#thronebreaker the witcher tales | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

animereaderinsertwriter · 1 year

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a/n: so uhh i know this isnt anime, but i wrote it while a little manic and it turned out okay so i wanted to post it :D enjoy! ao3 link here

Pairing: Gascon/Meve/Reynard

Rating: Explicit

Tags/Warnings: smut, drunk sex, mfm sex, double penetration, no beta we die like men, spoilers but only if u squint

Word Count: ~4k

Plot summary: Gascon has always found Meve to be a singular sort of woman. When faced with a difficult choice, she always finds a way to change the game and pick an unexpected, unprecedented option that reminds him of her earned queenship. Similarly, Reynard (Meve's loyal friend and advisor) is the most steadfast and honorable man that Gascon has ever met; it gives Gascon great pleasure to rile Reynard up just to see how far that patience and goodness goes. However, now that things between the three of them have hit a plateau, it is not often that Gascon finds himself surprised by them; he knows him, and they know him.

In matters of the heart, however, Gascon manages to be surprised by them still on one fateful, very drunk evening of respite and revelry.

(Set before the end of the game while still on campaign at a peasant's wedding feast)

There were benefits, Gascon supposed, to stopping in at every town and leaving no good deed undone from Lyria all the way to fucking Nilfgaard. One, naturally, was to tip the karmic scales back in his favor; but another was that, on occasions such as this, when a peasant festival or nuptial celebration was to be had, who wouldn't invite the do-gooder queen and her merry lot of dagger-happy fools to party alongside? And Gascon, a lover of revelry and all other earthly pleasure, was more than happy to take a load off to drink some free ale and eat some free vittles instead of endlessly pursuing this death march of Meve's.

There were problems, though, too, with remembering what it was like before the campaign— and one of those problems for Gascon specifically was simply the cessation of movement for long enough to remember to be alive. From his perch on a log next to a pretty woman who was nattering on about something or other about the bride and groom, Gascon could see miles and miles of green, rolling hills, fertile and full of plenty. The sun was on its way out, the golden hour of the evening finally waning into purple twilight, and as a bonfire and lanterns were lit, a fiddler drew up his bow and began to play alongside pipers and little drummer boys. It was a beautiful evening, full of light and laughter and all the things that made life worth living, and now more than ever, Gascon wished for a home he could truly call his own.

He had not had such a place for many, many years.

Across the way, Meve and Reynard were speaking lowly, their heads bowed together in a moment of shared intimacy. The queen and her second-in-command rarely found a moment alone, but when they did, Gascon was usually lurking close enough to witness; watching them, he felt oddly like a voyeur, as though he should not be seeing what his eyes beheld, though it was never more than this— a simple, emotionally charged moment. If their usual pattern were any indication, it would only be a second or so before one of them would back away, drawing the line and leaving things unfinished between them.

Melitele help them— Gascon was dying of blue balls just watching.

As Gascon had predicted, Reynard drew back after a moment; but then, something unusual happened. Meve reached out and grabbed his hand, saying something that Gascon couldn't hear, and Reynard bowed respectfully before allowing bright, vibrant Meve to pull him over to where the peasants were dancing. Together, Meve and Reynard began to dance as well, each smiling in the arms of the other, and Gascon found that they were nearly too painful to look at in their joy.

Truly, he didn't know which of them he was more jealous of— Meve, who was held steady by the strong, calloused hands of a kind, honest man, or Reynard, who was touched softly by a bloody-handed conqueress, a queen stronger than most kings and hair of spun gold. Separately, they were stunning; together, they were impossible. Gascon wanted to be between them, beneath them— he wanted— he wanted.

Gascon threw back his tankard. He must already be too deep in his cups anyway— might as well finish the job and make his way back to his tent. The girl sitting next to him made a squeal of surprise, and Gason nearly made a bid to take her back with him— she had blue eyes and gold hair, after all, and Gascon's imagination could work wonders with that— but when he stood without explanation, she didn't demand anything or command him to explain himself, and it ruined the effect for him. Meve would never allow him to walk away without dismissal, and if he'd ever tried, Reynard would have stood between him and the door, a solid mass of muscle and steel, strong and steady.

