#manda writes

taglist: none yet (let me know if you'd want to be added)

 “What is it now?” he asked, wiping his hands on a tea towel as he padded across the kitchen, leaning against the counter across from the musician. 

 Jaskier let out another sigh, putting down his phone to slide it across the surface to Geralt, showing him his mother’s oh so perfect Christmas morning without her failure of a son present to ruin things. 

 “Ah,” Geralt responded, swiping up on the screen to close the cursed app for Jaskier, saving him from looking at the offending picture and caption much longer. 

 “It’s fine,” Jaskier said, aiming for noncommittal but knowing he’d missed the mark by miles. Geralt sighed quietly, moving around the counter to wrap an arm around his boyfriend, holding him close and kissing the warm spot behind his ear that always made the brunet shudder. 

 “It is fine, because we’re gonna have a great holiday,” Geralt told him firmly, his large palm resting against Jaskier’s chest pressing against him, right over his steadily beating heart. Jaskier grinned to himself then, turning slightly on the stool to look up at the love of his life fondly. 

 “We are, aren’t we?” He leaned up for a kiss then, capturing warm, plush lips with his own and shuddering as strong arms enveloped him, Geralt stepping closer into the gap between his thighs and crowding him against the counter as his tongue slipped past Jaskier’s lips. 

 Yeah, they’d have a fine holiday without the judgement of the Pankratzes, thank you. 

 ——————————

 A week feels like no time at all when you’re having the time of your life. 

 Geralt and Jaskier were at Geralt’s family home just like every year, in the company of his two dads and his three brothers, ex wife and her new wife and their adopted daughter. Lambert had brought a guest this time, a “friend from work” called Aiden. Jaskier immediately bonded with the other outsider, welcoming him into the fold alongside himself and Triss.

 Geralt, as the eldest of the brood, would pretend like he was somehow above his two younger brothers and their shenanigans. Jaskier knew better, having seen -year after year- endless drinking games, dick punches, unplanned wrestling matches, and various other stupid feats of physical endurance that usually ended with Jaskier kissing Geralt’s bruises and rubbing his aching joints on an evening. He’d had no doubts that this year would be much of the same. 

 The week between the two holidays was spent eating too much good food, like always. Eskel and Ciri had spent hours in the kitchen, and having roped in Aiden this year, there were cakes, fresh bread, and elaborate meals aplenty. There’d been too many drinks, too, with Jaskier curled up in Geralt’s lap, drinking a glass of wine which kept mysteriously being topped up while Geralt sipped at a glass of scotch.

 When New Year’s Eve did roll around, Jaskier couldn’t help but feel a little miserable. Another year unwanted, he found himself thinking as he scrolled Facebook again, speeding past bullshit updates from his family, not caring to see their annual ball, the pretentious bullshit, and some horribly passive comments about Julian not being present. 

 He was torn out of his thoughts by Ciri, the preteen throwing spindly arms around his waist and beaming up at him with the full power of the sun. God, he loved this family. He ruffled his as-good-as stepdaughter’s hair before he wrapped his arms around her, hoisting her up the couple of inches he could manage and making her shriek with laughter. 

 He would not let his parents ruin his time, he wouldn’t. 

 Later, with the party in full swing and a few too many glasses of what Vesemir had dubbed White Gull, a horrifyingly strong mix of just about every bottle in his liquor cabinet that the Rivias all swore blindly was a punch, Jaskier was content. Content, but… Well. He couldn’t help but feel a tinge of regret, like he was missing something by not being at that stupid snooty fucking ball.

 “What’s up?” A voice pulled him out of his thoughts as Lambert flopped down next to him, his red curls bouncing. Jaskier sighed, looking down at the empty glass in his hands before glancing up at his friend, a surprising amount of sincerity in the man’s eyes. 

 “‘S just this time of year,” he answered with a tiny shrug, biting his lip nervously. Lambert nodded at his side, and Jaskier almost jumped when a large hand landed on his knee, patting him gently, comfortingly.

 “Family can fucking suck, mate. Especially the Pankratzes.” Lambert’s voice had a definite teasing lilt to it, and a quick glance at the redhead’s face revealed a playful smirk. Jaskier huffed a laugh in response, aiming his elbow for Lambert’s ribs and laughing harder when he made contact, knocking a winded sound from him.

 “I’m a Pankratz, numb nuts!” But Jaskier was still laughing, a warm feeling bubbling through him. He hadn’t ever really felt a sense of family, not since he was a kid, but here with Geralt and his ridiculous family, he felt like he had somewhere he could belong.

