#I love my scrawny little shit of a bard

[finchmarie]

When life is sweet.

[jaskiersvalley]

Witchers didn't have daemons, that was a known fact. They were terrifying in their solitude, unfeeling and unaffected. Monsters made to fight monsters, they didn't need part of their soul for that. What the general public didn't know though was that the daemons weren't imprisoned somewhere, nor were they dead. The mages had figured out a way to separate daemon from child and force it into the most unnatural of shapes, another human. It meant two Witchers from a single child and the best part was, neither child nor daemon felt any connection to their counterpart once the process of the trials was complete.

In an effort to make sure full separation was certain and not even a sentimental link remained, daemons and children were separated and trained in different schools. Lambert had arrived at Kaer Morhen, still tripping over unfamiliar human feet and seething at being separated from his human. Over the years he tried to remember his human but, like all Witchers, they were given new names when they got their medallions and Lambert didn't think Luca still went by that name, nor would he be the scrawny kid Lambert remembered him as.

Whenever Lambert met another Witcher, he couldn't help but wonder whether it was his Luca that he was meeting. Though he wanted to believe that there would be a spark some kind of recognition there. He had been a little relieved when he met Letho and there was nothing there between them.

Of course Geralt had to be the first one to find his daemon. The smug bastard had found a bard who told people his daemon was a flea which was just like him; unnoticeable until he causes a nuisance. Most pitied him but Geralt had seen through the charade. He watched the bard without a daemon, curiosity and caution allowed him to permit Jaskier to tag along. The story tumbled out eventually.

"My great grandparents bought me. I was some kind of freak novelty some merchants were selling."

That was all Geralt had needed to hear and he was all but dragging Jaskier back to Kaer Morhen in the winter. Nobody had expected Vesemir's face to close off completely.

"I remember you!" Jaskier said in way of greeting. "You were a dick."

"Julian." The reply was terse and tight.

Lambert got a front view seat to seeing Geralt's face flit through more emotions in one second than he usually did in a whole year. The embrace was tight, Geralt's nose buried in Jaskier's hair.

Jealousy trickled through Lambert's veins. For all he knew, his human was already a dead Witcher. There was no link between Witcher and daemon, the trials severed it all completely so when one died, the other didn't even notice, let alone die from it.

"Why isn't he a Witcher?" Eskel asked, eyes glued to the happy reunion.

"Kaer Morhen needed money. Your cohort, the daemons didn't become Witchers. We sold them to the highest bigger."

Lambert didn't expect Eskel to punch Vesemir across the jaw but he was sure as shit glad he saw it. It meant he didn't need to do it on behalf of Geralt and Eskel. For the first time though, Lambert had an optimistic thought.

"It might mean he's living a happy life somewhere. I mean, look at Jaskier. He's had it better than us."

That was a topic that came up repeatedly over the next few weeks. They dreamed up all sorts of fancy lives Eskel's daemon could have lived, the wonders he would have seen. Through it all, Lambert bitterly wished his daemon could have been anything but a Witcher. Alas, Vesemir rapidly disillusioned him from that idea.

"He's become a Witcher, probably dead by now. And if you met him, you'd probably wish he was."

"Is that so?" Lambert drawled, emptying his tankard with a disappointed sigh. He couldn't believe it was empty again.

"You suffered the same shit fate I did. Your human was trained by Cats. Guxart turned into an utter dick."

The words were muttered darkly and Lambert tried not to take it to heart how much hatred Vesemir oozed. It made him all that much more determined to not go the same way as the bitter old man. Instead, he turned to Geralt with a leer. "So, is it gay or is it masturbation to want to get off with your own daemon?"

To say the table erupted in uproar was an understatement. Geralt was scowling somewhat fierce, arms crossed over his chest in protest. It only egged Lambert on further.

"I think it's incest," he declared with a shit eating grin. "Technically it's part of your family because you have the same parents."

"It's masturbation at most." Geralt was growling and glowering. "Because the daemon was still part of you."

Through it all, Eskel stayed rather quiet. It was only when the other two looked to him for opinion that he leaned forward, propping himself up on the table with a serious crease to his brows.

"I think-" the words were low and measured, "-that as long as everyone involved consents, it's fucking hot is what it is."

"The only thing it is," Vesemir finally butted in, "is a disaster waiting to happen. You don't want to meet your counterparts. Trust me."

Except that only made Lambert all the more keen. He wanted to both prove Vesemir wrong and also have what Geralt and Jaskier seemed to be hurtling towards. So, come spring, he set out with the intent of fulfilling one contract only. It was one that he would pay himself for in emotional fulfilment. He was going to find every Cat he could until he found Luca.

He met Gaetan along his travels who laughed in his face and said he was much more into snakes than wolves. That was an encounter Lambert was more than eager to cut short because he did not want to think about how Letho and Gaetan were oddly complementary. It was also another jolt of bitter jealousy, another Witcher and daemon had been reunited while he was still out there looking for his own. Assuming Luca had survived.

Meeting Guxart was a bit of an accident and Lambert wished he'd not encountered the old Cat. He growled and hissed about his stupid daemon who would probably have turned into a useless pigeon if left alone. There was obviously no love lost between them and Lambert desperately hoped he wasn't going to have the same fate.

Third time lucky, as the saying went. Lambert had trailed the new Cat for a few days, learning his habits and watching him work. There was no ounce of recognition or familiarity. But then again, the last time Lambert saw Luca, they were being dragged away from each other, foreign hands on his rapidly shifting body so his eyes could barely adjust enough to see the screaming, tear filled face of his human. It was quite possibly the worst last image he could have had of Luca.

Satisfied that the Cat wasn't someone Lambert wouldn't want to associate with, he approached in the evening when the campfire was still bright but slowly settling.

"I was wondering when my shadow would make himself known," the Cat said easily enough, barely glancing up from where he was whittling something.

The last two times Lambert had tried to be careful with exploring the idea of the Cat Witcher being his human. He was tired and cut straight to the point.

"Luca?"

By the fire the man froze. It was only luck that meant Lambert could hear the shuddering exhales of someone trying to keep up the façade of calm and collected. Finally, the man set his carving aside and stood with an easy smile that felt like a thousand lies.

"I go by Aiden." It wasn't a reply and Lambert knew it.

"I don't remember my name," he admitted softly, desperately hoping he wasn't about to make an utter tit of himself. "People call me Lambert. But I'm looking for my Luca."

He didn't expect to suddenly have an armful of Witcher clinging to him like their very lives depended on it.

"It's really you!" Aiden sounded close to tears. "You never did have a single name, usually going by Idiot, Pain In The Butt, Menace and so many other equally flattering names."

"Guess that never changed," Lambert laughed wetly. He held Aiden close, wishing he could feel as he used to when they were connected. "We have a lot of catching up to do."

It was just that start of something Lambert never thought he'd have. Easy companionship, shared disdain for the whole Witcher thing, stories upon stories of contracts gone well, gone wrong, or just plain gone. By the time winter rolled round, Lambert was firmly of the opinion that he and Aiden would travel together, fuck the Path and all the teachings about it being lonely. If Geralt could have his bard then they sure as hell could have each other.

Getting to Kaer Morhen, Lambert gleefully had an arm slung around Aiden's shoulder, introducing him to the rest of his family. He especially delighted in the flaring of Vesemir's nostrils as he took in the situation.

"Cats and Wolves don't mix. You of all people should know that."

"And you should know it's my life's mission to prove you wrong, old man," Lambert shot back.

Perhaps the most curious part of the whole winter was that Geralt was already back with not one, but two guests. Jaskier was a known quantity and Lambert greeted him warmly. The other though was a near silent man who watched them through eyes that looked way too old for his body.

"This is Cahir," Geralt said when the man didn't even introduce himself. "We'd heard rumours of a Nilfgaardian without a daemon and went to investigate."

"Not a Nilfgaardian," Cahir grumbled with a half-hearted glare.

It took Lambert a moment to figure out just why Geralt would bring such a man back before his eyes widened in delighted realisation.

"You think that-"

"Mhm."

That was the extent of their conversation because Lambert was cackling in delight. He looked Cahir over with a newfound interest. Young, like Jaskier but so very different in behaviour. As much as they'd wondered about Eskel's daemon's fate, this wasn't one they'd predicted.

Three days later Eskel was leading Scorpion into Kaer Morhen's courtyard. Lambert and Aiden were all but bouncing with excitement, not wanting to miss the moment Eskel met his daemon. In their opinion Geralt was drawing things out and making it less fun by not having them all meet in the stables. Instead, Eskel was allowed to venture into the kitchen in the company of Lambert and Aiden who were vibrating in anticipation.

"Eskel," Geralt greeted him with a warm hug. Jaskier and Cahir were behind him, even Vesemir had ventured out to see what the outcome would be. "It's good to have you home. Allow me to introduce you to Cahir."

The two looked at each other with guarded gazes and Eskel gave a terse nod. It was as anticlimactic as fuck. No recognition, not interest, nothing. Just a slow once over which, if Lambert had thought about it, was pretty much a mirror image of each other, equally considering and closed off.

Despondent, he dragged Aiden off, helping lay the table for a shared meal. Vesemir was quick to follow, there was no way to tell whether he was disappointed or relieved by the lack of drama. Geralt and Jaskier wandered out, oddly deflated. Not two seconds later there was an almighty crash from the kitchen and they were all racing back. Only to turn right around and flee after a glimpse of Cahir pinning Eskel to a wall and kissing him like Eskel was the last gasp of air for a drowning man.

"So, are they?" Jaskier asked, glancing towards the kitchen. Something else crashed and thumped but it was best not to investigate.

After a moment it was Vesemir who tiredly said, "Does it matter? It doesn't seem like they much care."

All in all, Lambert didn't think he cared either. Cahir and Eskel seemed happy enough in their new acquaintanceship, trying to figure out their past could wait, if they even wanted to explore it. Though Lambert had a hard time imagining Cahir as a goat. Over the years he'd heard Eskel lament enough about how his daemon preferred to take the form of a goat.

Regret came the next morning at breakfast when Eskel and Cahir appeared at the table, seemingly indifferent. If the rest of them hadn't see the two almost violently making out in the kitchen before disappearing to a bedroom, they wouldn't have guessed anything had gone on between them.

"Hey Geralt," Eskel called, face passive. "You know the difference between a goldfish and a mountain goat?"

"A mountain goat could live in Kaer Morhen but a goldfish couldn't?"

Eskel rolled his eyes. "No, a goldfish mucks around a fountain."

"And a mountain goat fucks around a mountain," Cahir finished the joke. He and Eskel high fived without looking at each other. Lambert only smacked his head on the table when Cahir continued, "And I am no goldfish."

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Happy Birthday Razzy

@lordoftherazzles 💖💖💖

!Here is my gift to you...Art by @dyemberrr!!! and a silly story from me...😔

(Let's give that amazing artist a hand (and a comm) for their talent and lovely nature...they've been a joy to work with)

JK...I've sent you a Kofi...