Fuck. He really was far down in his cups.

The journey from Gascon's log to his tent turned out to be a perilous trek. In truth, Gascon was probably too drunk to be standing (he'd started drinking at noon, after all, and had hardly slowed), and well— every tent begins to look the same, after a while, a logs are bloody hard to step over when you can't tell how high to lift your leg. After a good few minutes, though, he managed to find a tree to piss on and a tent that was most likely his own, and he collapsed on the floor, certain he was going to regret getting so drunk on the morrow.

As it happened, though, Gascon was to regret getting so drunk much, much sooner than that.

As Gascon lay quietly, feeling sloshy and almost sea-sick from the spinning world around him and his belly full of liquid, the flap of his tent opened. Standing in the entryway was Meve, tall and regal and lovely, looking down on him with a soft smile that made his tummy do a little flip.

"Forgive me, Meve," he slurred, propping up on his elbow. "I'd stand, but I think I'd puke if I did."

Meve laughed— a low, hearty sound that came from the throat.

"Don't worry, Gascon," she told him fondly, "I just thought I'd look in on you so you wouldn't drown in your own vomit. Give me a moment, and I'll fix up your sleeping arrangements to where you'll be comfortable."

"You don't really need to…"

It was useless. Once Meve put her mind to something, she meant to do it. As the queen busied herself with fluffing and ruffling about his pallet, Gascon took it upon himself to watch her body as she worked. Goddess above, she was lovely, all long limbs and lovely eyes, and wiry strength— Gascon wanted to touch her ankles, kiss the bend of her knee, he wanted to—

"There," she said, putting her hands on her hips in satisfaction. "All done, Gascon. Do you think you can make it over there by yourself, or shall I carry you?"

Meve's eyes shined with her jest, but Gascon knew he wasn't going to make it to the fine little nest she'd made for him. Still, though, he couldn't bear to make her carry him, so instead, he said,

"I appreciate the thought, Meve dear, but the ground here is passing comfortable for my old bones. Come, sit— you'll see what I mean. It's fine ground, this is. You'll like it."

Laughing, Meve humored him, kneeling in front of him. Gascon managed to pull himself upright enough to be face-to-face with her, and he was hit at full-force by the shining of her eyes.

"You're right," Meve told him, sharing his breath. "It's fine ground indeed."

Gascon was confused. When had they gotten so close? Why were Meve's eyes half-lidded? Fuck, was she about to—

"Gascon, Your Majesty," said a familiar voice, and Gascon started. "I brought the water you asked me to—"

Reynard stopped mid-sentence, and Meve turned to him with the most guilty expression Gascon had ever seen on a woman— and he had seen many guilty women. Reynard wasted no time, though. As ever, he shrewdly calculated the situation and sacrificed himself for the good of others.

"I see." He cleared his throat. "Pardon my interruption— I shall impose no longer."

Oh, the poor sod. Even blind drunk, Gascon could see the pain in his eyes. Gascon wanted to take it all away from him, take it back, make it better— but what could he possibly do or say to unbreak a man's heart?

"Reynard, wait," said the queen, commanding and desperate. "It isn't— this isn't— I didn't come here with the intention of—"

Reynard held up his hand.

"You needn't explain yourself to me, Your Grace. You're a woman as fine as any, and you've been campaigning many a hard day. It is only natural that—"

"You misunderstand me, Reynard." Oh, she was truly suffering now— and it was all Gascon's bloodly fault. "You are as you ever were— a steadfast friend, patient and wise and honest. On the most trying days, under the beating sun or in pounding rain, you are my buckler, the shield that fends off the swords of my enemies. You are dearer to me than I can measure."

Gascon looked away then, drunkenly ashamed— he should not be here, he should go, a quip and a laugh, and he could be away, away, away—

But Meve was not finished.

