#small!reader

“I can!” You protest with a sniffle, brows creased together unhappily. It only makes him laugh more.

That makes it all the more worse, especially when you can feel his cock twitch inside you. 

You whine, pushing your wet face into the creased pillows beside you. 

“I know you can.” He mumbles pitifully, finally taking a break from his mean teasing. One of his big, calloused hands makes it’s way up your twitching body until it winds itself around the back of your neck, fingertips brushing your hair at the nape of your neck. “Always take me so well, huh? Prettiest fuckin’ girl with the,” he breaks, a grunt as you look at him with those teary bambi eyes, “tightest little hole.” 

“Daddy,” you cry, tiny hands pushing against his hairy chest as he picks up the speed of his thrusts. Deep within your hazy mind you notice how pretty your manicured nails look against him, a treat that he paid for monthly. Ari groans again at your broken whine, leaning down to plant hot kisses against your wet cheeks. 

He’s never loved anything as much as he’s loved you. 

Angelface you, who fell off your bike in front of his driveway. He had been out the front, sweating profusely as he pushed the mower against the overgrown grass – he’d only just moved in to the massive place, inherited it from some uncle he never even met. He can still remember catching your eye as you peddled past, the way that you had been far too distracted looking at his chest, the way that you toppled over into one of his bushes. 

He was enamoured the moment that he first touched you.

Being the natural savour that he is, he jumped straight away to save you. His big hands wrapped under your arms and lifted you effortlessly from the crumple of limbs that you had ended up as. And when he set you on your shaky feet, that was when he realised just how fucking little you were. 

The top of your head reached around the bottom of his pecks, leaves wound into your locks. You tried to stable yourself against him, the tiniest of hands splayed out against his stomach. He can remember the way that your big watery eyes had looked up at him, apologising excessively and trying to ignore the throbbing, bruising pain. He can remember the feeling of fullness overtaking him, forcing him to reach out for you, to try his very hardest to win over your heart. The same feeling stays with him now, the need to protect you, baby you, keep you for himself. 

So tiny and helpless. 

His hips stutter as he looks down and lets out a long winded moan, something that would surely have the neighbours concerned and stray cats replying to the call. 

“Look, baby. Look at how good you take daddy.” He’s not teasing anymore, instead moving your limp head to face downwards. Your vision is blurry from the tears, but you blink fast to try and clear your vision. Then you see it, the thing that makes his hindbrain cry out and push his hips faster. 

There, at the very bottom of your tummy, is a slight bulge, appearing and disappearing with every stroke he gives. He’s so big, just massive, a juggernaut. You're so tiny, look like some sort of pixie next to him. The hotness of the sight has your eyes rolling and a choked whine filling the air, matching the rough slapping of skin upon skin, and the echo of your slick. 

Ari laughs again, pushing a warm hand against the moving bulge. “Is that daddy all up in your guts, huh? M’fucking ruining you, kitten. Does daddy feel good? Can feel you clenching, tightest little hole.” He’s getting just as close as you are, he always gets blubbery and breathy when he gets close to cumming. “Best I ever had, you know that? Best fuckin’ girl. You're my girl, baby. Tell daddy you're his girl.”

Your tears are worse now, but you will always give him what he needs. “I-I’m your girl, daddy. Always your girl -ah!- please, please.” Your breathing is rough and troubled. Your hand pushes against him, but all your pussy does is pull him in deeper. “S-So big. I can’t– M’gonna come.”

“Fuck. Sweetest girl. Make the cutest little mess. Come for me, angel. I got you. Daddy’s got you.”

It’s white hot, the pleasure. It grabs you and swallows you whole, has you shaking and creaming all over his cock. Your squeaks and whines are enough to push him to the edge too, and Ari pulls your tiny frame into a bear hug as he paints your rippling walls white. Ari shudders with you. Mouthing at your jaw, his warmth completely encompasses you. The gentle giant is so good to you, shushing your tired cries as he slips out of your wet cunt, thumbing away the tears at your cheeks. He keeps you there, small and tucked away, like his own little secret, like something fragile and tiny, like his most precious of keepsakes. 

Chris jumps at any opportunity to flaunt his height around you.

"Hey, baby, can you grab that cereal for me?"

You nod, turning around to find the box as it sat on the very top shelf, taunting you.

Not wanting to be spanked in the cereal aisle, you keep your mouth shut.

He chuckles at you jumping and climbing on shelves to get to the top shelf. “Oh, did you need help with that, sweetheart?” He teases and lifts you up to grab the box and proceeds to kiss your grumpy pout away.

He’s a dick about it sometimes too. Taking giant steps so you’d basically jog to keep up with him. Skipping steps on the stairs so he could watch you race to meet him at the top.

Or literally picking you up and carrying you when you’re not doing what he asks.

“Let me down, you neanderthal!” Your fists rain down on his back, yanking at his shirt when he laughs. You reach down and pinch his ass.

“Oh! Is that how you want to play?” Chris retaliates by flipping up your little skirt and slapping your ass, “You should just listen to me, baby. It’ll save you the trouble.” He gropes your flesh. Pulling at the band of your panties and letting go, loving at the short gasp you let out.

“No! And cover my ass before someone sees!”

He does fix your mini skirt, not before another slap. “No one walks this beach at this time.”

“This is one of the most popular beaches in the city.”

“Okay, but we haven’t seen anyone since we got here.” “Maybe next time when I say we should leave to meet our reservation—you should listen instead of taking a nap.”

You groan, sagging limp over his shoulder. With each step, your body sways like dead weight.

“But, I’m tired.” You spent the whole day travelling the city with Chris for your weekly date night, except Chris chose to start early in the morning and make it a date day/night.

Since Dodger was being watched by some friends, you and Chris had the house to yourself. You thought it would’ve been nice to relax and have breakfast in bed without a cute dog puppy begging for a bite, but no, Chris woke you up in the early hours to take a trip to the farmers market.

