#prompt: bard guards

[roleslayingweek]

Day 2

Today's prompts: Fire and Bard Guards!

[roleslayingweek]

[image ID: Noise twirls their baton around with their left hand, making circles in the air. Music notes and stars surround the motion lines. Their right arm extends in the opposite directly for flair, and their face is drawn in profile, showing their eyepatch and a large grin. End image ID.]

~Let's make some Noise~

For day 2 of @roleslayingweek2023! I've been meaning to draw Noise for ages and this was a good opportunity to do so.

Also dang I think this is the first copics work I've uploaded to my art blog?? I'm not sure why but I felt compelled to colour this piece traditionally. I'm very pleased with how it turned out 🎶���

[geraskierfanficprompts]

Prompt 43

Geralt will never admit it, but he loves when he dreams. It's soft, and weak, and bordering on psychotic, and yet the dreams are the best thing to ever happen to him. It all started when he opened his eyes to find himself in a field of buttercups and dandelions, with a man stood in the middle, playing a tune on his lute. He was a young man, looked to be barely a man, in all honesty. He introduced himself as Jaskier and pestered Geralt the entire dream until he finally woke up. But every time he dreamt, he dreamt of Jaskier again, until he began to look forward to it, every night. It must be some sort of sick lucid dreaming, given that Jaskier also began to grow closer affections to Geralt. Geralt was quite good at dreaming if you ask him. Over the years, he imagined Jaskier differently. He grew into himself more. Looked more 'complete' in a way. More confident. Jaskier begins getting more and more affectionate, until one night he kisses Geralt. They do a lot more kissing from then on. They fuck, and cuddle, and Jaskier plays with Geralt's hair, and sings him songs, and they kiss, and laugh, and talk, and it's all in their sunny paradise. Geralt appreciates the relieve from the cruel realities of world every night. He thinks it must be a bad trait for a witcher, but he watches Jaskier laugh at his own joke for the fourth time that hour and realizes he doesn't really care if it makes him a worse witcher. It isn't until the night Jaskier mutters "Oh Geralt, how I wish you were real." that Geralt realizes their dreams might not be as fake as they had both apparently assumed.

[abloginnameonly]

BWeird OC-tober Community Week

frog belongs to me and Brandy Alexander belongs to lancelought

~ ~ ~

...As the already low rations fell further with the new mouths to feed, tensions among the crew rose in kind. The captain wondered if, by being unable to pay the moral price of leaving the shipwreck victims behind, she would be faced with an even heavier burden, for surely all of them - crew and new passengers alike - would starve if they did not reach land soon.  ‘All of them���…should a mutiny not thin our numbers first, she thought grimly and stepped once more into her quarters away from the eyes of her crew made sharp with hunger.  Every hour of the day, she had kept her keenest-eyed sailors watching for the gleam of the lighthouse through the cursed fog that cloaked the sea, that muddled their navigations-

“Ah-” Frog interrupted cautiously, and Brandy broke off from her train of thought, waiting for him to realize the end of his sentence.

The bitter ocean scene faded from her mind’s eye as she came back to full awareness of the room, and she took the moment to catch her breath. Rather than the spartan quarters of Captain Navedo, evidence of Brandy’s presence saturated her own cozy apartments. She liked to say there was a method to her madness, but truthfully, the clothing and canvases and sheet music came to their resting spots on the whims of the moment and were picked back up the same way. This was one place that Brandy didn’t have to temper her overflowing personality; despite the abundance of color and texture and appearance of endless activity, this was where Brandy could relax. The lamps were bright and plentiful, and plush pillows adorned any surface that a body might rest on. Home, or at least the one she’d made for herself. 

This was made more true by the presence of the smallest member of her family. Brandy knew that Frog visited Sydos to hone his senses against magic, and Nines had convinced him to make weekly wellness check-ins with them (“Please, at the very least through the winter,”) but Brandy didn’t have very much in common with Frog and struggled to think of a reason to see him. For someone without hobbies, he was very protective of his time. 

So, she invented one! She asked if she could practice her storytelling on him on the grounds that he was very honest in his opinions and that goblins have historically had a very strong oral tradition. Goblin narratives had a much more interactive element than the usual teller-and-audience, with call and response and questions and interruptions to shift the narrative in a unique direction each time. It was a very fluid and thoroughly enjoyable quasi-improv method that Brandy loved to practice, and she was hoping that it might coax Frog back into his voice, if not also his severed roots. 