"And Gascon— my, my, what a man you are. So full of laughter, and full of secrets; you are the hunter in the night, the wolf that prowls and stands before my doorstep, a warning to those who would dare to cause me harm."

She reached out to him, blue eyes shining. Her hand, though rough and calloused against the stubble of his cheek, was so tender that Gascon wondered if his face might crack from the pressure of it.

"You are the blade in the dark that protects me when all else 'round me sleeps," she told him, the rasp in her voice like fingertips up his spine. "Gascon… you are the darkness in my own heart."

She paused then, swallowing thickly, and with azure eyes bright with tears, implored,

"Don't make me choose between the two of you. The thought of losing either of you— I cannot bear it. My shield and my blade— I need both in equal measure, else I shall die as surely as Melitele hears me now."

Gascon was gobsmacked, for once rendered speechless— but Reynard, ever the dullard, bowed his noble head and spoke, as ever, with the most foolish, most honorable cop-out imaginable:

"You need not choose, Your Grace. I— I overstep. I am your subject, and you my commander— any, er, relationship that might occur is— well, it's hardly appropriate."

Though Reynard's words were strong and sure, Gascon had an eye for weakness. Even as Reynard was trying to preserve the heart of the woman he loved, his heart was breaking. No— he was breaking his own heart so that she would not have to, in order to spare her the pain of it.

Stupid, noble bastard. He was a stronger man than Gascon.

"I will forever be your friend and ally, Your Grace," he continued, bowing lowly, respectfully. "I am entirely devoted to you; nothing could dissuade me from my task, or from our lasting friendship. Gascon is a fine man, and handsome— not that you need my approval, but—"

He swallowed dryly, his eyes sliding to Gascon in a way that felt fragile, like an alchemist's incendiary concoction in a delicate demijohn.

"But you have it. I could not have chosen better for you myself."

"Reynard," the queen breathed, her eyes wet, glistening, and her closest adviser turned away, unable to contain his own emotion.

Oh, bloody fucking hell. Gascon was going to have to bloodly fucking walk.

Gingerly, he rose to his feet, swaying slightly. Without his usual grace, he made his way one foot in front of the other to where Reynard stood, head bowed in deference and shame. Noticing the shadow Gascon threw, Reynard looked up, and suddenly they were close— eye-to-eye, nose-to-nose, too close— and Gascon boldly placed his hand on the back of Reynard's neck, sliding his own calloused hand into soft salt-and-pepper hair.

"Reynard, you fool," he said, his eyes drifting to the other man's lips even as they shared a breath. "As ever, you don't have a single clue. You're going to make our queen cry."

Slowly, almost teasingly, he smiled, tilting his head, requesting permission. Reynard, slow as ever, made a strangled noise, and then their lips touched, dry and soft and warm. Gascon grinned, then chuckled as Reynard kissed him back.

"Sweet goddess," Meve breathed behind them, and Gascon laughed into Reynard's kiss, pulling the other man closer to him until they were flush and his half-hard cock met Reynard's full, muscular thigh. Reynard's hands, resting til now at his side, traveled upwards to touch Gascon's back, and Gascon shivered.

"Don't you see?" Gascon sighed between kisses, holding back a groan as Reynard squeezed his waist. "This is so much easier, isn't it? Easier than the fighting, than the pining— our queen needn't choose. Does she not deserve the both of us? Is she not worthy of both our worship?"

Reynard pulled away, and for a moment, Gascon feared he'd overstepped or somehow given offense— but then he saw Reynard's pupils blown wide, his eyes dark with desire, and Gascon's heart thumped painfully in his chest for an entirely different reason.

"You talk too much," Reynard told him, and Gascon swayed, too drunk to take such a statement and stay standing. Reynard, ever the gentleman, caught him by the waist, steadied him, and Gascon thought he'd never wanted to suck thick, knightly cock more than he did in that moment.

"Well, I see you lads have been keeping something from me— again."

When Gascon looked back, Meve was smiling wryly, but there was a brokenness to it that shamed him.

