#lutes are hard to embroider!

[waltwhitmansbeard]

chapter eight

Three days after her Westruun trip, Keyleth returns home in the evening at the end of a marathon of meetings to find her father waiting outside. This is hardly unusual; Korrin is almost always hovering somewhere near the door, trying not to seem like he’s worrying. Tonight, though, he’s got a funny look on his face, the kind that suggests a conversation needs to be had before going inside. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” he says unconvincingly. “It’s not bad. I mean, I don’t think it’s bad.”

“Oh gods.” Keyleth pushes inside, where she’s greeted by the distant, unmistakable sounds of arcane magic from somewhere up above. 

“We probably should have asked first!” Korrin calls after her as she scurries as fast as her wobbling legs will take her upstairs. It’s not hard to follow the low bangs and shuffling all the way toward her bedroom, or rather, the room next to it, which she opens hesitantly. 

“No, not yet!”

But it’s too late. Keyleth stands in the doorway, staring at Gilmore with a slack jaw. He’s frozen in the middle of the room, the setting sun illuminating him from behind like a halo, his usual purple robes rolled up to the elbow and his beringed fingers waggling in the air as he levitates an ornate rocking chair near the window. He grins sheepishly. “Surprise?”

The room is…transformed. Keyleth’s known for some time now that this is the room she’ll be using for a nursery, given that it’s right next door to her own, but she’s been putting off actually doing anything with it, given the general state of her life. Now, instead of bare walls and a plain wood floor, the room has come alive, with vines climbing up toward the ceiling in swirling patterns and thick, mossy rugs of every shade of green and furniture, which, she admits, is probably important. A crib of white oak and a matching armoire in the corner, each hand-carved with intricate botanical patterns and the symbol of the Ashari—the aforementioned rocking chair, plushly padded and now magically rocking on its own—a pair of raw wood shelves laden with children’s books in several languages, including Celestial, which she has to imagine comes from Percy—a changing table exactly the right height for Keyleth, with a mysterious door in the side—hanging from the ceiling, just above the crib, a delicate mobile of black birds that circle round and round by either mechanical or arcane means, she can’t be sure. 

Her throat is instantly thick. The room is beautiful, absolutely stunning, full of life and light and joy. The more her eyes roam around, the more details she spies that nearly take her out at the knees. The stuffed bear in the crib, covered in tiny pink bows. The toy lute tucked among the books. The blanket draped over the back of the rocking chair, embroidered with the sprawling branches of the Sun Tree. A bouquet of snowdrops on a side table in a water jug that looks remarkably like the one Grog liked to eat mayonnaise from. A miniature golden robot, quill in hand, on a shelf. The small wooden raven perched at the head of the crib, its long beak curving down in stoic watch over the bed inside. 

Gilmore crosses over and gently hooks his arm in hers to pull her inside. “I didn’t get the chance to catch up while you were in Westruun, but that’s fine, because it gave me the opportunity to do this.”

“Gil…” she chokes out, nose snotty and eyes wet. “It’s…it’s just…”

He pats her arm. “Let me give you a tour.”

continue reading on ao3 please consider donating to my ko-fi

#thanks for coming on this journey with me! #this story ended up being a lot more than i thought it would be when i set out to write it #it took a lot of out of me but i hope you enjoyed it! #critical role #critical role fic #cr fic #my fic #vaxleth #vaxleth fic #vox machine #vox machina fic #isar

[nymphiya]

Pelipper Mail!

A package arrives, wrapped in pink paisley paper and tied off with an equally vibrant bow. Setting aside the card and peeling back the layers of both wrapping and tissue paper, you discover a few belated birthday gifts!

First off is a hand-sewn doll of Tanghulu the Diancie! There’s little magnets in its hands so it can ‘hold’ a felt diamond. Neatly folded next to it is a plush pink scarf, with the numbers ‘556’ carefully embroidered on its edge. There’s also a bag containing a variety of cookies and other baked goods! (With Pokémon safe alternatives wrapped in separate packaging, of course.)

…And, at the very bottom of the box, hidden under layers of tissue paper, is a copy of ‘101 Pokémon Puns- Hardcover Edition’. The book’s front page declares ‘You’ll have a Wailmer of a time reading through these!’. Oh joy.

Opening the card (whose front is only decorated with an image of a birthday cake), you find a handwritten note from none other than Cass.

“Ciao!!! Happy Birthday, Diwata!!! I hope you like this…care package or something LOL! I hope you have/had a GREAT day- you only turn 15 once, after all!! 🩷

-Cass

P.S You can ABSOLUTELY burn the joke book!!! I just thought it was funny. (Or should I say you can....Absol-lutely burn it…? Lmao 🩷)”

(@pkmnnursecass)

REHGDHDHE WAHHH ,,, I MEANT IT WHEN I SAID A GIFT ISNT NECESSARY BUT !!! THANK YOU CASSS :(( you are literally so sweet i am going to squeeze you grrr ( we are both in galar and yet youre all the way in the tundra :( sigh )

please believe me when i say it is so incredibly hard to find a plushie of diancie 😞 SO ME AND TANGHULU ARE REALLY HAPPY ABOUT THE LITTLE DOLL EHEHE ,,, and the scarf is going to be really helpful too !! especially with the freaky weather galar has goin on ^_^ i'll even wear it during my gym matches <3

. . although , i think its starting to be increasingly obvious that food is the easiest way to my heart (°▽°) i could never turn down food </3

,,, and i'll forgive you for the pun book 🙄 maybe , just maybe , i'll use it too . but , no promises >:P

#ask answered #pelipper mail #pkmnnursecass #rotomblr #pokeblr #pkmn irl #pokeblogging #pokeblog roleplay #pkmn rp #pokeblog rp #pokemon irl

[sarnemingalbaver]

Just a borderline psychotic little guy who will do anything for the man he loves.

Backstory:

Sarnemin Rellias Galbaver was born August 27th, 1215. He was born to a wealthy family in Vemor, the small port town on the banks of the Carigsard river. His father, Lanreth was very hard on him and often cut off Sarnemin’s hair, despite the boy’s insistence on wanting to keep it. Sarnemin was always a feminine child, and enjoyed things his sisters did. His father thought it would just go away, but it didn’t. It only got more evident as he grew.

He learned how to sew and embroider from his mother and became quite skilled at it. His father disapproved of this and pushed him towards more masculine pursuits. Sarnemin’s fighter side didn’t go untapped though and he became incredibly skilled with a dagger he kept hidden on his belt.

Sarnemin had a difficult childhood due to his father's harsh treatment, but he found solace in music. He taught himself to play the lute and would often sneak out at night to play for the townspeople. His talent was quickly recognized, and he was eventually hired to perform at local taverns and inns. He began growing out his hair and made a name for himself. It is said that Sarnemin's performances were so captivating that they drew the attention of a visiting nobleman. The nobleman was so impressed with Sarnemin's talent that he offered to take the young musician under his wing and teach him the ways of courtly life. Sarnemin accepted the offer and was soon introduced to the world of high society.

He continued to play music and it was there that he met Kazimir Bavrild, a greatly feared warrior. After meeting Kazimir, Sarnemin's interest in fighting and combat grew. He began training with the warrior, learning how to wield a sword and use his dagger more effectively. Sarnemin also found himself drawn to Kazimir in other ways, and the two soon became lovers.

As Kazimir Bavrild's lover and confidant, Sarnemin held significant influence in the Zalstian court. He was known for his sharp wit and extravagant tastes, and often advised Kazimir on matters of strategy and politics. Sarnemin had a reputation for throwing lavish parties and entertaining guests with his storytelling and musical performances. He surrounded himself with a group of artists and intellectuals, who were seen as the cultural elite of the Zalstian court. While some viewed Sarnemin's flamboyant personality and love of luxury as a distraction from more pressing matters, others saw him as a necessary counterbalance to the seriousness and militaristic focus of Kazimir and his followers. Regardless of how one viewed him, it was clear that Sarnemin was a powerful figure in the Zalstian court, and his influence was felt in all areas of the city's culture and politics.

He is now part of a task force of soldiers known was the Sobraniye. They often deal with less than present visitors and protect the prince and his family. The Sobraniye are known to be quite violent at times, Sarnemin too, doesn’t shy away from violence despite his appearance.

Despite his reputation for flamboyance and love of luxury, Sarnemin was a capable fighter and often accompanied the Sobraniye on their missions. His skills with a sword and dagger were unmatched, and he had a keen eye for strategy and tactics, which he used to great effect in battle.

Sarnemin's presence in the Sobraniye was a controversial one, as some members of the group believed that his flamboyant personality and lack of seriousness were a liability in combat. However, others recognized the value of having someone with Sarnemin's skill level.

Over time, Sarnemin proved himself to be a valuable asset to the Sobraniye. He played a crucial role in several successful missions, and his influence in the Zalstian court helped the group gain valuable resources and support. Despite his love of luxury and extravagance, Sarnemin was fiercely loyal to his comrades and dedicated to protecting the prince and his family at all costs.

#my guy loves to partayyyy #he’s drunk like 90% of the time #Just a little queer medieval guy #a cunning lad #definitely slightly psychotic #inspired by fyodor basmanov #oc #historical oc #worldbuilding #queer oc #lgbtq #queer history #story writing #Sarnemin Galbaver #cocky bastard

[cursedprincesarchive]

THE MERCENARY

HALLVARD THE RECKLESS, MERCENARY FOR HIRE

100 SOULS/DAY

MEET AT BARROW’S INN 

THE GREATEST WARRIOR OF THE NORTH

Ryker clutched the parchment tight in his sweaty palm, eyes steadily sweeping the streets of Greywell. In the evening hours, Greywell came alive. Oil lamps flickered, illuminating the crowds of boisterous folks passing through. The smell of food wafted over from restaurants open late. Music drifted through the alleyways from various buskers. Perhaps it was due to the fact that students from the Dragon School often came here to drink alcohol and cause mischief that would otherwise not be tolerated on school grounds. Or perhaps it was because of the overabundance of taverns and brothels that lined every street, constantly attracting visitors in the evening hours. Ryker spotted a group of students headed straight towards a brothel. Depraved, the lot of them. A scowl formed on his lips. One time a group of his friends tried to convince him to go there in his first year at school. His outright disgust towards the suggestion earned him some choice nicknames. 

It was to be expected, though. Most first-year students tended to be between the ages of eighteen and twenty-two. He first attended at twenty-four, and found himself uninterested in most of the activities other students younger than him participated in. 

Ryker almost managed to forget why he was patrolling the streets of Greywell. His thoughts were distracting until he forced himself to read the words “Barrow’s Inn” on the sheet of parchment he carried. Right. Barrow’s Inn. I need to find Barrow’s Inn. 

A few more minutes walking the crowded streets of Greywell yielded nothing but drunkards yelling and spilling drinks outside of the taverns. Asking directions from these people would be tantamount to asking an infant how to kill a dragon. 

A rowdy group of students was making their way towards Ryker, and he quickly turned down an alleyway to avoid walking past them. Students were easily recognized by the clothes they wore. The same black shirt and trousers, with a dark blue robe embroidered with the Dragon School’s crest. Now that he had graduated, Ryker vowed to never touch those robes again. Very itchy fabric. He paused for a moment, trying to orient himself. It was hard to keep track of what streets he’d been down before. He never came to Greywell much, only a few times to eat at restaurants and discuss his thesis with his research partner, Avelyn. She liked to escape the school’s dingy walls and stuffy library from time to time. 

As Ryker scanned the alleyway, a dimly lit plaza caught his eye. It was on the other side of the alley, and curiously lacked the patronage that was so prevalent on the side he came from. Here, his footsteps echoed, which alarmed some crows who flew away into the night. 

He traversed a few more blocks, taking respite from the crowds he escaped. There! Ryker nearly cried with relief. A crooked wooden sign advertised Barrow’s Inn, a small, squat wooden building, nestled between a butcher’s shop and a defunct bakery. At least the windows of the inn were intact, unlike its neighbors. 

He gently pushed open the door, taking extra care to not slam it behind him. He wanted to attract the least attention possible. 

As he turned to face the lobby of the inn, he let out a small cry of astonishment. The front door led to the tavern portion of Barrow’s Inn, and it was… vibrant. Certainly, a lot more patrons than the outside would suggest. Town guards laughed over tankards of mead, a group of monks shared loaves of bread, and weary travelers sat by their lonesome at separate tables. A bard was even in the corner, plucking out a jaunty tune on her lute. The place hummed with conversation, intermingled with the crackling of a fire in a stone hearth. There were two barkeeps from what Ryker could see; one, a lively young man making friendly conversation with every patron he served. The other, a mature woman who smiled politely when serving drinks, yet the tiredness on her face was evident.

Ryker felt odd attempting to profile every patron that could possibly be Hallvard, so he opted to ask the young man about the mercenary. 

“Ah, hello, good evening, sir! How may I help you?” The man smiled up at him, cleaning a glass with a rag. 

“Hello, I was— well, I was just wondering if you knew anything about this person.” Ryker placed the parchment on the countertop, and the barkeep squinted at it briefly before smiling back at him. 

“Yes, I know Hallvard! A regular here. He sits in— that— back corner,” he stretched out his arm, “and I’m sure he’ll finally lighten up. He’s been brooding for weeks that no one wants to hire him!” The barkeep laughed. 

Ryker blinked at him, and then looked towards the corner. Sure enough, a very large man in black furs hunched over the table. 

“Wait— you’re gonna need these.”

The barkeep thrusted two tankards of ale into Ryker’s hands.

“On the house. Hallvard won’t talk without one. Good luck!” He nodded his head and hurried off to help the next customer. 

Ryker managed a meek “thank you” as the nervous pit in his stomach grew larger. His gaze was now set upon the man in the corner, and willed his feet to move forward even though his gut was protesting. Ryker didn’t think he’d make it this far. What was he doing, hiring a damned mercenary? He should just turn right around and go home himself. Get a job somewhere in Vinheim until he could afford the carriage ride back home. 

No, his feet seemed to say, carrying him to Hallvard’s table. You’ve made it this far already. He set the tankards down, careful not to spill anything, as his hands were slightly trembling.

When the ale was set upon the table, Hallvard jerked his head up from the book he was reading at long last. Ryker almost flinched at the sudden movement. 

Without saying a word, Hallvard looked Ryker up and down. Ryker was frozen in place, unable to move. All he could do was stare back. Hallvard had a head full of wild dark blond hair, starting to streak with gray. It was unkempt and looked as if it hadn’t been brushed for days. He had a long beard to match, the grays more prominent in his facial hair. Yet, his face didn’t look as old as his hair would suggest. His complexion was very much in contrast with his garb, as he was dressed in all-black furs with a black cape to match, making his pale skin stand out. 

After what felt like an eternity, Hallvard finally spoke.

“Are you here for business?” His voice was low and gravelly, laced with a thick Northern accent. 

“Y-yes,” Ryker stammered, “I want to know if you would accompany me.”

Hallvard raised an eyebrow and reached for his ale. He had a scar along the eyebrow he raised, that ran down to his left eye, which was slightly clouded.

Ryker took a moment to breathe before he continued, “I need to travel to Lothric from here. Specifically to Irithyll.”

“And I do what?”

“I— well— protect me, of course. I want to hire you as my bodyguard as we travel. I… am not good at physical fighting.”

Hallvard snorted as he set down his ale. 

“I can tell. You want to travel by foot?”

“No, no! Horse! I arranged to buy a couple of horses a few days ago,” Ryker hastily added. 

Hallvard stared deeply at Ryker again, and he could feel the sweat beading down his back. His breathing was shallow, his stomach in knots. He was still clutching his own tankard but didn’t take a sip even once. He desperately needed the conversation to be over. 

“Drink.”

“What?”

“Drink.”

Hallvard’s expression had not shifted. As if compelled by some invisible force, Ryker lifted the tankard to his lips, tasting the foul liquid within. He gulped a couple times, unable to fully hide his disgust. He wasn’t much of a fan of ale.

Hallvard, at least, seemed quite amused. 

“That’s all you got?” He flashed him a lopsided grin over the brim of his own tankard, and with a few loud gulps, finished the beverage.

Ryker took a deep breath and emptied the ale down his throat. His eyes stung and he tried incredibly hard not to gag. He slammed the empty tankard on the table, shooting Hallvard a displeased look. 

“This is how you treat your customers, huh? No wonder why you haven’t much business.” Ryker snapped, his patience wearing thin.

Hallvard shifted in his seat. “You didn’t pay me yet. I’m not in your service. I can treat you however I damn well please.” He now sat with his arms folded, leaning his back against the wall. 