It's Razzy's Bday today and she's been having a shite time, so if you have any thoughts, prayers, or moneys to spare, consider buying her a KoFi 🥺💖

I love you dearly, friend, and I hope you're having a marvellous day. The first drink is on me 🍹🍾🍻

(but here comes the story anyway)

The Bagginshield Meta-story (or Who we are)

Words: 2,5 k

Characters: YOU, Thorin, Bilbo, Thrandy, Bard, Balin & Ori (for shits and giggles)

Warnings: This is not my usual subject, but it is my style...Let's see if they mash

“Well, best of luck to you,” Ori said with a shit-eating grin that amused you more than it actually annoyed you.

He was a dear creature, but – in your opinion – he was also kind of a wuss; now that he was off to spend his honeymoon somewhere far away from the king and his consort, youhad the honourable task to chronicle the events taking place in Erebor.

“How hard can it be?” you jeered lightly, pinching his cheek affectionately which made him squirm a little.

“You’ll soon find out,” he said with a shrug and gave you a short half-hug before sauntering away, a little too eager to leave the premises for your taste.

You were truly happy for him and – truth be told – you had faced greater perils and hardships in your life than a constipated king and his half-feral husband.

“Oh, it’s a good one to start you off,” Bilbo laughed when he saw you – armed with stacks of paper and a handful of quills – come down the corridor leading to the meeting room.

“What do you mean?” Your eyes narrowed suspiciously upon seeing just how amused the consort was; Ori’s mocking grin floated back to your mind like the reflux some of the dwarven cuisine’s staples always gave you.

“You are about to witness the verbal sparring between Thorin and Thranduil,” Bilbo informed you in a sing-song voice that you would have written off as typical Hobbit-cheerfulness if you hadn’t known the little man to be a complete savage.

With every step you took, the feeling of being shoved into a lion’s den with a juicy steak dangling around your neck intensified and the mischievous twinkle in the Hobbit’s hazel eyes did nothing to calm your roiling stomach.

The kings were already there, looking like a storm about to form by mixing elements and temperatures that would inevitably clash.

“Thranduil,” Bilbo purred, “I see that you’ve decided to express your deep, respectful interest in this meeting by being so impeccably clad.”

The addressed Elf – tall and impossibly pale – whipped around as if Bilbo had thrown a thistle down his intricately embroidered robes while the – definitely human and very exhausted – man he was betrothed to merely pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation.

“I’ll have you know that this is a very old robe,” Thranduil hissed, caught between his discomfort at being called out for his subpar appearance and his petty streak, “not that any of you would know the difference.”

You settled down at a small table and wondered if this was part of your duties already.

Thranduil wore ‘old’ robes. Consort (maybe?) liked them well. King didn’t care.

You jotted it down just to be on the safe side, but Thranduil’s piercing eyes made you freeze where you sat.

“What are you writing? Where is that pitiful, scrawny girl who usually scribbles away furiously during these idiotic meetings?” he spat, drawing closer to peek over your shoulder.

“Love,” the man – Bard by name – whispered warningly, “this is not your home and, I’m sure, king Thorin is entirely apt to appoint any scribe he likes. Also, I am almost certain that the girl is a lad.”

“He’s on his honeymoon,” Thorin informed him in a clipped voice, giving you an almost apologetic look before he tore into his opponent.

“In the right corner, weighing in at ‘a grown war boar and a half’, our resident grump…Thorin II,” Bilbo’s cheery voice resounded right behind you.

“So, what do you want for your mouldy, worm-riddled, brittle, stupid wood?” Thorin goaded Thranduil; the whole meeting had the purpose of strengthening trade and peace agreements between two people who had been enemies for the longest time and – as far as dwarves and elves were concerned – would not have minded awfully leaving it at that.

Judging by the behaviour of the two regents of said people, their inveterate enmity was alive and thriving still, but someone had to have initiated these talks and you were curious to see how this would end, especially as nobody really seemed to be happy to be here.

“And in the left corner, weighing in at ‘a wet log covered in fungus’, the prissy king of wild creatures and haunted trees…Thranduil Oropherion,” Bilbo went on unerringly.

“I do not want nor need anything from you,” Thranduil hissed, “you ugly, stinking, ill-tempered stump of a creature.”

Your head whipped around only to see Bilbo leaning against the wall behind you with a completely relaxed expression on his face; he was apparently used to insults being flung around wildly and this warm-up did not faze him in the least.

“Gentlemen,” Bard tried once more – completely in vain – to calm the tempers roaring like flames and driving the heat into both the regents’ complexions.

“I’ll teach you,” Thorin rumbled and – like an arrow – Bilbo suddenly shot forward to wrap around his husband like a particularly persuasive vine.

Now, you were not entirely sure if he meant to be living armour in the upcoming fight or if he was really trying to hold his husband back, but you saw him pour words like honey into the king’s ear which made him relax his stance and smile to himself.

Insults were exchanged. Threats were made. Consort of Erebor has disarmed the situation by whispering unknown state secrets into the heated ears of the king.

Slowly, you started to understand Ori’s hilarity better; did every council meeting and conference with foreign dignitaries inevitably turn into such a circus?

“I only want your rotten wood to burn,” Thorin declared with that amalgam of petulance and haughtiness that was his brand.

“I do not intend to use your rock to erect a monument in your honour either, Thoza,” Thranduil purred.

If Thorin was like a mountain lion, strong, bulky, and just the tiniest bit skittish, Thranduil was like one of those sleek, cunning, and ridiculously vain jungle-cats that lived in the high grasses of faraway lands.

You were sorely tempted to throw a ball in their midst to see if it would put a stop to all their hissing and posturing.

“If we could proceed?” Bard, backed up by Balin – rattled awake from his stupor by the noise – tried once again to reign in the generalised chaos.

“My love,” Bilbo hummed, “I’m sure you can get this deal done, can’t you?”

There was a challenging note in his silken voice, and you had to hand it to him; he knew exactly how to steer and manipulate the king into doing his bidding.

Consort plies the king by flattering him and – as far as I can tell – patting his royal behind very fondly.

By this time, you could only imagine Ori’s face when – upon returning from his Thorin-free and sex-rich honeymoon – he found your notes.

It was not that you disliked the king or his consort, but they were – undeniably – challenging in many different ways; for example, you had never seen such an indecently public display of marital affection in a meeting with a foreign dignitary.

You cleared your throat to get them to move on with the proceedings at hand but, by now, Thranduil was mending his crown – his long-suffering husband frowning at him impatiently – while your own king was being placated by the feisty hobbit with small, teasing pecks on the nose.

If they went on like that, your log of this momentous trade agreement would read like a soppy romance novel or a guide on how to maintain a healthy marriage.

King Bard is coaxing Thranduil back to the negotiations by pspsps-ing him like a cat.

Bilbo Baggins is engaged in a complicated mating ritual involving the king’s beard and his own nimble fingers.

After 10 minutes of stalemate – entirely unrelated to the talks – both parties seem to be ready to come back together.

This devolved into a soap opera, you thought, and cursed that blasted orange-haired, rat-faced, weak-hearted scribe once more in the most colourful words you could think of.

“So, we are willing to provide first class rock – and the odd gem – in exchange for firewood – and the odd vegetable – if that pleases you, king,” Bilbo sing-songed in a sickly-sweet tone that made Thranduil wrinkle his nose in distaste.

To your profound astonishment and amusement, King Thorin mirrored that expression almost instantly; while Thranduil seemed to take offense at Bilbo’s inflection, Thorin was horrified by the idea of having vegetables delivered – like a green, healthy plague – to his doorstep.

“The things we do for love,” Thranduil sighed, gracing his husband with a fond smile; it was universally known that it was for the sake of Bard that the king of wood and branch had accepted to even have these trade talks.

“A good, sturdy house is made of wood and stone,” Bard famously claimed and – while neither of the two mystical kings readily agreed to that – both Thranduil and Thorin were willing to make room for what was lacking in their realm to ensure the happiness and safety of their betrothed.

In short, it was a rather straightforward affair: both kings would agree to trade raw materials they could easily get for themselves in order to entertain a polite and regular exchange.

Never would you have believed this to grow into such a battle of wits and wills, but Bilbo’s wink and Bard’s compassionate smile made your heart twitch with empathy.

The rather boring nature of the negotiations did not prevent the situation from being an interesting and most informative one, nonetheless, for there were a thousand things you noticed and that amused and surprised you in equal measure.

Haughty to the point of being deemed arrogant, both Thorin and Thranduil were beacons of their royal status and their noble bloodline; it astonished you to no end to see them – consistently – look to their spouses for reassurance and guidance.

“Thorin?” Bilbo prompted, his small, pudgy hand squeezing the enormous mitt of the king encouragingly.

“Erebor will be honoured to provide finest stone – and the odd gem – to your people,” Thorin grumbled, nodding into the general direction of Thranduil and Bard.

“And we – in turn – will be ecstatic to provide wood – and the odd vegetable – to the lonely mountain in hopes to sustain the prolonged good health of our neighbours,” Thranduil purred coldly before seeking the gaze of his husband to get his approval of the herculean effort he had just made.

Trade seems to be agreed on. Nobody died. Bard needs a drink. Bilbo needs a quiet room to massage the tension out of our king.

You bit your lip; clearly, you were taking too many liberties with your transcription here, but they were too touching.

Grown men – some of them decades and millennia old – squabbling like children made you grin madly, but you hid it behind your hand, pretending to stifle a cough.

The part that touched you most was definitely the love; they both loved their husbands and their people and – no matter how much they truly might loathe one another – they were willing to do whatever was necessary to ensure the happiness and safety of those they were responsible for.

And their spouses knew.

Oh, the small frown washing over Thranduil’s face as Bard’s responding smile was just the tiniest bit delayed, and the way Thorin held on to Bilbo’s hand as if it was the only anchor tethering him to the calm, self-possessed demeanour expected of him, these tiny details warmed your heart and made your fingers fly over the parchment.

This was worth being written down for posterity – much more than a lousy exchange of dead wood against cold stone – it was the love between races, between people, between souls that made it all worthwhile.

The silence having fallen like a blanket of mist and shadow onto the congregation was as soft as a caress now and you found yourself sketching the wondrous creatures in front of you absent-mindedly.

Suddenly, those scrolls that Ori only ever showed his beloved – lovingly called his ‘private archive’ – made a lot of sense to you; no doubt, a soul as sensitive as his would not be left untouched by the earnest yearning and the monumental faith that ran like a quiet but steady brook between the boulders of regal authority and political strife.

Love will find a way, that was what your old nan had always told you and – for the first time in what seemed like forever – you thought you might understand what she had meant: love, life, and growth had dug into unyielding stone and taken their place amongst cold, remote stars.

Old and yet to grow older still, the two kings had lost their hearts to creatures meant to bloom and wilt within the blink of an eye if not magically sustained; how many oaths would be sworn, how many monsters braved, how many treasures absconded – in time – to keep that precious life, thrumming wildly like a flighty bird in their palm, burning bright?

The kind of devotion you had just witnessed might well outlast rock and outshine distant celestial bodies; it surely had mellowed fossilised resentment and made new buds thrive from seemingly barren roots.