With moderate success, she mused while Frog pondered his words. She had them seated in her smaller parlor that faced her neighbor’s small snow-covered garden rather than the front room overlooking the street. Here, Frog was perched on a mostly-cleared loveseat (and looking so charming, might she add, pale blue against peach fabric) with his wide ears flattened back in concentration. He’d seemed to enjoy the story thus far and especially testing his own insightful ear against her talent for words. The nautical tale was borrowed from a friend…oh, nearly 200 years ago now with a charming cast of characters, but Frog liked them grim and on the brink of disaster, so she would trust that Pinya wouldn’t mind the alteration of one of the shipwrecked into a masquerading siren who was trying to charm the ship further into danger. Frog had already expressed his skepticism at the captain's choice. Brandy readied her poker face to obfuscate the plot twist. 

“...A lighthouse…” Frog said at last, sounding skeptical. “...It's a place of Safia?”

“Oh!” Brandy laughed. Charmed, and maybe a little flattered that Frog’s instincts would identify a "House of Light" as Safian. Already, the imagery and connections were swirling together into a hearty but lonesome lighthouse keeper taking in a weary traveler, bundled against the harsh coastal wind, perhaps with short white hair…

“No, no.” Brandy shook her head. “Not quite. Or…at all, I suppose, but understandable! It’s actually- So, you know how the ocean coast-”

“No,” Frog interrupted again. 

“Right, right. Apologies.” Brandy put a finger to her chin. “But you do know about oceans.”

“...I guess,” Frog said with a huff of air. “...It’s just big water. They have sand.”

Brandy felt a faint stirring in her rib cage. It seemed such an injustice that Frog’s life had left him so uncurious about the natural world he seemed to prefer. For someone so nosy to look at new information with the mistrust of a dangerous weapon and anything not immediately present with a tired indifference. He was eleven years old, he’d told her once, no longer a boy but still a young man, and yet he’d already decided that he’d gotten everything he'd care to out of his life. At eleven! Goblin or no, she was in her hundreds and still chasing the feeling of falling in love with the world anew. But he was stubborn like that, and cared little for her pretty hypotheticals, so Brandy settled that spark, for now, deeper in her breast. 

“Well,” Brandy explained sunnily. “Ocean coasts are varied, just like any other landscape. Sometimes they’re smooth and sandy beaches, you’re right, just perfect for taking walks on, but sometimes they’re all rock and cliffs. Very dramatic when the waves crash against them with great thunderous sprays of water that you can hear from all around, but very dangerous for ships. The water tends to be fast and rough,” Brandy magnanimously refrained from a suggestive quip. “And there’s often rocks just under the water as well. So, people build lighthouses on these coasts to warn ships with lights and horns.”

“...Bright and dangerous. ‘Stay away,’” Frog murmured with the smallest glance down to his pastel hands. To Brandy’s gold filigreed ones. Then he frowned suddenly. “You said that they were looking for the lighthouse,” he accused. “They shouldn’t be going toward it then.” 

“Well, no, not straight toward it, but for people lost at sea, a lighthouse is also going to be the first thing they see to let them know they've reached land, even if they can't land yet. No matter the context, it’s always good to see a lighthouse - it always means to help.” 

Frog looked more noticeably to Brandy’s hands and then back his own. Then met her eyes, accusing once more, but not saying anything this time. Hearing a hidden meaning, but not wanting to engage with it. Pouting and stubborn, it still made Brandy smile, even as she quietly burned. 

"...Okay," he grumbled. "...Keep going, then."

She picked her narration back up. Frog stayed another hour or so and Brandy offered food that he always declined, and then he slipped back out to wherever he settled himself for the night, and they didn't talk about the promise that she held behind her teeth.

I can sing you the rushing wind. I can paint you its crashing waves. But upon my oath, one day you will finally be free to see it.

[faithschaffer]

The prompt list is here! This year's prompts are themed around the wielder- who uses the sword?

I hope this list proves inspirational for those who design swords exclusively and those who may want to design a character along with a sword. Also please remember you do NOT have to use my prompts, they are just here if you want to use them. Have fun! 

The list written out:

1-Witch

2-Wizard

3-Rogue

4-Dragonslayer

5-Spymaster

6-Knight errant

7-Oracle

8-Jester

9- Royal Hunt Leader

10-Healer

11-Queen

12-King

13-Royal heir

14-Royal guard

15-Enchanter

16-River spirit

17-Forest spirit

18-Bard

19-Alchemist

20-Summoner

21-Mermaid

22-Vampire

23-Vampire Hunter

24-Barbarian

25-Inquisitor

26-Artificer

27-Assassin

28-Druid

29-Paladin

30-Necromancer

[roleslayingweek]

[image ID: Noise sits on a fancy white staircase with their legs crossed. His eyebrows are slightly furrowed and his mouth shape indicates he could be sighing. The staircase railing behind him is gold, with the purple lower bars resembling a musical score and notes. Many parts of the piece reflect light, such as the railing, Noise's boots, pants, and gems, the golden edge of their eyepatch, and most noticeably, his eye. End image ID.]