Ryker huffed and pulled a large bag of souls from his robes, setting it in front of Hallvard with a dull thunk. Hallvard’s eyes lit up as he reached for the bag and rummaged through it. 

“This’ll buy you a month and a half’s service.”

“Is that enough to cover it? And whatever expenses you require?”

Hallvard considered for a moment. 

“I believe so. If you keep buying me drinks too.”

Ryker rolled his eyes. “Are we finished here?”

“Wait— before you go. How soon do you want to leave?”

“Tomorrow morning. I’m quite eager to leave,” replied Ryker quickly. The sudden alcohol consumption was making his head swim and his stomach churn. 

“One more thing. Show me outside where you want to meet up,” Hallvard began to stand up, “I’m terrible with verbal directions.”

As Ryker followed Hallvard outside, he swayed on his feet. He couldn’t handle any amount of alcohol, much less chugging a tankard of foul ale. He also hadn’t eaten in hours. 

The cool night air came as a relief as they exited Barrow’s Inn. Buildings they passed seemed to warp and shake slightly, making Ryker feel even dizzier. Cold air could only do so much. 

They walked for a few minutes, the moon hanging high and the stars twinkling bright. Ryker was nearly out of breath trying to keep up with the towering man, as Hallvard stood over a foot taller than him. His leather boots were nearly soundless on the cobble. He walked with such ease, as if he feared nothing in the world. 

“How about… here?” Ryker pointed to a street corner with an empty fruit stand. He tried catching his breath, but it seemed impossible. “Tomorrow at… sunrise…” he barely managed to get a sentence out before the ale made a reappearance in a far less glamorous form. 

And it was all over Hallvard’s boots. 

Ryker’s eyes widened in horror, utterly bewildered that of all places, that is where he turned his head to retch. 

He was expecting Hallvard to recoil, to yell, maybe even to become violent. Ryker averted his gaze and mumbled apologies, his face burning hot as embarrassment ravaged his body. 

A warm, gentle hand touched Ryker’s shoulder. 

“Are you okay? Can you walk?”

Though it was dark, Hallvard’s eyes glimmered with genuine concern. His face was relaxed, not a twinge of anger or annoyance in his voice. 

Ryker’s face grew even hotter as he met eyes with Hallvard. He was beyond thankful for this dark and unoccupied street corner. 

“I… I can walk, thank you. But I— well, it’s quite a long walk to where I was staying. You just go back to the inn. I’ll meet you here tomorrow,” Ryker paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts. “And, uh, thank you. I’m sorry.”

Ryker turned on his heel, ready to walk an hour back to Avelyn’s newly bought house, where she graciously allowed him to stay.

“No.” Hallvard tightened his grip on Ryker’s shoulder. “Come back to the inn. Stay there for the night. You’re sick, and it’s not a good idea for you to exert yourself.”

Ryker sighed. He knew he was right. He allowed Hallvard to guide him back to the inn, the hand on his shoulder still clasped firmly, yet gently. 

They arrived shortly; the tavern was now considerably emptier than before. The bard was still softly strumming a tune on her lute. 

Hallvard guided him up a staircase, then down a cozy hallway. It was dimly lit by a few candles. Despite the lighting, the plush carpeting and the abundance of soft chairs were enough to indicate it was far nicer up here than expected. Hallvard pushed open a wooden door at the end of the hall, labeled with a metal number eight hanging just to the left of the door. 

“This is my room. The washroom is attached. Get some rest, okay? I’ll be in room three if you need me.”

Hallvard’s heavy footfalls gradually softened as he retreated to room three. Ryker shut the door behind him, and realized with a start that this wasn’t an ordinary guest room.

He must’ve paid more to the innkeepers to live here, because this room was large and well-decorated. And it wasn’t inn décor, either. Furs that undoubtedly belonged to Hallvard lined the walls and peeked out of the wardrobe. An arrangement of daggers and knives lay on the desk, half-polished. A massive axe leaned against the doorframe of the washroom. Books were haphazardly strewn about; some were on shelves, others on the desk, and even a couple on the floor. As much as Ryker wanted to snoop, he was exhausted. He undressed and weakly crawled into the massive bed that was pushed up against a corner. 

The bed was pleasantly soft and warm. He pulled the sheets tight around him, trying to stave off the chill that threatened to keep him awake and shivering. As he basked in the warmth of the bedsheets, he realized they had a certain scent to them. Subtlety floral. Ryker couldn’t quite place it. 

He drifted into a peaceful slumber as he tried puzzling over what the scent was. He was grateful he was too tired to think about the various events over the course of the day. 

Sunlight poured in the room through the gaps in the curtains, causing Ryker to stir. He slowly opened his eyes and blinked up at the ceiling. He stretched, yawned, and—

Oh shit. 

The memories of last night came flooding back. Every embarrassing detail forced its way back inside his mind. 

I should leave. I can’t do this. I shouldn’t have ever done this. 

But then, there was the bag of souls he already forked over to Hallvard. He’d feel horrible taking away his pay like that. No, he already got this far, he slept in the man’s bed for heaven’s sake. 

Ryker collected his clothes and headed into the washroom. Oh, he was a right mess. The curly swathe of chestnut hair on top of his head was sticking up in odd angles. His eyes glowed red with the stream of sunlight pouring through the window. The dark circles under his eyes were akin to a bruise. He rubbed at his face and tousled his hair, but it was pointless. He even splashed cold water, but it ended up all over his shirt, in which he undressed once more to let it dry. He couldn’t stand the feeling of wet fabric on his skin. 

Thunk thunk. Two dull knocks on the door nearly made Ryker jump out of his skin. He hastily scrambled to the door and unlatched it, hoping he didn’t frighten the person on the other side with his disheveled appearance. 

“Hey— oh, uh…” Hallvard stuttered as he observed Ryker.  “Didn’t mean to wake you. Are you feeling any better?”

Ryker took a deep breath. “Yeah, I’m fine, thanks. I woke up a bit ago actually.”

Hallvard lingered at the door, his alert dark eyes frantically darting around the room.

“Uh… can I take a minute to gather some of my belongings for this trip? I don’t mean to rush you or kick you out—”

“It’s fine. I’ll get out of your way. I’ll wait outside.”

“With no shirt?” Hallvard tossed him a quizzical look. 

“Ah, I spilled water on my shirt. And, well… I hate the feeling of wet clothes.”

“Oh.” Hallvard lumbered over to his wardrobe and opened a drawer. He rummaged for a minute before turning back to Ryker. 

“Here. Use this. I’ll only be a couple minutes.” Hallvard then handed him a beige tunic, which he was sure would be far too large for him. Was it his imagination, or did Hallvard’s face look a little redder…?

“Thank you, Hallvard, you really didn’t have to do… all this… for me.”

Hallvard let out a small snort. “You’re the one paying me. It’s only fair I help you out.”

Ryker nodded and put on the tunic. As he suspected, it was far too large. But it was better than wet clothes. And… the tunic had the same odd floral scent as the bedsheets. 

While he waited outside, Ryker watched the streets of Greywell for entertainment. Though, nothing particularly remarkable was happening. He leaned against the exterior of Barrow’s Inn, folding his arms and wishing he were anywhere but here. The scent of fresh bread floated over to him, along with the sound of children playing on a nearby street. It was already decently warm outside for the early morning hours. 

Ryker’s thoughts soon drifted to Hallvard. Was he a father of small children? The way he reacted the previous night was astonishingly cool and collected. Ryker wasn’t so sure he’d be that forgiving of a total stranger who just retched on his boots. Or, like Hallvard suggested inside, the money was what kept him civil. 

And what was someone from the Northern Lands doing in Vinheim, especially as a mercenary…? Why leave behind a family in the North? 

Ryker’s daydreams were interrupted by the arrival of Hallvard at last. Ryker explained that once they obtained the horses from the nearby stable, they would need to stop at Avelyn’s house for him to pack his belongings. 

They received the horses as promised; two mares, one bay and the other palomino. Hallvard didn’t mind the extra stop they had to make before they left for Lothric. 

The ride to Avelyn’s was far shorter on horseback than on foot. Ryker kept quiet the whole time, desperately trying not to fall asleep. The orange hue of the sunrise still lingered. The streets were far busier now, but it wasn’t too much trouble to try and navigate through the crowds. 

Upon reaching Avelyn’s home, a narrow stone building with a freshly painted wood fence, Ryker dismounted and let himself in. He just had to grab his bag, the bedroll, his notes—

“RYKER!”

A sudden jolt of panic surged through his body. He froze on the spot and heard Avelyn’s frantic footsteps rush down the staircase. 

She whipped around the corner, her mop of reddish-brown hair flying behind her. She nearly knocked a vase over in her rush to reach him. 

“Our thesis! We did it! We finally did it!” Avelyn excitedly thrusted a stack of papers in his face. He gently grabbed her wrists and lowered them, giving her a puzzled glare. 

“What are you talking about, dearest Avelyn? Slow down and tell me.”

“Our thesis research, you dimwit! The Vinheim Sorcerer’s Council is actually considering funding us for further experimentation!” Her green eyes were positively beaming with delight. “Look, this is the official letter I received today!”

Ryker hastily skimmed the letter, with Avelyn eagerly watching him and slightly bouncing on her heels. 

“Well? What do you think?”

Ryker let out a sigh, handing her the paper. “Avelyn, as exciting as it is, this doesn’t mean the Council will definitely fund our research. We weren’t the only ones who got full marks on our thesis.”

Avelyn’s face fell as the realization hit her. 

“Now, now— you don’t have to be sad about it. This is still plenty of reason to celebrate!” Ryker gave her a small smile. 

“Well… you do have a point.” Avelyn seemed to become briefly lost in thought, going silent for a few moments. “Ah, well. I’m still cracking open the wine tonight. Do you care to join me?”

“I truly apologize, Avelyn, I picked this morning to leave for my trip back to Lothric. I came back to collect my belongings. I would’ve come home last night to tell you, but—” Ryker hesitated to tell her why exactly he hadn’t come home last night. 

“So you found this Hallvard guy?” Her question filled the gap he left. 

Ryker nodded. “Look out the window. I’m going to get my bags.”

Within a few minutes, Ryker collected everything he needed and wrote down his address for Avelyn on a spare piece of parchment. 

“Here’s my address, let me know if the Council contacts us further—”

“This Hallvard looks scary. Are you sure you want to travel all that way with him?” Avelyn interrupted. 

He stared at her, still extending the paper towards her. 

“He’s nicer than he looks, honestly. I’ll be fine, Avelyn. Let’s stay in touch, alright?”

She accepted the paper, and without warning, she wrapped her arms around him. 

“Thanks for making all those years at school bearable. And yes, I’ll tell you if the Council says anything further. Have a good trip, alright?”

“I will. Thank… Thank you, Avelyn. Especially for hosting me here.” He awkwardly patted her on the back. 

“And if you come to Vinheim again? I’m paying for you to take a damn carriage here.” She chuckled as she let go of him, opening her front door. 

Ryker affixed his belongings to his horse and issued a quick apology to Hallvard for taking longer than anticipated. 

The two finally set out towards Lothric in the early afternoon, the sky bright and the path ahead clear. The long journey ahead of them was daunting and full of the unknown. Whatever would happen, Ryker felt prepared for it. 

#DM

[knitsforbunny]

#the amazing devil #social distancing #day 7 #art by lyriumwolf #lutes are hard to embroider!

[julek]

for @greyduckgreygoose, my beloved <3 | read on ao3

! explicit

Jaskier was oddly quiet.

It was an unforgiving summer afternoon, the sun burning bright in the sky as they walked together on the dry roads. Roach followed close behind them — mindful of the heat, Geralt had dismounted as soon as he was able — and stomped her feet in displeasure every time they had to abandon the cool shadow of the trees, following the forks in the road that lead to Cleves. 

They had spent the night in Maribor, after Jaskier had sung his voice out in the marketplace’s small summer festival. They’d drunk cool beer and eaten sweet pastries, tumbling into bed at an ungodly hour and rising with the sun. Geralt, for once, had actually enjoyed himself — being able to accompany Jaskier on his many outings had long since become routine, but seeing him in his element, lute in hand and winning smile on his face, was still enough to make Geralt’s chest swell with pride, knowing he was the only one who would hold his hand at the end of the night, and take him home. 

Now, as they moved on through the deserted road, Geralt became suddenly too aware of how quiet it all was — apart from the fresh air running through the trees, there was no humming, no half-lines being sung. It was… suspicious. He looked to his left and found Jaskier fidgeting with the strap of his lute, mindlessly watching the thick foliage of the trees they passed by.

Against all demands of decency and decorum, Jaskier’s chemise was unbuttoned to the navel, tucked into his breeches in a half-hearted attempt to keep it from sliding off his back. He’d pushed his hair back in the early morning — as he was wont to do when the heat became unbearable — but by now a few wayward strands were falling on his face, matted with sweat. His chest was an inviting sight, one that always seemed to take Geralt by surprise, the swell of his muscles and the thick hair that covered it making his breath catch in his throat. He was walking a bit slower than usual, adjusting the waistband of his breeches from time to time — Geralt had simply shrugged it off as still being exhausted from the night before. Now, he wasn’t so sure.

“Jask.”

He turned around. “Hmm?”

“You’re being quiet,” Geralt observed. “Last time you were being this quiet it was a curse.”

“Not cursed,” Jaskier replied, biting his lower lip. “Though it is sweet to know you care.” 

Geralt hummed. “Then?”

Looking at Geralt, his head tilted, he smiled, snapping his lute strap into place. “Just thinking.”

There was a row of low-hanging trees on the edge of the path, and they passed underneath them to enjoy the cool shadow, if only for a few moments. Geralt was about to speak when a soft breeze wafted through the air, and made him stop dead in his tracks. 

That scent. Sweet like ripe fruit and sharp like the spices at the marketstalls — lust and desire and need, all in one. Not covered in scented oils, not masked by perfumes and rosewater — just pure Jaskier, sweaty and unwashed and wanton.

Geralt looked at Jaskier again, and the bard must have seen the way his nostrils flared because suddenly his cheeks were pink and his lips were swollen, bitten and cherry red. Geralt stepped closer, Roach’s reins slipping from his fingers, and just breathed in. He could feel himself giving into it, desire pooling low on his belly, just by thinking about taking Jaskier like that, sheltered by the trees and surrounded by nothing but their own skin.

“Jaskier,” Geralt breathed, his voice rough. “Here?”

Jaskier licked his lips, and his voice was already a wreck as he whispered, “Yeah.”

His back hit a tree as their lips crashed with an unbidden sense of urgency, Geralt’s hands reaching for as much skin as he could touch. Jaskier gave as good as he got, sucking bruises he knew would fade soon on Geralt’s jaw, his neck, his ear. 

“What’s got you so worked up?” Geralt panted against Jaskier’s collarbone when they parted, fingers stroking the soft skin of his belly, just above his waistband. “Could swear you were pretty dead to the world this morning.” 

Jaskier scoffed a laugh, pressing kisses to Geralt’s face, uncaring of the heat. “I may have a surprise for you.” 

Geralt pulled back to look at him, a small frown knitting his brows. His thumb was dangerously close to the pretty knot that tied Jaskier’s breeches together. “And what would that be?”

“Can’t tell you.” Jaskier’s grin was wicked. “Guess you’ll have to find it.” 

Groaning, Geralt stole a quick kiss, making Jaskier laugh. He linked their hands together and walked deeper into the forest — they’d had too many a close call, pleasuring each other on the side of the road — and whistled for Roach to follow. 

“Tell her to stay back!” Jaskier whisper-shouted, looking at Roach walking toward them. “I don’t want her—”

“Seeing us?” 

“Yes, Witcher, seeing us. She’ll be scarred for life.” 

Geralt snorted, but motioned for Roach to move along a line of trees. “There.” 

“Good,” Jaskier purred. “Now, where were we?” 

Almost tearing the fabric, Geralt took Jaskier’s chemise off his back. He needed to feel his skin, have no layers between them — with quick movements, Jaskier divested him of his armor, deft fingers making fast work of the buckles holding the plates together. Their lips met again and again, a vicious hunger running through their veins, demanding to be sated.

Pinned between Geralt and the trunk of a sturdy tree, Jaskier arched under the bruising kisses being sucked into his skin. Geralt caught his hands just before they moved to the laces of his breeches and placed them above his head, taking control. Jaskier shuddered. 

“If you’re gonna tease me,” he rasped, “at least take your clothes off. Put on a proper show.”

Geralt hummed. “You’d enjoy that too much.” 

