valdo was starting to see what Pris meant.
“She wasn’t hurting me,” Valdo assured Jaskier, going around the table to kneel down next to the kid so he could meet his eyes. He used his thumb to wipe a few stray tears off the kid’s face, ignoring the weird feeling in his stomach as Jaskier leaned into the touch. “We were— playing a game, that’s all.”
Jaskier’s brow furrowed in a way that had Valdo biting his lip to hide his smile.
“Like Minecraft?”
“Yeah,” Valdo laughed, noticing how Jaskier perked up at the sound and feeling that same swooping feeling in his gut. “Like Minecraft.”
Jaskier cocked his head to one side, his nose bumping up against Valdo’s palm.
“You should play it with me, then,” Jaskier said decisively. “Since it’s my fault your other friend left. Is it hard to play?”
Valdo’s mouth went dry.
“‘Cause I’m real smart,” Jaskier continued. “And I can play hard games. Like Poker, which is a lot of math. Or Cooking Diary, which goes really really fast. And brothers on TV always play games together, and Momma promised me that you and I would do all kinds of fun things, so maybe this can be one of them! I know you’re, like, a bajillion years older than me, but I’m a big kid and I can play with you until your friend comes back.”
Fuck, the kid talked a lot.
—
“Okay, Jaskier,” Valdo said. “What are the rules?”
“I can’t tell anyone the rules or that I know how to play,” Jaskier recited by rote. “I do everything you tell me when and how you tell me to do it. If I get ten points I get a reward and if I ever go below zero points there’s a— a penalty.”
“Good job,” Valdo crooned, letting warmth into his voice. “You ready to play now?”
Valdo chuckled as Jaskier nodded vigorously.
“Okay,” he said. “First things first, you gotta take your clothes off.”
“What?” Jaskier squawked, grabbing his shirt with two little hands like it was going to run away from him. “But—“
“Don’t worry Jas,” Valdo soothed. Obviously he didn’t want to have to fight the kid on everything, but he was okay with starting off slow if it trained him up in the long run. “I’m doing it too, see?”
Jaskier took a moment to start moving, but once he saw that Valdo was also stripping, he obeyed with good grace. Soon, they were both nude, and Valdo got to look his fill.
Fuck if the boy wasn’t sweetness incarnate. He was so tiny, his knees knobby and legs and arms soft and bare. His neck was begging to be bitten, all pale milky skin, and his tiny little cock made Valdo’s mouth water. Slowly, Valdo circled his baby brother, taking a long, slow breath as he eyed Jaskier’s pert ass.
“Round 1,” Valdo breathed as he picked up his brother to lay him down on the bed, almost clumsy in his eagerness. Jaskier looked up at him quizzically, turning pink in embarrassment as Valdo pressed their bellies together. He felt the boy's cocklet brush his abs— barely— and had to stifle a groan. “Is about learning new words.”
“Why do we have to be naked to learn new words?”
“Because, Jaskier,” Valdo answered, using one hand to brush a lock of hair out of his brother’s eyes. “You can’t play the rest of the game if you don’t know these words.”
Carefully, Valdo taught the words and their rules to Jaskier, thumbing his lips and telling Jaskier that anytime Valdo used his fleshlight he’d get two points. Ghosting his fingers across the crack of his ass and telling Jaskier that his bitchhole was worth four points. Taking his brother’s hands in his mouth and whispering around Jaskier’s fingers that anytime he used his hands, he’d get one point.
“Hands isn’t a new word,” Jaskier mumbled, eyes wide and curious as Valdo swirled his tongue around his fingertips.
“No,” Valdo agreed, sliding off the boy’s hands with a wet pop. “But you’ll be using them in new ways.”
Valdo went on to explain the rest of the rules, lightly pressing his lips to any part of Jaskier’s lithe body he could
“The game is about making each other feel good,” he told Jaskier, “because I’m older, you have to gain points by making me feel good before you get to feel good. All you have to do is let me use your fleshlight, your hands, or your bitchhole when I ask you to and you’ll feel good in no time. All you have to do is listen, okay?”
Valdo didn’t bother waiting for his brother’s response, slotting his mouth onto Jaskier’s. The kid knew what this was, at least, and pursed his lips to kiss him back, close-mouthed. When Valdo deepened the kiss, he used his grip on Jaskier’s chin to make sure the boy opened for him, groaning as Jaskier sloppily attempted to meet his questing tongue with his own.
“That’s two points, baby,” Valdo hummed, skimming his hands over Jaskier’s asscheeks. “Good job.”
—
Valdo kept to kissing and touching for the first week, giving Jaskier extra dessert or computer time with every ten points the boy earned. By the end of the week, Jaskier gleefully returned his kisses and badgered him constantly about playing the game, refusing to wear clothes around the house because he knew that you couldn’t play the game all covered up. Valdo took that as a sign that he could up the ante.
“Round 2, baby boy,” Valdo told him.
Over the course of the next weeks, Jaskier learned what else his fleshlight was good for. He’d kneel on the carpet, naked as the day he was born, his mouth stuffed full of Valdo’s soft cock as he sent emails, watched movies, and chatted with friends. He learned how to relax his throat and swallow as much come as he could before licking the rest up with a stupidly happy look on his face, even when he had to lick up come from Valdo’s shoes or the tile floor. Valdo changed tactics for rewards after a while, forgoing dessert and computer games and instead glutting himself on his baby brother’s baby cock, working for a half-hour each time until the little thing was hard as a rock and murmuring praise to the kid as he spasmed, coming dry.
It was going so well, he hadn’t thought about what he’d have to do if Jaskier lost points.
Valdo was one finger deep in Jaskier’s bitchhole when his brother said no for the first time.
“Stop it,” Jaskier whined, and Valdo suddenly remembered why he’d always found the kid so annoying. “It— It hurts, Valdo, stop it, stop—“
Valdo could have raged at him like he did when Jaskier drove Brittney away, but he knew that yelling would only make Jaskier not want to play anymore. Ironically, the kid didn’t react well to loud noises.
Instead, Valdo poured more lube between them and shoved two fingers up his brother’s ass at once. Jaskier screamed and started to cry, but Valdo kept pumping his fingers, delighting in how tight and hot and wet Jaskier felt around his fingers. He held Jaskier down as the boy writhed and whimpered, methodically and silently opening him all the way up using two, three, four fingers. He spent an hour in complete silence, and by the time Jaskier was loose enough to take him, he was all cried out, lying limp and exhausted, eyes red but dry.
