Witcher 3: King Cup for the Wolf (Patreon)

So I heard Witcher 3 is making a comeback with a surprise content 😏

PS: Time to actually finish the game damit 😂

UPDATE: angry witcher cock + ai story

The fire crackled low. Geralt sat on the log, sharpening his sword in that same heavy silence he’d worn for days. Jaskier watched him from across the flames, fingers idly plucking at his lute while his other hand palmed the small vial hidden in his doublet.

Enough brooding, the bard decided.

Two drops of incubus aphrodisiac went into Geralt’s portion while his back was turned. Jaskier stirred it in with the rabbit juices and herbs, then handed the bowl over with a bright smile.

“Extra for the man who does all the monster-slaying.”

Geralt took it without comment and ate.

Ten minutes later, the change was visible.

Geralt’s breathing deepened. A flush crept up his neck and into his cheeks. He shifted on the log, rolling his shoulders like something restless was crawling under his skin. When he finally looked up, his golden eyes were darker, pupils blown wide.

“Jaskier.” His voice had dropped an octave. “What the fuck did you do?”

Jaskier rose slowly, heart hammering with a mix of nerves and anticipation. “Something to help you relax. You’ve been wound tighter than a crossbow string.”

Geralt stood. The front of his trousers was already straining obscenely. He crossed the clearing in three strides and grabbed the front of Jaskier’s doublet, yanking him in.

The kiss was rough. Demanding. Teeth and tongue and a low, hungry growl that vibrated through Jaskier’s chest. Geralt’s hands were everywhere—shoving at clothes, unbuckling armor, dragging the bard down onto the bedrolls with single-minded purpose.

When Geralt finally shoved his own trousers down, Jaskier’s breath caught hard.

Gods above.

Geralt’s cock was massive. Thick from root to head, long enough that it hung heavy between his thighs, flushed dark and already leaking. The sheer size of it made Jaskier’s mouth go dry and his hole clench in instinctive warning.

“Geralt… that’s—”

“Quiet.” Geralt’s voice was gravel and heat. He pushed Jaskier onto his back and settled between his spread thighs like he belonged there.

Oil was produced—Jaskier’s own, the one he always packed “just in case.” Geralt slicked two thick fingers and pressed them between Jaskier’s cheeks without preamble. The stretch burned immediately. Jaskier gasped, hips jerking as Geralt worked him open with ruthless efficiency.

A third finger followed. Then Geralt pulled them free, slicked his cock, and lined up.

The blunt head pressed against Jaskier’s hole.

“Geralt— wait— you’re huge—”

“Breathe,” Geralt growled, and pushed.

The pressure was intense. Jaskier’s body fought it, clenching tight around the thick head trying to force its way in. A sharp, burning stretch made his eyes water and his breath hitch.

“Fuck— fuck, it’s too big— Geralt, slow—”

Geralt didn’t slow much. He rocked his hips in short, controlled thrusts, working the head past the tight ring of muscle with steady pressure. Jaskier’s hands flew to Geralt’s shoulders, nails digging in hard enough to leave marks.

“It’s splitting me— ah— gods, you’re going to break me—”

“You can take it,” Geralt rasped against his throat. His voice was rough, strained, like he was barely holding himself back. “You wanted this. You drugged me.”

Another push. Another thick inch sank inside. Jaskier’s back arched off the bedroll, a broken sound tearing from his throat as his body was forced to stretch around the impossible girth. The burn was deep and relentless, but underneath it something hotter was already sparking.

Geralt paused halfway in, forehead pressed to Jaskier’s, breathing hard through his nose.

“Still with me?”

Jaskier nodded shakily, tears pricking his eyes. “Y-yes. Just… fuck, you’re ruining me.”

Geralt let out a low, rough sound that might have been a laugh. He reached down and wrapped a hand around Jaskier’s cock, stroking him slow and steady while he pushed deeper. Inch by thick inch, he sank in until his hips were flush against Jaskier’s ass and the bard was shaking beneath him, stretched wide and trembling.

“Fuck,” Geralt breathed. “So tight.”

He started to move.

The first real thrust made Jaskier cry out. Every drag of that thick cock against his inner walls felt overwhelming—too much stretch, too much pressure, too much everything. Geralt’s pace quickly turned rough, hips snapping hard and deep, the wet sound of skin meeting skin filling the clearing.

Jaskier’s legs wrapped around Geralt’s waist, heels digging into his back as he tried to take it. Every thrust forced a broken moan from his throat. He could feel himself clenching and fluttering around the massive intrusion, his body struggling to adjust even as pleasure started to crest over the burn.

“Geralt— ah— it’s so deep— I can feel you everywhere—”

Geralt fucked him harder. One hand pinned Jaskier’s wrist above his head while the other stroked his cock in time with his thrusts. The witcher’s face was flushed, golden eyes dark with hunger, sweat dripping from his brow. He looked wrecked by the potion—feral, desperate, completely lost to it.

Jaskier came first with a shattered cry, clenching hard around Geralt’s cock as he spilled between them. The tight squeeze dragged Geralt over the edge right after. He buried himself to the hilt with a guttural snarl and came deep inside, pulsing hot and thick.

For a long moment, they stayed locked together, both panting.

Geralt eased out carefully. Jaskier winced at the drag, feeling empty and stretched and thoroughly used. The witcher rolled onto his side beside him, one heavy arm draped over Jaskier’s waist.

The fire popped softly in the silence.

Jaskier let out a weak, breathless laugh. “Remind me never to drug a witcher again. I think you broke me in half.”

Geralt was quiet for a beat too long.

Then he spoke, voice low and perfectly steady.

“It didn’t take.”

Jaskier’s head turned slowly. “…What?”

“My body rejected it.” Geralt said calmly, like he was discussing the weather.

Jaskier stared at him, mouth open. “You— you pretended?”

Geralt’s golden eyes flicked to him, calm and unreadable. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“You wanted me loose. I gave you what you asked for.” His hand slid down to squeeze Jaskier’s hip, possessive. “And you took every inch like you were made for it.”

Jaskier made a strangled sound—half outrage, half helpless arousal.

“You absolute bastard.”

Geralt leaned in and kissed him slow and deep, the taste of satisfaction and something warmer underneath it.

“Next time,” he murmured against Jaskier’s lips, “just ask.”

Jaskier’s answering laugh was shaky, but his arms came up to pull Geralt closer anyway.

The night was still young.

And this time, there would be no pretending