“That is correct, which is why I’m—”

Jaskier’s words dissolved into a groan as Geralt finally, finally pushed his breeches down — but, too soon, his hands stilled. 

“Jaskier.” Geralt’s voice was low, almost too low to be heard. 

Jaskier huffed a laugh. “You like that?”

The bard wasn’t wearing any underclothes — just his breeches, all day long, under the offending sun — and it made some animalistic instinct in Geralt burn, something primal and raw melt his senses into nothing but Jaskier, Jaskier, Jaskier. 

He bit down on Jaskier’s neck as an answer, and his moan went straight to Geralt’s cock, already hard and aching for release. He wrapped his free hand around Jaskier, stroking hard and slow, the way he knew set the bard on edge — but then he remembered.

“Where’s my surprise?” He asked, smiling when Jaskier rocked into his hand, tiny whines escaping his lips. “I do recall being promised one, of sorts.”

Jaskier opened his mouth to answer, but then, right then, Geralt twisted his wrist and sped up his movements, wringing punched-out ah, ah, ahs from him. “Jaskier.”

“Y-yes,” he managed, his forehead pressed against Geralt’s shoulder. “There’s— ah, fuck—”

“It would be rude of you to come now,” Geralt whispered in his ear, his voice rough with want, though his movements didn’t falter, his thumb gliding along the slit messily, “before I got to unwrap my gift.”

“I— I won’t last,” Jaskier confessed, his eyes shut and his brows knitted in a frown borne of ecstasy, clearly reaching his peak. “I’m sorry.”

“No.” Geralt smirked. “I’m sorry.”

Jaskier let out a broken moan as Geralt withdrew his hand entirely, leaving him unsatisfied and aching, panting against his chest. Geralt pressed small kisses to his hair, his face, his hands. “You okay?”

Though he seemed miserable, Jaskier gave him a soft smile before burying his face where Geralt’s neck met his shoulder. “Always.”

Geralt took him in his arms, relieved. He knew what Jaskier liked, was sure of what he wanted — making sure was part of it, all the same. 

He waited for Jaskier’s breathing to even out, let him rest against his body even though he kept subconsciously rocking against Geralt’s cock, which strained against the leather of his breeches with unfaltering desire. After a few moments, Jaskier rose from his chest with a knowing smile on his lips.

“Well, then,” he said, turning around and leaning his front against the tree, arms lifted above his head in surrender. He looked at Geralt over his shoulder, “won’t you come get it?”

Every bit of restraint and patience Geralt had been holding onto vanished, disappeared as he moved forward and pressed himself close to Jaskier, shoulder to knee. “I’ve fucked you in the woods before,” he observed, reaching for his own pants to unfasten them, “what’s special about this one?”

Jaskier chuckled. “Ah,” he said, clicking his tongue. “But you’re mistaken.”

Geralt watched as his hand traveled down his back, slow and teasing, until it reached his tailbone. Jaskier slid his fingers down his crack and pulled, spreading himself open just the slightest bit, enough for Geralt to see—

“Fuck, Jaskier.”

Down in the forgotten streets of Maribor, there’d been a small shop Jaskier knew very well. It was where they regularly got their oil supply, where Jaskier often complained to Geralt of high prices for feathered hats and embroidered underpants. The night before the festival, Geralt had watched Jaskier come in particularly pink-cheeked, smelling of chamomile and expensive perfume, a small velvet pouch hidden between his hands. He’d thought nothing of it — after all, he was the one who’d asked Jaskier to get their oil this time — and had almost forgotten about it.

Now, Geralt watched as a small, polished plug in a dark shade of blue was pressed inside Jaskier, keeping him open. It’s for you, the animal that lived inside him said, he’s wearing it for you. A low groan escaped him as he reached out and tapped the base once, making Jaskier squirm.

“Do you like it?”

Jaskier’s voice wavered the slightest bit, and immediately Geralt cursed himself for standing there quiet so long. Their eyes met, and that was it — Geralt surged forward and kissed him ferociously despite the awkward angle, just to show him how much he liked it. 

“I do,” Geralt said against Jaskier’s mouth, “I really fucking do.”

“Then show me.”

Geralt turned Jaskier around so he was facing the tree, and felt the wet dirt on his breeches as his knees hit the forest floor. This close, he could see just how far the plug went; the way it stretched Jaskier further and further with every move. He groaned. “You’re gonna kill me one of these days.”

Jaskier couldn’t manage to answer. He let out a broken moan as Geralt licked a stripe down his cleft, briefly sucking on the plug and making Jaskier’s knees almost give out. His scent was so strong, here, so heady and raw, Geralt wanted nothing more than to get drunk on it.

He teased his tongue around the plug, pulling it out with his fingers just a little, only to push it back inside. It drove Jaskier mad, made him let out weak, breathless moans as Geralt licked him relentlessly. “Geralt,” he breathed. “Please.”

Geralt hummed, making Jaskier whine. “Yes?”

“Just,” Jaskier said through gritted teeth, “d-do something.”

Geralt pulled back, wiping his chin with the back of his hand. “Something?”

Jaskier looked down at him over his shoulder, and Geralt couldn’t suppress a shudder — he looked wrecked, his cheeks red and scratched from pressing them against the tree, his hair pushed back and gleaming with sweat, his eyes shining with unshed tears. An amalgamation of sin and innocence, purity and desire. His voice was rough when he said, “Anything.”

And Geralt gave it to him. He gripped the base of the plug and pulled, taking it out in one fluid motion, hearing Jaskier groan at the stretch. He immediately replaced the plug with two spit-slick fingers, feeling the warmth of Jaskier’s walls clenching around them.

“Geralt, Geralt— Geralt,” Jaskier chanted, his name suddenly a prayer, as Geralt pressed messy kisses to his hole, took playful bites at his cheeks. Jaskier’s cock still was hard and straining against his stomach, and Geralt could see he was holding himself back from rutting against the tree. 

Abruptly, Geralt pulled away and sat back, bringing Jaskier down with him. “C’mere,” he rasped, settling Jaskier on his lap, his fingers still deep inside him. He swallowed each one of Jaskier’s moans, kissing him fiercely as he added a third finger. “Are you gonna come, little bird?”

“Not yet.” Jaskier shook his head. “Want— with you.” 

Geralt groaned against his bard’s shoulder. Of course he’d think of Geralt even on the verge of his orgasm, of course he’d want him to take his pleasure as well. If only he knew what he did to Geralt — that seeing him incoherent and lost in desire was enough to bring him to the edge. Still, Geralt nodded. “With me.”

Jaskier unlaced Geralt’s breeches and pushed them down, just enough so they could rut against each other, skin on skin. Geralt hissed as Jaskier rocked his cock against his own, felt the dribble of precome slick the way as Jaskier’s palm wrapped around them both. He let out a low groan and caught Jaskier’s lips in a kiss that was mostly teeth and tongue, but that felt like diving into a frozen lake on a hot summer day. He felt Jaskier fucking himself on Geralt’s fingers as he stroked them both to completion, his movements faltering. 

“I’m— Geralt,” he choked out. 

Geralt nodded feverishly against his temple. “Yes, yes, yes.” 

Jaskier twisted his wrist once more, and Geralt came over Jaskier’s hand and stomach. Even under the hazy cloud of his orgasm, Geralt presses his fingers inside Jaskier still, brushing his prostate with nearly every stroke. Suddenly, Jaskier stilled, and came with a muffled sob against Geralt’s shoulder, his come hitting Geralt’s chest. 

They sat together, catching their breaths for a moment. Geralt pressed soft kisses against Jaskier’s neck, the side of his face, wherever he could reach. Devotion, he realized. This is what devotion feels like.

Jaskier melted against him, pressing lazy kisses of his own against Geralt’s scarred shoulder. “That was…” 

“Good,” Geralt rumbled.

Jaskier pulled back slowly, with a grin that quickly transformed into a groan. “Fuck, no,” he growled as he watched Geralt run a finger through the mess on his chest and suck it into his mouth. “Fuck.” 

Geralt shrugged. “You taste good,” he said simply.

“You can’t just say—” Jaskier pressed his face against Geralt’s neck, defeated. “You’ve killed me. I’m dead. Please grieve accordingly.” 

Geralt huffed a laugh. “We have to get going soon.”

Jaskier tsked. “Can’t. Dead, remember?” 

Geralt knew there was no competing against Jaskier’s soft afterglow. With a dramatic sigh — damn Jaskier and his endearing theatrics — Geralt laid down, his back on the damp summer grass. Jaskier burrowed into his side, nuzzling his nose against Geralt’s neck, their legs entwined. 

Geralt looked at the sky. Its blue was slowly giving way to the soft oranges and pinks of the late afternoon, sunlight melting against the clouds. He knew they would have to move eventually, saddle Roach and keep going until they reached Cleves. But for now, they could lie close to each other, their breaths and heartbeats as one, and worry for nothing but each other. 

For now, Geralt could look into Jaskier’s eyes and find nothing but a mirror of his own, could whisper sweet nothing against his ear and watch him flush and smile, embarrassed, until the sun set. He could press soft kisses on Jaskier’s skin and find nothing but the scent of sweat, and salt, and love. Find roundabout ways to tell him I love you, and I’m yours, and I never want to be without you, and I would never run.

He would always stay.

#mywriting #geraskier fanfic #geraskier #geraskier smut #hope you all like it <3

[histoireettralala]

A medieval housewife

To be a woman in the thirteenth century is much like being a woman in any age. Women are somewhat oppressed and exploited, as always, but as in any age, social status is the really important thing, and a burgher’s wife is no serf. She is a person of dignity and worth, important in her family and respected in the community.

Unmarried women can own property, and in the absence of male heirs they can also inherit. Women of all classes have rights in property by law and custom. Women can sue and be sued, make wills, make contracts, even plead their own cases in court. Women have been known to appear as their husbands’ attorneys. A “Portia” character is the heroine of a contemporary romance, The Hard Creditor.

Well-to-do women know how to read and write and figure; some know a little Latin, or boast such ladylike accomplishments as embroidering and playing the lute. Girls receive instruction from private teachers, or board at convents. The convent of Notre-Dame-aux-Nonnains has a school for girls dating back to the sixth century. Universities are closed to women, but they are equally closed to men except those who are being trained for the clergy, law, or medicine. Among the landed gentry, women are better educated than men. In the romance Galeran a boy and girl brought up together are given typically different schooling— the girl learning to embroider, read, write, speak Latin, play the harp, and sing; the boy, to hawk, hunt, shoot, ride, and play chess.

Women work outside the home at an astonishing variety of crafts and professions. They may be teachers, midwives, laundresses, lacemakers, seamstresses, and even members of normally male trades and occupations- weavers, fullers, barbers, carpenters, saddlers, tilers, and many others. Wives commonly work at their husbands’ crafts, and when a man dies his widow carries on the trade. Daughters not infrequently learn their father’s craft along with their brothers. In the countryside girls hire out as farm workers. The lady of the manor takes charge of the estate while her husband is off to war, Crusade, or pilgrimage, and wives run businesses while their husbands are away.

Women do suffer from an inequity in respect to wages, which are lower than men’s for the same work. An English treatise on husbandry says, “If this is a manor where there is no dairy, it is always good to have a woman there at much less cost than a man.”

Politically, women have no voice. They do not sit on the Town Council or in the courts, or serve as provosts or officials. Basically, this is because they do not bear arms. Yet women play political roles, often with distinction— Empress Matilda of England, Eleanor of Aquitaine, Queen Blanche of France, Countess Jeanne of Flanders, Blanche of Champagne, and many more. Countess Marie, wife of Henry the Generous, was asked to arbitrate claims between the churches of St.-Etienne and St.-Loup, and with her brother-in-law, William of the White Hands, archbishop of Reims, to decide important cases, including the seigneury of Vertus. In war, or at least sieges, women often play the heroine.

Women occupy positions of power and influence in the Church. The abbess of a convent such as Notre-Dame-aux-Nonnains is invested with important executive responsibilities. Usually such posts are accorded to ladies of high rank, like Alix de Villehardouin, daughter of the marshal of Champagne. Abbesses are not afraid to assert their rights. A few years hence an abbess of Notre-Dame, Odette de Pougy, will defy the Pope’s excommunication and lead a party of armed men to defend what she regards as the rights of her abbey. This establishment owes its extraordinary prestige to its ancient origins, which are believed to date from the third century. The abbess actually enjoys rights over the bishop of Troyes. When a new bishop is installed, he must lead a procession to the abbey, mounted on a palfrey that is handed over, saddle included, to the abbess’s stable. Inside the convent, the bishop kneels and receives cross, mitre, and prayer book from the abbess’s hands. He recites an oath: “I...bishop of Troyes, swear to observe the rights, franchises, liberties, and privileges of this convent of Notre-Dame-aux-Nonnains, with the help of God and his holy saints.” The bishop spends the night in the convent and is given as a gift the bed in which he has slept, with all its furnishings. Only the next day does his installation as bishop take place in the cathedral.

Women achieve distinction outside the cloister, too. Marie de France is the most gifted woman poet of the Middle Ages, and “wise Héloise” the most noteworthy bluestocking, but there are many more. The contemporary scholar Albert the Great, debating whether the Virgin Mary knew the seven liberal arts, resolves the question affirmatively.

The cult of Mary serves to elevate the image of women and to counterbalance the misogyny of ascetic preachers who bestow such epithets as “man’s confounder,” “mad beast,” “stinking rose,” “sad paradise,” “sweet venom,” “luscious sin,” and “bitter sweet,” while lingering over the attractions of the temptresses. The chivalric ideal also glorifies women. The Church recognizes the wife to be subject to her husband, as Paul recommended, but as his companion, not as mere mistress or servant. Married people are expected to treat each other with respect, and many husbands and wives never call each other anything but Sir and Madam.

Wife-beating is common in an age when corporal punishment is the norm. But wives do not necessarily get the worst of it. A contemporary observer remarks that men rarely have the mastery of their wives, that nearly everywhere women dominate their husbands. One preacher complains that formerly wives were faithful to their husbands and peaceful as ewe lambs; now they are lionesses. Another tells the story of a storm at sea, when the sailors wished to throw into the sea anything that might overload the ship, and a certain husband handed over his wife, saying that there was no object of such intolerable weight. The expression “wearing the pants in the family” is already current, and henpecked husbands are a favorite theme of the fabliaux.

Perhaps the most important point to note about the medieval housewife, in contrast to women of earlier times, is that she has a purse. She goes shopping, she gives alms, she pays fees, she hires labor; she may, if the occasion arises, buy privileges and pay bribes.

She may do many other things with her money. Women make large gifts of land, money, and chattels to church institutions; found convents, monasteries, hospitals, orphanages, and asylums; buy benefices for their sons and places in convents for their daughters; engage in trading operations. They are denounced by priests for usury, pawnbroking, and price manipulations, and for their reckless expenditures for luxury goods. They may travel extensively, sometimes as far as the Holy Land.

A woman of means is always a person to reckon with.

Frances & Joseph Gies- Life in a Medieval City

#xiii #frances & joseph gies #life in a medieval city

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

By the king’s hand 🐍 I

Warnings: warnings to be added as we progress but this series may contain non-consent, violence, death, and other triggers.

This is dark!fic and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You attend king Loki’s coronation but the night ends precariously.

Note: I don’t know what I’m doing.

Thank you. Love you guys!

As always, if you can, please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3

“Come on!” Gilla latched onto your arm as she wove through the streets. The bodies around you were so many it was hard to move one way or the other. “Can’t see anything from here.”

“Gil,” you grumbled, “You’ve already dragged me to the square, where are you taking me now?”

“Don’t you realise,” she called to you, “This is history! We are going to see history!”

“It matters little to me. Tomorrow I will be sat in the shop just as I was before you disturbed me.” 

You stumbled as she lunged between two bodies and barely kept hold of you. Your clogs nearly slipped off your feet as she veered around the base of one of the ancient pillars at the edge of the square. She stopped and looked up the etched stone and grinned.

“Tell me you’re not--”

“You remember when we were children? We used to see who could climb furthest.” She chimed. “We’ve just got to get high enough to reach that branch.”

Gilla pointed at the thick-trunked oak which had stood nearly as long as the pillars. The Founder’s Tree bore as many carvings as the pillars, an artifact of the city’s residents. You shook your head.

“We are not children anymore,” you insisted.

“Only if we act so,” she trilled, “You’ve come this far. I know you’re not going to abandon me now.”

You sighed and put your hands on your hips. You were glad for the workman’s pants your uncle let you wear in the shop and the sweaty tunic belted at your waist. Gilla wore the embroidered skirts that many of the merchants’ daughters loved but you never bothered as they were often stained with clay or soot by the end of the day.