"Never," he insisted gently, prying himself from Reynard. "Meve, love— I swore to you, never again."

"Hm."

The queen, it seemed, was unconvinced.

Well, that was alright. It wouldn't be long before Gascon could feel his face again, and even drunk, he'd been known to be very convincing when he wanted to be.

With as much dignity as he could muster, Gascon took Reynard by the hand and led him to where Meve sat, long, lovely legs drawn up against her chest, guarded, defensive. Awkwardly, he lowered himself to the floor, pulling at Reynard to follow, and placed a hand on one round knee, stroking it softly with his thumb. Wordless, Meve dropped her head to her knees, hiding her face, and Gascon could feel the wetness of her unshed tears finally break loose from her eyes.

"Oh Meve," he said, "Oh, darling— don't cry, love. We've got you. We're here."

The queen stayed that way a few moments, and Gascon let her. He said nothing further, only stroked her back with one hand and petted her hair with the other. Reynard, equally silent, knelt apprehensively beside her; from his expression, he wanted desperately to touch her, but wasn't sure how, or even if he could. Meve was his queen, his sovereign, his highest power— to Reynard, Meve was sacred, more than queen, more than woman.

That would not do. Meve was all that and more-- but she was a woman, and that side of her deserved to be touched, to be loved like a human, not aestheticized, not objectified. Slowly, Gascon reached out, allowing Reynard time to process the motion, and when Reynard did not stop him, Gascon placed Reynard's hand on Meve's shoulder, squeezed gently, and guided Reynard's movement until the man felt brave enough to take his own initiative.

Once she felt Reynard's touch, the queen looked up, nose red and sniffly, cheeks puffy. Gascon thought she had never looked more beautiful.

"May I kiss you, Your Grace?" he asked, and, bewildered, Meve blinked, then laughed.

"Forgive me," she choked out, attempting to stifle her laughter to little effect, "I don't mean to laugh at you, it's just— I don't think you've ever called me Your Grace before this very moment."

She smiled, took his hand, and added,

"Never has it meant more. Kiss me, Gascon."

Gascon did not need to be told twice. He pressed his lips to hers, sweet and slow, then deeper, tasting the spiced wine on her tongue. His hands pulled at her knees, and Meve allowed them to be moved apart. Gascon knelt between them, his hands in her hair, and then he felt her hands slip beneath his tunic, cold and searching.

"Reynard," she said, the movement of her lips soft against Gascon's mouth. "Come to me."

Gascon took his cue and began to kiss lower, worshipping his queen's neck with kisses, licking the salt-sweat taste from her skin in a way that made her shiver. Above him and to the side, Reynard and Meve were kissing, the movement of their lips making wet, lewd sounds above Gascon's ear. Eager, hungry, but still a bit addled, he began to fiddle with the laces at the front of Meve's shirt, trying to loosen them, but soon got distracted, moving instead to the large, alluring bulge in Reynard's trousers, pressing against it with pleasant friction as his other hand squeezed at Meve's breasts. Mindlessly, he rutted against what of Meve his cock could reach, wondering why the hell they hadn't tried this sooner as Reynard groaned, low and animal, at the press of a palm against his cockhead.

Really, it wasn't fair that the stick-in-the-mud had such a big... stick.

"Reynard," he purred, a bit sing-song. "Take off your trousers, love— I want to taste you."

Oh, the attention that got him. Meve's eyes, bright and hazy with wanting, narrowed with carnal pleasure at the suggestion, and Reynard's widened in innocent shock.

"I— Gascon, that's very generous, but— I mean— I don't think it proper to— "

It took a moment for Gascon to catch on to the reason for Reynard's hesitancy— what man turns down a blowie, anyway?— but then it clicked, and Gascon was suddenly, inexplicably flattered.

"You're worried about sullying my honor, wounding my dignity," he grinned, gleeful and bewildered by such concern. When Reynard nodded hesitantly in affirmation, Gascon's grin turned filthy.

