#meve x reynard

[herecomesshawn]

Them

[limerental]

ficletvember 2024 - day 4

meve/reynard post-canon gooey fluff with a touch of chivalry/praise kink

A sleepy Reynard misspeaks, inspiring Meve to indulge in sharing a silly girlhood fantasy.

It's a simple slip of the tongue one morning, a misplaced word heavy with sleep. Both the Queen and her consort are slower to rouse these days, loathe to leave a warm bed for their duties in the winter chill of the castle.

Reynard in particular has never slept so deeply, rising slowly to consciousness with little sighs and grumbles rather than snapping alert, and Meve delights in it, rolling to her belly to tuck her face against his sleep-warm shoulder and trail her fingers across the span of his chest as he mumbles nonsense and groggily protests her occasional whispered requests that he wake.

Some mornings, she wakes him more pleasantly, rising to straddle him or slipping beneath the bedcovers, but the hour is already late enough that the servants meant to dress and feed them and prepare them for the day are likely growing antsy waiting outside their shared bedchamber, as they’ve instructed them to do.

In truth, tradition dictates separate bedrooms, which they maintain for the occasional sleepless night, but they’ve gladly shirked tradition and wasted far too much time to sleep apart.

As much as Meve would love to lie here beside him half the morning, to allow Reynard as many moments of peaceful comfort as he deserves after everything, both of them have too many responsibilities looming.

Meve prods him in the ribs and rises on an elbow above him, giving to the impulse to press a brief kiss to his jaw, rough with the previous day’s stubble.

“Reynard,” she says, “it’s time you woke. What ever are you dreaming about?”

“Urgghhff,” he huffs, slack brow tightening as his eyelids flutter, gaze unfocused. “Hmmph?”

Meve prods him more insistently.

“Up,” she says. “No more lazing about.”

“Mmm,” Reynard hums and blinks open his eyes. She knows she’s gotten through at last when he stretches, groggy but conscious, and reaches for her, touching a hand to her cheek as she looms above him. He appears so openly besotted as he looks up at her, that Meve feels her face grow hot. His thumb strokes her cheekbone, as gently as though touching thin-blown glass. His eyes drift shut again.

“Reynard,” she says, her voice hardening into the sharpness of an order. “Wake up. On your feet.”

He’s fully awake at once, stiffening to sit up with covers pushed aside.

“Yes, Sir,” he tells her firmly, realizing only a moment later what he’s called her by mistake. “I mean… Your Grace… err… Meve.”

Meve giggles breathlessly, deeply amused by his mortified expression as much as the slip of the tongue, and she forgets their waiting duties and antsy servants and rises to straddle his lap, planting a hand flat against the ridge of scar tissue at his sternum to tip him backwards against the pillows.

“Call me that again,” she says, laughing. “Sir Meve, hmm?”

“M-my apologies,” stutters Reynard, “if I’d been more awake, I wouldn’t’ve–” Tutting over his embarrassed flush, she catches her fingers in his greying hair to kiss him soundly in apology for the teasing. 

“Oh hush. I must confess I like how it sounds,” she says even as she coaxes Reynard’s hands to grip her hips, her own hand stealing between their bodies to cup his morning erection. There’s truly no time for such intimacy, but then again, all of Rivia and Lyria can wait beyond their bedchamber as long as she wishes. 

“Meve, we should–”

She shushes him and kisses down his throat and does not hesitate to lift her hips and settle him inside her body, delighting in his quickening breath and pinched brow as much as she had his relaxed slumber.

“D’you know as a child I yearned for th’ day I’d be knighted and all would have to call me sir rather than princess?” She rocks back as she speaks, tangling their fingers together at her hips. “My mother had to inform me of th’ proper title. Unfortunately, Dame doesn’t have quite th’ same appeal.”

Reynard laughs, breathless. 

“Call me it again,” she says.

“Sir,” says Reynard, “yes, Sir.”

His hips move up against hers, and she remembers as a girl dreaming of gleaming armor and glorious battle, of earning the respect and adoration of doting tournament crowds. Of being powerful and important, far more than a simple princess destined to be married off into the meek servitude of matrimony and motherhood. 

Gripping tight to lean against the leverage of clasp of their hands and Reynard’s raised arms, Meve tells him every foolish fantasy, even as he responds in turn, muttering praise against the skin of her breast, looking up at her through dark lashes as they move together.

The repeated, earnest whispers of sir warm her thoroughly.

They laugh together, sweaty and spent.

Meve knows she has no need of the fanfare of admiring crowds, though these days they wait anywhere she goes. She cares only to have earned the respect and doting adoration of this man beneath her, who would follow her into any battle and indulge her any silly fantasy.