“If someone sees us…” you warned.

“No one’s looking at us!” She hooked her fingers into a deep crack and hoisted herself up and wrapped her legs around the pillar. Her skirts bunched precariously above her knees as she began to shimmy up. “Or did you really want to stare at the back of everyone’s heads?”

You rolled your eyes as you watched her a little longer before following her. Gilla was thin, she always had been, and was little bothered by the way her skirts rumpled around her waist. You grunted as you heaved yourself up. The higher you got, the more you realised how dangerous it was. You hadn’t the wherewithal as children to think of it.

Gilla unhooked one lang and hung off the side of the pillar as she reached out to the branch. Suddenly you wanted to slide back down. You only pictured her lunging and falling down to a horrid fate. 

She thrust herself off the pillar and caught herself on the branch lithely. She swung her leg over and was upright in a moment. After all the years since your last contest, she had barely slowed.

“Hurry,” she whined as the horns began to blow. “The new king will appear soon.”

You took a breath and frowned. You couldn’t make it. If you tried, your sweaty hands would not be able to hold you, your weight, much more than that of a child, would plummet you back to the earth. You looked at Gilla and braced yourself. You threw yourself away from the pillar and caught the branch with a yelp.

The horns grew louder as you hung from the tree. You kicked your legs as you struggled to mimic Gilla. She moved closer and bent down to try to help. A drumming sounded and a voice boomed above the crowd and hushed the impatient voice. The marching of armoured boots entered the square from the opposite end and the music vibrated through your body as you hissed and clung to the tree frantically.

“People of Asgardia,” the crier proclaimed, “I present to you, Loki, Son of Odin, First of His Name, sanctified and rightful heir to the twelve realms and newly-anointed King of Asgardian. Hear, hear, long live the king!”

You finally dug your foot into the side of the tree as you cried out desperately. You walked up the trunk and hooked your leg over the branch as Gilla helped pull you up. The leaves barely offered a curtain to your shame as you righted yourself and you poked your friend meanly in the side. 

“Never again,” you swore as you gasped for breath.

“Oh, hush, look,” she pointed past the foliage around you, “Look. The king!”

You glanced over at the dark head of the new ruler. The golden horns of his crown and the lustrous silver of his robes. King Loki seemed to stare back at you as the branch shifted beneath you and rustled the leaves.

“Stop fidgeting,” Gilla remanded, “You’ll snap our perch.”

“Shhh,” you covered her mouth, “You’ll give us away.”

She pulled your hand away and sniffed. “It’s fine. It’s just a tree.”

You tutted and looked back to the platform at the centre of the square. The people cheered and stomped and clapped with the music. There would be a feast for all. The tents had already been erected both within and without the royal grounds. The latter would be for the commoners though a seat would be hard to find amidst the hungry hordes.

“He’s not so handsome as his brother,” Gilla bemoaned, “But I wouldn’t call him hideous.”

“How can you tell from so far?” You snipped.

“You remember Brytta? She is a chambermaid in the palace now. Once she did sneak me in through the laundries. I saw the princes rather well.” She preened.

“Well, I don’t think comeliness the most important feature of a king,” you reproached. “I remember this prince hasn’t the nicest reputation.”

“He does enjoy tricks but every court has a jester to do tricks,” Gilla shrugged.

“Mmm,” you hummed, “I suppose he could not be very different from his father.”

Gilla watched the king a little longer as you leaned against the trunk. You wondered how you would descend without catastrophe as the parade went on.

“A pity it is not his brother,” she uttered under her breath. “To think he stepped down for that Lady Jane… romantic but… he would’ve been a fine king.”

“Oh, and how should you know a fine king?” You snorted sarcastically.

“He was a warrior like Odin. A good king needs to be able to fight.”

“And I heard Loki did fight in kind,” you squinted. “I believe it was you who told me that though I can never be certain where you learn these things.”

“Yes, but no one ever spoke much of this prince’s honour,” she picked at the bark between her legs. “Well, one day, you and me, we’re going to tell our children how we watched the king from this very tree. Isn’t that something?”

“And warn them not to chance the climb,” you muttered, “If we do survive the way down.”

“Oh do not be so grim,” she prodded your shoulder. “We should be away before the king if we want a plate.”

“No, I’ve bread at home.” You watched as she inched to the end of the branch. “You can’t do that-- you’ll--”

“I’ll be just fine but if you want to perish up here for your fear, I’ll mourn you from below.” She leaped and caught herself on the pillar as easily as before. “And I’ll not wait long as I have no desire to be trampled.”

You huffed and pushed your head back. You looked around at the crowd and the king amid the eye of the storm. He stood staunchly, tall and slender, his chin held up as his eyes seemed fixed on the old tree. You would have to be quick before he thought to send one of his many guards. That was if he could even see you.

You readied yourself as Gilla began to shimmy down the pillar. You straddled the branch and neared the end as she had. You felt it dip and closed your eyes in a silent prayer. When you opened them, you pulled your feet up under you and jumped blindly. You hugged the stone and muffled a scream behind your lips. You whimpered as you made certain you weren’t falling.

“Gilla,” you growled as you peered down at her, “I hate you.”

“And that’s why I love you,” she called back.

🐍

The long tent was filled quickly and you sat at the end of a bench with Gilla pressed against you. Your adrenaline deepened your hunger and you quickly stole a pie from the stacks placed among the immense trestles. The voices mingled and blared under the canvas and filled it with damp heat. 

Above the cheerful, chewing noise of the peasants, you could hear the distant din of the nobility. On the other side of the palace wall, they ate from golden plates, not wood, and divulged in food even more savoury and plenty. You didn’t resent a free meal and did not envy the aristocratic celebration. Among your own people, there was no expectation and joy more pure than the rehearsed glee of the upper crest.

Gilla drank two cups of the cheap wine. It tasted like vinegar and the ale smelled sickly. You avoided both as you saw the effects of it all around you.

The night approached in shadows through the open mouth of the tent but the feast wore on. Dancing began as musicians played on drums and untuned lutes. The music was not so sweet as that played by the royal band but it fed a spritely fever in the crowd.

Gilla went to relieve herself as you watched a drunken man in a sloppy jig. The king would be called generous for feeding the masses. It was clever. An unspoken bribe to the citizenry.

When Gilla returned, she was hiccuping but her eyes were lit with delight. She tugged on your hand as she tried to hold in the air as it rose in her chest. She exhaled and rubbed her stomach with her other hand.

“Come, I’ve something to show you.” She declared.

“It’s late, we should go before there’s a brawl,” you cautioned, “You know what happens when ale is poured so freely.”

“Shhh, the sky is not yet black,” she drew you to your feet. “Just come with me.”

You humoured her. She was drunk. Likely, she would forget by the time you were outside. You were certain she had as she led you around the back and past the rear of another tent. In the shadows along the palace wall. she pulled you behind her and pressed herself to the stone.

“I watched the guard go,” she pointed to a small gate hidden along the curve of the barrier, “With a woman… he should be away for some time.”

“A woman.” You echoed. “Oh,” you realised the implication in her words, “So?”

“You’ve never wanted to see the palace?”

“I’ve seen it--”

“From afar. You’ve seen the windows and the rooves. You’ve never seen the gardens or the statues or the fountains…”

“We can’t. Gilla, we’ll get caught and--”

“Be quiet and we won’t,” she tugged on your sleeve and you planted your heels.

“No,” You hissed, “We can’t.”

“No, you won’t,” she snapped, “but you won’t stop me either.”

She let go of you and lifted her skirt above her sandals as she raced forward. You cursed and followed as you watched her stagger through the open gate inset into the stone. You caught her arm as she broke the threshold.

“Gilla--”

“Let go of me!” She said loudly.

You shushed her and recoiled. Her eyes gleamed as she looked at the colourful round tent that swell with lantern light and sweet harp music. She dashed onward and you kept close. You would have to drag her out of here herself if she insisted on crashing the royal festivities.

She stopped at a seam and pulled it apart to peer between the silk. Her face shone as light leaked out from the tent and she gasped. “Look,” she whispered, “They’re all so beautiful.”

You came up beside her and peeked inside. The king sat at a table amid his lords and their ladies, several other trestles were lined with nobles garbed in rich satins and brocade. You looked to Gilla as he lashes fluttered and you tried to pull her back.

“That’s enough,” you sneered, “we can’t linger.” You looked back as you heard a metal clink and the heavy boot fall of a guard, “There is a watch.”

“They cannot see us here,” she clung to the silk. “Could you imagine? Wearing a gown like that?’

“No, and I have no fancy to think of it,” you said, “Gilla…” you quieted as the shadow of guard passed along the front of the tent. You snatched the silk and pushed it together. “Let’s go. Now!”

“Hey!” She shouted and you heard the sharp halt of armoured feet.

“Gilla! Go!” You tore her away from the wall of the tent.

You shoved her ahead of you as the dark figure of the guard came back around to look along the side of the tent. Gilla giggled but kept on as you broke into a sprint. She was at least sensical enough to realise you were being chased. You could hear the pursuit not far behind.

“Go, go, go,” you demanded, “Shit!”

The small gate was closed and another guard stood before it. You veered away and grabbed Gilla’s arm as you directed her over to the wines running up the south end of the wall. The other guard had joined the chase and you didn’t dare look back.

“Climb,” you pushed Gilla into the wall, “Come on.”

She laughed again but did as you bid. You followed closely but your clogs made it hard as the vines caught on them. You kicked off your shoes frantically. Your ankle was caught suddenly and you cried out. Gilla stopped and looked down at you. You tried to wriggle free of the gauntleted hand but your other leg was trapped in kind.

“Go!” You barked up, “Go!”

You wrestled with the guards as they gripped your ankles. With a sharp yank, they tore you from the vines and you landed on your back in the dirt. The air rushed from your lungs and you coughed painfully. 

“Please,” you wheezed as the guards seized your arms and forced you up, “I was just-- I’m lost. I didn’t--”

Metal cut into your lip as a fist struck you. Hard. Your head pulsed and your eyes watered as you were dragged away from the wall. Your feet skidded over the dirt and you struggled to see straight.

“Don’t--” You groaned. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You are trespassing,” the guard snarled. “On royal grounds.”

“I wasn’t doing nothing. Please. You can just let me go and--”

“Get her in irons.” The guard at your left growled to the other, “I’ll have the grounds searched for any others.

“No, no, no,” you tried to resist as the large man jerked you forward. 

“Shut up.” He swatted the back of your head. “You best hope the king is merciful this day.”

🐍

You could say at least that you had seen the palace. however you did not think you would ever have the chance to tell Gilla or anyone else. Past the laundries, past the kitchens, you were thrown into a small room hidden along a vacant corridor. The guard stood inside the door, his hand on his pommel, as sniffed and sniped.

“Fucking wench, ruining the whole night,” he grumbled.

You ignored him as you sat on the floor with your head down. Heavy cuffs held your hands behind you, a chain between them. You should blame Gilla but you only hoped that she got away.

You stayed there for an hour, perhaps more. Were you waiting? And if so, for what?

You were roused only by the sound of mail and armour in the corridor. Another guard approached as the one within opened the door. The single torch on the wall flicker as a trim and tall figure strode inside, the second guard at his back.

“Your majesty,” the guard bowed his head.

“And why have I been disturbed on the night of my coronation?” You stared at the king as his sharp features shone in the licking firelight.

“Your majesty, we can handle the trespasser. We were only about to take them to the dungeon.”

“Can you? How then did he get this far?” The king glared down his nose at the guard. “I am told as I toast to my throne that some street rat has thrown up the alert.”

“It is contained, your maj--”

“Out!” The king barked. “Both of you. I shall deal with the criminal myself.”

King Loki turned to face you and his lip twitched as he looked at you for the first. You quickly lowered your eyes and listened to the guards retreat into the corridor. There was silence as the kicks boots softly moved across the stone. He paced back and forth then approached you suddenly.

“Peasant,” he called as he stopped before you, “I shall permit you to look upon me as I speak. To make certain that you can understand me.”

Slowly, you lifted your head and blinked. “Your majesty,” you rasped. 

He was rather frightening up close. His dark hair hung in loose waves to his shoulders and he was much taller than he seemed from afar. His green eyes glowed even as he blocked the torchlight with his figure.

“You trespassed on crown land. Do you understand the punishment for such an affront?”

You gulped. You knew. All knew. This man’s own father had made his laws and their consequences hard to forget. Your fate became clear all at once.

“Yes, your majesty.” You tried to moisten your lips with your tongue as you found it hard to talk, “Hanging.”

He smirked and tilted his head. He backed up slightly as his hands rested on his hips and he considered you. He chuckled and bent his knees as he squatted before you. He twined his fingers together as he positioned himself as a parent would over their child.

“And are you prepared to hang for your wandering?” He challenged.

You looked him in the face, closer now, you could see the taunting gleam in his eyes. It angered you. The sheer nonchalance that hung from his shoulders.

“If I must, your majesty,” you answered, “I suppose that I am ready.”

His brows drew together as he weighed your words. He stared at you and reached out to free a loose thread from your sleeve.

“And you did also loiter upon a relic of the kingdom,” he said, “Did you not?”

You grimaced as you watched him. You said nothing.

“I almost did hope you would’ve fallen. It would’ve have been just, wouldn’t it?” 

Your lips parted in realisation. He had seen you.

“As your majesty says,” you agreed, “It is your justice.”

He stood and snickered. He went to the corner and took the short stool hidden there. He approached again and sat across from you.

“Why did you trespass?” He asked pointedly.

“I was lost,” you answered.

“You know, it would be a third offense to lie to your king.” You pressed your lips together. “You are rather convincing when you try to act brave but you are not such a good liar on other fronts.” His long fingers tapped above his knee. “So why did you trespass?”

“Lost, your majesty. I only realised too late how lost I truly was.” You repeated.

“But there was another? Perhaps that accomplice who also scaled the Founder’s Tree?”

“It was dark. It was only me.” You could not say Gilla was there for that only meant she would suffer too. “I am to the core sorry that I did trespass and it is not an act I would repeat. Though I can gather that I would not have the chance to.”

He nodded and raised his chin as he looked to the ceiling. He bit his lip as he thought. He smirked again. When he looked at you, his gaze made you want to shudder. 

“It is a night of celebration and as king, I should show mercy on such occasion, especially so early into my reign.” He said evenly, “So perhaps you might beg mercy and I might show benevolence.”

His tone was mocking and pompous. He enjoyed his power over you, though it was no feat to hold authority over a commoner. There were horses of better standing than you. You swallowed. Your life was not worth his arrogance. You would play his game.

“Your majesty, I beg your mercy--”

“On your knees,” he flicked two fingers up. “Do it proper, now. I know you’ve not training in etiquette but I do expect some decency.”

You hid your discomfort and shifted as you pulled your legs under you. With your hands bound, it was awkward and difficult. As you raised yourself on your knees, you fell forward and he caught you before you could hit his knee. He chuckled.

“Your majesty,” you cleared your throat as he righted you. “Thank you,” you choked out, embarrassed. “I…” You exhaled, “I beg of you to show me mercy for my offense--”

“Crimes,” he interjected.

“...for my crimes,” you corrected, “And I pray that you will not sentence me harshly.”

He was quiet. He raised his brows expectantly.

“Please, your majesty, I beg of you.” You pleaded, “Please, if you were to spare me, I would be forever beholden to you.”

He tapped his toe and pushed his shoulders back. He stood suddenly and his emerald cape flapped behind him as he folded his hand behind him. He paced and stopped again, in front of you. He gazed down at you and brought his hand forward to pick his nail.

“Mercy, I grant you. You, little mouse, will not be hung.” He announced. “On my crown, I am merciful.”

He spun and went to the door. He hit his knuckles on the thick wood and it was opened quickly from the other side.

“She will not face the rope,” he said, “But do see her to the dungeons.”

“Wait!” You nearly fell forward as you tried to stand, “You said I would have mercy--”

“And you do,” he turned sharply as the guard blocked the door with his arm. “I have given you your life.”

“A life in the dungeons--”

“A life beholden to me,” he said, “That was what you promised.”

He swiftly continued down the corridor and the guard came forward to lift you to your feet. You listened to the light footfalls of the king as he retreated and you were led out into the hallway. You were turned in the opposite direction and the walls seem to close in with each step.

Who would ever call this mercy?

#loki #loki x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #by the king's hand #medieval au #medieval #king!loki #mcu #marvel #au

[whirlybirbs]

Miss Birds. We need more Alastair, please.