Grunting in satisfaction, Valdo eased into Jaskier, hissing as he bottomed out into a channel unbelievably warm and tight. Jaskier keened in discomfort but stayed still.
“Good boy,” Valdo gasped as he started to move. “I know it was hard, I know it hurt, but look at you baby, look how well you take it, fuck, your bitchhole just swallows me up, so hungry for it, fuck, Jas—“
Valdo came in an amount of time that was frankly embarrassing, spilling into Jaskier with a loud groan that he stifled by biting into his brother’s shoulder. He got up with a huff, wiping himself down before turning back to Jaskier, who was looking at him like he’d killed his puppy.
“That was four points, Jas,” Valdo told him. “Which would put you at ten.”
Valdo paused there, smirking as Jaskier’s eyes widened imperceptibly. Even uncomfortable and upset, the boy wanted his reward.
“But you told me no,” Valdo sighed, letting Jaskier think he was disappointed, but really there were dozens of possibilities racing through his mind. “So you forfeit all your points and lose one more. Which means...?”
“Don’t be a bad sport, Jaskier,” Valdo chided. “Take the penalty.”
Jaskier took the penalty (twenty hits on the ass) beautifully, and Valdo couldn’t keep his hands off the bruises he left on his brother for days, pinching and slapping them idly as they went about their business. Jaskier didn’t wear clothes anymore and wasn’t allowed to spend time alone in his room, so Valdo got to see every wince of discomfort, got to watch the bruises go from purple to red to green to yellow as spunk leaked out of his puffy hole.
—
When Valdo’s dad called to let him know he and his wife were extending their stay, Valdo couldn’t find it within himself to be disappointed. After all, it just gave him and Jas that much more time to play.
Why does virginity check sounds like vibe check lol It made me imagine Geralt just suddenly either putting a finger or thrusting inside Jaskier in various inappropriate situations like when Jaskier's in the middle of singing
Geralt doesn’t mean to interrupt Jaskier’s set he just sensed some bad vibes in the tavern and needed to check that his bard was still 👌
hi, there! just want to pop by and send you a welcome message! love that our little community is slowly expanding and I look forward to reading more of your work! hope you have a great time and take care, dear. x
Oh my goodness, thank you so much!! That is so sweet-- I’m very excited to be part of this community as well... It took me three months to work up the courage to start this blog, but everyone has been so kind that I’m very glad I did! Sending you all the good vibes xo
Perhaps a virginity check by Alpha!Geralt on newly purchased SexSlave!Jaskier? Then some orgasm denial or overstim/breeding kink before Geralt takes him back to the rest of the Wolves?
A/N: Thank you so much for this prompt! Unfortunately, I couldn’t work in orgasm denial, but I hope you enjoy!
(For this fic, I wrote male omegas as intersex and able to get pregnant. Also, Alpha!Witchers are still fertile, it’s only Geralt who isn’t because of the extra mutations.)
Later, Geralt is never sure what he was thinking, accepting an omega in lieu of coin.
It just didn’t make much sense, looking at it practically. Unlike his brothers, Geralt’s extra mutations had made him sterile, for all that his secondary gender wasn’t burned out of him entirely, and Geralt had never had an omega before, perfectly happy fucking betas. It wasn’t as satisfying to fuck a beta according to Eskel, but Geralt was the Butcher of Blaviken— he couldn’t afford to be choosy with the places he shoved his knot.
(Not that the whores he fucked ever let him knot them, but again, Geralt was very good at not caring.)
So maybe that’s what he was thinking, when the alderman shoved the slave at him. Maybe he thought here’s someone who can’t ever say no. Maybe he thought here’s someone I can ruin without a madam breaking the door down to whack me over the head with a fire poker. Maybe he thought he’s a pretty little thing.
Male omegas, Vesemir says, are a quirk of evolution, but they’re not without their charms. Their cocklets are useless and they can’t lactate even though their tits grow in when they’re pregnant, but they’re stronger physically than their female counterparts, often carrying more whelps at once on average (Eskel likes to say that he once met a man whose omega was knocked up with eight pups, though Geralt isn’t entirely sure whether or not he believes it) and able to take rougher treatment during their heats. So while some men might balk at taking a male omega as a slave, Geralt is wise enough to appreciate the boy for what he is.
What he is is lovely— smooth, soft skin, sky blue eyes framed by thick dark lashes, and wavy brown hair. He’s naked save for a plain leather collar, a gag, and a silver cage for his cocklet, shivering as the autumn chill pebbles his tiny pink nipples. He stinks of fear, but underneath it all Geralt can smell the sweetness of his slick, can taste it thick on his tongue.
The alderman had told him that the boy was virgin, but no boy this beautiful has lived seventeen years without being fucked at least once.
“Bend over,” Geralt commands. The boy shudders at the growl in his voice but complies, wrapping his hands around his ankles, his eyes wide and wet. He whines as Geralt palms his pert ass with one hand, spreads his cheeks, breathing out heavily through his nose as the boy’s cute hole winks at him. He wants to shove his knot in the boys ass, wants to ruin him, wants to leave him gaping and soaked, but that’s a fantasy for later.
(Not a fantasy, a plan, a plan, because the boy can’t say no, can he? He has to let the Butcher between his legs, has to let him mount him like a dog, fuck that’s hot.)
Without preamble, Geralt goes to press two fingers into the boys cunt. He whimpers loudly as the Geralt’s fingertips start sliding in, his pink tongue poking out of the ring gag and getting his chin wet and messy, and Geralt slaps his ass hard, once, twice, three times in retaliation, warning the omega to be silent if he wants to be able to sit down tomorrow. When the boy doesn’t quiet immediately, Geralt pulls his fingers out of his cunt with a sigh and puts his back into disciplining him, spanking him as hard as he can without causing permanent damage. When he finishes up about twenty minutes later, the boy’s ass is an ugly purple color and he’s a mess, sobbing, snot and spit and tears obscuring his pretty face.
“Let’s try this again,” Geralt snarls, shoving his fingers up his cunt once more, not bothering to play at gentility any longer. He’s pleasantly surprised when the boy’s cunt grips him like a vice, proving that his hymen’s intact.