“Well, it’s a good thing you aren’t walking then.” He pats your bum comfortingly, “Recharge some of that energy. Not that you’ll need it when I annihilate you at the arcade tonight.”

You fumble with your response, huffing in frustration. “You suck!” You hear other voices and look up to see a group of teenagers on the pier. “Chris, people are staring.”

“Huh?” “Oh, don’t mind them.”

“You look suspicious with a girl over your shoulder at the beach at night.”

“You’re right.” He turns to them, waving with a grin, “she’s okay—just tired!”

When they said they saw the former Captain America carrying his girlfriend over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, without video or pictures, everyone believed them anyway. Because, honestly, it just seemed like something Chris would do.

He's lucky he's the love of your life.

When he’s working out—he’ll casually mention bench pressing you. And somehow, that leads to your panties on the floor and you bent over the stationary bike with Chris plowing you from behind.

His bicep is around your neck, keeping you from falling forward from the brutal strength behind his thrusts. Your eyes roll back, whines slipping from your lips. His big cock stretching you wide, his heavy balls colliding with your button.

“You’re doing so good, my best girl. Letting daddy fuck your little pussy sore.” He flexes, his bulging muscles restricting your air flow. "Such a good girl for daddy's cock, huh?"

Chris’ breath fans across your heated cheek, his grunts vibrating his chest. You sink closer him, sending his shaft deeper, the thick head hitting your cervix. Choking out a cry, your nails dig into his arm.

You gasp, trying to speak. "P-Please—” Chris loosens his arm, scraping his beard on your jaw. God, you hope he leaves marks. Your mind is so foggy, you barely register him bringing your hand to where you're connected.

You're fucking soaked, dripping down your thigh. Your panties weren’t any better, having been damp the moment you heard his grunts and found him lifting weights.

"What was that, dumb baby?" His thrusts slow down, letting you feel every vein before rutting into you. He curses at the wet noises coming from your pussy. "Can't hear you over your little drenched cunt, gonna have to speak louder than that."

"I love you, daddy." You twist to look at him, begging him with the cutest pout. "Kiss me, p-pretty please."

Chris smirks, "I love you too, baby." He licks into your mouth, kissing you passionately. His arm around your neck falls to cup your tummy. The dull bulge appears with every thrust. “Look how deep I am, darlin’, feel me in your tummy, huh?” He leans close, sucking and nibbling on your shoulder, “Makes me wanna fill you up, get you full of my baby. You want that?”

“Yes, yes, daddy.” You look down, drooling at the bump of his cock protruding from inside you. Chris grinds thoroughly, almost coming to a complete halt. “Please fuck me, please!”

"Yeah? What are you gonna do for daddy, then?"

You grip the rails of the bike, trying to fuck yourself on his hard length. But you lack the strength and power, Chris chuckles darkly at you.

“Are you gonna give me a baby, sweet girl? Let daddy get you plump with a baby—fill your messy pussy until you’re leaking?”

He pulls back and hammers into you, forcing noises from your throat, your ass slapping against his hips in a quick rhythm. He gets so deep at this angle—pummelling into your sopping pussy with vigour.

"Rub your little cunt for daddy, you slut."

He presses your fingers on your pearl, hard and thick body flush against your back. You rub yourself with fervour, the wetness soaking your fingers. Combined with his dick pressing all up in your guts, you spasm immediately. Clenching around him tight, choking his throbbing length and begging for his cum. Legs weak, body tingling and numb as you fall forward with a cry.

"That's it, cream all over my cock." He bites onto your shoulder, holding his high back. He’ll consider giving you a break—only when you’re dripping down your legs and pleading.

Then he flips you around, kissing you filthily before wrapping your arms around his neck and lifting you up. Your feet flail, eyes shooting open when he spits on your breasts.

He spreads your thighs, your knees hooked over his strong arms, then forces your still convulsing cunt on his dick.

Chris holds you up like that. Forcing your weepy heat on his shaft, your loud and squeaky moans make him harder. His grip tightens, obscene squelching filling the air, he's unable to look away from your blissed-out face. Mouth dropped wide and eyes rolled back, you can barely keep them open.

Your legs swinging by his sides, toes curled tight. Pussy aching for and from his size. Shuddering when you feel spit land on your cunt, Chris' cock fucking it into you. Getting you even more wet if possible.

Mind flying high at how he can hold you up, manhandle you up and down his girth. Guttural groans and growls coming from deep in his throat. He’s so much bigger than you, it’s almost scary. Chris is determined to use your creamy hole, not caring about how sensitive you are.

Chris holds you up with one arm, pulling you close until your tits are pressed against his tattooed chest. Your poor clit rutting against his neatly trimmed pubic hair. Sweaty skin meets as he opens your mouth wider.

"Stick your tongue out. That’s it." "Daddy's little cock drunk baby, huh? Cream all over me, sweetie—show me how much you want daddy's cum. Love it when I use you, daddy isn’t stopping until your cunt is crying, little girl."

His voice is so deep and gravelly, it sets you ablaze, you tense and release again. Eyes fluttering as you convulse around his heavy shaft.

He softly shushes your cries, kissing all over your hot cheeks and sucking your tongue into his mouth. When he's like this, his kisses are heavenly and sinful at the same time. Teeth clashing, tongue massaging yours, swallowing your whimpers.

"God, look at that little fuckhole." Chris cranes his neck, your cream coating his entire length. Tiny pussy gaping around his size, slick and tender, a prize. He wants to suck your swollen clit into his mouth, lick around your messy folds, taste your mixed juices and give you beard burn on your inner thighs.

And Chris, never one to hold back, does exactly that.

"Soak my face, baby." He demands against your puffy folds, sucking your clit between his lips before pulling off with an obscene pop. He laps at your heat, groaning deeply. "Then maybe, I'll fill you with my cum."

You can't even mourn your yoga mat under you. It’s destroyed from your nails and wetness dripping down your slit.