 “Whatever you say…” Lambert responded, bumping his shoulder into Jaskier’s with a little smirk before he got to his feet again. He reached a hand out and ruffled the brunet’s hair, cackling and walking away as his hand was slapped, Jaskier smiling to himself as he tried to straighten it back out.

 The night went on as expected, with Ciri on a sugar high charging round the house and Eskel holding an ice pack to a bruise blooming on his jawbone after a stray hit from one of his brothers. Jaskier had lost track of Geralt at some point, but he’d popped back up at around eleven thirty, an arm wrapped around his boyfriend’s narrow waist and chin resting on his shoulder.

 “Come here often, handsome?” Geralt joked, the smile on his face audible. Jaskier laughed brightly, patting Geralt’s hand with his own and turning his head to kiss him sweetly, lips lingering for a moment. The two men stayed like that for a long moment, swaying slightly to music.

 “Hey,” Geralt’s voice was soft, close enough to Jaskier’s ears to make him shiver, and his arm tightened around the brunet’s narrow waist briefly. Jaskier hummed in response, inhaling his boyfriend’s warm scent before blinking blue eyes open slowly. He hummed in response, frowning softly when Geralt’s arm dropped away only to snatch up his hand, tugging to pull Jaskier around to face him.

 “What is it, love?” Jaskier asked, a slight uneasy feeling bubbling up in his stomach. He watched as Geralt swallowed and licked his lips, honey warm eyes flickering from Jaskier’s eyes to his lips, down to their joined hands and back up again. He let out a huffed breath before chuckling to himself, a sure sign to Jaskier that he was nervous.

 “I uh. I’ve been doing some thinking…” the silver-haired man started, giving Jaskier’s hands a soft squeeze as he bit down on his lower lip, tongue flicking out to wet plush pink lips before he continued. “About family, and what it means. Who family are.”

 Jaskier nodded, confusion no doubt writ across his face, but he smiled all the same, encouraging Geralt to continue. He wasn’t always the best with his words, so he’d tread as carefully as he could.

 “You’re family, Jaskier. My family.” Oh. Jaskier nodded softly, his eyes prickling with tears he would not shed. He watched Geralt inhale deeply before he spoke again, the bigger man’s eyes uncharacteristically wet.

 “Julian Rivia has a nice ring to it, right?” Geralt was clearly aiming for casual, but the slight waver in his voice gave away his nerves.

 Jaskier was stunned. Was Geralt saying what he thought he was?

 “Marry me, Jask.”

 Jaskier couldn’t speak. The world seemed to narrow down to just the two of them, the feeling of Geralt’s large hands holding his, the warmth of his breath on Jaskier’s skin as he waited for a response, bottom lip pulled between his teeth to worry at the thin skin. 

 He nodded first, his mouth hanging open slightly. As Jaskier squeezed Geralt’s hands back, though, he found his voice.

 “Yes! Yes, of course!” Jaskier could feel his eyes prickling with tears as he let go of his boyfriend’s— no, his fiancé’s hands so he could throw his arms around his neck, clinging onto the other man like his life depended on it. Face buried in Geralt’s neck, Jaskier didn’t notice when the whole of his— their family turned their eyes on them, but the loud cheer from Coen was impossible to ignore.

 Lifting his head with a wet laugh, Jaskier wiped the tears from his eyes before leaning up to capture Geralt’s lips with his own for a deep kiss, tongue teasing at the spot Geralt had kept biting down on before sweeping into his fiancé’s mouth. A wolf whistle had them both laughing, Geralt resting his forehead against his as he smiled.

 “He said yes!” Geralt called over his shoulder to another round of cheers. The wind was suddenly knocked out of Geralt from behind as Ciri barrelled into her dad, clinging to him excitedly. She was followed by Vesemir and Filavandrel , the two men smiling proudly.

 “Welcome to the family, son.” Vesemir’s voice was a warm, rumbling thing, his eyes and his smile kind and inviting. A large hand clapped Jaskier’s shoulder before he was wrapped up in the old man’s arms, and truly, Jaskier had never felt more like he belonged.

 The sound of fireworks outside interrupted them, Vesemir letting go of Jaskier with a fond smile and stepping away, taking his own husband’s hand and leading their family to the open patio doors.

 “Happy New Year, Geralt,” Jaskier’s voice was slightly shaky still, too many emotions running through him. Geralt didn’t seem to mind, though, instead giving the brunet another soft kiss, large hands stroking down his back to his waist, holding him close as fireworks lit up the sky.