;   DAYDREAMING    —

summary: alistair has always been a dreamer. for some reason, imagining you as a gilded little lady in the high courts is... equally as beautiful as it is hard.

pairing: alistair theirin / warden!reader 

word count: 800

a/n: i can’t help it i love him your honor

He’s always been bad about daydreaming.

The Sisters at Bournshire always made a point of catching him, too, and Maker did his knuckles suffer for it. Honestly, what did they expect? They put him by the window for a reason — trouble making and the like — but... The view was nice and it was easy to imagine being anywhere but muddy, boring Bournshire. 

It’s cold this morning. In the early morning light, Alistair can see the sweat of spring beginning to thaw the lasting cold of the previous night’s frost. The sunlight dances through the trees lining the well-traveled path towards Denerim. Alistair shivers on his mount and huffs; his breath curls around him as they trod on.

You’re beside him, riding tandem as always, and he spies you burying your nose into the plush bear hide that’s adorned your shoulders. Your bow is slung around your shoulder, quiver strapped tightly in place. With your hair swept up and away, twisted and twirled into intricate plaits meant to withstand the horrors of battle, it’s easy to imagine you as nobility. 

He supposes you still are, deep in your bones. 

He can see you, in fine silks and delicately embroidered frocks, managing a royal house. He can see your hair, glittering with oils and smelling like sweet flowers, twisted up beneath a beautiful gilded crown. He can even see a dance, a bow to a suitor, a youthful smile unburdened by... death. 

Your real smile is marred with a scar. In that daydream, it’s not there at all. Or maybe it’s faint. He doesn’t know, he can’t see it now. 

No, now all he can see is you, the real you, scowling as you raise your gloved hand high and halt the party in its tracks. 

(Delicate fingers are hidden beneath bulky leather gauntlets. Fingers that have taken to mending his socks, fingers that have plucked as lute strings in the quiet of camp when you think no one is listening. He’s heard it, those little songs you sing.)

Alistair can hear Shale make some snide comment to Wynne — and Zevran, on his faster pony, is quick to pass Morrigan and Oghren to flank you. You speak quickly, with narrowed eyes trailing the horizon.

“Something wrong?” comes the lilt of Zev’s Antivan accent. 

“Up for a bit of scouting?” you ask quietly, “It’s too quiet.”

A nod. Zevran is off with a kick of the spurs. Your mount digs at the ground in anticipation and impatience. Alistair can see the same sorts of emotions digging into your brow. 

You’ve pushed that notion of being some delicate little Lady far away — after all, you’re a Warden. Even the polite gesture of calling you a Lady was enough to warrant a look like you’d swallowed something sour.

(It reminded you simply too much of home, of Mother and Father and the life you’d lived before. You’d been a lady, then. When war was a laughter-filled game you played with your brother in the courtyard. Now... Now, the Blight has come and there are no more games to be played.)

Alistair’s mount gives a grandiose huff.

He mimics the sound. Alistair deflates.

“Usually,” you begin, “There are more merchants on the route at this hour. Gaining head starts to the markets.”

The auburn-haired Warden quirks a brow. “Think something’s amiss, do we?”

“Mm,” a hum, then a wry little look that’s enough to send the corners of his mouth flying upwards, “I'd rather not start my day with being jumped by bandits is all.”

“Oh, nothin’ better than that. Beats any cup of tea I’ve ever had—”

And when it comes down to it, Alistair supposes he hasn’t met many ladies who can hold their own just like you do. Maker, he can hardly handle himself in battle — and there you are, upon your mount, riding around the fight and firing arrows that land true to their shots nearly every time. 

You’d been right about the bandits. Zevran had ridden out of the woods with them hot on his heels, shouting about how he’d found the source of the quiet. Alistair had nearly laughed at the comical panic on the Crow’s face. 

Mud and arrows flew around him as the party suddenly split to either side of the trail, dismounting and beginning to engage the small party. 

It was a quick scuffle. Done in all but a minute or two. 

Five bandits went down easily — and as you trotted by him, covered in mud and sweating despite the cold, he could see that daydream coming back again. 

A royal lady, in gilded armor and furs. A Hero of the Fifth Blight.

You catch him staring. There’s a perplexing quirk of your head the follows your words. It’s good-natured. Even a bit sweet. 

“What’s wrong? Hit your head?”

Alistair barks a laugh. He rubs the back of his neck and scoffs. 

“No, no,” he mutters, “Just thinking.”

“Careful.” “I know,” he says, swinging his leg up as he mounts his stead, “Might hurt myself, I know.” 

#alistair x cousland #alistair theirin x warden #alistair theirin x reader #alistair x warden #alistair theirin x cousland #alistair x reader #dragon age imagine #dragon age reader insert

[ashen-crest]

find the word tag

Thanks for the tag, @ladydawnxx and @sleepyowlwrites! I picked words from both of your lists: fog, risk, pale, and ear.

Tagging in turn, with zero pressure: @athenswrites, @denn1s-lessing, @antique-symbolism, and @akindofmagictoo! Your words are: sun, safe, dark, and eye.

All of these are from The Stray Spirit:

Fog (only two uses of fog in this wip? I’m surprised)

To Emry’s relief, Thisby did not yet share Aspen’s anxiety, nor Vornik’s chaos—the town was blissfully, ignorantly asleep when they arrived. From the top of the nexus stairs, he could see the full stretch of the quiet little town curled atop a hill, its twinkling lights blanketed in a light settling of mist. The fog thickened as they walked in, gray breath against gray cobblestones and gray buildings. The only spots of color were the warm orange brushstrokes of the street lamps, flickering silently in the muted night. Not even the lamplighter made a sound as they shuffled along to check the little flames.

Risk

“I don’t think I have a choice,” he said as Marko leaned against the railing next to him. “I’ll have to play at the Dancing Rabbit tonight.”

“What, all the way up-city?” Stef toyed with one of the pennants, its embroidered sheaf of wheat twisting under her touch. It was the symbol of the goddess Hara, plastered all about the city to attract luck for the new year. Emry could almost feel the emblem laughing at him. “Isn’t there anything farther down?”

Emry tensed. “The stages are all too close to the caves. I can’t risk it.”

Stef frowned at him. “Your family won’t be in town, not on Sada.”

“I can’t risk it, Stef.” 

Pale

As her hurried footsteps faded down the hall, Emry slouched on the sofa and stared at his hand, the one that had been glowing not two hours ago. Though pale and shaky, his fingers were still there—well and whole and able to hold a lute. Visions of the alternative crept into his mind, of what could have happened if Aspen and Brinna hadn’t intervened. Hadn’t begged a strange spirit to help save his hand and, with it, his future.

Emry looked up. His little savior was sitting on the coffee table, holding up their own hands and concentrating very hard on the space between their fingers. Forget repaying Cal—he had no idea how to begin repaying Aspen.

Ear

“Ms. Sorman!” He spun on his heel again. “Good evening.” He nodded to the troupe behind her as well, the same dour faces that had welcomed him so warmly at the Lamb’s Ear. They gave cursory nods in response, and ducked into the assembly door when Damir opened it for them.

Ella, however, remained in the street for a moment, gaze fixed on Emry. “Walk with me,” she said, and turned to follow her troupe.

“Yes, ma’am.” He sped up to trail behind her, throwing a nervous smile to a frowning Damir just before the man closed the door. 

#the stray spirit #find the word tag #tag game #writeblr #my wip

[sweetpickolwarrior]

The Three Times You Didn’t Want Them To Hear You, The One Time You Did (Part 3)

Established fic

Small!Brown!Female!Reader

Not too apparent but just letting you know in case.

Fic summary: You have been travelling with geralt and Jaskier for quite some time, you had always been told that your voice would take you places before you had no choice but to abandon your previous life. You still loved it though. This fic explores the times you let go and let yourself sing. We also explore your backstory and the developing relationship with your older and protective companions :)

PART 1 HERE PART 2 HERE

Chapter summary: Bit of a filler chapter, the wait was more so to plan out the rest of the story clearly. Y/N wants to repay geralt for his kindness and show Jaskier that she does not hate him, but has trouble with words and such. Further apologies for the wait... enjoy!

The fact that you had not been sober enough to truly appreciate the room that Geralt had decided to treat you with left you with a pang of guilt, but a wavering reluctance to bring up anything about that night lest he unnecessarily recall the sound of your voice. You don’t suppose he cared much, as far as you could pick out from that night, it wasn't something that mattered very much to him… but then why the room? The situation slightly baffled you. You much preferred going from contract to contract, tavern to tavern, losing yourself in the endeavours of your companions. You roamed the streets of this new, unusually pleasant town, the bustle of the morning bubbling through. Your mind turned to the small sack you had swaddled at the very bottom of your pack buried beneath your myriad of gatherings from your travels. A small, worn leather sack with a drawstring through the top, wrapped in an old sock that had outlived its original duty a few winters ago sat almost full, the weight of the coin inside at most an apple or two. You had kept it for emergencies, a few loaves of bread and some meat if rations had become sparse, a promise payment for a healer or mage, should one or more of you fall incapacitated while coin was low, an emergency room should the cold threaten to settle in someones bones too cosily, and should you feel the need to express gratitude to a generous but stoic witcher, apparently.

You wandered past a bakers stall, sweet pastries dusted with sugar beckoned, small honey dipped loaves with specks of lavender peeking through the golden slopes glinted in the morning light, puffy buns that had been baked with a clever twist in the top to result in a soft swirl sat in a neat row identical to the sweet fresh bread Jaskier had pressed into your palm earlier. You cringed at the thought of leaving so abruptly and didn't like all this coaxing going on, and hoped he would drop the subject so you could shove the topic down your tunic and carry on your simple shenanigans with the bard.