Despite the bickering and the insults, what struck you most in this first meeting you had taken notes of had been the undeniable, inevitable, invincible impression of hope.

You had made it all the way to your chambers until you realised that you were smiling like an idiot as you replayed the intimate gestures of trust and teasing between two couples that represented life in its myriad forms – all of them precious and beautiful – and the surprises even tradition and a long life could not fully prepare you for.

“Hmmm,” Ori smiled as you handed him your accounts of the meeting, “they did it again?”

“Fighting?” you asked, “Don’t they always?”

“No,” the soft-spoken scribe chuckled, “forget about the meeting and moon at their spouses. Balin has pondered asking them not to bring Bard and Bilbo to the meetings, but then the two kings storm out of the room within an instant and refuse to be coaxed back into negotiations.”

Relaxed and visibly happy, Ori rolled up your scrolls with the ease of habit and tucked them under his arm.

“By the way,” he said, turning around, “your comments were hilarious, and those drawings were really rather good. I’ve been thinking about working less and I’d love to share some of the load with you.”

“You want out of the Thranduil meetings, don’t you?” Your eyes narrowed warily.

With a boyish wink, Ori waved a nonchalant hand and promised that you’d talk about it again once you had time to think it over.

You made sure to keep your face stern until he was out of sight, but – if you were completely honest – you wouldn’t have minded all that much being the chronicler of an epic love story that defied prejudice, tradition, time, and all the evil of the world itself.

Once again, happy bday my dear...

I'm wishing you all the best and I hope this was not the worst gift anyone has ever written for someone else. Let not the quality of my writing be a gauge of my love...

❤️❤️❤️

[ivegotbreadinmypants]

If you’re taking prompts: “you could have warned me!” Fluffffff please and thank you!

Thank you so much for the ask! I am so sorry this took so long! I had forgotten this was in my drafts 😂 

Welp, here you go now! Enjoy all 2k fluffy jealous goodness!

@jask-jaskier-jaskiest

Prompt: “You could have warned me!”

---

Geralt is not a jealous man.

He's not.

He just doesn't like it when people still think Jaskier’s old reputation true—back when the bard was young, free, unapologetically loving, and Geralt still hadn’t quite realized the reason for the swaths of warm in his chest whenever Jaskier smiled at him.

Their relationship is fairly new; their dynamic is still a little stilted as they try to figure out the unspoken boundaries and each other’s wants. It has been smooth sailing mostly. 

But fuck, can Jaskier’s old reputation be annoying.

Past and newer lovers are as taken with the bard as Geralt is. It's ridiculous that such a fumbling, awful-at-flirting bard has men and ladies fawning over him.

It's worse when he's teaching at Oxenfurt.

Geralt can't count on both his hands the number of times he's seen students try and fail to flirt with their professor. Most students know to back off, especially when Geralt is within radius. They are well-aware of the famed tales of The White Wolf and his bard, Dandelion.

So, it’s quite a shock when this one particular student just would not leave Jaskier’s side, even when Geralt starting hovering around the pair.

“Professor, I was wondering if you can help me with my piece? I was having trouble with how the tempo would match with the wor—”

“Jaskier,” Geralt interrupts, catching up to the both of them. The bard beams, and Geralt—as always—softens. “Geralt! You’re here early.”

“I’ve been here for the past twenty minutes.”

Jaskier blinks. “Oh. Well, uh, just give me a few more minutes then we can go off, okay?”

Geralt grunts. The student, a pretty blond boy with bright green eyes, does not even look in his direction. Geralt tries his best to hide his grimace. 

Jaskier had once berated him for scaring off his students during one of his visits. To be fair, it was satisfying to see the group of young eager students nearly shit their pants at his looming figure.

They don’t quite believe that a man—whose trademark is being flamboyant and loving every thing that existed on the Continent—would be utterly and mutually smitten with a man who was practically his opposite—whose trademark is his surly frown and golden cat eyes.

“Professor, do you think we can schedule an appointment? A one-on-one consultation if you’ll allow it.” The boy’s eyes are bright, lively and a touch devilish. Everything that reminds Geralt of eighteen year old Jaskier. And Gods only know how much of a handful that young man was. 

Geralt had lost count how many times he’s had to end a tavern fight that Jaskier started. In the first year they started travelling together.

“Of course. However, that would mean you would have to wait a couple of weeks since I am going on the road,” Jaskier says, friendly and helpful and completely oblivious to the glint in the kid’s eye.

Geralt grimaces when the kid even takes it a step further, placing his hand on Jaskier’s bicep.

(It’s not like Geralt can really blame him. Jaskier is not at all scrawny.)

“That won’t be a problem at all, professor.”

Fucking hell.

The kid is practically moaning out Jaskier’s title.

And somehow, the bard still grins.

Geralt wants nothing more than to leave, right about now. At this absolute moment. But there is no way in any world is Geralt going to leave Jaskier here.

He wishes he hasn’t gotten himself in trouble with the school that one time—when he insulted one of the other professors for stealing one of Jaskier’s songs. 

(—But it was entirely worth it when Jaskier let out the biggest, up-roaring laugh of his life—) 

Because then he’d still be able to scare this kid off with minimal chastising.

The kid’s face pinked, and he leans in to Jaskier’s ear and—

“C’mon, Jaskier. Roach doesn’t like to wait.” Jaskier squawks when he’s practically manhandled back to Geralt’s side, his thick arm winding around his lithe waist. 

“But—” 

“I don’t like to wait,” Geralt grumbles, lips near Jaskier’s neck, voice dangerously low; Jaskier has to fight the urge to shiver. He can’t quite fight the redness in the tips of his ears.

“Geralt,” he mumbles, impish smile on his lips, “you’re awfully impatient.”

“I am. It’s been a week since I saw you.” And what a long week it was. First, Geralt had to deal with alghouls that had practically kicked out an entire village’s populace. Then, he had to manage the tempers of two prickly sorcerers, with the threat of being turned into a frog at his throat.

Truly, Geralt has been craving nothing but Jaskier’s presence. But it’s difficult in the winter, because the bard is adamant on keeping his yearly Oxenfurt teaching tradition.

This week would only get worse if he had to endure another second of inappropriate one-sided teacher-student flirting. 

Speaking of which...

Geralt looked over his shoulder to glare at the kid with narrowed eyes, baring his teeth. There’s a thrum of satisfaction when a flash of regret and fear runs over the student’s face, and he turns on his heel in the opposite direction.

He knows he didn’t have to do that. But Gods, he couldn’t resist.

He tightens his hold on Jaskier, revelling in the bard’s laboured breaths, the sweetness of lust enveloping Geralt’s senses. He wears a half-hidden proud grin as he drags Jaskier out of the school, disinterestedly noting all the stares they’re getting.

*

Only when Geralt has completed a drowner contract does Jaskier question him. They’re not yet out of Temeria by the time night falls, since Geralt had come across a noticeboard that was basically begging for a witcher.

Jaskier had just finished untying the knots on Geralt’s blood-caked armor, both ready to tuck in soon, and is now sitting flushed to Geralt’s side, playing a mindless tune as he stares at the witcher from the corner of his eye.

The bard does have to wait for a while for the words to come, considering he’s doing his gaze lovingly at Geralt ritual for the night. But once they do, Jaskier says, “Can you indulge my curiosity for a moment?”

Geralt stops in his sword sharpening, eyeing Jaskier, and grunts.

“Why were you acting all... weird today? Back at Oxenfurt, when I was talking to Stefan. What was wrong? Did I do something? Did you do something?”

The witcher purses his lips, darting his gaze away as if he were shy.

“Come on, Geralt. I won’t laugh, I promise.” Jaskier is more than patient when Geralt grits his teeth, a ball of suppressed thoughts and emotions; it’s much easier to coax things out of Geralt, even if it does take a few sugar-coated attempts and easy smiles.

His eyes remind Jaskier of a cat when he keeps looking around, as if he’s trying to find an excuse to avoid this conversation.

Eventually, like always, Geralt can’t quite hide away from Jaskier like he used to, and he faces the bard.

“That kid. Stefan.” Jaskier nods, even if he has no idea where this was going.

“He kept—” Geralt screws up his face. The campfire brings out the heat in those golden eyes. “He kept flirting with you. Touching you.”

Geralt grabs Jaskier’s hands and threads their fingers together. “Got a little angry. Protective.”

Jaskier blinks.

“Wait. Me and Stef—wait, wait, waitwaitwaitwait,” Jaskier sputters, “you think that my student was flirting with me?”

Geralt rolls his eyes, but the fond curl to his lips diminishes the effect. “As if you don’t notice the line of admirers at your office door everyday.”

Jaskier opens his mouth, gapes for a moment, narrowing his eyes; then he tilts his head, jaw closing with a click. “Tha—That’s true. I suppose. But come on.”

Just as he had promised, Jaskier doesn’t laugh, but he desperately wants to. 

“Stefan? Really? Okay, I get what you mean, but I swear it’s not because he’s attracted to me. Not in the slightest.” Jaskier smiles softly, hand coming up to stroke the line of Geralt’s jaw. “Sort of a funny story, actually.”

“Pray tell,” Geralt practically purred, softening in the palms of Jaskier’s callused hands, eyes heavily lidded.

“How would you prefer it, in verse or in normal speech?”

“Normal speech would do just fine,” Geralt huffs.

“Twas the first day of last year’s winter term, and I was merely feasting upon my lovely, lovely, sandwich—a sandwich that you made, actually. Full of delicious meats and amazing vegetables that you had lovingly cut just for me, a sandwich I had the magnificent honour of eating.”

“I thought I said normal speech.”

“It is,” Jaskier says, puffs of his laughter on Geralt’s cheeks. “I was just celebrating the fact my boyfriend made me a sandwich.”

Geralt’s shoulders shake, eyes warm with affection.

“And it was the most curious when a man I had never met before, blond with forest green eyes—”

Geralt rolls his eyes.

“—came up behind me and started to recite one of my poems—by heart!”

Geralt frowns, but Jaskier smooths the lines away with gentle strokes of his thumbs.

“I was about to thank him for the recital, but I turned around and gods, he had the reddest blushes I’ve ever seen.” Jaskier laughs under his breath. “He had thought I was his girlfriend, who I’ve actually had the pleasure of meeting. She’s very tall, taller than me even. I think she might be part elf.”

“So, what does that have to do with the flirting?”

“After that, he made a point to recite my other poems as a joke, especially the old bad ones I’ve written. The flirting just added to the experience.”

Geralt is staring at him now, eyes a little more awake. Under his hands, Jaskier can feel the gradual increase in temperature on the planes of Geralt’s scruffy cheeks—even if he can’t see the red, Jaskier knows Geralt is blushing from embarrassment.

Geralt hums, then rumbles; his eyes go down and then all of a sudden, Geralt is curling forward and leaning into the crook of Jaskier’s neck, hiding his face away. Jaskier doesn’t stop his laugh this time, hands automatically sliding in Geralt’s hair and over his shoulders, his lips on the witcher’s temple.