Normally you'd put your foot down after the fifth or sixth time, but when the bride was the daughter of your parents' college best friends, you could only bite your tongue and cope with it all by drinking an extra glass of wine or three after work. Mercifully the wedding was tomorrow so the Nuptial Nightmare wouldn’t have time to request another alteration…at least you hoped not. After this dress you were seriously going to have to rethink your customer contracts.

Most of the time you loved your job. Even with demanding brides and nightmare mother in laws, there wasn’t anything else you’d rather do. You loved the way a sixteen year old’s eyes light up as they tried on a ball gown for the first time and saw just how beautiful they truly were. 

Loved seeing a mother of the bride’s happy tears as their daughter gasped with joy when they found that perfect dress. 

Loved watching a seventeen year old’s shoulders straightened and immediately pulled a James Bond pose in the mirror as they tried on their first tuxedo.

But then there were the few like this particular Bridal Beelzebub that made you want to scream right into their botoxed and Juvedermed faces, “Fuck you! You can take your stupid lace and crinolines and shove them all up your ass! I’m gonna go clean Porta Potties for a living!”

Stretching your neck in an attempt to loosen the excruciatingly tight muscles that had formed from being hunched over a needle and thread for the past 4 hours. You glanced at the clock. 10:15! It was almost time for your favorite show. Which was ogling one Dean Winchester as he walked to and from the post office across the street. He didn’t show up daily. Sometimes weeks would pass between his visits, but when he did, he always -like a Swiss watch calibrated down to the millisecond- walked into the post office at 10:20. Sometimes with his brother and sometimes alone, but always precisely on time. 

Most of the time he came out with the strangest boxes. Once you would’ve sworn the box he was holding was shaking and glowing a putrid yellow. Another time, it looked like he and Sam were carting out a body bag. But while it was entertaining to try to guess what they might be picking up, the real reason you liked to watch him walk into the post office was…well…to simply watch him walk down the street. Yes, that probably made you the absolute worst sort of creeper, but a person only had to glance at that man, and they would’ve been mashing their nose against your shop window right alongside you. 

Quite simply the man was sex on a pair of long bowed legs. Gods above, the only thing better than watching him walk into the post office was the view from the back as he walked away. His ass alone could stop traffic and then there were those shoulders. Sigh. And the way he walked…It was like watching an ancient Viking march across the deck of his long boat. Like a Pict covering the battlefield in ground-eating strides on his way to take on the Roman legions invading his clans 

You sighed in anticipation. Two minutes to go. Maybe just maybe, this time he’d stop by your shop too. Not that he ever did, but maybe the good Lord would reward your patience with the bride from hell with a visit from one of His most gorgeous creations. Now he was at your brother’s a couple times a month, but never yours.

Your family had been in the dry cleaning and formal wear business here in Lebanon for almost a century. The shop had been passed down through the generations starting with your great grandparents until it reached you and your brothers. Technically it was two stores. One the dry cleaners and one the dress shop, but you all considered it one store. You tackled the formal wear store, your youngest brother manned the dry cleaners, and your oldest brother ran the business side of it all. Dean had never stopped by your side of the business before, and why would he? Unless they had a wedding, prom, or gala event (not that those ever happened here in Lebanon), men generally avoided your shop like the plague. Which meant that Dean never stopped by your shop. The Winchesters were frequent customers of your brother’s though, and Vincent would occasionally send a shirt or jacket your way to patch up a tear or a hole. Why two men put their poor clothes through so much torture, you would never know. And things on those clothes! Blood and dirt you could explain away, but the other weird stuff? Your brother was always dragging you over to guess what would cause the stains on the men’s clothing. Just a couple weeks ago, they’d both brought in two complete outfits all covered in fuchsia goo that smelled oddly of pepperoni pizza. Like what the what??

The rumble of his Impala echoed down the street. There he was! He parked in his usual spot and stepped out of his car. Sweet mercy, he was wearing that emerald green buffalo checked plaid. This particular shirt was your favorite. It featured prominently in a number of your daydreams. In fact, it had been the star of the one you’d had before you’d fell to sleep last night…

He playfully tugged the bolt of satin you were rolling up out of your hands and tossed it onto the massive cutting table behind you. “Enough work for today, sweetheart. It’s time to dance, Y/N!”

‘But-but I need to finish adding the satin edge to that flower girl dress. They’re picking it up tomorrow evening!”

“I know, but all work and no play makes my girl a very tired and stressed out girl, and I can’t have that. Now step away from the satin and come dance with me.” Those velvety soft lips, grinned down at you. How could you resist that smile?