You strolled through, eyes on the dry dirt of the worn path through the centre, ladies walking with shawls wrapped tight around their shoulders gave you curt, tight-lipped greeting smiles as you passed through looking thoroughly disheveled. You had given up on dresses, petticoats, stockings and other such extraneous garments when tripping up on hems or sweating through layers upon layers had become more trouble than your chagrin had been worth. A tunic and breeches were sported now, along with unkempt, thick jet black hair. You tended to forget what a sight you would be to normal folks, constantly surrounded by the bard in his gaudy and intricate clothing (you still didn't know how he survived on the path) and a burly witcher clad almost always in armour and under that, similar garments to yourself. you supposed the three of you stuck out like an arrow between the eyes. Your mind flashed to what your mother may have said should she see you like this. It confused you for a moment, these memories suddenly deciding they were welcome in your conscious thoughts over the past few days. you stuffed the sudden pang of guilt and shame back into oblivion as your hands moved to your tangled mop, carding roughly through so you may find some semblance of being put together.

~~~~~~~~~~~

You tried hard not to cast your eyes down to your fingers, out of practice as they were. You tried to feel the sections, pick up more as you went, comb through soft with your fingers lest the ends get tangled, keep hold of the ribbon. Roach was being very patient with you. The fire warmed your back as you sat on your knees, tending to a horse who had decided to sit for you. You didn't know much of equine tendencies, but had heard that horses do not sit save for when it was going to rain. Your mind moved to days where your little troop had no choice but to trudge through hail, rain and thunder. She did not object and kept on wonderfully through these times and was rewarded with kisses and slips of dried fruit from you later on.

She had decided to understand what coaxing her to the floor with a brushing, soft words and rubs on her neck had meant that night and folded her legs, coming down with an impressive and somehow graceful thud. You supposed you couldn't know everything about everything and the clearest answer was that she’s just a very good girl. You relaxed as your fingers fell into a rhythm - right strand, left strand, ribbon, taking care to adjust the material so the nicer side was showing. “Expensive.” Geralt stated simply from behind. He was checking through his own pack, counting off vials of witcher potions and such. “Yes, well - an extra room must have cost.. and the food I didn’t touch” you focused on your hands, knowing Geralt was probably trying to avoid eye contact, too. After hearing a somewhat soft “hmm”, your attention returned to your fingers, having now grown a mind of their own. Roach’s auburn mane turned a dark coal in your minds eye, her soft huffs to small complaints of tugging too hard “hush now, or it won’t look nice” you barely whispered as her head jerked, it was an impossible task to try tie the hair of any child into a neat row, your sisters no exception. Your breath slowed as your mothers lullaby sat in between your lips, you tried to grasp the first note of the soft song.

Sisters? Here?

Your knees were cold and sore, kneeling on the ground so long, knobs of grass settling aches into your muscles; your hair unkempt and hastily scraped back, with a small leather tie, bumps hilling over your scalp that you had no care of. Your hands were dirty, grubby from foraging scraps of dry wood to keep warm through the night. Calloused from the past few years of plucking the string of your bow with arrows that reminded you with every swift hit that death was something permanent, immediate, inescapable. These hands were not the same ones that softly put braids in your sisters’ hair. These calluses were not the same ones that came from making music.

The first note of that bloody lullaby froze on your toungue.Best to stop trying to live in the past. Not that you were, trying that is. You wanted nothing more than those memories to keep sitting in the little box in your mind where they were meant to be. Happy, silent, unbothering. Instead they kept feeling the need to rise up, to pester you and drag you away, remind you that those days would never come back, that your whole life had vanished.

Well, this was your life now and different as it was, you needed to live in it. You pushed away the offending memories for the second time that day, focusing on finishing Roach’s mane.

Impeccable timing as always, Jaskier came strolling through after having washed everyone’s clothes in a nearby stream, no doubt a vein of the river you had found yourself in those few days ago. “Honestly, why do I bother? They're bound by fate to stink of ash and dirt anyway- I know! I could write a shanty about the smoked Witcher’s shirt - a real pub sway! Sometimes he smells of heroics and adventure! The whiff of a lady’s perfume often, but will always return to the ash of a trusty campfire” he leaned to put the folded pile down neatly. You were in awe of how these thoughts came running from your musical friend, you were convinced that he could write a song about watching clothes dry and still make it magnificent.

Ah. Exactly.

A dramatic gasp came from the bard, no doubt with a soft hand upon his chest. Your fingers tensed as you pat roach and tried to seem as nonchalant as possible.

"Now! Which one of you has been able to tie a bow so pretty all this time?”

You had laced the ribbon, as careful as you could to not disturb the strings, behind where they were pulled taut to the tuning pegs of Jaskier's lute, taking care that the tails would not brush against the front or impair his hands while playing. The ribbon you had bought was a soft lavender colour, embroidered with a deep violet, floral and feathery motifs weaving through the sleek fabric. You turned to see Jaskier caressing the fine fabric “I shall have to have an outfit made to go with this! Oh what a look that could be for the bardic competition this autumn! Simply revolutionary, a great stride forward in musical fashion! Bows woven through lutes, gods-” a theatrical palm to the forehead “How had I not thought of this before- and Roach! Oh! Exquisite, Y/N,” it seemed he had finally clocked onto the fact that this was your doing, both you and Geralt huffing amusedly as he was practically flying with excitement “I daresay Roach could be a fine show horse! Beautifully healthy and muscular, a shining coat, those deep glistening eyes- “She’s not a show horse” Geralt grumbled "I said could or rather might've been, had the twines of fate been wound a little looser.." You chuckled softly as your trusty bard rambled on into the night about how he knew a thing or two about show horses (being one in a past life, most likely) and you prepared your bedroll, smoothed it out with your hands and checked how close your damp clothes were to drying. When you reflected on Jaskier's words, you thought about how the warm and bitter smell of ash and smoke and fire made from Witcher magic was comforting to you. As you settled, you tried to smell other things, maybe someday you could smell half as well as a witcher if you trained hard enough. Ash, smoke.. the small burnt remnants of a meagre fish dinner, the distinctly horsey smell of Roach, the faintest traces of lavender lingering in your hair. You supposed you could try to hone in your hearing, too. You got comfortable, wriggling a little further in, catching a glimpse of the fine ribbon you had bought before closing your eyes...it was nice to see the splashes of the bright colour woven through your little group. You could first hear Jaskier mumbling on, the scratch of his quill onto the notebook he carried, the pops and snaps of the fire, the wind breathing contentedly through the leaves above, the last clinks of Geralt's potion bottles, then the slight crunch of careful steps in leather boots, his hands patting roach and hushed, almost inaudible whispers of him calling Roach his "pretty girl".

A/N : Hello, dears! I hope you've all been well and taking care of yourselves - I know it has been a tremendous wait. i've been planning the rest of the story out (i'm rly annoyingly particular about it) and lots of things have been a bit crazy the past two months. I hope this chapter isnt dissapointing given the wait but get ready for big angst, hurt/comfort and further progression of the story and characters in the next two chapters. I feel this filler was needed to transition into the next part of the story. I might change the description some as this story is not only about the fact that Y/N can sing, but also focuses on the way that changes her relationship with the boys.

More on the interactions of this night for the boys' POV in the next chapter probably x

I'm hoping the story is well fleshed out and flowing, and that its clear that singing is a great comfort and big part of Y/N's character. I hope its easy to immerse yourself and such. Again, its such a pleasure to receive likes and comments, and i'm very grateful to anyone who has read so far... be ready for great developments! As always, constructive criticism is welcome xxx Thanks gang!

Also yall thank my lil sister for helping me write this, she doesnt have an tumblr account so I cant tag her or anything but she super cool and rambling to her rly helps me organise my writing.

stay blessed!

tagged people:

@ladylizzieofdarbyshire i cannot find @sihxm i did try xxx

#the witcher (tv) #witcher #geralt #jaskier #geralt of rivia #reader #geralt x reader #jaskier x reader #platonic!jaskier x reader #platonic!geralt x reader #platonic geralt #platonic jaskier #mentor geralt #protective geralt #mentor jaskier #shy reader #reader has anxiety #developing friendships #tragic backstory gang #poc!reader #woc!reader #reader is brown #reader can sing #strap yourselves in for the next chapter gang

[dont-tempt-me-frodo]

Only For You

have some soft geraskier just because

also available to read on ao3

The midday sun filtered through the sea of leaves above, dappling the stream with gold. The mossy ground was springy underfoot and the warm air was thick with the smell of wild garlic.

Geralt knelt by the water’s edge, delicately plucking the leaves off a dark green plant and folding them into a cloth. Their sweet scent wreathed around him, almost chasing away the tang of the garlic.

He sighed heavily through is nose and gently pocketed the herb filled cloth before rising slowly to his feet. He cast his amber gaze along the bank of the stream and spotted another plume of the rare plant so took the opportunity to gather more of its pungent leaves. He would use them to brew his potions later. For now, he was content enough to take what he needed then make his way back to the clearing where he had left Jaskier and Roach.

When Geralt had paused their travelling to look for herbs, Jaskier had dramatically flopped down by the base of a tree, complaining about his sore feet and encouraging Geralt to go on with out him.

Geralt couldn’t begrudge the Bard a short rest. They had been on the move now for almost four days with very little respite, camping under the stars, and although Geralt could relax into the journey astride his chestnut mare, he knew the constant walking was hard going for Jaskier.

Jaskier didn’t usually complain about the long days of endless walking. He filled the journeys with his relentless chatter and impromptu lute playing. But at night, when they curled up together, cocooned in each other’s warmth, Geralt could feel Jaskier’s weariness, his exhaustion.

The next town was only half a day’s walk away, and he had promised Jaskier that they could spend some time there. The Bard’s delighted smile sent a ripple of affection warming through him, and his slow heart skipped a beat. Hopefully there would be a contract or two for Geralt but failing that, Jaskier would always drum up some coin in the local tavern.

Geralt always enjoyed watching Jaskier perform. His masterful lute playing, his rich singing, his animated charm and boundless energy never ceased to amaze him. And afterwards, they would go up to their room and make good use of the lumpy straw mattress on a pallet that passed for a bed in these parts. If Geralt had his way, they would go a few rounds before Jaskier was delirious with overstimulated pleasure. And then he would tuck his Bard close to his chest and hold him as he slept.

The Witcher smiled to himself as he folded the last leaf into his cloth then pushed it into his pocket.

He plucked at the nape of his shirt, trying to fan away the stifling heat building around him, then started the slow trek back the way he had come.

Geralt focused on the noises of the forest. The bubbling of the stream, the twittering of a finch, the cautious steps of a deer, the rustling of leaves high above his head where the slight breeze didn’t quite penetrate the thick canopy. He frowned though. There was a sound he was anticipating but didn’t hear. The strumming of a lute.

Jaskier’s melodies had followed Geralt into the forest and he had fully expected them to lead him out again. But the lack of plucked lute strings was deafening and worry coiled in his gut.

He quickened his pace, ready to draw the silver sword strapped to his back as he approached the clearing.

If anything had happened to Jaskier…

The Witcher thundered through the thicket and then stopped dead.

There was Roach, tethered to a sapling just like he’d left her. And there was Jaskier, bundled up at the bottom of a sprawling oak tree, lute in his lap just like he’d left him. But, and Geralt wilted at the realisation, the Bard was sound asleep.

A painful ache of affection burned in the Witcher’s chest. The weariness, as well as the heat of the day must have caught up to Jaskier, and Geralt was once again remined how human his companion was.

Geralt stepped into the clearing softly, taking off his swords with the intention of slinging them over Roach’s saddle. The mare lifted her head as he approached, blinking slowly at him and snorting. Geralt hushed her with a pat of her velvety nose. Roach flicked an ear at him then went back to nibbling at the sweet grass. Geralt gave her neck a rub then made his way over to the dozing Bard.

Jaskier was propped up between two roots, his doublet jacket folded neatly by his feet, the laces of his embroidered shirt plucked open to try and let in the air. He looked so peaceful and utterly beautiful that Geralt didn’t have the heart to wake him. Instead, he carefully removed the lute and placed it to one side then slid in next to the bard, tucking his arms around him and guiding him into his broad chest.

Jaskier shifted slightly, a mumble escaping his lips but he didn’t wake, instinctually nuzzling into Geralt.

The Witcher leaned back against the tree, letting his own eyes flutter shut for a moment as the comfortable weight of Jaskier in his arms sent curls of warmth through him.

He was vaguely aware of their surroundings, trusting Roach to alert him if anything, or anyone, was approaching. The sweet scent of the soap Jaskier favoured chasing away the lingering forest and Geralt breathed deeply, a content smile twitching his lip.

Geralt half dosed for a little while but cracked open one eye when Roach stamped her foot. She was regarding him with those glassy black eyes and the Witcher sighed.

“I know,” he rumbled softly, glancing up at the sky half hidden by the interwoven branches.

If they were to make the town by nightfall, they’d have to make a move. And Roach was growing impatient, stamping the ground again and snorting.

Geralt shook his head at her, then shifted slightly, blinking down at the bard still asleep in his arms. It felt cruel to wake him.

Very gently, Geralt brushed Jaskier’s cheek with the pad of his thumb, back and forth, a steady rhythm to bring the bard back to wakefulness.

Jaskier’s breath hitched, and his eyes fluttered. A soft yawn fell from him and Geralt’s heart melted.

“Hey,” the Witcher hummed.

Jaskier gazed up at him, his expression still lax with sleep and his smile was crooked.

“Hey,” he yawned, and the Witcher leaned down to press a kiss to the bard’s forehead.

“We need to get going,” Geralt mumbled, “Still a fair way to go before we reach civilization.”

Jaskier made a noise that could almost be described as indignant, and he curled up tighter into Geralt, burying his face in the Witcher’s neck.

“Nope. You’re too comfortable. And I’m still not fully awake yet,” Jaskier whined, but Geralt could feel his grin.

“Come on bard,” Geralt chuckled, love for the man in his arms thrumming through him.

“Fine,” Jaskier lifted his head to make sure Geralt could see his pout, and Geralt cupped his cheek and captured that pout in a soft kiss.

Jaskier melted into him, his own hands coming up to clasp at either side of Geralt’s neck.

Geralt rubbed noses with Jaskier, kissed his cheek, his jaw, his cheek again, and Jaskier bubbled with laughter.

“You’re ridiculous, Geralt,” he sighed fondly.

“But you love me anyway,” Geralt hummed, his amber eyes bright and his smile coy.

“How lucky you are,” Jaskier patted Geralt’s shoulder then tucked a lock of his silver hair behind his ear.

“Very lucky,” Geralt agreed, turning his head to kiss the inside of Jaskier’s wrist.

He heard Jaskier’s heart skip a beat, and the bard’s hand lingered in Geralt’s hair so that the Witcher could lean into the touch.

“Come on bard,” Geralt said again, shifting now to let Jaskier know he was being serious.

Jaskier huffed out a breath and let Geralt stand before reaching for him. The Witcher took his hands and hauled him to his feet, curling an arm around Jaskier’s waist and encouraging him in closer. Jaskier let himself be guided flush against his Witcher and he rested his head on Geralt’s shoulder.

“Love you Geralt,” Jaskier preened.

“Love you Jaskier,” Geralt rested his cheek against Jaskier’s head as he walked him over to Roach, “up you get. I’ll grab your doublet and lute.”

Jaskier paused, leaning away from Geralt to fix him with an incredulous look.

“Who are you and what have you done with Geralt?” he gaped.

“Very funny,” Geralt grumbled, going back to the tree to retrieve Jaskier’s things. He thumbed Jaskier’s doublet absently as he flicked those amber eyes back to his bard. “You’re tired and I feel bad for having to wake you up,” he admitted sheepishly, “it’s only fair I do a bit of walking for a change.”

Jaskier’s expression softened, and he ducked his gaze, his smile wide.

“Softie,” he said to his boots.

“Only for you,” Geralt came in close, took a gentle hold of Jaskier’s chin and tilted his head up so he could press a kiss to Jaskier’s lips.

Jaskier quivered and Geralt smiled.

“Let’s go,” the Witcher rumbled, “and hopefully there’ll be a nice soft bed for tonight.”

“There better be,” Jaskier grinned, mirth dancing in those blue eyes, “absolutely no sexy times for Witcher’s if we end up on the floor. Again.”

Geralt laughed.

“Well, we’d better get a move on then,” he gruffed, “if there’s any hope of finding a bed for the night.”

Jaskier winked at him and Geralt’s heart flipped in his chest. Gods he loved this man. This wonderful, ridiculous bard. And as he helped Jaskier up onto Roach, he couldn’t stop smiling.

#my writing #jaskier #geralt #geralt of rivia #geraskier #geraskier fluff #geraskier fanfic #the witcher #netflix the witcher #henry cavill #joey batey #roach

[pillage-and-lute]

Thicker Than Water (Part 3)

Part 1 Part 2 (here) Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8

Ao3 link HERE

Finally here, now that I’m feeling a little better.

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Traveling with Geralt, Ciri, and Yennefer was hard. They went slow for Yennefer’s sake, and for that Jaskier was thankful, but his entire body ached.

He’d woken up cold and damp, body sore from lying on the ground in his cheap bedroll, but he didn’t complain. He drank heavily from his water skin to keep his stomach from growling, unwilling to use up precious food for himself. He was being brought along on this journey against Geralt’s -and his own- wishes, but he would not be a burden.

He forged ahead, even, at one point, taking a bag from Yennefer. She didn’t have much to carry but he recognized the full body exhaustion on her face. She didn’t smile at him or thank him, but she nodded gratefully.

Jaskier reflected on that. He had wanted to hate the witch, especially back then, after the djinn, when he’d seen her and Geralt...playing hide the sausage. He found that he couldn’t. He was an artist, he appreciated beauty and pain and the use of words and an excellent storyline. Yennefer checked those boxes. Jaskier felt ashamed to want to dislike her. She’d held back forces at Sodden, she was strong and good with Ciri and cared for Geralt. He appreciated all these things.

It was just...she and Geralt and Ciri were all together. A powerful sorceress, a twice-made Witcher, a hero, and their adopted child with untold power and a regal birthright. It made a family. And just like with his own family, there was no place for Jaskier.

It hurt.

But he wasn’t supposed to be part of the family. He wasn’t there to share in the chatter Ciri directed at Yennefer and Geralt. Geralt even talked back a little, answering in one or two words the stream of questions. He answered them though. Jaskier wished he’d ever answered him.

Then he felt silly. He was jealous of Ciri, who was a child. A brave child, but a child nonetheless, who’d lost her home and her family and everyone she knew in a very short time. Of course Geralt would answer her questions, he was a good man.

He also liked children, Jaskier knew. He let his memory drift to a happier time. 

It had been a summer fair in a tiny, agricultural village, tucked among wheat fields like a lost button beneath a patchwork quilt. The sun had been warm and the whole world was amber. Jaskier was playing music with a scratch band of anyone who wanted to join. Lighthearted jigs and reels had unfurled beneath his hands. He played The Willow Wedding and The Flowers of Fairside and other simple country songs that his fellow musicians might know. All around them people were dancing and laughing. Flower crowns were made. Young women shyly offered them and young men shyly took them to indicate blooming romance, but almost everyone in attendance had one, old and young.