Chris thrusts his tongue into your centre, moaning against you, eating you like a starved man. His sounds rumbling against you. He drinks you down, digging his face deeper between your thighs, a lovely irritation building from his facial hair.

"I—"

"Can't believe this tight hole takes my cock. Best pussy I've ever had, darlin'." "You're made for me, made to take daddy’s cock like a good girl.”

He pulls away, tugging your nub between his lips and sitting back on his knees. Your wetness glistening in his beard. He collects your arousal with his rough fingers before gripping himself. Hissing at the contact, abs flexing. "Fuck yourself with your fingers, baby."

You can't. Shaking your head, hands clenched in fists to your chest. Lying limp, shuddering breaths shaking your chest.

Chris tsks. " I guess I have to do everything myself." "Just a dumb little baby when you’re spread out like this—don't worry, I'll take care of you."

And by take care, he means fucking you against the wall until you collapse against his chest in exhaustion.

It wasn’t surprising to know that Chris was (graciously) gifted between the legs. When you first saw him naked, you remember being a little terrified. Your hand couldn't wrap around the girth and the length had you doubting if you could even take him.

When you had sex the first time, you could only take him halfway before you came. You were teetering on the edge since he made you sit on his face.

Chris suggested taking it slow next time, and opened you up with four fingers before filling you to the hilt.

Now, you've become addicted to the burn of when he breaches—greedily taking everything he has to offer.

Since he's gotten your cunt accustomed to his size, his mind can't help but drift to your little puckered hole.

Chris leans back, one hand in the middle of your back as he rails you over the arm of the couch. Your toes barely brush the floor as he fucks the sweetest noises from you.

He admires your bouncing backside, squeezing the flesh harshly. Bringing his hand back to spank you, repeating it again and again.

You’re so submissive for him. So little, he feels almost bad to be pounding you so roughly. But you loved it. His cock glistening every time he pulls out.

His eyes are glued to the little rosebud above your swollen petals.

“Fuck—baby, when are you gonna let daddy fuck your ass?” “I’ve been good to you, haven’t I?”

Your breath hitches. The closest you've gotten to that was when Chris would lightly rub his thumb over it, or when his tongue lapped at your juices that dribbled down.

Mind filling with images of his fat girth opening you wide, you could almost taste the pain.

Chris brings you against his body before picking you up. Still throbbing between your walls, he lays you on the couch, the movie long forgotten on the television. Flipping you over onto your back, big palms running over your heated skin. He pinches your hardened nipples, tugging. Moaning, your back arches off the cushions.

He sticks his fingers between your lips until you’re slack jawed. Spitting into your mouth, “swallow, baby.” Then, he traces down your neck with his slick fingers.

“Don’t you want daddy’s cock in your ass, sweetie?” His digits tailing down your tummy to your soaking pussy, giving your clit a slap then doing the same to your ass. “Or are you gonna make me beg?” He pulls out, cock colliding with his lower stomach with a wet smack. He folds your legs to your chest and circles your rim.

You shake your head quickly, blubbering, “no, no, you can b-but not now.”

“I can do what?”

You squirm as he collects your arousal before spreading it around your much tighter, smaller hole. “You can fuck my ass, daddy.”

Chris abruptly shoves two fingers into your cunt, scissoring them. His dark gaze locked on your wide eyes as you narrowly register his next words.

“Hm, isn't your pussy gonna feel neglected? We don’t want that, baby.” “Hungry little cunt wants my cock too.”

“Oh! Yes, please, please.” You moan, head thrown back. “Want you in all my holes, use me, daddy. Fill me up.”

“Yeah? My little girl wants to be stuffed to the brim?” His fingers are pulled away.

The bulbous head of his dick rubs against your button before he presses into you—so slowly that you reach up and pull him down by his neck. Your nails pierce into the skin leaving small crescents in its wake.

“So fucking good,” he grunts lowly, he builds a pace, going deeper and harder with every roll of his hips. He can’t get enough of your tightness on his throbbing shaft. “Squeeze my cock, sweet girl,” “Milk me, wanna get you knocked up.” “Tiny pussy so good for me—after you’re full of my baby, daddy’s gonna cum in all your little holes. You want that? Daddy dripping all over you.”

Chris knows exactly how to ruin you.

He takes your nipples into his mouth, biting and sucking until you whimper. He moves you however he pleases, hips unrelentless as he marvels at his handy work. Weepy cunt stretching to the max, he just knows it burns. Bruises and hickies decorating your skin like his very own canvas. He's claimed your mind, your body, he just needs to do the same to your insides.

You’re brainless underneath him. So small, whining, head bobbing with each thrust—a glorious Angel for him to devour. His glorious cock drunk Angel.

You look up at him with unfocused eyes. Tears brimming in your waterline, “you’re too big, daddy, you’re too deep!”

Chris chuckles mockingly. Thrusting harder. “Am I? Sweetie, I think you’re just so little that it feels that way.”

“Daddy, daddy,” you mewl.

“Don’t you love it when daddy stretches your little pussy? Can feel you clenching, baby, you gonna give daddy that cream?”

He couldn’t be more right. You loved when he took you like this, when he manhandled you on his fat girth, fucking every thought from your head.

“I'm gonna—ah—don’t stop.”

He spits lewdly on your stomach, smearing it into your skin. Paying special attention to his cock protruding from inside you. “Where are your manners?” “Is daddy’s cock is makin’ you so stupid you forget how to ask nicely? Dumb little girl, just good for taking cock, huh?”

That has you clenching around him, your feet braced against his chest, thighs shut tight. Little ah’s are all you can manage.

Chris grips the back of your thighs and pushes down, straining your muscles all while using the leverage to pound you deeper into the couch. The sound of skin slapping intensifies and your hands scramble, head so far gone that you don’t know what to hold on to.

He’s so big above you. Tall and wide, heavy, hairy, broad shouldered, and tattooed. His chain dangling from around his neck. You can’t even function, his cock hitting so deep that you try to get away but he just pulls you back down. Trapping you underneath him.