“Okay, okay,” you groused, secretly giddy to not only take a break, but to spend time with your favorite person.

Dean tapped his phone and immediately the sounds of Wilson Pickett’s version of Bring It On Home To Me filled the work room. Sliding his arms around you, he pulled you in close, so close you could feel buttons of his green flannel shirt brush against your chest, and began to sway you around the room.

“Thank you,” he smiled down happily at you as he twirled you around the workspace.

“For what?” you smiled back. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Yes, you did. You took time out of your crazy work day to be with me. I know how busy you are this time of year, how many deadlines that you’re juggling and how much pressure you put on yourself to make all your customers happy. So it means the world to me knowing that you made time for little ol’ me.”

You felt a blush burning up the back of your neck and tried to deflect with humor. You’d never been one to take a compliment well. “Well, I wouldn’t exactly call you little… Plus, do you remember how many plates of spaghetti you put down last night?”

“Hey now!” Dean squeezed your butt in retaliation, inadvertently causing your pelvis to press against his crotch. You softly gasped in reaction, heat instantly pooling in your center. He was already semi erect. How long had it been for you two? You’d both been so busy lately that there hadn’t been time for anymore then a lingering kiss here and there. 

His eyes flared as he caught your quiet response. The song switched to Allen Rayman’s Lucy The Tease, as he gently grabbed your hips and ground his cock against your core. Like a match striking an iron stove, fire flared between you two, and you were dragging his head down to you. Your mouths met, and you both sighed. This. This was what you both needed so desperately. At first you kept it gentle. Each taking little sips from the other lips, a gentle nip here and there. Then his tongue licked along the seam of your lips and when you opened to him to tangle your tongue with his, all gentleness flew out the window. Hands tangled in hair, tore at clothing as you both struggled to find bare skin to touch.

“Too many clothes,” he rasped as he tugged at the strings of your heavy canvas work apron and pulled it and your shirt over your head. 

“Me? Why do you have to wear so many shirts at a time?” A squeak punctuating your question as he licked at the tendons in your neck.

He kept walking you backwards until your ass hit the cutting table. He reached to lift you up on the oak surface.

“Wait! The satin!” you yelped. 

“Fucking satin,” he huffed with exasperated laughter as he tugged off his flannel. He spread the soft green and black checkered material over the baby pink satin and smirked down at you, “Good?”

“Perfect.” You quickly unbuttoned your jeans and shimmied them down your legs and hopped up onto the table.

Dean stilled at the sight of you clad only in black and green plaid panties and matching bra. You laughed self consciously and nervously tucked stray strands of hair that had fallen out of your ponytail behind your ears. “What can I say? I have a thing for that shirt.”

“Sweetheart? You flatter me,” a wolfish smile tugged at his lips as his big, calloused hands slowly spread your thighs wide, and he knelt between them. Weighted seconds passed as he stared at the damp fabric covering your pussy. How were you getting wet by him just looking at you? It wasn’t fair. The man was a veritable warlock when it came to making love. 

Then he was tugging at the waistband of your underwear, “Lift.” He commanded and you instantly complied. He dragged the panties off and tossed them who knew where. Then he leaned forward those last few inches and handed you heaven. He buried his face between your thighs and dragged his wicked tongue along your delicate lips before spreading them with his thumbs and blowing a stream of cool air directly on your swollen bud. The bud that was nearly vibrating for his touch.

“Dean!” you wailed, desperation threading your cry. “Please.”

“Well, since you asked so nicely…” 

The next thing you knew his tongue was dragging from your channel to the bud eagerly waiting for him. You hissed and your hips bucked upwards at just that simple touch. “More! Please!”

He then set to work on your clit, licking and suckling as you threaded your fingers through that short honey brown hair. One of those strong, clever hands of his reached up to unfasten your bra and began stroking your soft breasts, carefully pinching and tugging at your hard nipples. All the while he never stopped worshiping your pussy.

The heat and pleasure cascading through your body began to tighten and tighten until it exploded. You cried out, toes curling as you fell backwards, barely catching yourself on your elbows. It had been a long time since you’d come that fast. Dean stood up, wiping your moisture off his lips and slowly licked it off each finger. You whimpered, and your channel clenched in response.

“Your turn,” you purred as you eyed the length straining the limits of denim currently confining it. You couldn’t wait to get a taste of him. After all, turnabout's fair play and all that. You reached out and pried open that brass button and tugged down his zipper, careful to not catch any sensitive skin. He spilled out onto your waiting hand and you stroked his cotton covered cock, mouth watering for him.

“Sweetheart…” he groaned and pried your eager fingers off his length. “Y/N. Stop.”