Geralt had been standing, looming without intention, at the edge of the crowd, near Jaskier. In the shadows, in his black outfit (Jaskier had insisted he leave the armor back at the in) he looked out of place, like a thistle in a bouquet.

Then a little girl in a neat yellow pinafore, dyed with weld, probably, and carefully embroidered with little yellow roses at the collar stopped by the musician. She was perhaps four years old, and she looked at the dancers and then just sat down and began to cry.. It had been a sight to bend even the hardest heart and Jaskier had been just about to stop playing when Geralt crouched in front of her.

“What ever is the matter?” Jaskier had heard him say, softly.

“Everybody’s dancin,” sniffled the little girl. “An nobody wants to dance wif me.” She reached up and took the dandelion and daisy flower crown from her dark, bushy hair.

Jaskier’s heart just melted and he wanted to cry in sympathy as one big, blobby tear rolled down a round cheek. She scrubbed it away hastily but more were hanging on lashes all around her big, brown eyes.

“Nobody wants to dance with you?” Geralt said, affecting a wide eyed look of surprise. The girl sniffled again and pointed to the edge of the dancing, where a group of kids, a little older than her, where all wheeling about together.

“Not nobody,” Geralt said, gently putting her flower crown back on her head. “You haven’t asked me if I want to dance, have you?”

She sniffed the last of her sniffles and looked up, a slow smile starting. “Do ya wanna dance wif me?”

“Of course,” Geralt had said, then he’d very carefully lifted her so her tiny feet were safely away from trodding, and he’d set her feet on the tops of his big, black boots. Then Geralt had danced, a little awkwardly, but holding her little hands in his large ones and taking big steps so she bounced on his boots, which resulted in her shrieking with delight. 

Eventually an older girl had pulled her away to go spin about with the others, but the memory lived in a quiet, warm place in Jaskier’s chest. He thought of it often, and the way the little girl had offered a tiny daisy from her flower crown. It had remained in Geralt’s fingers as he returned to his place, brooding in the shadows, spinning it between thumb and forefinger occasionally.

“Dandelion,” Ciri said, pulling him from his reverie. “Jaskier, can you tell me a story?”

Jaskier glanced back to see the look on Geralt’s face, but then wasn’t sure why he had, the witcher’s expression held no answers, it never did. The story that leapt to mind was, of course, Geralt dancing with that child in the sunshine, but he didn’t tell it. Instead he leapt into a tale, a long one, of the son of a king who wanted to marry the lovely daughter of an evil enchanter.

It was a good story, very long with lot’s of parts, so Ciri could ask for more again and again, and there were amazing characters with strange tales and true love and magic and wishes. Everything a good story needed. Jaskier prided himself on doing the voices for each new character.

Ciri traipsed along beside him, hanging on his every word. She was a good audience, making surprised noises or saying ‘oh no!’ at just the right points. Jaskier even noticed Yennefer listening, occasionally smiling to herself at a joke or a good part of the story. 

Geralt walked on ahead. Jaskier had no way of telling if he was listening, but he probably wasn’t. The story was fantastical to the extreme and if Geralt were listening he would probably be scoffing and complaining about how that ‘can’t be done with magic’ and ‘there aren’t river dragons, there’s only water serpents, they’re different species entirely’. 

It was funny, though, when they stopped for dinner-Jaskier picking at the rations offered, reluctant to use up supplies but unwilling to worry Ciri- he continued the story, and Geralt, who had been sharpening his sword, stopped.

Of course, it was probably simply that the blade didn’t need much sharpening, or that Geralt wanted to allow Ciri to listen. Still, Jaskier felt good. He hadn’t complained, he wasn’t eating too much food, and he wasn’t much of a burden.

And Ciri liked the story.

They kept walking after dinner, so long as they still had light, relying on Geralt in the dim twilight to find a spot to camp. Jaskier told more of the story, not even a third of the way through, and occasionally Ciri asked questions.

“Why did the king’s son not want to marry the oldest sister?”

“Because she was too cold,” Jaskier said, inventing, because the story didn’t say. “She was beautiful, but she could not love, so her heart turned to ice and everything she touched froze.”

“And the middle sister?” Ciri asked, wide eyed.

“She was too warm, she was angry, all the time, and so her heart turned to fire and all she touched melted or burned.”

As the story he told progressed, Jaskier used his additions in the story. The king’s son, fleeing with his soon-to-be bride, the youngest sister, had to escape the sorceror’s wrath, but the sisters tried to stop their youngest sister leaving, melting the chains of the drawbridge so that the couple couldn’t escape.

Ciri gasped and wrapped one hand in Jaskier’s traveling cloak, hanging on to him as tightly as she held to his words.

Then the eldest sister in the story sent a blizard after the couple, who had escaped the draw bridge just in time. Yennefer, who looked a little better after their meal and short rest, sent a tiny swirl of snow, a miniature blizzard from her finger, letting it play a moment with Ciri’s hair before dissappearing. 

Ciri laughed with delight and Jaskier sent a smile to Yennefer, who nodded at him surprisingly warmly. A good story made everyone happy, he supposed.

They stopped for the night in another clearing. Ciri begged for more of the story before bed. Geralt sat, setting the fire so it could burn through the night, while Yennefer brushed out Ciri’s hair. It was a perfect, domestic little scene, and Jaskier felt odd, seeing it from the outside, but also in the spotlight of Ciri’s focus. 

He plucked his lute quietly as he told the story. In truth, there were many little poems buried in the tale, and he’d long ago made little tunes for each so that they could be sung. When he came to one, though, he didn’t sing it. He just plucked out the tune as he talked, and when the poem passed he continued through the story, letting his music be the background.

Hopefully it was less annoying that way. 

He wasn’t about to offer this perfect family a fillingless pie.

As he finally lay down to sleep though, he quite felt like a fillingless pie himself. Ciri and Yennefer had once again bedded down in the magic tent and Geralt was rolled up in his bedroll in his tent, across the barely glowing fire. Jaskier lay awake.

His bedroll was thin and his ribs fairly ached with hunger, but Geralt had said they were but a day away from a town. Jaskier could buy supplies there, he still had a little coin, and that way he wouldn’t use up the others’ food.

He could play in the town too, earn more coin. They wouldn’t stay there, he knew, not with half the continent searching for a white haired witcher and his child surprise. But the others needed supplies too, and Yennefer said she had enough magic for a small glamor to hide Geralt and Ciri’s hair and her eyes.

Jaskier settled in for the night. Earning coin made him useful, and therefore not a burden, so he would earn coin.

He made a list in his head of things he should buy to prepare for the trek up to Kaer Morhen. Gloves, his only pair had worn out last year. A thicker cloak, his was practically threadbare. Grapeseed and linseed oil. One for the beard he was growing and the other for his lute. New lute strings.

He rolled over on his bedroll, trying to avoid the root digging into his spine. He’d need to make quite a bit of money. He wasn’t sure he’d be able too. It wasn’t safe to sing about the white wolf, not too much, or someone might recognize him as himself, rather than just some bard singing Jaskier’s songs. 

Country ditties then, but they made less money. It wasn’t just his supplies he needed to buy, either. Jaskier didn’t want to just not be a burden, he wanted to help.

They would all need thicker clothes and lots of food to make it to Kaer Morhen. He wasn’t a good hunter so he could really only help by supplying money to buy what they needed. He had little right now, and he felt shame rise in him. He’d had no way of knowing he’d meet up with Geralt and his child surprise, but if he hadn’t drunk so much of his money than he could be a better help. 

He could sell his lute.

The thought came into his mind like a knife, and it turned his stomache. He could sell his lute, but the beautiful girl was the only physical thing he had to remind him of Geralt. Filavandrel’s lute. It would be worth a fortune, of course. Elven made, everyone knew they made the best instruments.

It was just...he couldn’t bear the thought of letting the lute go. He loved how she played, loved the memories he had. He knew the story behind every shallow scratch and scuff, and who could love her the same? And when the danger was passed and Geralt never had to see him again, what would Jaskier have then? A handful of memories, turned bittersweet, then bitter. Nothing concrete. He’d go back to Oxenfurt, maybe even Lettenhove. And there would be nothing for him to hold to remind him.

He couldn’t sell his lute.

The thought ate at him as he tried to sleep though. He had in his hands the means to help them all so much, and he was too selfish to do so.

Sleep eventually claimed him, and he dreamt of a mountain, wind whipping about his ears and carrying words to him.

Shit shoveler. Burden. If life could give me one blessing...

He awoke sore and badly rested, tears dried on his face.

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@frywen-babbles

#the witcher #geraskier #found family #fanfic #Yennefer #geralt of rivia #jaskier #cirilla fiona elen riannon #Kaer Morhen #not yet but soon #angst #angst with a happy ending #but also not yet #Yennefer is a good mom #sad jaskier #emotional whump #emotionally constipated Geralt of rivia #emotionally consitpated everybody #geralt/jaskier

[professorjaskier]

New Geraskier Fic!

It had all started with a grey hair.

In every other aspect, it had been another unremarkable day on the path, indistinguishable from the thousands he had lived before. Another day spent walking beside the latest iteration of Roach and her monochromatic rider. An afternoon meal taken in an unpopulated field on the side of a nameless road, eating jerky and day old bread. All the makings of a perfectly average day. Even the town they had walked into was nondescript, a small village that did not appear on any map, filled with ordinary people living ordinary lives. 

In fact, nothing would have made the day stand out in Jaskier’s memory if not for the events of that evening. After obtaining an average-priced room at the local tavern, they had both walked up the stairs, carrying their belongings to their lodgings. Reaching the room, they had opened the door and found it was also perfectly normal, neither too filthy or spotless. Geralt had immediately pulled Jaskier into a chaste kiss before heading back downstairs to order supper and grab a corner table. 

He had smiled as Geralt walked out the room, marveling at how far their relationship had come. If someone had told him fifteen years ago that Geralt would return his feelings, he would have laughed in their face and possibly beaten them to death with his lute. It had taken them a long time to get to that point, but they had since enjoyed five hard-win years together, something that Jaskier thanked Melitele for everyday. 

Having shaken himself out of his musings, he had turned to his bags to fetch his performing clothes. Although Geralt often accused him of dressing impractically for their lifestyle, he was not an idiot. Silk was expensive and even his pockets were not deep enough to continuously replace his garments. Unfortunately, monster hunting was dirty work, and his most expensive clothes for performing were safer in his saddlebags. 

He had carefully unfolded one of his favorite outfits, a cerulean doublet with matching trousers. The doublet had a fine silver trim with matching designs embroidered on the entirety of the outfit. His fingers had danced over the silky fabric before shucking off his quotidian outfit.

He turned to leave when he noticed a mirror sitting in the back corner of the room. Without a second thought, he strolled over to take a look at his reflection. It wasn’t often that Geralt and he found a town wealthy enough to have a mirror. 

As he stood in front of his reflection he straightened his doublet, ensuring that it was both clean and perfectly fitted. Of course he already knew the last to be true, because he had just seen his tailor a few weeks prior to make adjustments to his wardrobe. Lifting his chin up, Jaskier scanned his visage for any glaring issues before he nodded to himself in approval. He looked good, but that was unsurprising. It was vain to say so, but he was well-aware that his looks and his charm weren’t areas where he needed vast improvement. 

His hair was another matter. He scowled at his reflection, noticing that his normally fastidious hairdo was out of place. Thinking back on it, Jaskier remembered Geralt quickly running his hands through his hair before heading downstairs. Shaking his head in fond annoyance, he stepped closer to the mirror and started to work his fingers through his hair to put it in a semblance of order. 

It was then that he’d seen it. At first he’d thought it was a trick of the candlelight, making a piece of hair appear lighter than it actually was, but after further investigation he’d found that it was even worse. It was grey hair. Technically, it was a single grey hair, buried in the rest of the thick, chestnut color, but he’d been so startled that the difference did not matter. He had stared dumbly at his reflection, unsure of his next course of action. Choosing the course of ignorant bliss, he had taken hold of the hair, plucked it out, and turned away from the mirror. 

There. That was done. Besides, he had an audience to enthrall and a witcher to privately entertain later in the evening. He smiled at the thought of Geralt’s lips upon his own, and possibly on other appendages, but instead walked out of the door, lute on his shoulder, and prepared for another ordinary night.

If you want to read the rest, here’s the link:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/30333645 

#jaskier #geralt #geralt x jaskier #bog exchange #witcher #witcher fanfiction #lindawrites

[moonlights-inkwell]

“Be Good to Me.” I Whisper. (And you say, “What?” and I say, “Nothing Dear.”)

Summary: Jaskier’s different in Oxenfurt. It’s not a bad thing at all.

Jaskier x Reader

Word Count: 5,406

A/N: This fic was going to be a super short and indulgent smut fic, but then it took on a life of it’s own and got to be like 5000 words before I even got to the porn, so now it’s gonna be a two parter. Oops. Also, Jaskier’s looking kinda rugged in this fic, mostly cause I was basing his appearence on how Joey looked during the Love Run era and I’m... weak. And yes I gave him glasses. Why? Who knows.

Title taken from That Unwanted Animal

Warnings (for Parts 1 and 2): Smut. cock warming. Oral (female and male receiving). Body worship. Female pronouns used/afab genitals described for the Reader. Light Praise Kink. Dom Jaskier. Professor/Lecturer Jaskier.  

You wake, slowly and without much intent, to the sound of singing.  

It’s not uncommon, these days at least, to be woken by music and laughter. It’s a welcome change of pace from your normal life of travel, fighting and pain, all the laughter and music. Oxenfurt is always so lively and full of music and laughter, even now in the coldest and darkest months of the year. You almost resent that it isn’t a permanent fixture of your life. You've never thought yourself a deeply domestic person, but now in Oxenfurt, you feel... content in a way you've never felt before. 

Not knowing, or caring about, the time, you decide it much too early to even consider opening your eyes, and remain beneath the sheets entangled about you. Fingers curling into the soft, treated furs that cover the mattress, you tug the duvet closer to you, and feel the blankets on top of them shift, weighted and soothing all the while. A lazy grin spreads across your face; it’s so warm, a luxury you know all too well you cannot afford to take for granted. Cracking open an eye ever so slightly, you catch sight of a fire, crackling and popping deep within the arch of the fireplace. Bless Oxenfurt, you think tiredly and close your eye once more. A fireplace in the bedchambers, and the living area. You could get used to luxuries like this.

You never considered that you’d ever spend any period of time in Oxenfurt, never mind be wintering there, and while it’s wonderful you cannot help but feel out of place. You’ve never been the sort of person to be wealthy or talented enough for a University of such high esteem; daughter of a seamstress, former barmaid, barely able to hold a tune or paintbrush. But along came Jaskier, wonderful, beautiful Jaskier. With Geralt returning to Kaer Morhen for the winter, your bard had asked you, soft and sweet, to join him at his old place of education. He only needed to ask you once.  

The campus is beautiful, warm and comfortable and full of lively, excited youths, so bewitched by their art and school. You understand it, it’s difficult not to be taken in by the beauty of it all, but one thing keeps you weary; the fact that it’s a place of such overwhelming privilege, the likes of which you’ve had next to no interaction with. You’ve always known Jaskier is a man of luxury: his accent, embroidered doublets and silk chemises advertise it in a way that is out of place on the road traveling with Geralt but are common as muck on campus. Everyone here is like him, rich but seemingly playing at slumming as students, as if they too will be traveling bohemian bards rather than what will undoubtedly actually happen, being taken in by whatever court will have them. He’s different in Oxenfurt, too. Not a bad sort of different, but... unusual. Jaskier, your bard, lover and traveling partner, is wonderful, a giddy and excitable fool, who spends much of your time together teasing and goading, is strangely absent. In his place is... someone else. A professor and an adult. It’s hard to believe your bard, a man who sings often of masturbation and hand-jobs with a smug grin, is a professor. A teacher. He’s smart, you’ve always known that, but it’s easy to forget how bloody intelligent he is.

He plays the fool all too well, well enough that it’s what you think of when you consider him. It’s strange to see him acting so maturely, planning lectures and grading compositions, walking about and advising students, talking about writing and singing techniques. They adore him, it’s written across their faces when you see them together, and the adoration and admiration of him is transferred onto you too. They gape and gawk at you, talking quietly and singing lines from songs that Jaskier had written about you. When you walk together around the halls and cobblestone roads, they rush to you both, mouths full of questions about travel and monsters as well as whatever the hell a cleft or bridge are. It’s so strange. You don’t know how you’re to feel about being watched by these aristocratic students, caught somewhere between hero worship and sideshow attraction. Even in tiny taverns and villages, people look at you as just a girl, aided usually by Geralt’s intimidating frame outshining the various knives you have adorning your figure. The only person who normally stares at you is Jaskier, always in this shocked sort of adoration, as if he can never quite believe that you are real and beside him. It’s sweet and never invasive, always looking but never prying.

You purr softly at the thought of Jaskier, in this delicate daze of being half-asleep, this is perfection, a comfortable, engulfing warmth and softness, resting on top of soft fur with the love of your life in bed beside you. But something isn’t quite right. Jaskier always touches you, something you silently think must come from a lack of human contact as a child, he always has a hand on your bare skin especially while in bed, on your hip, curled about you like you could be snatched away, forehead pressed into your back, or fingers threaded through your hair. But right now? There’s not any such contact, and it makes you roll over in bed, eyes suddenly wide with realisation. Empty.  

It’s expected, but disappointing none the less. During the week he has lectures in the morning, and leaves you to rest as long as you wish before doing whatever you want until his classes end, usually resulting in your traveling about the campus town, meandering by the market and bakery often. It feels childish, but you hate it, you’re too used to waking in his arms and turning about to kiss him awake. It’s horrible to wake without the comforting weight of his arms around you and the combination of warmth and tickling hair from his chest hair against your back.  

“What in the fuck... is that a scale? In the middle of... what is that?” An oh so familiar voice says loudly, which makes you grin. He’s here, even if not in bed with you, there’s no need to wait about for him to return. He sounds scandalised, you can see him in your head, hunched over a pile of papers, brows furrowed into a look of confusion and annoyance. Adorable. You shift up and attempt to get to your feet, faltering slightly at the comfortable warmth of your sex and the dried fluid on your thighs; eyes slide down to take in your naked form. Bed clothes have never been a necessity with someone as insatiable as Jaskier, hell, even normal clothes are barely necessary.  

“What the fuck?” He mutters, the sound of his voice draws you towards the door, but you stop as quickly as you start. There seems something overly presumptuous about walking to him nude, even if you have been in a relationship for years and have seen each other naked more times than you can remember. Stepping forward once more, your eyes slide across the sight of one of Jaskier’s shirts balled up on the floor where it had been tossed to last night. It’s scooped up without much of a second thought and tugged on before turning to look at a mirror; it’s beautiful, silk and embroidered with bluebells, with a high collar, and is left open to expose the inner curves of your breast, the expanse of your stomach and almost all of your legs. It, combined with the slight swell of your lips from relentless kissing last night and sleep tousled hair, makes you feel strangely beautiful. You don’t often feel beautiful, especially having just woken up, so when you rub your face gently with the fabric and breath in the smell of your lover, you feel your nipples stiffen slightly. Lavender and musk and something so entirely Jaskier fill your senses, and you walk out of the bed chambers, smiling softly as the material grazes your thighs as you do so.