“Take my cock, don’t run from me.” He moves you on his dick, groaning at the feeling of your constricting walls.

“I'm stretching your tight pussy so good you’re trying to get away, huh? Is that any way to thank me?” “And look at that little fuckhole, you’re makin’ a mess. Such a stupid baby."

"Daddy—" You squeak when he slaps your thigh.

"Unless you're gonna apologize for ruining the couch, then don't speak."

His pace is merciless, his thickness spearing into your deepest parts. You're a mess of strangled moans as your hands land on your mouth, fingers between your teeth. Your orgasm easily builds into another.

He growls, rutting into you, his balls pressed to your ass, the pubic hair at the base of his cock sending tingles through your body. You twitch, keening loudly.

“Fuck, baby, take daddy’s cum,” He breathed out, abs and biceps tensing under his flushed skin. “You gonna milk me dry?”

Your garbled whines are cut off as he tears your fingers from your mouth. Bringing it to his own mouth then down to your swollen folds. “Touch yourself, sweetie.”

Low praises come from his lips, “that’s it. Play with your messy pussy. Make yourself come.” “Those little fingers aren’t as good as mine, huh?” “You miss daddy’s fingers when I’m away? Just like you miss my cock in your tiny cunt?”

You writhe, your climax hitting so suddenly that Chris does too. Thrusts stuttering as he curls over you, moaning, chest heaving. He covers you from head to toe, gripping your shoulders to keep you pinned on his cock as it bursts inside your pulsating walls, spilling, filling you to the brim. He's so warm and thick inside you. You never want him to leave.

“Look at us.” He commands, spreading you wide.

You follow his order and choke on air. You’re instantly entranced—his flushed cock is white with your cum that formed a ring around his base. Your poor cunt taking his girth as he slowly grinds into you, fucking his cum deeper inside you.

Just imagining you all pregnant and full of his baby makes him harden again. You gasp at the feeling of him thickening inside you.

Chris collects salvia in his mouth, checking if you’re being a good girl and doing what he said before spitting on your cunt. And it lands with his cum that seeped out.

"It’s a good thing," he says about picking you up and taking you wherever he wants. Physically carrying you somewhere if you’re being bratty or stubborn and also when you're fooling around.

His height and strength came in handy all the time.

Building furniture, or rearranging different rooms because you both decided it needed a change. He was surprisingly great at kneading dough whenever he'd help you bake.

Chris especially took great pride in winning those strength games at carnivals too.

"I'm going to win you that big bear." He shrugs off his jacket, draping it over your shoulders. "I've seen you eyeing it all night."

You tilt your head, licking the cotton candy from your fingers. "I was actually staring at the bunny."

Chris sighs, turning to see the much smaller pink bunny hanging from the stand. "You deserve something big enough to keep you company for when I'm gone."

"Nothing is as big as you, hunk."

He chuckles, paying the employee before coyly rolling up his sleeves. The fabric of the white henley clinging to every delicious curve of his body. You regret not letting him finger you in the photo booth. In your defence, there was nothing but a flimsy curtain separating you and the innocent bystanders.

He lifts the oversized hammer in his hands with ease. "What do I have to get for the giant pink bunny?" He asks the younger man.

"You have to ring the bell at the top."

Chris looks over his shoulder at you, a cocky smirk telling you, 'I got this.' "Could do that in my sleep, bud."

The photos that circulated the Internet the next morning are some of your favourites. Chris lugging around a huge pink bunny with you tucked into his side, still wearing his jacket. He looks every bit of the smug winner he was. There were clear shots of you sitting on his lap, making out and feeding him cotton candy (and also pushing him away when he suckled on your fingers). Those have their special framed spots at home.

Aside from being your one-way ticket to carnival prizes, his stature was also perfect for dirty quickies.

Tonight, you were accompanying him to someone’s album release party. It was an artist you love so you dressed up all nice, did your makeup and sprayed on some perfume. Which happened to be his favourite of yours.

Your dress was on the shorter side, and Chris keeps a hand on you at all times. Whether it was on your thigh at the booth, on your waist when you were standing—and of course, when he gets some liquor in him he goes a little careless and unabashedly gropes your ass in the middle of the club. (Those were quick to go viral, Chris Evans is definitely an ass man! See Video: Actor can’t keep hands off girlfriend!)

He rarely got jealous and trusted you immensely but watching you gush and praise your favourite musician was getting to him. Your face lighting up, bottom lip between your teeth and worst of all, you were giving the musician your starry eyes. Those eyes were reserved for Chris when he was knuckle deep, tongue deep or balls deep inside you.

So Chris waits for the musician to be (albeit, reluctantly) pulled away by their publicist before showing you how he feels.

Within five minutes your life got a million times better. You met your idol and then you were getting your brains fucked out pressed up against the wall. Your boyfriend’s arms hooked under your knees and his pants pulled down enough to get his cock out.

Chris works fast. A harsh tug in the direction of the washrooms, pushing you against the wall and hiking up your dress before pulling your panties to the side. Spitting into your slack jawed mouth and messily fingering you until you begged for relief.

After you came twice him with his fingers stuffed in your mouth to muffle your whines and he filled you up until it was dripping out of you, he set you down carefully. Fixing your panties, and kissing you softly while he rubbed the fabric between your folds until they were ruined from your combined cum.

“I love you.” Chris mutters against your neck, “I just want to eat you up all the time.”

“Chris, I can barely stand right now.”

He pulls away laughing, blue eyes lively with that post-sex glow. “I think I prefer it when you can’t stand at all. I know you do too.”

“Then, take me home.”

The whole night you’ve wanted to rip the tight white button-up from his body, it was cruel how thin it was. All his tattoos visible, the one on his collarbone peeking out. You craved for him to manhandle you and fold you however he wanted—which would all be easier in bed, in the privacy of your home.