2nd day of RSWR WEEK!

featuring NOISE:3

[bouncybongfairy]

Not A Peep

Simon (Ghost) Riley x Fem Reader Smut

Summary: You're a medic on Task Force 141 and Ghost finds out you have a thing for him when you get flustered stitching him up. Once you guys get back to the barracks, he fucks your throat under a desk.

Word Count: 1.0k+

Ref Account: @kaionyx

TW: Dom Ghost, Face Fucking, Rough Smut, BJ Under Desk

<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3

It was easy to separate yourself from all the stories being told while studying to be a combat medic. Tales about women falling for soldiers and then being immortally traumatized from watching the war take its effect on him. Whether it be emotionally or physically, the horror stories were gruesome. One teacher talked about how she had to treat her fiance after he’d been shot in the arm, apparently it fucked her up for a while. In a way, you would mock the fact that anyone would put themselves in that situation. Falling in love with someone with such a high risk job. It seemed like common sense not to put your heart on the line, especially when it could affect your job. 

That was until I met Simon and you started to understand that those wives tales weren’t so far fetched. The two of you didn’t talk much but it always felt like there was so much tension. Constantly making eye contact, becoming flustered and tongue tied whenever he spoke to you. Avoiding him when you could, not liking the feeling of your heart racing when you did. He held so much emotion in his eyes, like he was projecting his thoughts through eye contact. On a recent mission, a bullet brushed past the area above his hip bone; creating a laceration that needed stitches. Barding into the tent and pulling his pants down and shedding his gear.

 Immediately you get on your knees, pulling everything you needed to treat him out of your tactical vest. Looking up just before starting the first stitch, he was already looking down at you. His eyebrows were furrowed and his eyes were narrowed onto you. Blood was running down, trailing down the contour of his v-line. Hands started shaking slightly, especially as he started to moan and curse in pain. Even though you were fully aware his reaction was from discomfort, you couldn’t but imagine if it… wasn’t. 

He was watching you like a hawk, swiveling his head to watch you whenever you grabbed gauze. All hope that he didn’t notice you acting flustered was ditched when you started feeling dizzy, swaying a little. He grabbed your arm to prevent you from falling, your partner taking over. Now back in the barracks, you took a long hot shower. Trying to figure out why you got so in your head, the water began to run cold. Prompting you to get out and get dressed, walking back into your room. Ghost who was stripped of gear, laying back on the bed supporting his weight with his elbows. 

“Do you need me to redress that for you?” you asked, assuming he was waiting to see you about his wound. 

“No. Do you need me to undress you?” he asked, sitting up. 

“I- What?” you asked, taken off guard. 

“Do you. Need me to. Undress you?” he asked slower, like you were too dumb to answer the question. 

“I don’t understand-” you began saying. 

“No no, I saw you today. The way your eyes widened when you were on your knees in front of me. The desperation and neediness was so potent I could practically smell it on you. I could have taken you right there if I wanted, forced myself into your throat. So hot and bothered you couldn’t even do your job, I consume your thoughts. Don’t act like I don’t” he said, backing you against the desk that was in the corner. 

“I don’t-” he interrupted. 

“Wanna say something you regret,” he said, running his thumb over your bottom lip. Dipping it into your mouth, feeling around to see your reaction, “I think it safe to say that if you didn’t want my cock, you wouldn’t be sucking my finger like a whore. Would you?” he asks, you shake your head and in response he gives you a sharp smack on the cheek.

“Would you?” he asks again, giving you a chance to correct your answer. 

“Yes sir,” you say, melting at the way he looked at you. 

“Good girl, get under the desk.” He said, which you did without hesitation. 

He unzipped his fly, struggling for a second to free his member but finally got there. Sitting down in the office chair, rolling into the small space under the desk. Completely trapping you inside the small space. No longer being able to see above his shoulders, not that it mattered when his cock was right in front of you. Every time your lips finally encased his tip, he would use his hand and pull it away. You reach up and try to take his length into your hand. His voice booming through the room as he pulls away a couple inches to look you in the eyes. 

“Put your fucking hand down, you haven’t done anything to deserve it,” he said, scooting back in, using his hand to guide your head down. 

After all the teasing, the feelings of his cock pushing past your lips felt like heaven. Ever since you met him all you could think about was him ravaging you. Using your body for whatever he wanted. A loud groan coming from the back of your throat, his other hand was stroking your cheek. Slowly starting to push your head down further, you gagged which made him chuckle. 