Gods above, he’s beautiful. Always is, always has been, but still no matter how long you’ve known him he manages to take your breath away. He’s always had such a boyish face, handsome but soft, fitting easily with the childishness he exudes, but winter has seen that change. With him not performing for the season, and needing to look older than his students, his need to shave and keep up appearances has dissipated somewhat. He’s sitting there in an armchair in front of a desk, all curtains drawn and leaving him illuminated by the fire roaring across from him and the candles littered about the table in front of him, shirtless and resting his now stubbled chin on his hand while his hair, longer than you’ve ever known it, frames his face. You like it longer, and he seems too as well, letting you twist and braid it during the evenings while he strums at his lute in front of the fire and tells stories you don’t believe to be entirely true. He doesn’t look older, but instead more mature, like he had responsibilities that aren’t trying to earn as many coins as possible between stolen kisses and avoiding being swatted at by Geralt. His skin is almost glowing in the candlelight and reflects from the delicate spectacles that rest on the bridge of his nose. It’s alien and familiar all at once, and you smile to yourself at it. He had told you he was full of surprises the first night he kissed you, but this was a surprise you doubt even he could have ever anticipated. You’ve taken to referring to this more grown-up Jaskier as Julian in your mind, just to try and separate the two for your own peace of mind, but it doesn’t seem right now. It’s like looking at another side of a coin or hearing a song and finally paying attention to what the lyrics mean; it’s the same but not, and you worry that maybe you’ve spent your entire relationship with the man before you underestimating him. Reducing him down to beautiful fool and verbose romantic, when he’s always been mature, but felt no need to show it. You know from first-hand experience that being serious in the presence of Geralt always makes the air cold and uncomfortable, but now, away from the Witcher and his overwhelming stoicism, Jaskier can be as serious as he wants without souring anything. It’s refreshing. You never thought you could love him more than you already do; but right now? Bathed in golden light, relaxed and without pretention or any semblance of performance? You could marry him on the spot. You’re hardly a creative like he is, but you could write epics about him; verses about his eyes, sonnets about his cupid's bow, songs about the colour of his hair. He curses in what you assume is elder before pushing his hair away from his eyes, and you have to fight back the urge to run to him and tug it back with a ribbon to keep it from annoying him, and so you stay.

Leaning back against the door, you take him in as best you can and try to dedicate this image of him to memory. Him, soft and comfortable, looking like a real professor, surrounded by the warm brown of the furniture and the golden glow of fire that crackles and pops under the quiet music of him humming whatever is written on the pages, that’s the sort of Jaskier you want to remember. Content. It's a habit you have gotten into since you began courting, trying to keep the most delicate and domestic memories for nights when the traveling gets the most of you, and you wish you could just go home. It’s normally simple things, like when he sleeps in after you, hair haloing around him, long lashes fanning out on his cheeks, or the day when he took you to a field of wild flowers to unwind, and had laughed so loudly the skin about his eyes and bridge of his nose had crinkled like silk moved too quickly, a crown of dandelions and bluebells about his head. He’s so beautiful, and when you’re both old and grey you want to be able to remember just how gorgeous he is. He never truly believes it when you tell him it, as you never believe him when he says how much he believes you to be beautiful. Perhaps it’s why the two of you fit together so well. Insecure fools, finding security in the other’s arms. It takes him a moment or two to glance up from the papers, but as soon as he does, he gapes at you, lips parted and eyes raking across your frame and back up to your face once more. It’s quiet, but you clearly hear the soft gasp that comes from him, which makes you smile sweetly to him and tilt your head to the side.  

“Good Morning, Dandelion.” Your voice is low and scratchy with sleep, pet name rolling easily from your tongue. It feels like a foolish thing to say, but every other thing that had come to mind was hardly better. “What are you doing?” The bard says nothing but grins and pushes himself back into the seat, opening his arms wide gesturing you onto his lap. It’s all the encouragement you need to walk over and clamber onto his lap, his arms wrap about you and tugs you closer still, burying his face into the crook of your neck.

“Afternoon, Dear Heart. It’s mid-afternoon.” He murmurs into your skin. “You looked so peaceful; I couldn’t be responsible for waking you when you were so blissful. Besides, I had compositions to overlook.” Squirming, you try to turn to look at the sheet music, but Jaskier holds you tighter still, face burrowing even further into the curve where your throat meets shoulder, his words make his lips brush against the sensitive skin, like kisses aborted before truly meeting their destination. “This chemise looks awfully familiar-”

“It looks better on me, Dandelion. Don’t you think?”  

“Everything looks amazing on you, Darling Dear.” He says softly and presses a teasing kiss to the corner of your mouth, and then one to the tip of your nose. “I’m quite sure you could wear rags and still be the most beautiful woman to have ever walked the earth.”  

“Flatterer.” You grin and rest your hands on the thick, downy fluff that covers his chest.

“I thought it sounded nicer than saying everything looks beautiful on you, but...”  

“But what?” You ask when his sentence dawdles to a stop without ending.  

“But I prefer you in nothing at all.” He grins, and despite all the ways his appearance has changed since the two of you arrive, you see your playful, boyish bard once more, all too proud of himself for having found a complimentary way of saying he wants you nude once more. It’s flattering, always will be flattering, that Jaskier loves your body in ways that you never have but you slap his arm playfully, more for your own sake than his; so you can pretend that you didn’t just consider stripping the shirt off to make his grin turn to the same flustered smile it always turns to when you exert any modicum of control over your bedroom activities. For all his experience, and your lack thereof, all it takes is you acting like you know what it is you’re doing to turn your Dandelion into a blushing, nervous mess of a man. The thought of his pink cheeks makes your own flush, and you try to distract yourself.

“What’s the time?”  

“Doesn’t matter in the slightest, Dear Heart. It’s a weekend, and you were so peaceful. I assumed after last night you would need all the rest you could possibly get.” The smug little grin that breaks across his face makes you blush harder. It had been a long night, and the thought of it sends a rush of heat to your sex.  

“O-oh.” You laugh weakly. Jaskier cups your cheek and pulls you into a soft, chaste kiss, the kind that makes your heart stop entirely for a second or two. His lips are softer here, not chapped and chafed by wind and travel, just plush and inviting. Just as you start to melt against him, and a hand travels up to grip his shoulder, he pulls back to glance back at the paper once more, “...Sorry. I must be distracting you-”  

“My favourite kind of distraction, My Love.” He squeezes your hips softly and tilts his head, “And I will never be too busy for you,” He pulls you closer still, chest pressed to chest, to rest his chin on your shoulder, looking to the papers once more. You’re sure it’s accidental, but he drags your bare cunt along his thigh, and you bite back a moan. “Especially seeing as you’re so bloody warm, like a little bed-warmer.”  

“A bed-warmer that you’re ignoring for music?” You tease, and one of his hands slips under the shirt to rest on the warm flesh of your waist as he shakes his head, sending chestnut hair brushing against your cheek, your own hand threading through the hair of his chest.  

“I’m not ignoring you. Gods, no one could ignore you if they tried. I just... I simply have to look over these compositions.” His voice is distant and distracted, he’s a thousand miles away, and you decide to try to be a good little bed-warmer, as he so eloquently put it, trying to stay still and keep him warm. You aren’t sure how long passes before you begin to shift, could be a second or an hour, but Jaskier’s thighs are not the most comfortable resting place you can imagine, so you shift up onto your knees for a second, using the added leverage of height to shift closer towards him, accidentally brushing your hips against his in your search for comfort, but instead only feel a familiar stiffness against your sex. The shock draws a soft gasp from you, and that makes Jaskier chuckle lowly.  

“Oh. I... You. You’re hard.” The words come out breathy and virginal, as if the idea of the man you’re sat atop of being attracted to you is some sort of strange impossibility rather than being obvious. He spends his nights with either his tongue or his cock buried inside you, but were someone to have heard that weak little statement, they would have assumed that You had never been so much as touched before in your life. Jaskier appreciates the absurdity if the chuckle he breathes out is anything to go by at all, you feel him turn his head and then the heat of open-mouthed kisses being pressed to the crook of your neck. Kisses there have always made you feel vulnerable, made worse by seeing what beasts could do if they got their teeth that close to your jugular, but Jaskier isn’t a beast. He’s barely like a man, more like a dream you’ve created for yourself, and he always kisses you there. He must like the vulnerability it makes you feel for the frequency he kisses it.  

“Have been since I saw you in my shirt.” He murmurs, quiet as though it’s a confession of sorts, head shifting slightly to brush his nose across the column of your throat. “It’s quite difficult to not be hard when you look so... Debauched.”  

“Debauched?”  

“As sin, My Love. Fucking... hair wild, neck bruised, tits barely covered... And in my clothes? Melitele, I cannot imagine anything more debauched.”  

“Your cum is dried on my thighs too.” You all but sing out. The reminder is all the encouragement he needs to reach down and trace lute-calloused fingers across the crust of spunk at the top of your legs. They don’t remain there for long, however, travelling up to trace across your slit.  

“And your soaked cunt too.” He says lightly, digits trailing across the seam and gathering as much of the wetness as he can, stopping just above the place where you need him most to bring up the fingers and slot them into his mouth, sucking on them with a purpose. The whine that escapes your mouth isn’t dignified in the slightest, but neither was the way he was dangling exactly what you want in front of you without letting you indulge.

“Don’t tease, Jask-”  

“I’d hardly call this teasing, especially compared to your coming out here in nothing but my shirt-”

“Julian~” You whine weakly. Using his birth name is so uncommon to you that you almost trip over the word, but it achieves some sort of reaction from him. He pulls back and stares at you, a hunger in his eyes as his pupils grow wider and trail down your body, lingering on your cunt for a second longer than the rest of you, then looking up to meet your gaze again. You know his usual lust filled gaze, light and flirtatious and appreciative but this is... hungry. Ravenous, as if he’s been denied you rather than staring at his own handiwork, littered across your body and encouraging his staring.

“No, Dear Heart. I have such a lot of music to review and grade. My students will be disappointed if I don’t do it quickly. So disappointed.” His voice is pointed but you know from the look on his face that he’s playing, with you and himself. A game to see who cracks first, one you have no interest in playing. You have absolutely no interest in making him beg for you, or begging for him, you just want to feel the blissful drag of his cock in and out of you. “Don’t be selfish. You get to have me all year, and these poor things only have my genius to consult for the winter.” Genius. You aren’t entirely sure about that, but watching him speak, all you can think of is him putting his clever mouth to work on you.  

He moves quickly, hands removing themselves from your skin to pick up the papers while his chin returns to your shoulder once more. It's infuriating, so you tug at his chest hair like a petulant child.  

“But you’re hard!” You whine out in utter indignation.  

“I know, Dear Heart. Your cunt is against my cock, of course I’m hard.” Jaskier says slowly, as if talking to a small child. “But, I’m also a professor who needs to overlook my student’s work.” He’s right, you know that he’s right, and it’s hardly as if Jaskier is some brute who leaves your needs ignored but, Gods, you’ve been wet since you saw him, and the thick ridge of his cock against you is hardly helping your situation. “You can feel how much I want to fuck you, Darling. Gods above and below, the things I want to do...” He sounds defeated, and you turn your head to gently peck his cheek. “But, truly, I do need to look at these.” You nod quickly and gnaw at your lip; you aren’t being fair, and you know it.

“Then look at them, Buttercup. I’ll just... keep you warm.” You smile sweetly and he nods then pecks your cheek.  

He’s busy. You know he’s busy, but he's still hard and it isn’t helping your situation. Memories of last night, specifically of how it had felt to sink down on him while his mouth worked about your nipple, comes to mind too which causes your hips to rut against his subconsciously, drawing a growl from the bard. It’s not a noise you know well, coming out when he feels slighted or is especially engrossed in a song, but it sends a rush of heat to your cunt once more and you desperately grind your hips into his again. This is not keeping him warm, your mind chides you, but the feeling of the lacing pressed upward by his tenting trousers rubbing against your clit is enough for you not to care about how you had promised to keep him warm. The only thing you care about right now is chasing the feeling of overwhelming pleasure.

“You... are toying with things beyond your control, Dear Heart.” He murmurs darkly, pulling back to stare at you once more and only serves to intensify the blush that is spread across your cheeks. Beyond your control? Jaskier? The thought makes you giggle.

“I am... I’m just trying to... warm you up.” The words come out stilted and gasped between each circling movement of your hips against his. “You. You said you... were cold. I’m trying to be a good... bed warmer.”  

A good bed warmer? Not at all. You want to be a good partner, a good woman-desperate to feel your lover's cock buried to the hilt inside of you; the blissful stretch that it causes, his hands guiding you gently in your ministrations. Even without his prick being free, you move against him as if it is, hips gyrating and tits bouncing with each movement, you try and pretend that the feeling of coarse lacing against your clitoris is all you need. In all honesty, it almost is, especially when Jaskier gives up all pretence of working and allows his hips to buck up and grips your hips tightly enough to bruise, guiding each circling motion that your hips make. You can almost feel the ridge of his cockhead through his undergarments, and sink down on it enough that the fabric covered tip almost sinks inside of you before you pull back and return to rubbing your sensitive nub against the fabric. All too soon, you feel yourself lifted onto the table and whine, trying to grab at him but stop when you see Jaskier scrabbling with the ties of his under clothes, finally pulling them loose and shoving them to just beneath the delicate curve of his bottom. It’s seldom you get to see him so desperate he can barely undress himself, but you don’t allow yourself to admire that for as long as you should like to, because of what catches your eye. His cock stands freely, the base framed by dark curls that creep up onto his stomach and into the thicket of hair across his chest, which makes your mouth water in a way you don’t understand and never want to. You just know that the thickness and slight curve of his member makes you want to sink to your knees to wrap your lips about the leaking, pink head and listen to the breathless moans that doing so always draws from him, prettier than any song that you’ve ever heard him sing. Without second thought, you try to push yourself off of the table to settle on the floor and take him in your mouth but are tugged unceremoniously back onto Jaskier's lap.  

“But-" You start, only to have Jaskier cut you off before you can voice your complaint.

“Hush.” The firmness of his voice silences you immediately, his hands guide you up to his member before one slides down to the puffy lips of your sex, spreading them before tugging you down onto him. The manoeuvre is hardly ceremonious, but it’s worth it to finally have that which it feels like you’ve been wanting for hours. The sensation of him splitting you open makes you moan loudly, hips returning to their frenzied bucking to try and reach climax, but your enjoyment is short lives seeing as your desperate canting is stopped by the tight grip on your thighs holding you in place.

“Jaskier?”  

“I thought you wanted to be a good bed warmer, Dear Heart.” His voice trills and you still. The way he says good is enough to make your breath hitch and heart falter.  

“I do-" You’d go to the end of the world for the slightest praise from the Bard, and the way you admit to it makes him grin, and cup your cheeks in both hands, trusting you enough not to move simply because you want to be good for him.

“Then be a good little darling and stay still for me, if you would.” All previous dark hunger that had edged his voice is gone, replaced with his usual childishness once more. You almost wouldn’t realise he was doing anything sexual at all were it not for him having just speared you onto himself. The strangeness of the situation makes you clench around him, drawing a moaned out curse from his lips.  

“But you're inside of me-"  

“You just said you wanted to keep me warm, Pet.” He says slowly, as if speaking to an untrained dog, and the newfound pet name is hardly doing much to dissuade that thought from your mind. “But we aren't in bed, and seeing as you made this mess, I suppose being a cock warmer rather than a bed warmer will have to do.” The candidacy with which he says the term makes you blink. Sometimes, you think, Jaskier forgets that he’s the only man you've ever been intimate with, so terms like... cock warmer, that he throws about like they’re nothing brings a nervousness about you. You don’t know what that even means, but it distracts you from the fact he had just implied that him being aroused by you is a ‘mess’.  

“A... cock... warmer.” You say, leaving a good few seconds gap between each word. The uncertainty in your voice is obvious, and the man inside you chuckles slightly and mumbles something to himself that you can’t quite make out, but sounds like ‘corrupting her’.  

“Sorry Darling. Look at me, throwing about terms you don’t know and acting as if you should.” He sounds genuinely apologetic, but there’s a level of something patronising to his words that you’re not sure he even knows is there, yet intrinsically sets off a need to argue within yourself that you’re barely capable of choking back. “I want you to sit here, looking as radiant as you always do... Debauched and in my clothes, my cum dried on you, with my cock inside of you. But. You cannot move.” He says it simply, as if it's a term people should already be acquainted with; factual, like he’s trying to teach you something new, and your core tightens around him. You wonder, dazed, if that is the tone of voice he uses when teaching his pupils about music.  

If so, you might have to sit in on a lecture. Or have him teach you about music in the privacy of your shared chambers, where you can shove a finger or two inside of yourself to alleviate the want that is developing between your thighs.  

“I can't move? But why?” You wanted it to sound inquisitive, but instead your voice comes out as a whine, and Jaskier grins at that.  

“Think of it as a game, Darling. To show who has more resilience to the other. Who will... fall victim to the carnality of being so close, but still not... fully intimate.” He's so confident that it is almost infuriating, made more angering still by the way he gently brushes his lips along yours as he speaks, refusing to fill the gaps and just kiss you. It’s already almost more than you can bare, hand slipping down to rub at the swollen bud not two inches from where his dick is resting inside of you, but feel it pinned to your thigh before you can so much as brush a finger across it.  

“No, no, no, Dear Heart. If this is a game, then that is cheating, no?” You want to slap the smug smile off of his face, or force your tongue into his mouth, either would please you. “You cum from me, or not at all.” And with that, his earlier predatory smile is back in full force, making you shiver. “If you can stay still for me while I mark these compositions then I'll fuck you the way you want me to. That seems a fair deal to me, don’t you think?” He grins, toothy and wide, and you nod wordlessly.  

“Good girl.”  

#fuck man how do i tag this shit #jaskier imagine #jaskier x reader #jaskier x you #jaskier x y/n #jaskier smut #dom jaskier

[knitsforbunny]

#lyriumwolf #the amazing devil #social distancing #day 8 #lutes are hard to embroider!