[pumpkincalico]

“he invented love” i say pointing to an emotionally constipated man who has been pining after his queen for 20 years-

[famouslybitchy]

Chapters: 3/8 Fandom: Thronebreaker: The Witcher Tales (Video Game) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Meve/Reynard Odo, Gascon Brossard/Original Male Character(s) Characters: Gascon Brossard, Meve (The Witcher), Reynard Odo, Isbel aep Muir Moss, Eyck of Denesle, Villem (The Witcher) Additional Tags: Smut, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Rivia's Castle lives rent free in my head, Spoilers for Thronebreaker: The Witcher Tales, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Minor Character Death Summary:

Reynard and Meve's lives take a turn for the better in Angren, but a turn for the worse in Rivia.

[witcherscreenshotsdump]

[inathousandpoems]

the great war by taylor swift is so meve and reynard odo

[solarsea-artist]

this is basically the plot of thronebreaker (2018)

iconic reference:

[maly-dinosaurik]

just dad!Reynard, inspired by fic by @queenmevesknickers

[fllagellant]

Thronebreaker main trio but ummmm :3

[herecomesshawn]

yawn

[limerental]

ficletvember 2023 - day 19

meve/reynard pegging pwp

Meve and Reynard finally find the time and privacy to test out Barnabas' gifted invention for releasing tension. this follows from day 7's ficlet and contains the promised smut

Meve paused, breath held, as her command was readily obeyed. 

The sight alone should not have been so disarming, but though she and her general had fumbled together for months now, it had ever been in the dark or wholly-clothed or with her pressed beneath him. Little time spent simply looking.

Reynard's shoulders were broad and lightly-freckled, the dip of his spine and the muscle of his arms accentuated by his lean forward against his elbows. The browned line of a tan stood out on the nape of his neck, meeting skin deeply pale. 

Giving to an impulse, Meve leaned to press her mouth there against the nob of his spine, feeling Reynard shudder as her bare breasts pressed to his shoulder.

On the open road, there had always been some reason to be found which made taking their time impractical. There was work to be done. Recruits were too near. The canvas walls were too thin. Anyone could walk into the command tent. 

Meve had tried not to take offense at how swiftly Reynard seemed to right himself after their affairs, returning to his uniform neatness and composure before she could even catch her panting breath. 

And Barnabas had been right in their conversation several weeks past. He rarely seemed more relaxed during or after their engagements. He tensed for any foot fall and resumed his duties immediately afterward, never lingering. 

Once Meve noticed Reynard's tension, she pledged to launch a campaign to ease it. If even for a moment.

It had taken some rigorous planning, including an uncomfortable conversation with Isbel about logistics and a similarly uncomfortable chat with the eavesdropping Gascon, whose vulgar hand gestures had unfortunately proven quite helpful. 

Then, there was the matter of a private location. The opportunity arose when a baron whose estate the army travelled past offered her lodging for the night. The poor man had been dumbfounded when his proud queen requested the use of his gardener's cottage. 

It was quaint and humble, but at last, there was a door that locked and a bed with a half-decent mattress and little chance of being overheard.

With some coaxing and prodding and promises that Gascon would make the proper excuses for them if any asked, Reynard had agreed to join her. 

All that careful planning had prepared her neither for the way his face flushed as she lay out her intentions nor the swiftness with which he agreed. 

It was a vulnerable position that she asked him to take. If it were not wholly in pursuit of his pleasure, she may have felt a tug of guilt at asking it of him at all. She was not ignorant of crass camp jests about the demeaning nature of such an act, how a receptive role diminished a man's masculinity.

Reynard had scoffed at her concerns. No touch of her hand could ever be demeaning and any man with such misguided notions must not be secure in his manhood.

And so, after helping one another shed each piece of their armour, sharing slow kisses as their bare skin brushed, Meve had bid Reynard to lie on his belly.

She had been advised to start with careful slowness and would not have considered otherwise.

Candlelight flickered across the muscled plane of his back, and though Meve could not claim to have had many male lovers, she had never seen a man's body so alluring.

Her hand smoothed down the soft curve of his back, her calloused hands feeling small against the breadth of him. His waist was comparatively narrow, and she tightened her grip there a moment, pleased to hear his hitch of breath and feel the shift of muscle beneath her palm. The contrast was delightful, like velvet over steel.

She was surprised to find his backside, though horribly and blindingly pale, to be an ample handful, soft and supple as she dared to cup the flesh in her hand. Gathering from what she enjoyed in such a position, she firmed her touch into a squeeze and murmured her every intention against the span of his shoulder.