“Hm, I don’t know...” Chris brings his fingers to your mouth, dipping them in and giving you a taste of your mixed juices. He does it again, smearing it on your lips. “Perhaps if you can be in the car in two minutes, l will consider waiting before I get my mouth on your cunt. But that counter looks pretty sturdy, yeah?” He nods towards the washroom sink in front of the mirror.

You almost fling yourself over the counter but you know you can't. Instead, you quickly waddle to the door. “I have to say bye!” You call over your shoulder, rushing to find the musician before Chris takes you again.

If you actually looked in that mirror, you would’ve seen the tiniest bit of cum on the corner of your mouth. A sick part of Chris hoped that your idol noticed it, just like how he noticed them checking you out while you praised their talent.

When he sees you by the car, he makes sure to kiss you until he sucks all the evidence from your lips. You’d be pissed if you found out, but then again, you were never mad at him for too long. You loved him too much.

𝐈𝐧 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐏𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐭: 𝐈𝐈𝐈

𝗜𝗻 𝗛𝗶𝘀 𝗣𝗼𝗰𝗸𝗲𝘁: 𝗜𝗜 𝗧𝗮𝗴𝘀 | @michellangdonismybf @n3ssm0nique @sparksforkoo @knifevsstageprop

Jaskier had grown used to Geralt's constant pining for silence, his rumbles of discontent and years of “shut up” and "fuck off" while he plucked away on his lute and let melodies fall from his lips. Though he knew that under all the furrowed brows and bitter growls, the witcher appreciated him.

Truth be told, coin had often been halved, quartered or suddenly 'stolen' away from lords, knights and nobles alike rendering them incapable of paying the witcher even after monsters had been slain...that is until the ballad had started to follow him like flies after shit. Since then, some noblemen would actively seek him out for any twig crack in the woods to then invite the trio to a throwaway dinner party so they could show off the white-haired champion if they caught word of him within three towns.

Naturally, he resented the very idea of lingering about these people any more than he already had to, being talked about, sung about, danced about, treated like some sort of trophy workhand for these tittering idiots. And of course, Jaskier leapt at the opportunity to perform for the more rosy-cheeked, satin clad crowd, and you often just went along with whoever won the squabble, enjoying either a night of Jaskier singing atop a table in a tavern or atop a table in a banquet hall. (Though the latter often left you with a heftier rattle in your pouches and warm beds, baths and linens for a few more nights.)

How you would have wanted that a few months ago.

About six months earlier

It was bound to happen sooner or later, travelling with two men and often having to settle for a bed on the ground. Not that you often minded, but that night, after a longer than necessary altercation with a couple of alghouls, you had crashed into your bedroll, not bothering to clean the blood off your face let alone off your arrows and out of your clothes.

You woke that morning to aching bones and a musty stench you wanted to be rid of as soon as possible.

The grass was dewy and sweet-smelling as you turned to the other side, letting the sun stroke your cheek good morning. You saw roach tied to a nearby tree and had concluded that your companions had wandered to the next town for supplies. You had been running low on a good few essentials for a while now and were grateful that your companions had let you slumber away, knowing you didn't fuss too much over anything they would get from the market.

You opened your pack and grabbed two lumps of soap before heading to the river that had lulled you to sleep that night. The first, a dry lye soap made simply and quickly, good for getting "blood, shit and grit out" as Geralt so elegantly put it. And the second, still wrapped in wax paper, the last few crumbles of a soft, fragrant lavender soap you had made yourself. You had saved so many dried flowers from where you could, hung and dried them on the side of your satchel, scraped the bottom of vials clean for drops of various oils into your little bottle, olive, sunflower, even a little of Jaskier's special coconut oil. Cooking a soap over the campfire was a waste of wood in Geralt’s eyes, but you could tell the soft scent calmed him as it wafted through the air that night.

You smiled to yourself as you finally stepped into the river, the edges warmed by the kiss of the sun.

You peeled off your trousers and walked further in, letting the water lap at your thighs growing used to the cold quickly. Rubbing the soap into your trousers, you watched as the blood slowly swirled out in front of you and saw as your fingers started to go from angry splotches of red and black back to that natural, warm brown. Your shirt stuck to your skin and hair, caked crimson. After all this time, you still could not believe how much things bled. Your mind flashed back to the alghouls from last night as your fingers worked through cleaning your formerly beige overshirt.

It should have been easy. Just two. You were only there to watch how Geralt wielded his sword for a few, usually weak opponents. His silver sword heaved thick strokes through the air, his feet danced around his opponents and you let your arrows loose from afar, aiding your friend as another got too close for your liking. The specially made silver tips slicing through skin and bone, causing a shriek. It turned and caught another arrow in its shoulder, bounding toward you. Frantic, you simply held out your next arrow in your hand, ready to impale it as it drew near enough. But you froze. Was this one of the ones you had to get in a specific place? Drive it through the heart? The head? Why was it still running? Surely two silver arrows should have been enou-

shhhlllck

Geralt unseamed the creature through it's abdomen from behind and drew his sword up and through it’s head as its blood gushed over you and the last few gurgles escaped what was left of its throat as it crumpled before you in a horrid mess.

"You're too slow up close. It would have had you."

He was right.

As talented as you were with a bow and arrow, able to get a man in the eye from half a field away, your experience with close combat was laughable. Usually, you had time to think, plan out your shots, you didn't even have to deal with blood until you retrieved your arrows. You probably would have had your face ripped off. Or your throat torn out. Or something.

You place the sopping shirt next to your trousers on the bank and scurry back with the lavender soap in your hand. Once you've thrust yourself back into the gentle river almost chest level, you start to hum a soft tune, trying to ignore the murky red all over, instead focus on the light scent of lavender and the gliding of the soap through your hair. You close your eyes and let your mouth fall open, a melody plucked from a memory now dull and faded, the sound clear and bright.