“Not so much of a slut after all, then,” Geralt hums, removing his hand so that he can undo his trousers. “Well, now’s as good a time as any to fix that, isn’t it?”
He fucks the boy that night, and the next, and the next, and it’s good, it’s perfect, and so what if the boy is hardly trained and spends most of his time with a bruises covering his face, his chest, and his ass? Male omegas can take it, they were born to take it, and it’s not like the slave can say no or that Geralt minds brutalizing the thing. Geralt loves having an omega, spends more coin than he should on getting the boy a new, even smaller cage and two huge, knot-shaped toys to plug up his holes with. The slave’s constantly stuffed full of come, constantly aches of it, and he looks so pretty, trussed up like this, smelling like fear and slick and Geralt’s spend.
But the real treat comes at Kaer Morhen, when the boy finally goes into his heat. Geralt and the other witchers have already that Vesemir, Lambert, and Eskel will breed his omega during his heats, since Geralt can’t, so when the scent of the omega’s heat hits them all one morning, the three of them are fighting over the boy like he’s the last swallow of White Gull. Geralt doesn’t mind— he gets his omega’s mouth the whole time, after all, gets to make the poor thing choke and grown and slobber over his cock while his cunt gets reamed.
Vesemir goes first, being the oldest of them. He straps the boy to a breeding bench, legs akimbo, and fucks into him with harsh, efficient thrusts, calling the boy a pretty little whore and promising him the honor of repopulating the Wolf School. Eskel goes next, and he’s the one to make the boy sob even as his cocklet creams itself in its tiny cage over and over and over again, gleefully whispering to him about how fat he’s going to get, how wolves are known to have litters, how he’s going to play with the boy’s big, useless tits and pretty little cocklet as his pups grow big and heavy and strong.
Lambert goes last, and he takes his frustrations out on the omega, calling him a whore, a breeding bitch, a walking womb, a slut, a hole with legs, spanking him roughly in time with his violent, jackhammering thrusts. The boy passes out from exhaustion and overstimulation as Lambert’s knot goes down, and the four of them meet each others eyes, ecstatic, as the boy’s scent shifts from fertile to fertilized.
Oh holy shit. That Geralt/Ciri Witcher prompt. Ummmm couple years in the future, maybe precocious puberty or something? But anyways, a follow up with her breasts coming in and breeding kink? Like full bore breeding kink? Maybe Geralt has to axii her the first time he mentions it, to make her switch over to making the next generation of Witchers? Obv I’m assuming Witchers aren’t sterile of course
I know this is skipping the line but I... really have been unable to write Any Of My Other Prompts rn, so I'm getting this out of my system while I'm feeling it so I can move on w/ 'em!
Direct continuation of this: https://fiendmate.tumblr.com/post/624849941715648512/youre-blog-is-amazing-geralt-training-ciri-to
A/N: No description of birth at all, but Really, Really full bore breeding/conception kink, mind control/axii, underage pregnant sex, incest/pseudo-incest kink, and discussion of lactation/nursing.
+++++
Cirilla gets her first blood at eleven. Geralt starts trying to impregnate her the very same month.
He tracks her cycle, though it'd be hard not to notice when she's ovulating even if he didn't— new fertility is a prominent, mouthwatering scent. The downy-soft beginnings of hair between her legs make the smell linger, driving Geralt to distraction for days after her her ovaries have released an egg, begging him to get a child on her.
She's understandably hesitant when he broaches the subject. He'll be breeding her no matter what, he's decided, but it's important Cirilla's on the same page: excess anxiety or fear during her pregnancy could impact the baby.
"I don't know if I want to be a mother."
They're set up in a Scoia'tael camp just outside Aedern, the inside of their spacious tent soft with pelts and woolen blankets. In a technical violation of the witchers' sacred neutrality, Geralt makes a point of tipping scales in favor of non-humans where he's able, and it pays dividends in the form of a place to land wherever rouge elves and dwarves make camp.
Geralt rubs her flat stomach adoringly. "Your body does— we wouldn't be having this conversation if you weren't ovulating, honey." She's become accustomed to sitting in his lap whenever possible, skinny thighs thrown wide over his own thighs and pelvis. It makes it easy to segue into sex without ordering her to strip and bend over— she's so sensitive to having her nipples rubbed, and her body otherwise played with, that after ten or fifteen minutes of it the sweet thing thinks it's her idea: bashfully asking for Geralt to 'make me a witcher now, please?'
"What's ovulating?"
He slides one hand up her leg until it's under her dress, pushing it under her panties to fondle her slit.
"It means if I fuck you now, you'll probably catch. You smell so good like this."
She's fully intent on him now, having hooked onto the excitement in his voice, forever desperate for deeper approval, more assurance that he won't abandon her. His precious, emotionally damaged girl.
Geralt traces the the sign for axii in the air with the hand not molesting her, just out of her line of sight. "Don't you want a family with me? You'll look so pretty, Princess, full of Daddy's pups." He holds the physical sign longer than he usually does. It'll make her a bit stupid for while, limp and drooling the rest of the night, but the suggestion'll root itself nice and deep.
"Besides, you don't really want to be a witcher. All toil and grime, day after day for centuries. Princesses deserve better than that— deserve to be kept fat with as many children as they can carry, for as long as they can carry them."
Ciri blinks slowly, drowsy as the thrall finishes taking hold; there's little danger of her remembering anything between now and morning as anything other than a fleeting half-dream. She nods, pushing the palm of one hand down to rub curiously at her belly.
Giddy with anticipation, Geralt lets himself be as rough and lusty as he wants."I love you so much, Sweetheart."
Ciri hums inarticulately, staring blankly up at the tent canvas with unfocused eyes. Committing to buying her a newer, nicer one, one she'll get to pick out herself, Geralt grabs her dress by the collar and rips it off her. He loves her too much to play the meaner games he enjoys— ordinarily at least— but outside of physical harm he has carte blanche tonight, and intends to use it. Ripping off her panties next, he pushes her off his lap onto the 'bed' of animal furs making up the floor of the entire tent and takes a moment to rub their bodies together, completely smothering her skinny, helpless form under his.
Her swan's neck looks so delicate with his hand wrapped around it, resting but not squeezing. Geralt knows she won't respond— probably can't— but it doesn't stop him from running his mouth for his own gratification. "Wish I'd gotten you younger, baby bitch— more time to plow your fields before they were fertile." He guides his cock between her legs with the hand not on her throat, loving how huge and threatening it looks, dripping precum against her parts, forcing its way between her lips.