“You could’ve warned me,” Geralt grumbles, pulling Jaskier into his lap to fully embrace the bard. Jaskier only snorts.

“You could’ve warned me before carrying me out there like the brute that you are. I can only imagine the types of rumors that are cooking up in there now,” Jaskier mumbles, pressing the witcher closer to his chest. 

Gods, he’s missed this.

Geralt hums, low and warm, but a touch despondent. Jaskier frowns, hand swiping down the witcher’s spine. “Darling, if you’re uncomfortable with the flirting, I can just ask him to stop.”

“It’s yours and Stefan’s thing.” Jaskier doesn’t need to look at Geralt’s face to know he’s missing the twinkle in his eyes.

“Geralt, my dear witcher, you come first. You know that, right?” He presses his lips on the crown of Geralt’s head, grimacing when he smells the sea-salt and coppery blood from the drowners.

“I know that this is new. For both of us. The last thing I want is to screw it up with you without me knowing. So, tell me when something is bothering you. I promise I won’t laugh the next time.” Geralt’s shoulders shake with mirth. 

It’s only a flurry of silver and pale skin before a pair of long-missed lips seal his. Jaskier strokes a finger along Geralt’s jaw, not missing how easy and pliable the witcher becomes when he does so. 

It’s soft, sweet, with a touch of longing. It’s only been a week since Geralt’s last visit, but neither can ever get enough of each other. It’s only by sheer stubbornness of wanting to keep the other party happy do they resist jumping each other’s bones at the moment.

They breathe in each other’s air, foreheads pressed flushed, and Jaskier sighs reverently—much like a damsel would when in presence of her prince—melting in Geralt’s embrace.

“I don’t care if he flirts with you,” Geralt says eventually. “If only I get to read your older poems. 

“Oh Gods, I’d rather eat my own shoe than let you see those,” Jaskier groans. “A lot of them were about pining after a certain golden-eyed man. Quite pathetic.”

“I don’t know,” Geralt teases, nose brushing against Jaskier’s, “maybe Stefan and I can bond over that. We’d ambush you in the middle of a lectures, start reciting your verses.”

“I shall never forgive you,” Jaskier threatens, but his next words are muffled by bursts of laughter when Geralt digs his fingers into Jaskier’s sensitive sides.

“Whatever you say, bard.”

[cereusblue]

How many Hollow Knight OCs do you have by now? Probably want to know more about them!

Oh sweet jesus. So here we go. That's a question. By the way, my Hollow Knight blog is @hallowcactus

Mayflies:

Hex and Vox (The twins, very soft. Hex is baby and Vox is salty)

Mox and Lin (Parents to the twins. Deceased in every AU.)

Lex (Lovely maroon lady who can kick some serious ass. Actually boxes in Modern AU. Climbed her way into society’s elite in GNM out of SPITE. Mel is her husband.)

Mel (Meek architect man. Scrawny as hell. Loves his wife. Do what is morally best.. always.)

Elder Yuu (Head of the Mayfly tribe. Salty old crone. Hates outsiders. but she’s a decent person somewhere under those wrinkles.)

Dragonflies:

Daze (Asshole extraordinaire and my most active character. Honestly, a spicy boi who just has a habit of making others swoon.)

Maylin (Daze's mother; absolute sweetheart but hell hath no fury like May. Powerful shaman, has direct ties to the goddess Nanu. Is the Queen of the Serpentfire dragonflies.)

Daz (Daze's father; soft spoken man with a hellish temper. Big man. Heavily armor plated, has two sets of antennas. One on his brows and another on his snooter.)

Niles (cousin to Daze. Plays guitar. Is like the awkward little sibling. He’s like a bard with no real charisma. Emulates what Daze was like as a teenager because he thought Daze was cool; Daze cringes at that but loves Niles anyway because he’s baby.)

Daze's aunt and uncle to be named

Tika (random golden colored guard who I love)

Marie (White dragonfly who runs the temple dungeon in GNM)

Damselflies:

Ysmay (the massive scary bitch. Daze is actually terrified of her. For good reason. She doesn’t use weapons because she doesn’t need it.)

Mantises:

Vernon (Devil's flower mantis and the new Lord of the Garden mantis tribe)

Armen (Ghost mantis Angy old fart who somehow got a redemption arc and it's @inkbarista fault)

Neferis (original Traitor Lord)

Zeus (Another large mantis who took over for the Traitor Lord)

Greta (med student/midwife/anxious)

Nana (Elder mantis woman. Everyone’s grandma. Midwife. Medical professional for the tribe, makes herbal remedies, teas, and is an excellent cook. Beware, she will squish your cheeks. She’s Vinny’s favorite lol)

Naloo (one bad ass bitch)

Rolan (Sweet awkward boy)

Lotus (a petra who Vinny;s character impromptu adopted)

Almond (Just another baby with a need for mischief. Adopted with Lotus)

A dragon mantis I have no idea what to do with yet but I will figure it out.

Soul Santum:

Shanen (soul master)

Moths:

Minerva (Big buff atlas moth Bimbo that's like everyone's favorite character lol)

Olivia (Council lady who helps run the moth tribe in GNM)

Ivan (Actual dickwad. One of them infuriating folks but doesn't do anything bad enough to get into real trouble but sometimes you wish he would just to put him behind bars.)

Minerva's parents that I have not named yet. Very conservative, stuck in their ways, hoity toity rich folks with unbelievably high expectations.

Spiders:

Sirenne (Siren Orchid crab spider)

Heart, Spade, Clover, and Diamond (Take a wild guess what these little bastards do? Peacock jumping spiders. Cause trouble for Hornet and run a casino.)

Rex (A jumping spider with anxiety in Modern AU and a failed assassin jackass in GNM)

Centipedes:

Chu'mana (centipede centaur massive lady, is Angy will bite. Pride is a personality. I have trouble drawing her lol. Adopted from Inkbarista)

Vessels:

Vala (b... Big- carries a massive cleaver like the one Death Sword uses in Zelda Twilight Princess. Adopted from Inkbarista.)

Mora (Blueberry baby.)

Chimeras:

Mara (Mix between Hallow, Trill, and Hex. Is their sweet little girl who grows up with Wisp. @inkbarista

Lotan (Silk/Daze's kid in Modern Au and GNM. ANGY. Will bite. Bites everything. Kin has lost 7 pairs of glasses to this little monster. He's deceivingly adorable.)

Misc:

Nanu (Axolotl jesus. Massive goddess to the Serpentfire tribe of dragonflies, gave them and the damselflies their draconic traits. Eight eyes. Cryptic as hell because lets be real, she’s a goddess and that just how it be sometimes. Literally gifts her teeth to the tribe and worthy visitors to use as climbing tools and weapons.)

Void parasite

Fluke but it's a glow worm

Phantom/Phaalgun (pronounced Full-gahn. He's a Megastick. Massive stick bug. Eerily cryptic. Very scary. Works in dealing death.)

Egon (Colossal beetle who's a bitch, runs a crime ring in the City of Tears in GNM)

Mala (Grounds keeper for the Greenpath memorial in GNM)

A random ass butterfly I have no real information about other than knowing she’s anxiety incarnate and exists

Pia (Pleotomus firefly. French?? Done with everyone's shit.)

Val/Valentine. (Velvet Ant boy. Flamboyant to the fucking max, ain't afraid to shank a bitch.)

I THINK I GOT EVERYONE. I THINK. According to @abhainn-leth That’s 49 (updated!) 54 characters and I’m inclined to believe them because I do not feel like counting. If I missed any, I will be sure to add them later. I have artwork for like, a quarter of these characters lol. But if you wanna ask about specific ones, I’ll be happy to oblige with pictures if I have them and some more information lol.

[rhabakoli]

Strength and Weakness

FIRST OF ALL: The biggest thanks to @riviawitch3r for not only giving me the idea for this, but also for being such an amazing beta reader, and for keeping me on my toes and making me a better writer.  I adore you. 

Taglist for all things Witcher:  @this-is-whump-dammit @dreamwritesimagines​ @habitchi​ (i dare to, even tho I am not sure)

Warning: this is 3.9k words of smut. Possessiveness, teasing, Jaskier being threatened. 

**

Geralt was trying to ignore that one woman practically undressing him with her eyes, despite her husband being right by her side, when he heard Jaskier curse and gasp. Immediately, his eyes sought out the bard, finding him pressed against the wall in a rather dark alcove. There was a hand pressed to his chest, some Lord right up in Jaskier's personal space. The beast inside Geralt recoiled at the thought of someone rubbing their scent all over Jaskier, and his body was moving before he was aware. 

“I should rip out your tongue and cut off your balls for even looking at my wife.” 

Oh hell. He really couldn't keep it in his pants, could he? 

“Geralt wouldn't- he wouldn't be very happy about that.”

Jaskier tried to talk his way out of this situation, but the knife at the soft swell of his belly made him nervous enough to swallow his tongue and stumble over his words. 

Geralt saw red. No one should ever dare to threaten his bard. No one. 

His stride lengthened, his nostrils flared at the scent of fear in the air. Jaskier's fear. 

No one.

He'd decimate the smell with the blood and tears of this Lord, he'd make him lick the floor and apologize to his Bard. He would. If he gave in to the beast inside his chest, roaring to right the wrongs. 

Instead, he laid a hand on the Lord's shoulder, his voice deep as he growled into his ear. “If you don't stop this very instant, you will feel what it is like to have your tongue ripped out.” 

Jaskier's pretty blue eyes were so wide, so round, so pitiful, Geralt's stomach churned. The only situation calling for that kind of wide-eyed look, is when he inevitably will get fucked hard enough to forget where he was and who he was. A brat like him deserved that. 

The Lord opened his mouth to snarl at the intruder, but shrunk back and stumbled over his feet when he recognised the hair and the eyes; the man. 

“I should be the one threatening you for touching my man, mylord.” 

Geralt took a step after him, closing in on the Lord. “How dare you insinuate unfaithfulness? My bard?” 

He tilted his head, a smile stretching his lips. A very scary smile, a close imitation of a wild animals snarl.

“Maybe if you spent your time satisfying your wife, instead of going after my partner, she'd be faithful to you.” 

His hand wrapped around the scrawny neck, it's size alone a telltale of its ability to snap bones. 

They were toe to toe now, Geralt being taller and having to bend down made his statuette so much more imposing. 

His voice dropped, bassy growl taking on an almost demonesque quality, as he hissed into the Lord's ear. 

“You will walk away, tell no one of this. You will never even look at my bard, nor think of him. I will find you, if you do.” 

The second he released the man, he scrambled away, almost falling on his nose as he did. 

Geralt was still tense, muscles coiled, ready to unleash fury on whoever deserved it. After a deep breath, he turned. 

Jaskier had remained pressed to the wall, his eyes still wide and trained on the Witcher. His pretty plush lips were parted, the tip of his tongue peeked out when he licked them. A nervous habit. 

Geralt's beast grumbled in his chest, thoughts and pictures of where this tongue could be, what it could do, flew by before his eyes. He couldn't hold back much longer, having suppressed his need, his desire for far too long. His blood ran hot, almost boiling, as he took in the bard. His lithe figure, his floppy hair that would feel like silk between his fingers, his eyes that were so, so beautiful. 