Losing yourself in the rises and falls in the melody, voice opening and notes falling out as your muscles remember what it is to have sound flow and gush from your belly out into the world. No body, no mind, no cold, no blood-

All of a sudden, a loud brightly coloured heap burst through the foliage and breathlessly plunged into the river, flailing erratically. You attempt to preserve your unmentionables with your hands, your lilting voice turning to shrill yelps. You submerge yourself lower, shoulders barely peeking out over the disturbed waves. In contrast, the intruder, exploding out of the water as frantically as he fell in, spluttering and coughing “Y/N! You can - cough - sing! You can sing!! - cough -”

Oh, thank the Gods.

“JASKIER! GO AWAY!”

“But Y/N! -cough - You sounded lovely! I-”

“I’M NAKED JASKIER FUCK OFF!”

Jaskier slapped his hand to his eyes immediately and scrambled back up the bank, stumbling as he managed to regain his footing and ran off, his back to you whilst still covering his eyes.

You had not expected them to be back so soon. Truth be told you had not known how long they had been gone when you woke but then why hadn’t you heard them coming back?

Not focusing again. Fuck! You know you can’t afford to get lost in your own head again, stupid girl. What would have happened if it had been someone else hearing a-

He heard. Geralt too probably with his enhanced senses.

Fucks sake.

It had just been so long since you had let your voice be free. You hadn’t let your companions hear you so much as hum on your travels as you were sure that it would make you come across as a silly little girl. With Jaskier it was different. He is a poet, a bard. He had been studying it for many years whereas you had pipe dreams growing up like every other lass in the village. You sang in school with a wide smile and a voice that rang like a bell, you sang on holy Fridays with fingers interlaced and the plume of your mothers rouge on your cheeks. Nothing compared to the grand halls and festivals that Jaskier would perform at. Gods you hoped he wouldn’t speak of it again. You were sure that they would take you even less seriously now.

You’ll show them

Just go back to camp and pretend it didn’t happen. Say there was a girl wandering nearby and Jaskier should go and chase her before she is lost to the woods forever.

If this carries on, get yourself killed or someone else hurt. You know that Geralt can’t let that happen. He’ll probably drop you off in the town and wish you luck because you’ve become more stress than your skills are worth. You get it, you do.

It will just be so hard getting used to being alone again.

Your head is spiralling again. You need this to stop. You think of the meditation that Geralt showed you. You can't meditate, you're still naked in a river! Tears escape your eyes as you just can’t organise your thoughts into any kind of action. You can't run naked through the woods, you can't turn up in your sopping wet clothes, you’re no help on hunts, you’ve let your biggest comfort turn into your biggest embarrassment because you just can’t think straight.

“Y/N! I - I’m not looking! I have your clothes you left them back at camp”

You look up to see Jaskier was inching closer, eyes covered by one hand, your dry pair of clothes draped over his other forearm. He was inching closer, his toes probing to see if he had gone too far. Once his foot had felt the sploshy bank he stopped and held his arm out. You were sure that he had not heard you cry but you didn’t want the lump in your throat to give it away. You rose out, plucked the clothes from him and he promptly scampered off, one hand still across his eyes for some reason. You let out your breath, finding it had slowed due to holding it in for so long. You wrung out your hair as much as you could before flinging your trousers and shirt on with shaking hands. You were sure you could sleep right on into the next day.

At camp

Jaskier had fumbled back to camp, drenched and squelching till he could hear the soft wooshing of roach’s breath. Geralt was sat, sorting the things they had brought from market.

----------

Jakier was stumbling giddy from when he had first encountered the river, his mind rushing as he made his way through the trees.

That voice! Hesitant, yet rich and full and resonant. Thick with the weight of being tied inside her chest, it would take some practice to let her voice flourish and fly like he knew it could, but that was no matter! With his brief but busy year being a professor at Oxenfurt under his belt, he scoured through the plethora of exercises and scales that he had stored away. Her warm tone, he thought, would contrast beautifully with his chipper and airy voice.

In his head flashed scenes of the two writing together, performing together, studying together. Jaskier, Poet of the continent accompanied by-

“What did you do Jaskier”

The voice came firm and gruff, as opposed to the often exasperated or gentle (rarely was there anything in between) tone his witcher friend usually employed when he was addressing the bard.

Jaskier’s ear wide grin faltered as Geralt towered over him.

Knowing the flirty way of Jaskier and seeing him dripping before him, hearing the shout of “IM NAKED” and honing in his ear, he was presently hearing the soft gasps of Y/N, he could not help but draw himself to conclusions, knowing that human men, even those whom one trusted could turn to be worse than the monsters in his quests. When the fathers and trusted lovers of innocent women could turn as quickly as the page of a book, what was a loose and often unashamed bard that he happened to know for a few years?

He grabbed the young man by his soaking collars

“What the fuck did you do”

Somewhere between a growl and a roar, the words seethed from Geralt as he heard Y/N’s sharp breaths mix with sobs she was trying to silence.

After that night, he knew his small friend would need some time. They had both been exhausted, his head pounding from the potions he had used, he didn’t speak much to her apart from some abrupt criticism after the last alghoul was taken care of. He didn’t know much about teaching or guiding, or comforting for that matter, but he figured letting her sleep in would do no harm and he had bought some apples for her to feed roach. That helped him. The thought that she should be thrust from one horrid altercation to another at the hands of his first companion filled him with rage. These thoughts raced through his head while he attempted to decipher Jaskier’s words through this sudden wave of protectiveness.

Jaskier was chuckling, almost about to pat his massive friend on the head like an overreactive hound,

“I fail to see why you’re so wound up, dear witcher. I simply sought to find the source of the singing, and it turned out to be Y/N! Marvellous isn’t she?”

“Why are you wet.” Geralt demanded.

truth be told, he was so used to hearing Jaskier’s voice or lute, he simply dumped the noise into that category. Thinking back, it was different. Still musical, but different. Jaskier’s sound seemed to sit on the wind and flit and glide like a bird while this new sound was earthy, full, round, blending with the flow of the river and almost raw, coarse and slightly unsteady like a horse that had run for the first time out of market.