The first push into her is heaven, as always; Geralt knows he should've fingered her open (even with the frequency of their sex she's so much smaller than he is,) but he wants to enjoy the fantasy of this: a second first time, Cirilla ensorceled, her father-surprise raping her pussy.
He reaches down to rub where her labia is stretched taut around him, dragging the ridge of his crown against her front wall until she's wet enough for him to slide farther inside. Her clit is adorably perky under the pad of his finger, making her stomach quiver and her toes curl when he rubs it.
Once she's wet enough for the slide to be seamless rather than chafing, Geralt pins her thighs wide and starts fucking her more roughly than he's ever let himself before, fascinated by how wide she stretches to swallow him up, over and over, even at this brutal pace.
If Cirilla hadn't been promised to him, or Cintra hadn't been sacked, she'd probably be engaged to some prince right now: purity strictly guarded during their engagement, for her husband to take on their years-off wedding night.
Instead she's here, in a Scoia'tael camp, being impregnated by a witcher. "Such a slutty princess, knocked up so young—" He knows he's going too hard, can see the top of Ciri's head being knocked against the metal buckle of their saddlebags with every thrust. Arousing as it is, he tugs her back down towards him before folding her legs up and working himself into her cunt, grinding deep until he comes, urethra pressed against her winking cervix until he's milked dry.
Ciri's clit stays budded as his cum leaks out of her tiny pink gape— fuck, Geralt loves girlpussy— making Geralt lean down to suck on it, hard, until she shivers and cums with a peaceful sigh. This is normally the part where he'd lick her clean, at least partially, but he presses her thighs tight together and rolls her onto her side instead, reaching one hand down to plug three fingers into her cunt while he spoons her.
Her scent won't change until a few weeks after conception, so there's no way of knowing if his seed has taken— but Geralt's looking forward to continuing to try in the interim, just in case.
+++++
Ciri's scent shifts from fertile to fertilized almost two weeks to the day later. He sweeps her up into his arms and kisses her when he first smells it, carrying her out of their shitty Novigrad dock hotel and down to the market, letting her pick out as much taffy and hard candy as she can carry: a reward for conceiving like Daddy asked her to.
Geralt adores the new enthusiasm for motherhood his thrall has created in her, listening to her chatter happily about names for their pups while she pulls her travel-clothes off for bed one night, two months down the line.
Geralt doesn't especially give a shit about names. The pup or pups'll be given to Vesemir and the old guard to raise, like every other witcher's brood is— leaving Geralt free to fuck more children into his child surprise.
Still, he nods along agreeably, assuring her that she can name their children whatever her heart desires. This encouragement turns from verbal affirmations into low, affirmative grunting as more and more of her clothing comes off, unlacing his own breeches to kick them off and grab his dick when she's down to just her panties. He doesn't know when the sight of her naked body will stop being so instantly, viscerally exciting. It certainly hasn't happened yet.
Geralt preempts her before she can grab her modest nightie. "Undies off too Cirilla, and sit on the edge of the bed. I want to look at you before you get changed."
Look, among other things. She does what she's told, as always.
Pregnancy has made her chest so full it's vulgar. On a grown woman it wouldn't be outlandish— big enough for a satisfying handful but well within the realm of what's reasonable— but on waifish Cirilla they look massive. They sit high and perky, big forward-facing nipples constantly budded under the friction of her loose but necessary chest wrap, and get Geralt so fucking hard it's difficult to function sometimes.
"You're so pretty, Princess." Her face lights up before turning away, bashful, and Geralt can smell the wetness beginning to leak from her pussy. His precious girl knows damn well what compliments from Daddy portend by now. "Play with your big-girl tits for me— that's it, make yourself feel good."
The juxtaposition of her rail-thin, formless bottom half and her hands pushing together full breasts on top turns Geralt stupid. The baby bump started to show a few weeks ago, and it's all Geralt's been able to think about since: the soft curve of Ciri's stomach where she's growing his pup.
He lets his cock go to walk to the bed, kneeling down in front of her with a smitten expression when she flushes and smiles shyly. "Keep playing, Ciri; Daddy just wants to feel the baby." Her belly button's not poking out, but it will be soon— he's already made plans for magical aid farther along in the pregnancy, because a full term pup's going to be so big in her she can't walk the last few months. This poor little girl lying prone on her side for days on end, leaking milk, because Geralt can't resist underage cunt. Groaning, Geralt leans in to suck one of her nipples into his mouth.
He's breathlessly excited for Ciri to start getting big— he'll have to take her to Kaer Morhen in another month or two, while it's still safe and relatively easy for her to travel. His dick throbs thinking about the journey there: she'll be far too pregnant to hide it or pretend it's anything else by then, and every dirt-poor farmer and seamstress who sees them together will know the big bad witcher fucks his daughter nice and deep.
He sucks hard enough to leave a hickey, tongue-tip rubbing harshly, and Cirilla shudders and squeaks. There's a dark stain of slick on the bedding between her legs, pulling focus as he lifts his mouth away. "Horny thing." His tone is achingly fond. "What do you want? Little girls who carry their Daddy's babies can have whatever-" He leans in to press another sucking kiss at the underside of her breast, "-they-" another kiss, "-want." And another.
"If it's okay... I want you inside again." Still so bashful actually discussing their sex, despite the relentless frequency they've been having it since he got her. What once seemed like an impossible fit is now snug but comfortable for both of them, Geralt able to get about three fourths of his cock in before it hits the back wall. Her vaginal canal has gotten noticeably longer and plusher since the first signs of her puberty, now clutching greedily at his prick instead of needing to be forced open anew with each instance of penetration.
It's a very easy request to indulge. She's a vision on her back: white hair haloed out around her head, soft new tits sitting wide across her chest. The rest of her still has the lankiness of childhood, excepting the proof of his depravity rounding out her womb— Geralt can't imagine anyone being more attractive to him than she is in this moment. He holds himself considerately up over Ciri while plowing her, careful not to squish their pup between them, leering down at every gorgeous bit of her as he settles into a rhythm.
"Gonna have to start fucking you in the ass in a few months here; wouldn't want to upset the baby." His hips stutter at the thought: Cirilla on her hands and knees with her belly hanging beneath her, cunt dripping while her backdoor's reamed.