Geralt was short of snapping. 

“Did you- did you just call me your partner?” 

“I called you a lot of names.” 

He swallowed, pushed away from the wall. “You just pretended we were a couple? For me? You didn't call me out on my lie?” 

A bright, blinding smile split Jaskier's face, delight radiating off him like warmth from an oven. He came closer, bounced on his feet and reached up, to cup Geralt's face. 

“I'm safe forever now! No one would dare to anger you, you big bad wolf.” 

Damn right. His beast was preening, cherishing the thought. Geralt was trying not to haul him up and just take him right there against the wall. 

So instead, he grabbed the bard's wrist and forced him to follow. “The evening is over, we're leaving.” 

Jaskier either didn't notice his tense mood, or simply chose not to comment. Which, for once, would show his intelligence. 

Instead, he babbled on about the rumors that would surely arise, about Geralt and him being with each other, how he'd be much safer by default, and so on. 

Geralt grew tenser, and tenser, his hands itching to tear off those ruffly clothes, get his hands on the bards arse, displayed so well in those tight, tight breeches. To curl a hand in those dark locks, pull his head to the side and bury his face in the crook of his neck, nose right on that spot under the jaw where his scent was the strongest. He wanted, wanted so much, right now, couldn't hold back. 

“Really, Geralt, I'm so glad you were there, otherwise he'd have shishkebabed me right there against the wall.” 

Enough. 

For the first time since Jaskier sauntered into his life and refused to leave, did he use his abilities on him. 

Jaskier squeaked when the forceful push against his chest plastered his back against the door. Geralt was upon him just half a second later, one hand clapped over his mouth, the other flat against the door next to his head. 

Jaskier was once more reminded how huge Geralt actually was. How dangerous he was. How he could manhandle him without breaking a sweat. He swallowed audibly. His dick in his breeches took interest, seemingly very happy with the proximity to the Witcher. 

Geralt's eyes were piercing, his voice dripping with anger, tension and frustration. 

“You are the bane of my existence, bard. How did you think this would go? Did you think you can just stick it wherever and get away with it?” 

He stepped closer, pressed his knee between Jaskier's and higher. A small, cruel smile found its way onto his face, when he felt Jaskier's… excitement.

“You think you can go around, solving your problems with my name? Use my reputation to stay safe from angry husbands?” 

He hiked his knee higher, provided more friction against the bard's crotch.

“You think you can do all that, without consequences? Without giving me what I deserve for putting up with you?” 

Jaskiers hips moved, rubbing against thick muscle and soft leather. His moan was muffled by Geralt's hand, still covering the bards mouth. 

“You think you can make me your lover without me reaping the benefits?”  He shifted the hold on him, wrapped his fingers around Jaskier's throat. His lips were ghosting just above the bards, teasing him. 

“Think again, bard. I'm done holding back.” 

“Please-” More, he didn't get out, as Geralt crashed into him, kissed him, devoured him. Never had he been kissed like that, like a man drowning and he was land. He tried to move, tried to get closer, but he couldn't. Not with a hand wrapped around his neck and that perfect, perfect thigh pressed between his. 

Geralt heard the little noises, as low as they were, bit more importantly, he felt them. Felt the vibrations under his hand, against his skin, spreading up his arm. He had to suppress a groan. How would it feel, if it was his cock the bard whined around? If the bard was stuffed full so he could barely breathe and was forced shut up for once in his life. 

Geralt pulled back, cruel smirk back in place when he noticed how disheveled Jaskier looked already. 

“Look at you. Look how needy you are. How absolutely desperate.” 

He wrapped an arm around Jaskier, picked him up, buried his other hand in his curly hair and made sure he looked right at him with those blue eyes. The bed wasn't far away, just a couple strides of Geralt's long legs, and then he was dumped onto the bed, expensive mattress bouncing with the impact. Before he had any chance to situate himself, get some semblance of control over his body, he was flipped over. A strong hand between his shoulder blades hindered any attempt to move, and strong thighs bracketing his weren't helping either. 

He was completely at Geralt's mercy, and he loved it. His affairs here and there were fun, but never promised more than a quick in and out, a way to let go of his frustration and the sexual tension. But now this? The way Geralt had stepped up for him, how he manhandled him, the way he didn't stop touching him for more than a second? 

He felt like he was dreaming, his blood loud in his ears as his heart tried to pump enough blood to his brain to keep him from passing out. 

“Don't move.” 

As if he ever would. Not now. Not when he was so close. Jaskier just nodded, stretched his arms up over his head and pressed his face against his bicep. The mattress dipped, Geralt's weight above him shifted and placed his hands to both sides of the bards head. 

“When you tell people you're with me, do you think about this?” 

His hips rolled, his rock hard cock, trapped as it was, nestled between Jaskier's cheeks, teasing the breath out of him. 

Shit. 

Oh God of Bards, please let him have that. 

He imagined how it would feel, how Geralt knew how to work it, seeing as his prostitutes tended to like having him back. 

“You thought about me above you? Shielding you with my body, keeping you safe?” 

His hips now stronger, more forceful. “Or did you think about my cock? How it would feel inside of you? How I'd split you open, leave you broken for anyone else? Did you think about how it would be? How I'd make you mine?” 

He pressed a chaste kiss to the back of Jaskier's neck, then sat up, back onto the bards thighs, and then his hands were back. They traveled down his shoulders, down his sides, stopped at his hips, for just a second, before Jaskier felt Geralt's broad palms on his ass, kneading it, pulling and pressing, his fingertips sure to leave marks, even through the leather. 

“Maybe we should think of a new name for you. You are no innocent little flower, bard. You are a siren. You're calling to me day and night, taunting me with your perfect little ass, flaunting it in front of me and everyone else.” 

Jaskier rutted into the mattress, he needed  some relief. The friction was delicious enough to make his eyes close, his teeth clench.

And then it was gone. 

“No.” 

Geralt's hands were vices around his hips, having pulled them up and robbed him of that sweet relief. 

“No, the only one giving you what you want is me.” 

His hands traveled down that fit little ass, to grip the very top of his thighs, his fingers dipping between them, teasing Jaskier even more. 

“You will beg, and you will suffer.” 

He bent forward, pressed his dick back against Jaskier's butt. A press of lips at the top of his shoulder, stark in contrast to his words. 

“And you will love it.” 

His hands came around, tugged open the laces of his breeches. Jaskier was shaking with want, with desire, with mindless horniness. He was pressing back against the Witcher, little moans escaping him.

Another shiver, a never-ending one. 

Geralt's voice was the most potent aphrodisiac, and his words caused all the blood in his body to flow to his dick. He felt light headed. 

Geralt's hands came around, slipped under the leather and shoved them down his ass, left them bunched up underneath. 

His deep, appreciative grumble went straight to Jaskier's dick. 

“You have the most wonderful ass. Like a ripe apple.”

He bent down, grabbed one cheek and sunk his teeth in. 

Under him, the bard howled and cursed, and jerked away, but Geralt tugged him back to lay down another mark. 

“You won't be able to sit.” A dark chuckle. “And not only because you're good enough to eat. Which you are. I could make a meal out of you. Eat you for days, eat you, until my jaw aches and my lips are numb and all I can taste and smell is you. I could take you apart and  put you back together until you can’t remember anything but my name, until my body gives out. Whichever comes first.” Deep chuckles reached his ears. “Oh, the times I have thought about having you under me, taking you, providing you pleasure no mortal man would ever be able to… It has kept me awake for weeks.” 

A smack to his ass, then another one and then the soft press of Geralt's lips on his power back. “And now I will return the favor, and keep you awake for just as long, if not longer.” His hands kneaded his butt, thumbs dipping into the cleft of his arse.

“Stay.”

And then he was off. 

The Witcher got off his bed, went over to Jaskier's pouch and rummaged in it, before he came up with a small vial in his huge hands. 

On his way back, he shed his layers, until he was left in those tight black pants, with the buttons undone. 

And, for fucks sake, did he have to look like that? 

Like the very personification of Jaskier's dreams? Everything he ever wanted, ever dreamt of? 

He groaned at the sight, the hair on his chest, how it spread down, shrunk to a treasure trail leading into his pants. On second look, the flaps of his pants barely kept his cock confined, it's head peeking out on top. 

“Geralt.”, He whined, swayed his hips. “Please.” 

He hummed in answer, a smile on his lips. “So needy. So hungry for me, aren't you?” 

He came over, set a knee on the bed and beckoned him over. “Come here, Jaskier.” 

Didn't need to say that twice. 

He was up immediately, crawled over to where Geralt stood and got up on his knees as well. 

Jaskier dared to put his hands on Geralt's stomach -for balance -, felt his muscles flexing underneath them. 

“Sweet little bard.” 

His hand came up, cupped his cheek. “So sweet, so precious.” 

Jaskier turned his head, kissed Geralt's palm. 

The taller tilted his head upwards, to be able to kiss him properly. It was soft, almost sweet. 

And then Geralt angled his head, his hand now on the back of Jaskier's neck, the other on his ass. 

“So sweet, it's going to be a pleasure to ruin you.” 

Teeth captured his lips, pulled, Jaskier gasped and couldn't help but rut against Geralt. 

“I will draw out every single fantasy you ever had, and I will make you live through them, and you will love it.” 

A nip at his jaw, tongue soothing over. 

“Every. Single. One.” 

His hands fisted the front of Jaskier's shirt, clenched, pulled. The harsh sound of fabric ripping pulled Jaskier out of his clouded mind. 

“Hey! That was one of my best shirts!” 

Geralt didn't seem especially perturbed. He just shrugged and mumbled into Jaskier's skin. “I'll give you mine.” 

He nipped, bit and licked a trail down his chest, got on his knees for him. 

“I'll make you scream my name, Jaskier. I'll stuff you full, and then even fuller, until you're leaking.” 

He eyed Jaskier's dick, rock hard and twitching at his words, and grinned. “And then I'll stay in you, for as long as I want.” 

A much more violent twitch. 

A broad grin. 

And suddenly he was up, Jaskier was back on his stomach and Geralt was finally, finally, tugging off his breeches. He grabbed the blanket, bunched them in his hands, tried not to seek out relief against the fine fabric, but hell, was it hard. 

He didn't notice Geralt shucking off his own pants, only noticed how there was naked skin against his thigh, the witchers heavy weight along his back. 