“I was simply mesmerised, Geralt. " he sighed, sagging slightly in the bigger man's grip " I was convinced it might be a water nymph, that I might catch it, steal some ideas for melody and- and then let the poor thing go of course, but”

“Why is she crying Jaskier”

The girl’s sobs had subsided slightly, but her breath was shuddering and shallow. He knew when she got like this, it was hard to get back down. He had expected it sometime today but usually, he could smell the fear rising, notice the scrunching up of her small frame, and make sure the trio were alone, quiet, ready.

“Crying? Whatever do you mea-”

The focused and worried look on Geralt’s face clicked in Jaskiers’ head and he felt a wave of guilt wash over him

“Oh gods, shit. Shes alone. What do I do Geralt? Can you hear her?”

The stream came pouring out his mouth as he paced around the camp, his eyes landing on a pile of neatly folded clothes.

“ Jaskier go back and give them to her. Slowly. She’ll come back in her own time”

Geralt listened intently while Jaskier went to return the garments. It surprised him that the sound of his younger companion trying to catch her breath like it was a feather in the wind was the same person who had made such a pleasing sound not very many minutes ago.

It stopped.

He couldn’t hear her breathe, but Jaskier was calm. He heard the rustling of clothes and the damp footfall of the bard returning. He turned his attention back to her again. He was afraid that after the episode, holding her breath would cause her to topple back into the river. Stupid. He should’ve thought of that beforehand. She didn’t. Strong lass. He heard her breaths less shallow as her hair dripped and her clothes were back on.

He was reassured now and started to take out the apples from the small fruit sack.

“Well if she was crying, she isn’t any more” stated Jaskier, almost reassuring himself that his clumsiness couldn’t have hurt his friend.

He proceeded to look for his woollen blanket, laying it out carefully, waiting for his friend to return.

A/N

Thank you so much for reading! Its the first time I've started writing after a long time, if you have any constructive criticism please leave it in the comments :)

I've started a new AO3, Tumblr page and page on Fanfiction.net which will hold my fics too. same username :)

I am very pernickety when writing which is why it's been hard for me to upload anything in the last few years and why it might take a little time for me to upload new chapters but please stick around :D

PART 2

He adores it. He feels this sense of protection over you whenever you go out. He treats it like his job; keeping you within arms reach, keeping you away from rude paparazzi. Keeping you safe.

Turns out, he’s big enough to mostly block you from the camera's view which comes in handy when you’re feeling uncomfortable and anxious.

Chris fucking loves it when you hold onto his arm, your small hands dwarfed by the size of his biceps.

Even though he’d rather avoid paparazzi whenever he went out, he loves seeing and showing you off in his clothes. Since you’re so much shorter than him, his shirts and sweaters are big and comfy on you and you wear them all the time.

(But sometimes Chris’ shirts are a size or two too small for him, “You’re gonna rip the seams, beefcake.” You tell him, unable to tear your gaze from the fabric stretching over his pecs and wide shoulders).

“You know, I swear I had more shirts than this.” He says, holding a small stack of t-shirts.

“Oh! Do you want one of mine?”

Chris chuckles, "I don't think I can wear your shirts in public.”

“Wait!” You disappear into the closet and re-emerge with a bunch of shirts spilling over your arms. They’re all varying in colour and design. “Take your pick.”

With furrowed eyebrows, Chris studies the pile, “Sweetheart, these are all mine.”

You blink at him, dressed in one of his hoodies.

He sorts through each of them, becoming more disbelieved as he spots shirts he deemed as missing. “Hey! I was looking for this one months ago!” He unfolds a white and black button-up with blue-ish birds and mountains. "Has it been with you this whole time?"

“Well, it is mine."

"No, honey, it isn't." Chris laughs, his blue eyes lit up with amusement. "This one too! I wanted to bring this when we went camping but I couldn't find it." He holds a red sweatshirt.

"You could've asked me."

"I did!"

"Oh. Well... You weren't specific."

"Really—" Chris turns to you, only now realizing you were doing a terrible job at keeping a serious face. "Oh, so you just want me to walk around naked? Is that why you keep stealing all my clothes?"

You sit up, a little squirmy and a mischievous smile on your lips. "If you're offering..."

There have been a few instances where you’ll poke at Chris, annoy him, and act bratty until he’ll swing you over his shoulder and playfully swat your ass. Those particular photos are the quickest to trend worldwide.

Most people online joke about how Chris must maul you, or how they feel sorry for such a girl who has to deal with a six-foot tower of muscle. Others gush about the photos of you craning your neck to look at Chris, or Chris lifting you off the ground to kiss you.

Since you wear so many of Chris’ clothes, he has the marvellous idea to try on yours. Specifically, a red NASA top you found at the thrift store (Chris calls it's a child's shirt, but you know it isn't). Too bad that the narrow sleeves can’t even fit past his elbow and he can barely fit his head through the tight collar.

But ten minutes later, his head is finally through, but the shirt was so small that it looks like a red scarf around his neck. It takes another fifteen to get it off of him, mostly because Chris insists you sit in his lap while pulling it off and he keeps distracting you with his huge warm hands under your (his) shirt.

It's hard for him to keep his hands off of you. He always needs to be touching you.

When you’re doing your makeup in the bathroom, he wraps his arms around your waist and patiently waits for you to finish. When you’re cooking, he leans over you and rests his chin on the top of your head. When you’re walking past him, he pulls you onto his lap and keeps you there with a heavy arm around your waist. At family gatherings, parties with friends or with other celebrities.

If he’s had a few to drink, he grips your hips a little tighter and kisses your neck and shoulders, slowly moving you over the bulge in his pants.

You’ve accompanied him to a few events; premieres, launches, award/fashion shows and even those exclusive birthday parties of his fellow celebrity friends.

It took a bit of getting used to but you take it all in stride now. You love Chris and this was his life, you were lucky enough to know him and have him share it with you. Plus you sort of love getting all dolled and dressed up with him.