Huh. They'll both be holed up at Kaer Morhen, waiting for her to whelp by then.
He can't wait for his brothers to see what he's done to her. They've met Ciri in passing, when she and Geralt rode up to scavenge the old alchemy lab for white gull and monster chitin at the very front end of Spring last year, but they haven't wintered together with the pack yet. He was loathe to potentially draw her pursuers to the keep, in the beginning— but Nilfgaard seems to have lost the thread of her these past six months, and she's pregnant now besides. Wolf pups should be born in the den, lest he and Ciri have to undertake the perilous and tedious task of transporting squalling infants through a fortnight of wild woodlands and deer paths after the birth.
'Infants.' He keeps defaulting to plural in his mind for some reason. Geralt wonders if it's wishful thinking or the magic bond between them that's giving him visions of litters of pups, over and over, until he's gotten everything he can out of her cunt and her breeding years are past.
Ciri's too strung out on their foreplay and sex to respond to his gentle goading, eyes unfocused as she whimpers in time with the squelch of her cunt. He sucks his pinky into his mouth, hoists her hips up off the bed, and shoves it shallowly into her asshole while they rock. She flinches, but the tightening of her canal around him in response to the discomfort is too good to really care. It she were in agony she'd tell him.
The other wolf witchers'll be impressed if he managed to get twins on her, if he's right about this.
Well. Eskel will. Lambert's going to be livid with Jealousy. Eskel's had Deidre to play with for almost six years now, and now not only does Geralt have Ciri, she's whelping for him— Lambert's the only one of their trio without his very own princess at this point.
Geralt comes when Ciri does. He usually outlasts his partner by a not-insignificant margin, but knowing he's brought his little girl to climax— at an age when she should be just on the cusp of discovering masturbating— gets him off like nothing else. Knowing that she can't catch because she's already caught doesn't diminish the boorish satisfaction he takes in flooding her insides with cum. Geralt shifts to lay on his side, moving Cirilla with him, making sure to keep himself seated in her cunt— there are few things as satisfying as waking up to his morning wood already snug inside his daughter, slicked by last night's seed.
He kisses the back of her neck and rubs her baby bump until she drifts off. It doesn't take long— orgasm almost always lulls her to sleep, still Big and Overwhelming still despite their years of practice.
He should ask Eskel to breed Deidre. The other witcher put her on birth control when she flowered, wary of raising a (another) child, but Geralt thinks it's good for Ciri to have company and support for her pregnancy. He doubt's Eskel'll object once he smells Cirilla, the mixture of spring-youth and impending motherhood good enough to eat.
That'll be nice. Deidre'll whelp several months after Ciri, of course, but they'll be able to play wetnurse for one another until the babes are weaned and handed off— he can already smell the mild undertone of milk changing Ciri's scent, mammary glands swelling in anticipation of a mouth to feed.
He'll have it all for himself until their baby's born: an excuse to suck her poor, hurting tits every morning and every night, not that he really needs one.
Knocking up his little girl is the best idea Geralt's ever had. He can hardly wait to do it again.
Jaskier cried out as he fell to his knees, Geralt’s hands gripping his wrists hard and holding him up as the hulking beast moved in closer. The bard gasped could feel tears running down his cheeks, the witcher not even looking at him as he instead set his eyes on what he was hunting. Thick strands of saliva dripped down onto Jaskier’s shoulder, sliding down his body as he once more struggled against the grip.
“Geralt, what are you-” A growl from the best behind him had him silenced, sharp teeth grazing his delicate skin as it moved in closer. something blunt poked at his entrance, Jaskier sobbing as he felt it breach him and push inside despite the resistance. Even so, Jaskier couldn’t move, couldn’t get away from the relentless force parting his insides for the beast to use.
The bard wasn’t sure when Geralt had bent down to pick up a small vial, but suddenly it was uncorked and pressed against his lips. Jaskier shook his head, sobbing for the man to let him go instead but ignored. The witcher growled at him to open up and drink it, lowering his voice into a gentler tone as he told the human it would ease the pain. Sobbing, Jaskier obeyed, swallowing it’s content down without spilling a single drop.
The change was immediate, his entire body growing hot and then cold, a tingling sensation spreading from his insides and out to the very tip of his fingers. Each point of contact with the witcher and the beast, even where his knees were connected to the floor, made his skin burn, heat flaring up inside his hole at where the monster was fucking into him. He felt light-headed, the world turning on it’s axis and his body wobbled, Jaskier falling limp into Geralt’s embrace as the beast hammered away inside of him. The bard was unsure for how long the creature kept it up, but eventually deemed itself far inside enough to still. Then Jaskier could feel something moving up the member.
Something thick and bulbous knocked at his entrance, an aggressive growl coming from behind him as the monster ground itself further inside to get it past his rim. With a loud squelch it popped inside, Even more heat pooling in Jaskier’s insides as it travelled up the thick cock inside of him. Then it was released inside the bard, a big and heavy thing left inside him as another started to emerge at his entrance again. The moment it was free inside him, Jaskier’s body seized up, pleasure blinding him as he came untouched, painting Geralt’s clothes with his spend.
Before he even landed from his high, another egg was dropped into him, another flash of white, hot pleasure searing through him. His limp cock once more shot off, twitching and straining with the effort. And so it continued for what felt like eternity, Jaskier constantly on the edge of another orgasm, never left alone long enough for the one before to end. He was shaking, crying out with each stab of pleasure going through him as his stomach slowly swelled up with the eggs, Geralt no longer holding him hostage, but burning his skin with his gentle strokes down his back, fingers playing with the bard’s hair.
“So good, Jaskier. We will fetch a good prize for those eggs,” He mumbled against his shoulder, Jaskier trembling and not fully comprehending his words. It all melted together in his head, his brain fried from the neverending pleasure constantly absuing his nerves.
A/N: this is completely self-indulgent and incredibly long, like really long, please don’t set your expectations too high because of this, but it’s literally my first dead dove fic ever and I had a good time so....
Warnings: fat used as an insult, the most noncon noncon
(In which Geralt gets creative in his revenge against Jaskier for the mess that was the Cintran banquet)
“Leave me be,” the sorceress cajoles, slinking towards him. “Leave me to my work, and I’ll give you what you want.”