“You are precious, my little flower. You're mine to look at, you're mine to touch, to smell, to nurture. You're mine to reap, and mine alone.” The sound of a cork being popped echoed through the room, making Jaskier jump a bit. “Geralt, please, just- Oh fuck.” Cool oil dribbled down the small of his back, down the cleft of his ass, coated his rim and made its way further. Geralt caught it with a finger pressed against his skin, right behind his balls, before he drew up and circled around Jaskiers rim. “Hmm.” Jaskier pressed his forehead against the bedding, spread his knees and pressed back against the Witcher. “Oh, you’re so needy. You want this finger?” Said finger breached him, pulled back, pushed forward again. It didn’t take long for the bard to beg for more, to make him shiver and babble, but Geralt prepared him well, steadily, completely unaffected by his bards begging and panting. Finally, fucking finally, just when Jaskier thought he’d explode and climb the man, his fingers left him, just to be replaced by the heady feeling of a cock pressing against his opening. “You want this? You want my cock?” “Yes, please. Please Geralt. I want you, please.” The Witcher grunted, wrapped his hands around Jaskiers waist and held him exactly where he wanted him. He knew he probably left bruises on Jaskier, but judging by the low moans and the trashing going on, the pressing back and the scent of want and sex and lust wafting through the air - he wasn’t all too disturbed by the thought. 

“Oh, fuck, yes, GERALT.”  He was trying to pull away, get him to move, once he was bottomed out, but Geralt didn’t let him. He just, held on, stayed still to take it all in. The way Jaskier was begging, almost angry now, the way he was squirming in his hands, clenching down on him in an effort to make him move. It was delicious, and he’d make sure no one else would get to experience this, ever. So he leaned in, his lips against that spot at Jaskier’s jaw, that made him go weak in his arms, one wrapped around him and the other next to him on the bed. “You want me to move? You want me to fuck you?” The bard nodded, lips pressed together, nostrils flared. “Oh, little flower.” He nipped at Jaskiers jaw before straightening back up. Jaskier missed the warmth immediately, but didn’t get to say anything. His breath was pushed out of him, his brain was mush, as soon as Geralt started to move. He didn’t give him any more time to adjust, he pistoned into Jaskier, his hips slapping against Jaskiers ass, the sound filthy and heady, mixing with the Bards moans, with his sighs and Geralt's grunts and curses. “You won’t be able to walk. You’ll be sore for days.” Jaskier keened at that, moved faster against Geralt, disrupted their rhythm. Which, Geralt did not appreciate. The manhandling caught Jaskier by surprise, the display of strength made him groan, his head already swimming. Geralt had pulled out, kicked his knees away and straddled his closed thighs. “I’m in control here, little flower. You don’t get to decide, you just take what I give you.” And then he pushed back in, the first breach in this new angle making Jaskier almost scream, the moan loud enough to be heard outside the room. “Fuck, Geralt, please. Touch me, let me touch me, please, I can’t take it.” “Yes, you can.” He could. He had to. Every push of Geralt’s hips against his ass made him rut against the bed, his dick trapped between his stomach and the mattress. The friction was delicious. Geralt’s hips were undulating, his groans growing louder, his hands pressed harder, his cock deeper. And then he found that one spot that had Jaskier scream for real. The sound refocused Geralt, filled him with new vigor and energy, he moved faster now, chased those sounds and their pleasure. “Yes, Jaskier. Scream for me. Make it known you’re mine, and mine alone." The dark, possessive growl was what pushed him over the edge. Jaskier’s scream got stuck in his throat, his body locked, his hands fisted the sheets. He could feel his spend on his stomach, warm and sticky, his limbs grew heavy and he tried not to pass out. He wanted to feel Geralt, wanted to feel him come. “You did so good, little flower, my little dandelion.” A soft kiss to his shoulder, two, three thrusts before Geralt froze, stayed as deep as it would go. A deep, satisfied groan clawed its way out of his chest, spilled over his lips, into Jaskiers skin. Silence covered them like a blanket, their skin sticky with sweat, Geralt's words ringing in Jaskiers ears. He thought it was over, Geralt would move and leave, and he’d not see him again for a couple months at least. His heart clenched at that, and he knew it was irrational, not after such an obvious display of possessiveness and desire, but Jaskier couldn’t help it. “You’re thinking.” Jaskier turned his head, tried to catch a glimpse of the man still spread above him, still pulsing inside him. “I am human, humans think.” “Hm.” He littered kisses along the bard's shoulders, everywhere he could reach without moving much. “I may have to fuck you a couple more times then. If you’re still coherent, I obviously haven’t done a satisfying job.” Jaskiers dick was interested enough to twitch, his body covered in goosebump at the words. “What?” “I told you, Jaskier. I’m staying in you for as long as I want to.” He shifted, just slightly, to take some of his weight off Jaskier and, coincidentally, drive his cock deeper. His hands covered all of Jaskier, calloused, rough hands being so gentle and warm, it made Jaskier feel safe, cherised - made his chest hurt at the thought this could be over at some point soon. “Mhhm, and I will never not want you. I will never not dream of your body in my hands, your soft skin, your smell in my nose. I will never not get hard when you wear those tight clothes, tease me all day long. My self control will never not suffer around you, because-” He bent down, his fingertips just barely brushing along his cheekbone. “-my little flower-” Another kiss, Jaskiers heart clenching at the words, at the unexpected tenderness. “- you’re my weakness and my strength, Julian.” The usage of his given name made him whimper, tears threatening to spill over. Could it be? Could he be talking about- “You’re still thinking.” Jaskier nodded, pressed his face into the fabric below him. “Oh, little flower. You’re in for a very long night.” It wasn’t until well into the morning, that Jaskier was able to form a coherent thought.

[meereens]

a dream of spring rarepairs week - day 2: children

A little foster brother might be just what Tommen needs to wean him away from Margaery and her hens. In time they might grow as close as Robert and his boyhood friend Ned Stark.

9

On Tommen’s ninth nameday, Mother stuffs him into a spring green Essosi doublet with a gold thread lion in the center. The lion is supposed to have two rubies for eyes, but one must have fallen out somewhere along the way—look, Mother, he’s winking—and Mother goes out into the hall to sternly talk at some maid until he hears a muffled sob. Her cheeks are splotched with red when she returns, red as lost rubies, and Tommen casts his gaze downward. His poor one-eyed lion is less frightening. Mother holds his shoulder like a plump mouse in a claw.

“Thieves in Maegor’s Holdfast,” she seethes, digging in her nails. “Were Maegor still master here, those little sneaks would have their eyes put out and their innards broiled for their treachery.” 

“What did you say to her?”

“To whom?”

“The...our servant?” 

“Servant no longer,” Mother tells him as her hands move to his laces. “Dorcas! Fetch us something green or gold, with gems sewn in. We cannot have the king playing the pauper on his special day.” 

The large woman standing behind a screen for his privacy silently shuffles over to his wardrobe while Mother rips him out of his clothes. The lion splits open, loosening the garment, and he holds up his arms so she can wiggle it over his head. 

“You must especially look your best to meet Lady Merryweather’s present.”

That excites Tommen. Meeting means something to make friends with, something to have and to hold like a—

“Is it a kitten?” There can never be too many kittens in the Red Keep. 

“No, but you will play together.” 

Tommen pouts at that. It will probably be a cuddly rabbit or a little puppy that will grow into a fearsome hound, animals that are lovable enough but cannot capture his heart in the same vein as cats. Margaery understands, he thinks. The doublet Dorcas comes back with is gold, with slashed sleeves, pearl buttons, and garnets lining the neck and shoulders in a crescent shape. His lion had more character, this he knows, but Mother seems at least more pleased than she was before, so he wears it down to the tourney held for his day. 

And what a tourney. Joff’s—his heart does a sad little flip whenever he’s reminded of Joff—was pure fun since they put an enemy straw man out for him to batter, but it was a shame they chose to hold it behind castle walls instead of outside by the bubbling of the river and the chirps of baby birds in trees. His is along the Blackwater, as it should be, and all the Tyrells come out to greet him first in varying shades of green. Margaery’s gown is the palest mint, her hair worn loose with a circlet of cloth buttercups on top. Buttercup would be a good name for a cat. She smiles and takes his arm, but as they are about to ascend to their seats, Mother says, “Lady Merryweather, don’t we have a guest for the royal box?”

All eyes turn to Mother’s friend, standing near the back of the rapidly growing group. An olive-skinned boy smaller than him peers out from behind her skirts. 

“Russell, go on and introduce yourself to His Grace.”

The boy rushes forward, punches off the ground, then flips before landing neatly at Tommen’s feet. He is too stunned to respond, much less clap for him. Mother does, prompting a few ladies to follow in her example. Russell kneels, and he notices how bushy his hair is, thick black tufts that stick out at every possible angle. He looks to Margaery for what to say, but her face is set in the same soft smile. 

“From this day on, Russell will be the Crown’s fosterling,” Mother announces in a regal voice. This time, everybody claps. 

11 

Russell’s nameday is today, and he keeps on reminding Tommen that he has to tumble for him the way he did for his ninth. 

“I was six and I had more skill in my pinky toe than you do now,” he boasts, puffing up his chest like a proud bird about to shit over a parapet. He taught him that expression, foul mouth included. He always wants to teach him things, from how to tumble to how to lie without bursting into tears to how to start a fight in Flea Bottom and come out scratchless. Half of what Russell claims he’s done when they’re not training sounds like something out of a fable; Lann the Clever’s natural son born thousands of years too late. 

“Keep talking like that, and I’ll box you on the nose,” he teases.

“Not fair—it’s too big a target.” 

His nose can charitably be called a lightly beaten potato; Tommen was shocked to discover nobody broke it. Grinning, he pulls his companion by the arm and leads him through winding stone corridors, their feet pounding at such a pace that Ser Loras has to run along to play his role as Kingsguard. Russell’s luck struck again when it came time to choose a mentor, since Mother wouldn’t allow the Knight of Flowers to serve as his. “But Ser Loras is my favorite,” he said when she revealed Ser Addam Marbrand would be his knight instead. “Favorites change,” she said.

My favorites never will. He almost misses the Queen’s Ballroom, backing up into Russell as they skid to a halt. 

“Are you holding a ball for me?” he launches into asking. “No—a feast?”

It must be hard for him, not knowing. Even worse, being the only one who doesn’t know. He is the first to whisper did you hear when they break their fast together, followed by an enticing rumor he hopes is not true or a tale so outrageously wild he hopes it is.

“No,” Tommen says as Ser Loras opens the doors. “We’re holding court.”

Inside, thick woolen carpets have been placed on the floor, and tapestries of contented animals lounging in meadows and forests cover the walls. There are three large chairs side-by-side, like he asked for, and Margaery sits in the rightmost with a cream kitten on her lap.

The kittens. Everywhere, the kittens. Clawing at loose threads in the wool, or curled up to nap, kittens litter the ground like snow in Winterfell. Each of Margaery’s ladies holds one, waiting dutifully in a line facing the thrones, while servants scoop up more balls of fluff with cradling hands. Grown cats prowl the ballroom as well, though there are fewer in their ranks. A velvet-capped bard strums a jolly tune as two striped ones twine about his ankles. The overall effect is the closest thing to paradise Tommen can imagine; Russell’s mouth is agape. 

“You...you didn’t.” 

“I did!”

Margaery claps twice. “Presenting the Court of Cats!” 

“You know I don’t like them,” Russell groans, but follows him through the horde regardless. 

“You will.” 

His friend has never had an appreciation for cats, holding his pets at a distance when Tommen brings them in to play or pretending they make him sniffle and sneeze. When pressed, he gives a flimsy excuse like I don’t understand them. 