At those events, for some reason, Chris has a hard time keeping his hands in appropriate areas. On more than one occasion, his thick fingers will trail down your spine and his palm will cup your ass through your dress (another thing that trends online quickly).

Sometimes when you're sitting in the audience or at those tables with a bunch of other people in the industry, he'll slip his hand up the slit of your dress, and delicately pet too close to your core.

"Are you all right, hun?" Mackie asks after you squirmed and hit your knee on the table again. "You feel a little hot, sugar. We should probably get some air." Chris answers, his free hand touching your forehead before helping you stand. He slyly fixes your dress and ushers you to the washrooms.

"You're so pretty, baby. Just can't help myself." You're pressed against the washroom door, and one loud tear later, you feel the cold air on your heat. "I'll take these." He pockets your lace panties.

Let's just say that his publicist had quite the experience dealing with the several headlines and articles about the small bit of lace hanging out of Chris' suit jacket pocket. Although, days later when reports came out about you waddling back to your seat with messy hair and smudged makeup, there wasn’t really anymore denying what happened in that washroom.

He always wants to cuddle with you, mostly because you drape yourself over him like a small heated blanket and play with his hair or trace his tattoos.

He also completely pins you down with his weight and keeps you all warm and safe while you watch movies or your favourite show. Dodger always wiggles between the two of you for his own share of cuddles.

Sometimes when you’re out hiking and you get tired, he’ll carry you on his back with your short legs swinging on either side of his hips. You're afraid of him getting hurt or tired but he always reassures you that he's fine, so you make it up to him when you get home.

This consists of freshly baked sweets, softly scented candles and a massage, lots of massages that, more often than not, end with you sweaty, out of breath and your hole soaked with your and Chris’ cum.

He takes his time opening you up. Working one then two fingers with a heated gaze until you beg him for another. His response depends on his mood and whether you deserve it; he could give you what you want or he could make you work for it.

“You sure you can take another?” His ring finger traces your hole, “this pussy can barely take my two fingers, sweetheart.”

You don’t know how long he’s been teasing you but you know that you're dripping. With wide eyes, you ask nicely for his cock.

Chris hums thoughtfully, taking his fingers and rubbing them messily around your folds, wet noises filling the room. “You sure you can take it?”

After a few moments of kissing along your chest, and suckling on your neck, Chris manhandles you until your legs are on his broad shoulders, cunt spread wide for the red leaking head of his dick. Trailing the bulbous tip through your wetness, until you choke out a whiney daddy.

He thrusts forward slowly. He doesn’t know where to look; your rolled back watery eyes and raw bitten lips or your pretty cunt eagerly swallowing his wide girth.

“Look at you, such a little thing taking my cock.” “I’m stretching you out, huh baby?”

"M-More, please..."

"More? I don't think you can take more." "Your pussy is barely taking me halfway."

"I want," You whine, "Please, daddy."

Chris shifts above you, piercing you deeply before pulling out until his heavy tip rests on your opening. He grips your thighs, spreading you wide and looking down at your soaked core. Under you, the bedsheets are a shade darker. "You’re leaking all over the sheets, honey." He hovers, glancing at you before spitting on your pussy, the action making you thrust up before he's pinning you back down.

Rubbing the head of his cock at your slick entrance, slapping your clit and right next to your slit. "Did I say you could move?"

You're in near tears, and it's exactly what he wants. You choke out a whimper, "I'm sorry." A slap lands on your thigh. "I'm sorry, daddy!"

"That's right, sweetie." He spits again, this time it lands on your clit. He watches it drip and land on his cock. “Letting me do whatever I want to you. My dumb baby."

His thumb rubs your clit in harsh circles, his blue eyes drawn on your sweaty and twitching figure.

His cock sears into you, the sensation sending your mind into a foggy state. Your weak hands grip his arm as he speeds up, the wet slapping of your skin echoing throughout the room. You groan, jaw slack, dazed eyes following up his wide hairy chest to his tense neck, finally meeting his hungry gaze.

He's rough and passionate, messily kissing you and pulling back to spit into your mouth. He nibbles and moans into your neck, one hand gripping the headboard tightly while the other continues its tortuous rubs on your clit. You clench around him and your eyes roll back, you're drooling as you soak his dick.

"Little cock drunk baby. You gonna cream all over me again?" He ruts mercilessly into you, pinning you down with a hand on your tummy. "I can feel myself inside you. I'm all up in your guts."

You tighten around him again your cunt throbbing. Your breathy daddy's and squeaks, and Chris' groans flow over the banging of the bed against the wall. "Fucking—choke my cock."

"You want daddy's cum? Gonna fill you up, get you all plump and full." He watches you nod and struggle to answer, barely audible words between your ragged breaths.

He secures both your legs on his shoulders, readjusting until you're nearly bent in half under him. Then, just when you thought he was going to slowly grind into you, give you a break before he plows into your poor pussy. But he pulls out, except for the round head and rams forward so hard that your head brushes the headboard.

The intensity in his blue eyes tells you he's not stopping until you beg him to. He pounds into you, fucking you like he's using you. To him, there's nothing like being buried in your wet heat and have you squirming and whimpering under him.

Chris shudders when he comes, his praises alone have you spiralling into another high. He keeps you firmly on his throbbing dick with a harsh grip on your hips. You twitch in his hands, trying to get away. "Don't run from me. You want daddy's cum, so you take it." His warmth fills you to the brim, leaking around his big cock and onto the sheets.

Chris shifts, groaning from his sensitive dick and your tightness, he thumbs your lips apart wider, spitting onto your tongue before kissing you. One of his hands trails down your sweaty skin to lightly pet your sore pussy.

You can't move but you also want more. You tell him such.

A dirty smirk stretches on his face, "You gonna let daddy clean you up first?"

"Yes, daddy." You close your eyes, waiting for Chris to get up and go to the bathroom for the towel. You yelp when he yanks you until you're in the middle of the bed. He's between your quivering thighs, his face inches from your puffy cunt.

"What? You thought I'd let all this go to waste?"