Geralt snorts. “And what is it,” he snarls. “That you think I want?”
The woman laughs, eyes glinting like daggers.
“You want that bard of yours to pay for the child he saddled you with,” she croons, smirking. “You want him weighed down. You want him to regret what he did to you with every step he takes. You want him humiliated. In short? You want revenge. Let me go, and I promise you, witcher, I’ll give you that and more.”
Geralt should snap at the witch to get out of his head. He should slit her throat. He should have forgiven Jaskier ages ago, since it was hardly his fault anyway. He should finish the job and take the alderman’s coin and go back to Jaskier in peace.
Instead, Geralt sheaths his sword. The mage’s eyes widen slightly, as if she didn’t expect her ploy to work, but she rallies quickly, grinning wickedly.
“Go ahead then,” Geralt grunts, anticipation hot in his gut. “Impress me.”
——————
Geralt slips the potion into Jaskier’s nightly tea. The mage had assured him that it was tasteless, but he still watches the bard carefully for any signs that he notices anything amiss. But Jaskier is as oblivious as ever, chattering on and on about nothing in particular, bragging about conquests and needling Geralt for information about his last hunt. Geralt doesn’t bother responding, instead studying Jaskier’s carefree, pristine manner, delightedly imagining all the ways he’ll ruin him come morning.
“You should get some sleep,” Geralt finally says after an hour of listening to the fool. “Long day tomorrow.”
Jaskier yawns hugely, stretching as he stands to go to his bedroll. He’s slender and pretty and strong. Geralt hates it, hates how calm and collected he is, wants him to hurt, wants him heavy, wants him weighed down. It will save him money too, Geralt notes as he mentally tallies how the new changes will affect his life in more mundane ways. The mage promised him that the bard won’t need food or water, won’t need anything at all, will exists solely as a vessel for Geralt’s revenge.
“Good night, Geralt,” he hears Jaskier murmur from the other side of the dying fire. “Sweet dreams.”
Geralt’s answering grin was a feral thing, too sharp. But Jaskier was too far away to notice.
——————
Jaskier wakes with Geralt’s cock bruising his insides.
“Thought you could saddle me with a kid?” Geralt growls furiously as he pounds into Jaskier, every thrust sending sharp pains through Jaskier’s entire body as he’s jostled back and forth, back and forth. The man’s hand is on his neck and he can’t get up, can hardly breathe, can only gasp and whine and choke. “Thought you could weigh me down like that without consequences? Thought I’d let this slide?”
Jaskier babbles incoherently in response, screaming into his bedroll as Geralt fucks into him even faster and bites his shoulder hard enough to draw blood. Geralt snarls at that, using his forearm to press Jaskier’s face further into the bedroll so that his tongue lolls out and drool spills down his chin.
“Look at you,” Geralt hisses, cruel in a way he has never been. “A sloppy, dirty little whore. You’ll pay me back, pretty thing, don’t worry. I’ll get my pound of flesh out of you, you’ll balance the scales just right, won’t you?”
Jaskier sobs, tears and drool and slot obscuring his vision as he prays for the onslaught to end. With a gutteral moan, Geralt finally comes a few minutes later, flooding Jaskier’s stinging insides with what feels like barrels of come, thick and hot.
When Geralt pulls out, Jaskier goes to curl in on himself, but the witcher holds him still, unceremoniously shoving something huge into him, something tapered at the base and bulbous at the tip and barely smaller than Geralt’s cock. As Jaskier gasps at the harsh intrusion, his stomach churns as he realizes that it’s a plug.
“No,” he moans, reaching behind himself to get it out, but his hands are immediately restrained by Geralt. “No, no, no--“
“You even think about taking it out,” Geralt snaps, using one of his hands to deliver a harsh, smarting hit to Jaskier’s sore arse, “I will beat you bloody, you hear me?”
Jaskier only nods pathetically, still sobbing. Geralt grunts, reaching over to grab something silver. Jaskier realizes what this is too only too late, helpless as Geralt locks his cock up with clinical efficiency.
“Clean yourself up,” Geralt finally demands, throwing a rag at Jaskier. “And get dressed. We’re wasting daylight.”
Jaskier blearily wipes his face and buttons his doublet before carefully pulling his trousers over his caged cock, wincing as the huge plug jostles within him when he bends over to take care of his bedroll and grab his lute case. He eyes Geralt warily as they start down the road, struggling to keep up his brisk pace stuffed full of come and a plug that seems to feel bigger with each step.
They walk in silence for a few hours (well, Jaskier walks, Geralt, of course, rides Roach with an imperious look on his face, as usual), Jaskier whimpering and gasping whenever he moves too quickly. It’s midday when Geralt suddenly dismounts and drags Jaskier to the side of the road and takes Jaskier’s chin in one big hand, his eyes cold and wild.
“Trousers off,” he demands, roughly maneuvering Jaskier until his face is pressed against a tree trunk.
Jaskier doesn’t try to resist. Just give it a few days, he thinks to himself desperately as he fumbles with the laces of his trousers. He’ll get it out of his system and everything will go back to normal. It’ll be okay, this is Geralt, it’s Geralt, it’s Geralt—
His racing thoughts grind to a halt as Geralt yanks the plug out of him roughly, barely giving him time to scream before he’s bending Jaskier over and shoving his cock back in his arse, grinding into Jaskier with short, harsh thrusts. He’d been too tired and confused this morning to truly register Geralt fucking him when it happened, but now he’s all too lucid, and he can feel every painful, insistent inch tear through him, can feel Geralt in his fucking throat. The pain makes his head spin and his gut ache, but as he starts to beg for Geralt to stop please please please, the witcher only clamps a sweaty hand over Jaskier’s mouth and fucks him harder, jackhammering into his arse like an animal.
When Geralt comes, there’s somehow even more of it, and Jaskier gasps as he feels it drench his insides. But Geralt is still hard inside him, hands leaving bruises on his hips, and for the next hour Jaskier’s stuck like this, bent over being fucked and filled over and over again. Jaskier’s arse is numb and Geralt’s come at least seven more times by the time the plug’s shoved back into him, and Jaskier groans when he looks down and sees a bulge on his stomach. Geralt seems to realize the cause of his discomfort, laughing darkly.