That ends here today. Once Russell finds a cat to fall in love with, his doubts will melt away like rain. He knows they will; it is even surer than his father’s kingly blood running through his heart.

“If this is the Court of Cats, does that make you the king of cats?” 

He giggles as he takes the left chair. “Perhaps, though you’re the guest of honor. Sit!” 

Megga Tyrell presents first, hoisting a white kitten with a black face up for all to see. 

“Darling,” says Margaery.

“Adorable,” says Tommen.

“Looks like it dipped itself in soot,” mutters Russell. 

The king and queen exchange a look. “On to the next, then.” 

And so it goes. Every time a kitten is presented, even if the Mother’s most perfectly crafted creation, Russell manages to find fault with it. Some are mewling too much, or might as well be mute. Some have too much softness to their limbs, or are too scrawny. Some have tasseled ears that look silly, or their ears are too plain. Once he dismisses an exquisite silver kitten with pale green eyes because it reminds him of another cat that stole a piece of bread. Margaery’s ladies wilt one by one, letting their offerings back onto the floor to search for new ones that will undoubtedly get rejected also. The Court of Cats seems more and more pointless when—

“Shoo! Get out! This isn’t your place, you mangy beast!” 

One of the servants is trying to drive a dirty yellow cat away from the others. She kicks it with her foot, but it dives back between her heels, almost causing her to trip. 

“What’s going on there?” Russell calls out. 

The woman swoops down and catches the cat, who struggles madly from between her brawny arms. 

“Apologies, m’lord, this one must’ve snuck in. I’ll throw it out right away.” 

“No, bring it here. I want to see.”

Tommen eyes the proceedings with new interest. The intruder is uglier than the bad cat that used to visit his window at night, sporting a crooked, scowling jaw and missing its left eye. 

“He’s a pirate cat,” Russell declares. “He lost his eye at sea.” 

“It sounds like you like him,” he says.

“I don’t like him—I respect him.” 

“That is a good start, is it not?” asks Margaery.

The cat seems to think not, as he starts yowling at the top of his lungs. 

“His name is Buttercup,” Russell says, and the king of cats cannot contain his glee. 

15

He is almost sixteen. Almost a man grown, and feeling half a boy. Lady Olenna pulled him aside in the garden the other day to insinuate about performing husbandly duties, which he knows he has to get around to doing sooner or later. But why not later rather than sooner? Margaery is three-and-twenty, in the bloom of her childbearing years, still fecund if they wait until he is eighteen or nineteen or twenty, and he is the king. 

He has to remind himself he is the king. At the small council earlier, murmurings arose that the Queen of Meereen was planning to make her way across the narrow sea and reclaim what she believed to be her birthright. Russell’s father, his Hand for the past few years, fumbled around the issue before admitting they were woefully unprepared should dragonfire chance to rain down upon King’s Landing. 

That has been my week—fire and bloodlines. 

He cannot imagine any two things less appealing to think about. Ser Pounce, Boots, and Lady Whiskers trail him into the royal apartments, sticking their tails up at Ser Boros as they glide past. His bedchamber is a welcome sight, made more so by Russell tickling a surly Buttercup on the bed. 

“From rags to the royal bedchamber,” he says when he catches sight of him. “This cat has the life bards dream of.”

“And what of your life?” Tommen asks as he sits by them. Buttercup hisses and slides off to lurk beneath. 

“My life? I am the king’s dearest friend, of course! I whisper poison in your ear and thus I am well contented.”

“You do not.” 

They stare at one another, until Russell goes cross-eyed and sticks his tongue out of the side of his mouth. Laughter bubbles from Tommen’s throat, spreading to the corners of his eyes and falling down as tears. When it dies down, he feels a sudden emptiness.

“I am glad our mothers made us friends.”

Russell snorts. “Our mothers didn’t make us do anything, no more than you made me adopt my Buttercup.” 

“It seems like everybody is making me do things. My mother, the small council, even Margaery, sometimes. I am—I wish we could go be pirates.”

He feels the impact of arms being thrown around him immediately after he says it, the hug as instantly comfortable as it is crushing. “My poor king of cats,” Russell whispers. “They mean to take you away from me.”

I am king, Tommen thinks. But that does not mean he is free.

[bae-leth]

I had a bunch more stuff I wanted to say about Faris and Natalia’s relationship in the Fraldarddyd family AU but I thought it would be easier on everyone to put all my thoughts in one submissions instead of sending a dozen asks this time. Also, lol, I can’t believe I keep coincidentally giving these characters the names of your relatives, what the heck???

Let’s just go over Faris first. He’s a friendly and social guy. He’s obsessed with the stars and can talk about them for hours if given the chance. He’s a smart guy and super politically savvy, perfectly at home in even the most cutthroat political climates. He’s known to be very mischievous and prone to pranks, though the less he likes you then the harsher his pranks can be. He and Natalia are the same age but he’s a couple months younger, which she loves to hold over him especially after he grows taller than her. He and Zain are pretty close despite Zain loving to give his little brother shit whenever possible. I see him being magically gifted, so I imagine him as a Warlock. I see him mainly taking after Claude in terms of looks (I don’t really have a spouse in mind for Claude in this AU so I’m leaving that part kinda vague).

Strengths – Reason, Authority; Weaknesses – Axe, Brawl, Heavy Armor; Budding Talent - Lance

Zain is two years older than Faris and basically anyone who meets him considers him a stern and serious no-nonsense kind of crown prince. This is how he’s like around most people. However he allows himself to relax and show off a much more playful, emotional, teasing side around people he trusts wholeheartedly (his immediate family and a small handful of friends). He resembles his brother in having the same eye color and skin tone, but Zain looks much more rugged and mature. Unlike Faris he is perfectly at home on the battlefield, being a renowned Sniper with plenty of victories to his name. He never became a Barbarossa like his dad cause he’s scared of heights. He enjoys the ocean a ton, so he’s always up for ocean voyages and will take any and every chance to explore coastlines.

Strengths - Bow, Axe, Authority; Weaknesses – Faith, Flying; Budding Talent - Riding

The whole engagement thing between Faris and Natalia is largely unofficial and both sides mainly just want their kids to become close to promote good relations between Fodlan and Almyra. Although things would really work out the best if the pair did become romantically involved but no one is really pushy about it. Especially since Faris and Natalia just do NOT like each other. Honestly the only thing stopping the first meeting between the royal children from being a complete disaster is that both Faris and Zain quickly become attached to Artemis (prince of stealing hearts without even trying). Faris and Artemis latch onto each other since they have so much in common (second princes, good at magic, similar weaknesses, bookworms, etc) while Zain ends up considering Artemis like another little brother while Artemis really look up to Zain (it’s thanks to Zain that Artemis’ budding talent is bows). Also Zain actually ends up being friendly with Natalia too (he likes her strong, honest personality and honestly he finds the disaster that is hers and Faris’ relationship hilarious, plus she thinks he’s super cool and likes sparring with him). So it’s literally just Natalia and Faris at odds with each other.

“If you like Artemis so much, why don’t you marry him instead?!” “Maybe I will!” “Fine!” “Fine!” “FINE!” “FINE!!!” *Zain and Artemis in the background, talking about their favorite desserts and not getting involved in their siblings’ fight*

“Claude I’m starting to doubt if this will work out. The two of them hate each other.” “Well Felix hated you plenty for a few years and look at you now. Adorable little lovebirds, a love story perfect for the bards to sing of!” “Listen here you little-” “Felix please.”

In order to try and help Natalia and Faris get along they’re both sent to visit each other’s homeland a bunch over the years. Occasionally the whole family goes but the rulers can’t keep running off all the time. So most of the time it’s Natalia (and Artemis because Natalia barricaded herself in her room until her dads agreed to let her take Artemis along “to see that stupid Faris’ face”) visiting Almyra for several weeks and then a little while later it’s Faris visiting Fodlan, particularly Faerghus, for several weeks (only bringing Zain when he’s in a particularly bad mood thanks to Natalia since Zain keeps making fun of him otherwise).

Faris is kinda sorta okay when he’s in Faerghus, even though it’s absurdly cold most of the time. Hell, every time he thinks he’s wearing enough the weather proves him wrong. Natalia keeps laughing at him when he has to dress up like a marshmallow in order to go out in Faerghus winters. Natalia is very brutal in snowball fights…RIP Faris. He definitely prefers to stay inside by the fireplace, though Natalia is insistent on dragging him outside. It usually ends in him spending the last few days of his stay sick in bed.

Natalia, like Dimitri, is dead in heat so every time she goes to Almyra she spends around a week just laying on her bed wearing as little as proper manners will allow. Faris alternates between “helping” by practicing his ice magic on her or otherwise relying on her need to do better than him to goad her into playing with him. Though he had to lay off on that after Natalia got heatstroke once.

Natalia considers it a personal insult that her beloved horse absolutely adores Faris when he’s usually very picky about who he allows near him (“Ares, how could you do this to me?!” *neighs* “Oh don’t give me that attitude young man!”)

Faris, in the meanwhile, is not pleased by how his retainers-in-the-making are absolutely smitten with Natalia (“Did you see her in yesterday’s spar with the new recruits? She could break my spine and I’d thank her.” “Please, sweet embrace of death, come for me.”)

Artemis and Zain start being regular pen pals as they compare archery notes, seek advice from one prince to another, talk about recent events in their homeland and in their lives, and complain about their siblings/commentate on whether or not they’ll get together.

“I don’t know, Zain, after that incident with the birds Sister said, and I quote, ‘The next time I see that scrawny piece of *ahem* garbage, he’s dead. Almyra will be down a prince and they’ll be all the better for it.’ So I’m saying no.” “I’d agree with you, especially since Faris has been disturbingly interested in researching dark magic after eating those ‘super special Faerghus delicacies’ Natalia brought last time. But for as social as he is my brother is normally never so obsessed with anyone, so I think we may have a romance for the ages on our hands, my friend!”

The two of them play PLENTY of stupid pranks on each other over the years. Sometimes they flat out got into physical fights with each other. The people of Fodlan and Almyra have long since gotten used to the sound of Faris and Natalia yelling at each other and then the sound of crashing and punching.

That being said, not everything was bad between them. That one time Natalia got heatstroke, Faris was genuinely apologetic and worried about her and kept her company while she was bedridden. Likewise Natalia does feel bad when she keeps getting Faris sick while trying to show off Faerghus to him and will read him adventure stories to pass the time. Also I love the idea you mentioned of Faris trying to help Natalia get over her low spice intolerance (to mixed results, Natalia’s just glad she no longer downs an entire pitcher of water on her own after eating Almyran food). One time when a Faerghus noble child made a snide remark about Faris being Almyran, Natalia tackled the brat to the ground.

Faris, holding a tissue to Natalia’s bloody nose: “I thought you didn’t like me.” Natalia, very obviously confused: “??? What does not liking you have to do with you being Almyran?” Faris: “Heh, I suppose you’re right for once.”