You froze. “Do you not want me to-”

“No! Yes! No!” Dean pressed his forward to yours. “I mean yes, I want your mouth on my dick in the worst way possible, but it’s been so long that I want-need to be in you when I come. I need you to come with me. Together.”

Desire shafted through you in waves more intense than what you just experienced. “Oh. Okay then.”

“You sure?” he asked as he pulled his jeans and charcoal grey boxer briefs over his hips and tore off his henley and undershirt.

“Always. I’m always sure with you.”

The swollen head of his cock was nudging through your drenched folds and nestled at your aching entrance. He glanced down into your eyes, silently asking again. “Yes, my love, a million times yes,” you breathed as you tugged his lips down to yours again, desperately needing every inch of him touching you. You both gasped into the kiss at that first thrust. He didn’t stop until he filled you to the brim. 

You stilled. 

One breath passed. 

Two. 

Three.

Then he broke, thrusting and thrusting his cock in and out, grinding against your bud with each down stroke. You wrapped your legs around his hips and held on for dear life. He tore his lips from yours and captured one of your nipples, swirling his tongue around and around that hard tip. You dragged your short finger nails down his scarred and muscled back until you reached his ass. You began kneading and stroking those firm cheeks.

He thrust harder in response. That heat began to spiral again, only lower and deeper this time. You began chanting his name under your breath. 

Close. So close.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. I got you. You can come. I got you.” He murmured in your ear before nipping it.

With that you went over, pleasure radiating through every pore until you swore you saw fireworks. You screamed as that final wave crested. Dean was right behind you, pouring himself into you with a strained shout.

Panting, you clasped him in your arms and rested your cheek against his chest. He brushed a kiss against the crown of your head. “That was amazing. You’re an absolute goddess, Y/N.”

“You’re not so bad yourself, sir,” you chuckled as you brushed a tender kiss against his jaw.

“Think that satin survived all that?” he snorted.

Your eyes flew open as you surveyed the damage around you. Clothes and underwear were strewn across the room. Somehow your bra was dangling off your mannequin’s head like it was a Von Dutch hat model in 2005. “Oh lord! The flower girl’s dress! I’m never going to be able to look her mother in the eye again after what we just did on it!”

Dean threw back his head and laughed, “I’m sure it’s-”

CLANG, CLANG, CLANG!!

The sharp peel of the bell above your door shattered your daydream. With a huff of mild annoyance you turned to face the customer rude enough to interrupt it. 

Green eyes met your shocked ones. “Hi there. Do you happen to do suit alterations here?”

Origin: Pre-Joining PSI-COM Fendira is a gnome who was raised by an adoptive grandmother (affectionately known to her as ‘Gran-Gran’ who I will be playing in the prequel campaign) in a small village outside of the City of Bells. All she knows about her parents is that they were very young when they had her, and were otherwise not prepared for parenthood. Fendira discovered her her teens that she possessed skills in tinkering and weapon crafting. As a result, she was hired on as an apprentice for Master Cinderstrike, a dwarvish blacksmith in the City of Bells who is in charge of supplying PSI with well crafted weapons and armours. In her late 20s, Fendira and Master Cinderstrike were commissioned to forge a particularly ornate sword for a PSI-COM Officer who was retiring. PSI had sent them a special piece of ore for the purposes of forging this sword; but it wasn’t until they broke it into more manageable chunks that they discovered a handle encased within the ingot. Fendira was charged with continuing to forge the blade, using the handle as a time-saver, while Master Cinderstrike fulfilled more bulk order commissions for PSI. It was at this time during which Fendira began to heard whispers coming from the forge. A calling from the handle itself. Given the style of the handle, it was clearly a pre-Great Rift artifact, rare given the fallout of the War. The handle demanded not to be made into something that would be at home on a mantle for the rest of its day, it wanted the action of the frontlines. Appealing to Fendira’s own desire to break away from supporting PSI’s efforts from the sidelines; Fendira finished forging the blade herself and ran to the Ghost Tower (the Headquarters of the Templar faction) without informing Master Cinderstrike. It was here, among other martial spell-casters, where Fendira honed her swordsmanship and began understanding the bond that she shared with the blade. Geist (leader of the Templars) despite knowing the true nature of Fendira’s blade, that she was technically an unregistered warlock, approved for Fendira to represent the Templar faction at PSI-COM. It was here that Fendira hoped to further hone her skills as a warrior and help protect others on a global scale.

That’s all of Fendira’s pre-campaign information! I can make another post about her campaign shenanigans if people are interested!