“Nice, isn’t it?” He sneers, palming Jaskier’s stomach and pressing down slightly to make Jaskier whine. “Can’t wait to see you fill up even more, you’ll be swollen with it.”
“You can’t fit anymore,” Jaskier breathes, eyes stinging. “I’ll burst.”
“No,” Geralt muses, thumbing the edge of the plug lodged inside of Jaskier before pushing it in further, humming in satisfaction when Jaskier squeals in pained surprise. “No, you won’t.”
——————
He doesn’t burst.
Geralt fucks Jaskier countless times over the next few days, each time plugging Jaskier back up immediately afterwards. He even sleeps with his cock still in Jaskier’s arse, and he wakes up in the middle of the night to Geralt whispering terrible, wicked promises and threats into Jaskier’s ear as he stuffs him fuller and fuller and fuller.
Gonna fill you up, gonna make you so heavy with it.
Not going to be able to walk without remembering what you did to me, not going to able to breathe.
Look at you, you fat, swollen little whore, gonna stuff you full, make you round, gonna get a kid on you
Jaskier hasn’t stopped crying, hasn’t stopped begging, hasn’t stopped hoping that Geralt will come to his senses, but now those horrible threats are starting to come true and Jaskier can’t pretend that Geralt is going to snap out of it anymore. Geralt must have done something to him, must have used magic to get his revenge because, because—
Because Jaskier’s belly is so swollen he can’t get his trousers on over it, so swollen it makes him heavy and slow and clumsy, so swollen that he can’t see the cock cage looking down. The come inside him is thick, sloshing around inside him sickeningly and making him quiver with cramps. He constantly feels like he’s about to keel over, even when he’s sitting down like this, his weight unevenly distributed and the human body doesn’t do this, he shouldn’t be alive, he hasn’t taken the plug out in days and still doesn’t feel the need to relieve himself and all he can think is that his belly looks like, that he looks—
“First trimester,” Geralt notes idly, as Jaskier struggles to pull his trousers over his belly. “Congratulations, Jaskier.”
“No,” Jaskier whispers, yanking up the trousers with more force, praying for a miracle. ”No, no—“
Geralt chuckles. He walks over to Jaskier, rips his chemise off of him, and peels his trousers off his legs.
“Can’t be wearing those,” Geralt hums, caressing Jaskier’s swollen stomach. “You’re going to be a mommy, Jaskier. Mommies don’t wear trousers, now do they?”
Jaskier whimpers.
“But you’re not just any mommy, are you,” Geralt asks mockingly, a thumb flicking one of Jaskier’s nipples harshly. “You’re a whore-mommy. So you don’t wear a pretty gown either, do you? You’ve got to earn your gowns, got to prove you deserve them.”
“Shut up,” Geralt snaps, slapping Jaskier’s stomach with an open palm. Jaskier screams as he feels the liquid inside of him push against the plug, almost threatening to burst out, but it won’t burst, will it? Geralt smacks him again and again and again, alternating between his belly and his locked-up prick, and Jaskier doesn’t burst, he’ll never burst, he’s just going to get fuller and fuller and fuller, and—
“Stand up,” Geralt tells him, pulling his cock out. “You’re babe’s a growing boy.”
——————
By the time they reach the next town, Jaskier looks nine months pregnant and can barely manage to waddle behind Roach, slow and clumsy and fat, one hand pressed against the small of his back to keep himself upright. Geralt’s taken to fucking Jaskier’s mouth too, stuffing him full at both ends, making him swallow his come to add to the mess collecting in his gut. The townspeople gape at him, pointing at his naked belly and soft, caged cock. Women turn their eyes away and take their children with them inside, but the men eye him hungrily, and Jaskier wants to cry.
He’s too tired to protest as Geralt drags him into a tavern, too strung out and sluggish to push away the sets of hands that stroke his belly greedily as he wobbles by, his old friend’s eyes gleaming with satisfaction and pleasure.
“He’s free,” Geralt tells the assembled crowd. “Mouth and arse. Just be sure he doesn’t spill a drop.”
What happens next is something out of a fever dream, Jaskier too tired and slow to keep track of what occurs. He’s hauled onto a table, left to balance on his hands and knees. A man shoves his unwashed cock down his throat, calls him a fat little slut; another replaces the plug with his cock, fucking into his arse violently, thanking Geralt for the use of his cumdump. As the men come, Jaskier can feel his belly expand, can feel himself get heavier and bulkier and uglier. More men take their place, taking their cues from Geralt and calling him a disgusting, useless whore-mommy, and as he gets bigger and bigger and bigger, his vision blurs and his head feels far away.
He feels someone shave his chest, says it’ll be better for the babe that way. Swells.
He chokes on a cock. Swells.
He whines as two cocks push into his arse at once. Swells.
He gets slapped across the face for whining. Swells.
He feels Geralt fondle his cock cage, promising he’ll stay this soft forever. Swells.
By the time he’s lucid again, he’s laying on his side in a bed somewhere, stuffed so full he looks like he’s moments away from having a half dozen babies, so full he can’t span even half his gut with his arms, so full he knows he won’t be able to get out of bed, let alone walk, without aid, so full, so full, but he won’t burst…
He cries, hiccuping, come still dribbling out of his mouth. His chest is smooth, hairless. His legs are soft, too, like a woman’s. The plug inside him feels new, bigger, and the cage on his prick feels new too, smaller, but he can’t be sure because he can’t see his knees, much less his cock, can’t see the bottom of his belly, either. He’s sticky with half-dried come and fat fat fat. He’s grotesque, hideous and useless and messy and heavy, so heavy.
“You should be proud,” Jaskier hears Geralt hum from behind him, but he can’t turn to look at him because he can’t move, because’s he’s too big, too full, he’s not even sloshing anymore, he’s stuffed so tight. “You’re having a whole litter.”
“Please,” Jaskier gurgles, his tongue slick with salt from come and tears. He tries to push himself up but can’t muster the strength to even get his arms underneath himself for leverage. He’s big, too big, but he won’t burst. “Please, Geralt, please.”
“Don’t look so sad, Jaskier,” Geralt admonishes him, caressing Jaskier’s arse. The world is harsh and bright and Jaskier hurts hurts hurts. “The next nine months will fly by. You’ll be a mommy soon, don’t worry.”
——————
Whoever that mage was, Geralt owes her so many drinks.