“Zain, I think I want to change my opinion. Sister and Faris may have more of a chance than I originally thought.” “What did I tell you, Artemis? Romance for the ages…”

As the years pass and Natalia and Faris both grow and mature and mellow out, the two of them start to consider each other friends. They speak more, debate more, discuss their interests more, and slowly start to enjoy spending time together. Eventually it gets to the point where the two of them joke around about their kinda sorta engagement to each other. Natalia singing the absolute worst love songs while Faris writes the cheesiest poetry and love letters imaginable. Calling each other cutesy pet names, those kind of shenanigans.

Honestly, they mostly do it just to fuck with poor Zain and Artemis, who didn’t ask for this bullshit but are stuck with it anyways.

“Artemis, I need you to kill me, I can’t tolerate them anymore.” “Come now, Zain, it’s not so bad! Hey, why don’t we go for a ride on Altena? That always calms me down!” “I cannot stress enough how much I would rather die than do that…” “What are you trying to say about my sweet Altena, huh?” “Would you stop taking it as an insult against your wyvern every time?!”

Natalia starts teaching Faris about fighting with lances. And Faris helps Natalia grow more used to handling politics.

Honestly, there was something special growing between them for quite some time after they started getting along better, but neither of them really recognized what it could be. But they kept getting closer and closer as time passed. At public events they stuck by each other’s side and often danced together. They were seen going off on rides together or just taking walks while talking.

Faris is the first one to recognize his feelings when he comes along to help Natalia out with a skirmish. The pair make a great team in battle, covering for each other’s weaknesses well. Faris, too exhausted after a large number of enemies surrounded him, is almost taken down from behind when Natalia saves him. His joke has a fair amount of relief and gratitude in it when he says “Thanks for the help, sweetheart!” But WOW when Natalia turns to him with the most dazzling smile on her face, looking like she practically glowing with the sun behind her, Faris feels like his heart stops. “Anytime, honey!” And Faris just keeps staring after her as she rushes off after another enemy.

Natalia was always pretty but Faris has never actually acknowledged how pretty until that moment. And his heart won’t stop racing, her smile and voice still in his head. And oh fuck, oh shit, he knows exactly what this is…

“Zain, you umm…you wouldn’t happen to know when the next visit to Fodlan is, would you?” “…Why do you ask, my dear little brother? :))))))” “…Are you going to tell Arty about this?” *Zain, pulling out a piece of parchment and quill* “What gives you that idea????”

Faris regrets everything when his parents and brother don’t let him live it down that he’s now realized he’s in love with Natalia. “Whatever happened to ‘I’d rather become a hermit and die alone and unloved on a barren mountain than ever marry her’ Faris? Seven-year-old you was soooo dramatic!” “Father, please.”

Things don’t change too significantly after Faris’ realization. But there are changes. He’s noticeably softer around Natalia, smiling gently around her or going along with her wishes more easily. Most of his pranks towards her tone down to being things that give her pleasant surprises. The most significant change comes from the love letters and poems purposefully written badly for jokes slowly becoming more sincere sounding and really sweet.

Natalia doesn’t know what to make of the changes. They’re odd but she’s more surprised by how much she enjoys it. She even reads Faris’ letters and poems over and over well into the night. A warm and peaceful feeling spreads through her every time she gets a new letter from Faris or he holds her closer than usual during a dance.

She doesn’t realize it’s love until sometime later when she visits Almyra. Faris is so bright and excited as he drags her outside in the dead of night because the skies are so clear that you can see way more stars than normal and it’s soooo beautiful. Faris happily explains the stories behind all the different constellations and laughs so happily recalling some of his favorite tales. Natalia stares and stares at him and thinks that she could watch him smile and laugh like that forever. At some point Faris starts holding her hands and pulls her close to him as he keeps pointing out constellations and telling her stories. And Natalia tries so hard to concentrate on his words but all she can focus on is his hands and how warm they are and so much bigger than hers and how she wants him to keep holding her and-Oh. Ooohhhh…Oh fuck…

“So, Sister, you enjoyed your last visit to Almyra a lot, didn’t you?” “Hmm? What gave that away, Artemis?” *Natalia, lying on her bed surrounded by all of Faris’ letters and poems to her, giggling to herself as she reads them* “…Just a hunch.”

“Felix, it seems Claude was right. He tells me Faris is rather obviously smitten. And it’s easy to tell Natalia is in love. While I’m sad at how quickly the children are growing up, it’s wonderful to see them so happy, isn’t it?” “Uh-huh yeah sure, do you think this blade is sharp enough or should I take it back to the blacksmith? I want it ready before the Almyrans come visit next month.” “…Why are you-?” “You know damn well why.” “Felix.”

“Well it seems you and I will get to call each other ‘brother’ soon enough, Artemis! Or well, hopefully soon enough. It depends on how long it takes our stubborn siblings to take those final steps.” “Agreed. But I’ve already thought of you as my brother for a long time now, Zain. We’ve known each other for so many years! Your one of my dearest friends and my brother in all but blood. :)” “…” “??? Zain, are you crying-?” “*sobs* NO, I’m not!”

[peacefiresky-archive]

an interview with a dragonborn

(featuring @skyrimlesbian‘s syrabane! armel’s backstory, Straight From Her Very Talkative Mouth)

“So your name isn’t Armel?” Syrabane was seated opposite of her in the nearly-empty tavern. 

“Arthmaël’s my full and legal first name,” Armel said, “It’s a traditional thing, a sort of… a compromise between my mothers. Armel is the Breton version, and Arthmaël is how it’s spelled in the Nord way.”

“I didn’t know you were half Nord!”

“I’m not - not really, at least. But when my father —” Armel paused for a moment, her head bowing slightly, “ — when my father was killed alongside the rest of the Blades, a kind Nord woman agreed to help my mother through her pregnancy. So, I was raised with Nord traditions, which is why I still honor Ysmir and Sheor, so-on-and-so-forth.”

“Do you worship Talos?”

Armel flashed a cheeky grin. “No. Not really. Hjalti Early-Beard was a damn tyrant. But the woman who raised me did, and I say I do just to piss off the Thalmor.”

“Speaking of your parents… you mentioned you grew up as an orphan in Bruma. Your father was a Blade; but what of your mother?”

“Lady Saga was a Nord noble from Skyrim and a... close friend of my mother’s after my father’s death. After the Great War, she helped raise me, even moving in with my mother and I. I was young, keep in mind - I never knew my father. He died a month or so before I was born. Lady Saga was the only second parent I knew.” A sad smile formed on Armel’s face. “She worshipped Talos. Very devout. When the Thalmor found out, though, my mother and I were condemned by association. My mother saved me by hiding me in the Chapel of Saint Martin’s undercroft. I haven’t… seen them since. But I know they didn’t…”

Syrabane nodded, pausing for a moment. “I’m sorry that happened to you.”

“Don’t see how it’s your fault.” Armel nudged her a bit. “I think that’s why I manage to get along with Rindolin, though. We both lost our folks to the Thalmor.”

Syrabane gave a small smile. “Perhaps that’s why. After your mothers… passed, what did you do?”

“I was around eight. I spent most of my time in St. Martin’s or on the streets. That’s where I met Badbr and Xun.”

“Ah! That’s where you two know each other from!”

“Aye! We were thick as thieves, we were!” Armel leaned forward in her seat a bit, growing excited. “Badbr and I always sat and fought with sticks in the chapel, and Xun would always watch and cheer us on. I loved tellin’ ‘im stories, too, see — Sheor’s bones, I loved that kid. Scrawny little thing, you’d think he’s a green Breton. Gentle as Mara’s rain and twice as kind! 

“And Badbr — oh, she was fierce, had this fire that wouldn’t go out, even in Bruma’s snow! But they decided to go north, see, find a better life in Skyrim in an Orc stronghold. I missed them when they were gone, but I was… I was glad for ‘em. ‘Course I was. They were my best friends, and I wanted them to be happy and safe. I hope he’s happy now - Xun, I mean. On the other side.”

Armel sat back, her face becoming more solemn. “I, uh, I was noticed by this man after they left. A spell-knight. Said his name was Ivan - real big Nord. Had this lovely, beautiful lass as his wife - but she could just as easily knock him and anyone to the ground like the winds of Kyne. They couldn’t have children, since they had met past the good age for child rearin’. See, I was always pretty good at magic and decent at fighting. He had the idea that he could take me in, train me as his heir. I was made into an official member of the Order of Spell-Knights.” Mel smiled a bit. “But I was prideful. Arrogant, even. Always have been. I blame it on the Dragonblood now, and with Paarthurnax and you to keep me right, I’m doin’ okay. I can manage my… my undue anger. But back then, anyone could tell I wasn’t quite… right, and no one quite knew how to calm down a Dragon.”

Armel shifted, diving back into her story, “I scared folks half to death by climbing onto the peaks of the roofs and jumping off. I had the habit of collecting books, of all things - I had tonnes of them. Most of ‘em I never even read. I was always quick to fight, and I didn’t know how to back down when I needed to. After a fellow knight - Timothe - discovered a, uh… a private matter of mine, tensions were high between us. It all exploded in a brawl after we both had a few too many drinks.” Armel reached up and tucked her hair behind her left ear. “I lost half my ear in the fight, and got this scar here,” her fingers traced the arched scar on the left side of her face, “and got expelled from the Order.”

“That’s when you decided to come into Skyrim, yes?”

“Aye. Had the fancy that I’d recover some lost artifacts of the Order and restore my status. And I did!” Armel gestured to her armor, “But, ah, not before I got roped into the whole… Alduin business.”

“You were with us when it occurred, right?”

“Mostly. I’d just killed my first Dragon when we met in Ivarstead.” Mel scrunched her nose, a bit playfully. “That’s why I was so touch-and-go back then. Balancing saving the world and mercenary work. Then you saw me absorb a Dragon’s soul, and… well, you found out, and I figured, ‘I’m gettin’ ready to go fight the Harbinger of the End Times, I’d better tell my fuckin’ friends in case I lose and everything goes to shit!’ So, I did. And I brought Badbr to meet Paarthurnax, and I went to grab an Elder Scroll, and I went to Sovngarde, and —”

“You went to Sovngarde?”

“Aye.”

Syrabane blinked. “So, that… wasn’t a bard’s tale. You fought Alduin in Sovngarde.”

Armel grinned. “Aye. Didn’t you hear the battle?”

“I’m fairly sure everyone heard! But I didn’t know that you went into a different plane!”

“I brought back a flower!”

“You what?”

“I’m gonna propose to Badbr with it. Some day! Not - not right now, but some day, I hope. The flower never wilts, but it looks like a normal mountain flower… I have it safe in my pack right now.”

“Ah.” Syrabane smiled a bit, jotting something down in her journal. “Well… I believe that’s mostly everything. Thank you for your sharing your story.”

“Thanks for lettin’ me.” Armel grinned. “We still got plenty of adventures to go on. Maybe once we’re done and old, you could write a book.”

“No one would believe it.” 

“So what? It’d be one hell of a good read, I think. You could title it something cool! A Ragtag Team of Traumatized Adventurers Try to Save the World and Somehow Succeed or somethin’.”

Syrabane laughed lightly. “Maybe one day. We’ll see.”