Meve wished to see him give to her, to lose the taut stiffness of his shoulders and forget himself. She wanted to hear him call out his pleasure without heeding volume. She wanted him to feel the same care that she felt beneath his hands.

And of course, she assured him that other pleasures could be had if the sensation was not to his liking.

They had all night and nothing to concern themselves with but one another.

Reaching to the table beside the bed, she cracked the lid of the small jar Isbel had given her and pressed her fingers into the oily concoction. Feeling it warm in hand, faintly humming with magic, she fought against further hesitation and slipped her slick fingers down the cleft of his arse.

Rubbing with careful pressure, she let herself look. Reynard's sparse body hair thickened at his tailbone. Though that private part of his body appeared perfectly average and mundane, not particularly arousing, a thrill of excitement went through her as she watched a finger slip past the pink ring of muscle. It required an exquisite sort of trust. That he allowed her to touch there. That he believed do readily in her sworn promise to help him feel good, even though she felt less certain given her lack of experience.

At first, he clenched against her, his unmatched self-control and desire to please her warring with the uptight tension he naturally held in every line of his body.

When at last he managed to relax the appropriate muscles, her finger slipping in easily to the last knuckle, Meve muttered senseless praise as she held there. How warm he was inside, how velvet-soft, how good it was to see the tension loosen from his shoulders.

Determined to see that looseness follow through his whole body, she rubbed with careful pressure and gently crooked her fingers in the ways she had been instructed.

She had been told that some men found the stimulation of the nerve-rich organ to be oversensitive rather than pleasurable, but she learned almost at once that it was not so for Reynard. 

He breathed that he'd always wondered what drove a man to buggery and oh, now he understood.

Quietly, he confessed that his attraction to men had only gone so far as the use of hands and mouths, had never trusted another man enough to engage in what he had assumed to be an unpleasant experience for the receptive partner.

Meve pressed a second finger in to join the other, pleased with Reynard's small grunts and whines of sound but desiring to inspire more. At last, he cried out on a firm stroke. He spoke into the mattress that if her fingers alone felt like this, he could only imagine her cock, and Meve felt so wet between her legs she felt she would drip with it.

Patience had never been one of Meve's virtues, but she did not wish to cause the man beneath her any discomfort in her haste. She took great and thorough care with her ministrations and was rewarded with the sight of Reynard's back arched below her, the meat of her hand cupping his arse as he breathed open-mouthed against the bed linens. 

Straining her own self-control, she waited until his began to fray at the edges, trembling through his shoulders as his reassurances that he could handle more took on a desperate edge.

Unfortunately, readying herself required leaving the bed to fetch Barnabas’ gifted invention and recall how the contraption was meant to be worn.

Reynard rose beside her. He held the harness out for her to step into with hands on his shoulders, made clumsy in her haste. The brush of his fingers as he helped adjust the buckles at her hips and test their tightness like one would a horse's bridle nearly drove her to madness with their gentle attention.

Without being asked, he lay back down on his belly, propped on his elbows with neck dropped forward in quiet submission.

She nearly wept with the feeling that struck her then. How satisfying it felt to be trusted so completely, to be respected equally.

When Reynard had first confessed his years of yearning for her, she had feared that her reality would not live up to his ideal of her, that he had made her more grand in his mind as his Queen than the woman she was when stripped bare before him.

She had worried also that her station would make him feel unfairly compelled to obey, forgetting his own needs to appease hers. That even asking him to relent to his own pleasure would be something he did out of honour-bound duty rather than earnestly enjoyed.

Her hesitance led him to look back over his shoulder, a flush of anticipation colouring his cheekbones. His expression was as softened as she had ever seen it, and Meve knew she need not have worried.

He had told her plainly that he wanted her in any way that she desired and expressed a hope that she felt the same.

Meve certainly wanted him. She wanted with a crushing depth and intensity that surprised her.

With that desire quickening her heartbeat, she lay her body over his, her pelvis flush to his backside, knowing he would keenly feel the solid firmness of the phallus. 

Sneaking a hand between their bodies, she found him loose and open for her. The slick sound of her oiled hand warmed through her belly, and Reynard breathed in measured huffs, more cracks showing in his collection. 

Fearing that further delay would drive both of them mad, Meve pressed a kiss to the bone of Reynard's shoulderblade and guided the weight of the phallus inside him.

Barnabas had explained that there was a touch of ancient gnomish magic woven into the device, and she understood his meaning now as tingles of sensation crept up her spine. It was not quite as tangible as she imagined her own flesh and blood would be, but there was clear sensation. A heat and a pressure. It spread to her own core in an echo of feeling.