It’s been almost a year since he’d plugged Jaskier up for good in Brugge, content with how full the bard was and satisfied with the terror and hopelessness he saw in the man’s eyes. He’s perfect, like this, weak and useless and easy to hurt— just like Geralt, now that there’s a kid somewhere in Cintra who could be used as leverage against him, who chains him to people and places he cares nothing for.
Jaskier’s perfect like this, his belly taking up more than half his form, round and drum-tight and heavy, so heavy, and huge. Poor boy can’t walk anymore, though Geralt delights in making him try, in watching him weep and grunt as he struggles to get his feet underneath his naked body, his cock soft and squished in its cage, too fat to do more than sluggishly roll back and forth as he lays stuck on the wagon Roach pulls, pinned down by the weight of countless men’s come, gasping and crying from the cramps that leave him trembling and aching.
Geralt loves this, loves watching the light in the bard’s eyes dim, loves knowing that the mouth that used to get them both into so much trouble can do nothing but gasp and whine and moan. Jaskier’s grown slower in all ways over these past months, an unfortunate (or fortunate, in this case) side effect of the elixir Geralt had given him, too cumdumb to do more than slur incoherent nonsense, tongue lolling out of his pink, kiss-bruised mouth. He’s perfect like this, stupid and fat and useless and suffering.
“It’s been nine months, whore-mommy,” Geralt tells Jaskier, pressing down on Jaskier’s huge belly to make the man whimper. “Time to have the babies, I think.”
He pulls Jaskier to the edge of the wagon so that his arse hangs in the air, holding his legs steady on the ground— no easy thing, even for a Witcher, because gods, Jaskier is so full, so wet, so messy, so ruined. He’s so heavy, gods, he’s ruined, he’s pathetic. Without warning, he pulls out the plug, eyes widening with delight as Jaskier screams and a torrent of come gushes out of his abused, gaping arse, splattering all over the both of them.
It takes hours, but eventually Jaskier’s belly is empty and deflates back to normal, just as the mage had promised Geralt it would. He looks up at the bard, wondering if the rest of him has gone back to normal too, but his eyes are still hazy and tearful and unfocused, his mind still slow and stupid and feeble.
“You’re no good for anything else, now, are you?” Geralt realizes, cupping Jaskier face in his hand. “You don’t even remember a time you weren’t a whore-mommy, do you?”
Jaskier groans pitifully, slurring out an incoherent reply, imbecilic. He’s so slender now, under Geralt’s hands. Slender and pretty and strong, just like he used to be, but that won’t do, now, will it, not now that his speech is gone and his wits are dulled to nothing. Jaskier isn’t meant to be pretty or strong anymore. He’s meant to be stuffed full, fat and grotesque and hurting, meant to be heavy and weighed down. Geralt’s not going to be able to shake his kid off for the rest of its damned life, is a father whether he likes it or not. Seems only fair, then, that his big fat whore-mommy stays swollen whether he likes it or not.
“Don’t worry,” Geralt says, taking his cock out of his trousers. He thrusts into Jaskier’s sloppy, wet hole, grinning as the man beneath him sobs and slurs and swells. “You don’t need to.”
DO NOT SEND ME PROMPTS UNTIL YOU’VE READ THIS POST IN ITS ENTIRETY
Rules:
Do not send me prompts if you are underage. Period.
Any kinks on my ‘hard no’ list are based solely on my personal preferences. I do not judge people who have those kinks, and if I choose not to respond to a prompt, please do not take it personally.
If a prompt doesn’t vibe with me but isn't one of my hard no’s, I will still post it so that if anyone else in the community wants to give it a whirl, they can. That being said, I reserve the right to ignore/delete asks/prompts that I don’t want on my blog.
Any hate will be summarily ignored and blocked. I’m not going to give it air. If you send me shit, you and I will be the only people who know and it won’t affect me in the least, so find something more productive to do with your time!
HAVE FUN!!!
Favorite Pairings:
Jaskier x Geralt
Jaskier x any witcher(s) (esp. the wolves)
Geralt x Ciri
Ciri x any witcher(s) (esp. the wolves)
Any combination of the wolf witchers
Jaskier x Valdo Marx
Jaskier or Geralt x OMC, OFC
Yennefer x Istredd
Yennefer x OMC
Triss x OFC
Preferences:
I would rather not write any Yennefer x Geralt, but if I really like a prompt I might make an exception. (Again, as long as the prompt doesn’t include one of my hard no’s, I will usually post it anyways so others can try their hand at it)
I like hurting Jaskier. Let me at him.
I prefer not to write f/m anal sex
Kinks:
YOUR KINK MIGHT NOT BE MY KINK AND THAT’S OKAY!!
HARD NO: bestiality with dogs/horses, blood kink, castration, diapers, DIY pussy, emetophilia, feederism, gore, necrophilia, needles, parasites, piercings, scat, small cock, sounding, trans characters in sexual situations, vore, watersports/omorashi, wound fucking
WILL ATTEMPT: ageplay, CBT, con-noncon, consensual teratophilia, dacryphilia, femdom, humping, inhuman anatomy, intercrural sex, object penetration (depends on the object), pet play, praise kink, scent kink, sex magic, sex pollen, somnophilia, temperature play, threats of castration, voyeurism, weight gain (this one very much depends on my mood)
YES: ABO (f/m & m/m), aphrodisiacs, asphyxiation, being taught about sex, body modification, bondage/restraints, cockwarming, coercion, daddy kink, desperation, dubcon, edging, examination kink, excessive come, exhibitionism, face fucking, fuck-or-die, heavy BDSM, lactation, marking/branding, orgasm denial, overstimulation, psychological torture, thick/sticky come, uncontrollable orgasm, uniforms/lingerie, unwilling enjoyment, verbal humiliation, virginity kink/loss of virginity, whipping
HARD YES: age difference, belly bulge, bimbofication/slutification, breeding kink, butt plugs, chastity devices (including cock cages), collars, come inflation, corsets/tight lacing, feminization, free use, gags, grooming, impact play, incest/pseudo-incest, knotting, leashes, mind control, mindbreak, multiple penetration, noncon, objectification/dehumanization, orgy/gangbang, oviposition, pain play, power differential, pregnancy (forced, rapid, hyper, fpreg, mpreg... you name it, I like it), public humiliation, sexual slavery, sloppy seconds, slutshaming, underage (NOT kid/kid)