"You're very sweet," he replied, shuffling forward to place a kiss to Reynard's ear, "but I'm the Duke of Dogs. Honor and dignity aren't really my thing, and I think if I don't get to have that fat cock of yours in my mouth, I might just die. You'd be doing me a favor, really."

So saying, Gascon began to fiddle with the laces of Reynard's breeches, and luckily, they were easier to untagle than Meve's shirt. In only a moment, Gascon freed Reynard's length, and, after admiring it for a moment, brushing the thick, bulbous head with his thumb, he lowered his mouth to it and began to suck.

"Melitele's saggy tits," Gascon heard Meve swear above him, and there was some rustling and the soft rip of fabric that he could only assume was Meve's shirt falling victim to Reynard's impatient hands.

Gascon was nothing if not thorough in his ministrations. At a moderate pace, he forced Reynard's cockhead past his lips, teasing the slit with his tongue, and was rewarded with a deep, earthy groan. A few moments later, he let his hands take over to lap and suck at Reynard's thick, heavy balls, their smell deep and rich with sweat and arousal, and Gascon allowed himself a moan as he tasted and touched them, rolling their heavy weight in his hands and sucking them into his mouth. Deliciously responsive, Reynard thrust his hips up and against Gascon's face, and the next thing either of them knew, Gascon was dodging spurts of white and Reynard was shuddering from his release.

"Already?" Gascon teased, and Reynard had the grace to blush.

"It's... been a while," he admitted sheepishly, and Gascon rose to kiss him, soft and reassuring.

"It bothers me not at all," said Gascon, "for the night is young, and I'm only getting started."

Comforted, Reynard brought a hand up to guide Gascon's face to him so they could kiss— a warm, sticky hand, slick with—

Gascon took a sniff or two...

Meve.

Gascon turned to find the queen entirely bare. While he was distracted with cock, Meve had apparently abandoned her clothes, exposing miles and miles of golden flesh and a dusting of fine blonde hair. She knelt beside the two of them, smiling widely, and Gascon smiled in return, beckoning her to come nearer.

"Your Grace," Gascon bowed, a sweeping and dramatic display. "Permission to lap at that pretty cunt of yours?"

"Only if you promise to make it good," the queen teased back.

"Oh, I solemnly swear, 'twill be," he grinned. "On your back, love."

After a few moments of shimmying, Gascon's head was between Meve's legs, licking and sucking at her clit. His hands smoothed over her legs and the soft down of hair there; too drunk on her sex to notice anything else, Gascon nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt Reynard press himself flush against his back, cock hard and sliding over the curve of his ass. Wordlessly, Reynard rocked against him, humping like a dog (ha!), occasionally reaching over to tweak Meve's pretty, perfect nipples.

Oh, the feel of Reynard's terribly large cock in the cleft of his arse— they should definitely have tried this earlier, Gascon decided. Instead of fighting, biting like mutts at each other's throats, they should have been doing this.

"Gascon!" Meve exclaimed as he spat messily onto her cunt, grinning like a hound at the mess she looked beneath him.

"What?" he asked, batting his eyes with faux innocence.

"You're— that's— !"

The poor queen couldn't string more than two words together, but her need to do so dissipated as Gascon returned to his purpose, this time plunging three fingers inside her without warning. He sucked at her clit, curled his fingers upwards, pressing into soft, yielding flesh. As he did so, Reynard reached around to grasp his cock, and Gascon moaned against Meve's sex as a rough, calloused hand stroked him.

"Gascon," Meve breathed, "Gascon, what's— oh— oh!"

Gascon did not let up until his face was soaked from his nose down and Meve was threatening to crush his 'mean, filthy skull' between her thighs if he didn't 'stop, dammit, she was fucking shaking'— and only then to correct his queen, because she didn't seem to grasp the idea that such a crushing of skulls was hardly a punishment.

"Are you ready for cock, then, my queen?" he asked, his knees beginning to shake as Reynard's thrusts began to synch with his stroking. "Which of us would you like first?"