When she asked if Reynard was well, sweeping her hand up through his sweat-damp hair in a soothing gesture, he cursed aloud with a vulgarity that she had never heard from him and bid her to move her hips.

Clumsy at first and unsure of the proper angle, Meve steadied his hips with both hands, brow furrowed in concentration. She drove forward in even thrusts as he visibly willed his muscles to bear down and welcome her.

Praise fell from her lips, sweet and earnestly filthy in ways she hadn't thought herself capable. The words had the desired effect on Reynard, soon looking overwhelmed and deeply flustered.

Leaning across his broad back, she snuck a hand beneath him, not able to do much more in the limited space than to hold her palm against the overheated firmness of his cock and feel him rut against his belly and the ridges of her fingers.

Time seemed to stretch. Their bodies grew slippery with the sweat of exertion. Meve was glad for the strength of her thighs. The pace required to inspire deepening groans and curses would have been difficult to maintain if her legs and back were not well-muscled and used to strain.

Were she a man, no muscle would have helped her. She would have embarrassed herself within a few, short thrusts inside him.

To their joint surprise, the phallus began to hum and vibrate as their pleasure crested, driving them both to their peaks, and together, they were lost.

Meve had barely regained her breath when the sight before her fluttering eyes took it again. This time with a deep swell of affection. Collapsed forward on the mattress, his body loose and pliant, pinched brow finally relaxed, Reynard half-dozed beneath her. 

As she withdrew the phallus, he shifted to look at her, but she shushed him with a long stroke of both hands down his back, lest he tense again. She hurried to release herself from the harness, kicking it free of her legs, and lay down beside him with an arm slung across his shoulders. 

She rested their foreheads together and neither moved for a long while.

Later, when she lay on her back with his body moving above and within her, curled down with consuming heat around her, she snuck her hand behind him to delve two searching fingers into his entrance still loose with oil. His helpless cry and the stutter of his thrusts as he spent almost at once surprised them both, and she laughed against the slump of his shoulder as he moaned in embarrassment at his failure to contain himself. 

With whispered reassurance, he laughed as well, quiet huffs into her hair that felt more precious than any sound she had ever heard. 

She had never heard him laugh. 

When she told him how dearly she liked that sound and should like to hear more of it, he drew back to look at her, eyes brimming with tenderness. She was sorry to have sobered him, apology forgotten when he leaned close for a deep kiss full of words unspoken.

If they survived this war unscathed and victorious, she knew there would be many years of laughter and released tension to come.

[animereaderinsertwriter]

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.

[pumpkincalico]

its meve loving hours

[famouslybitchy]

My heart has teeth is complete! Just posted chapter 2 out of 2. It took a lot out of me but hopefully I'll still find the time to finish my other, even longer, Thronebreaker WIP one day.

[witcherscreenshotsdump]

[johix]

Loved the short fic and drawing those 3 for you - thank u again so much! <3

That night brought a storm, common for early spring in Rivia, but ferocious. Meve lay between her steadfast count and her wayward duke, kept awake by the wind and the occasional crash of thunder. Attempting to block out the sounds of the storm, she shifted closer to Reynard and pressed her ear against his chest, covering her other ear with her hand. He was sleeping soundly, despite the storm, and Meve focused on the slow thump of his heart. The steady rhythm had almost lulled her to sleep when Gascon twitched in his sleep, his knee hitting the back of her thigh.

 She twisted around to face him. A flash of lightning lit up the strained expression pulling at his features. His brow was furrowed, his teeth clenched as his lips moved soundlessly. Gascon’s limbs jerked again and his breathing turned fast and shallow.

 Meve pulled him towards her and murmured comfort. His shoulders were tense beneath her hand as she rubbed his back. Behind her, she felt Reynard shift, his arm winding around her waist. As the storm moved off and the sounds of thunder grew distant, Gascon relaxed into her arms. His breathing slowed and Meve felt her own nervousness lessen in turn. Her eyelids grew heavy.

 Soothed by the warmth of the bodies on either side of her, Meve closed her eyes. She could no longer hear the storm. Instead she just heard breathing; two separate patterns of inhales and exhales. For a brief moment, they matched. The same steady tempo. Meve added her own breath to this harmony as she drifted off to sleep.

———

I commissioned the lovely @johix to draw a fanart from one of my favorite fics, @aretuzagradschooldropout‘s “Tempo”. I am blown away by how talented they both are!!

Also, Thronebreaker is an awesome game and you should definitely check it out :D