Reynard, who had been very much lost to his pleasure for the last few minutes, seemed to snap out of it a bit at that. Suddenly once more unsure, Reynard stopped moving altogether and just sort of froze, awkward and insecure.

Oh, bloody hell, Gascon should have just kept his mouth shut.

"Well," said Meve, propping up on a hand as she glanced between the two of them, "I don't very well see why I cannot have the both of you at once."

The suggestion was so matter-of-fact and without a hint of teasing that Gascon had to pinch himself to make sure that he wasn't dreaming. Similarly affected, Reynard's mouth hung agape, and the queen threw back her head and laughed at the both of them.

"What, skittish now, Gascon?" she teased. "And you, Reynard, my bravest knight— why do you balk?"

"Hey, love, no one's balking," said Gascon, the ale running away with his tongue, "It's just the fact that you said what you said out loud and expected us not to faint like blushing virgins. You're quite filthy, Your Grace. It's a wonder you haven't killed poor Reynard."

Reynard was still frozen, the poor sod, so Gascon reached for his hand and brought him to his side. Reynard shuffled forward, his ridiculously large cock bobbing comically between his legs, and Gascon knew Meve was going to need more prep to take that girth plus his own.

"Come on, chap," he said, clapping Reynard on the shoulder. "We've got work to do if we're to please our queen, and it's going to take both of us to prep her well. Are you up to it, or shall I take over for a bit?"

Without waiting for Reynard to answer, Gascon sank two fingers into Meve's cunt, scissoring and playing in her wet heat. With his other hand, he guided Reynard to mimic his motions, and soon they were both four fingers in, spreading Meve obscenely wide as she writhed and whined beneath them. Fuck, if this wasn't every depraved man's wet dream, Gascon didn't know what was.

"Ready, Mevie?" he asked with a kiss, withdrawing his fingers. "We don't want to hurt you."

"M'ready," she replied blearily, chest heaving with pleasure. "Just get on with it, will you?"

With a gentleness that surprised even himself, Gascon took charge, maneuvering them until Reynard was sitting behind Meve, his cock resting against her sex, and Gascon pressed a kiss to both their mouths before lifting Meve until Reynard slid smoothly into her, eliciting a filthy gasp from them both that would live forever in Gascon's memory as the most lewd noise he'd ever heard. Wasting no time, Gascon took his own cock and pushed slowly in, allowing Meve time to adjust and forcing himself to be present enough in the moment to appreciate the sensation of sharing a woman this way. There was so much sensation all at once that Gascon was afraid that he would embarrass himself, but then his hips moved on their own, rocking into Meve and against Reynard in delicious friction that was better than anything had a right to be.

"Oh, goddess," Meve keened, arching her back as Gascon began to fuck her in earnest. "Oh, goddess!"

She pulsed around them, reaching orgasm, and Gascon found himself not too far behind. A few moments later, and the heavens opened; a choir sang, his vision went white, and Gascon came harder than he'd ever come in his life. He pulled out, choosing to spend his seed over Meve's belly, and in improbable, impossible queenly fashion, Meve dragged her fingers through the mess and brought it to her lips, tasting him— but that was not all. She turned, opened her mouth to kiss Reynard, pushing seed from her mouth to his, and Gascon thought he might pass out just from watching them.

"Melitele help me," he breathed.

As he watched Reynard lift Meve bodily and thrust up into her with all the fervor of a zealot in his worship, Gascon made a vow. For these two, he would do anything, break any vow, keep any oath; Gascon would die before them, because none would touch them while he yet lived. Meve had called him her blade in the darkness, the wolf at her door— Gascon had not realized how right she was until that very moment. He would be that which stood between them and the world, and no matter how this Nilfgaard business shook out, Gascon knew where his loyalties lie.

For once in his life, Gascon stood for something, and it felt right that it should be this.

That it should be love.

#thronebreaker #thronebreaker: the witcher tales #queen meve #meve x reynard x gascon #reynard odo #gascon brossard #ao3 #smut

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