“Fuck, I knew i’d eventually have you gagging around my dick,” he cooed, letting his head fall back. You looked up, now being able to see his exposed jawline. Reaching your hand down and starting to play with yourself. Spreading your wetness around and circling your clit. Moaning as drool and pre-cum started sliding down his shaft. He grabbed your hair and starting to fuck your mouth. His eyes were rolling back, feeling feral hearing the wet slobbering and slapping sounds. There was a knock at the door which made you squeal and try to pull away. 

“Shhhhh!” He hisses before clearing his throat and answering the door. However just before he does, he presses your head down, applying pressure with both hands on the back of your head. Forcing your lips all the way down to the base of his cock. 

“Yeah!” he yelled, Soap opened the door but remained in the doorway. 

“Have you seen y/n? We have training soon,” Soap asked while you were digging your fingernails into his boots, swallowing around his length which hurt slightly.

“Yeah, I think she went to get some fresh air,” Ghost said, stars were forming in your vision. Soap thanked him and promptly exited and Ghost finally let you pull back. Gasping for air and wiping the tears out of your eyes. He moaned as the cold air hit his dick just after getting used to your hot throat. 

“That’s a good girl, just breathe. Yeah, you’re a such a good fucking girl,” he snarled and pulled you back down on you. 

He stood up and balled his fist in your hair, and pinning his hands onto the top of the desk. Essentially locking you into place and he obliterated your throat. Making sure your nose was pressed into his base with every thrust. Not bothering to pull his cock out as he started came. Warm cum flooding down your throat and into your stomach. He pulled out, not wasting any time putting his dick away. You rested your upper body on the now empty chair that sat in front of you. Ghost squatted down and grabbed your wet chin to look up at him before speaking, 

“Firstly, you should thank me for feeding you before training. Secondly, I didn’t make you cum because you left scratch marks on my boot,” he said, walking out of the room.

[flowercrowngods]

Suggesting/Requesting Eddie having a crush on the valiant knight Steve Dustin goes on about, not realizing it's Steve "the Hair" Harrington and the way he reacts when he realizes they're the same dude. Cue adjustment period.

hi! first of all thank you for the prompt 🥰 i slipped and kinda decided to take your ‘valiant knight Steve’ quite literally and made this a medieval/regency au with knight steve and bard eddie, kinda enemies to lovers. it totally got out of hand, so this is part 1, with all my apologies to your original prompt 🤍🌷

Eddie smiles as the fields and forest that surround Hawkins come into view, kissed by the early afternoon sun with more affection and richness than the city probably deserves. It looks different this time of year, the green seems deeper than he left it, and nostalgia paints him a picture of glory and welcome that would make any traveller linger at the sight. 

He knows it’s only the magic of coming home, the thrill of having been gone so long that he needs to learn his town a-new, and the curiosity of a poet that makes his heart beat faster; but it’s his life’s blood to embrace all of that. So he spurs on his trusty horse to make it home even just a minute sooner. 

The people’s reactions to his arrival come in multitudes, though Eddie can respect the healthy dose of mistrust with which they regard him. He has made a name for himself after all, a bard more than a jester these days, but most people don’t tend to forget the pretty face they chased out of the city on multiple occasions. 

He lifts his head in greeting as he passes the elderly Wheelers as they’re tending to the flowers lining their windows, and grins with glee at both the disapproving scoff and the wary nod he gets in return. 

He’s in good spirits. Great spirits, in fact, the sun shining down on him, welcoming him and lighting familiar paths for him to tread again after years of absence. Hawkins will see his glory, his success, his victory, and it will pale in jealousy and regret. They cannot chase him away this time, not with the title of royal bard and winner of the bardic competition three years in a row. 

If his travels have taught him anything, it’s that he is pettiness acts as a wonderful motivation.

Of course, he shall also see his friends again. One of his saddlebags is half full with their letters that have accumulated over the years, all of which Eddie has kept for reasons of muse and a heart entirely too soft for his own good.

Most of all, though, even more than proving his worth and success to his city and its people, it is curiosity that brings him home. 

Dustin and his friends have been mentioning a most valiant knight, waxing poetic about his glorious deeds and his kinder heart — or, as poetic as they get, which is hardly at all. Which consequently made Eddie write no less than five ballads about the stories they told him, three of which have made it into songs yet, one of which he was made to play in every tavern on his long journey back to Hawkins and to Princess Nancy herself on more than one occasion.

The Knightmærs, as he calls his little collection of poeterey, his pride and joy about a man he has yet to meet. Tales about maidens saved and brothers defeated, hearts stolen and retrieved with the gentlest gestures, and children protected against the evils of night, expecting naught but friendship. And friendship he got. 

If Eddie’s heart picks up yet another notch at the thought of meeting this knight as the familiar city walls tower before him, he allows it for a second before announcing himself to the guards. They looked wary upon his approach and blanch now as they hear his name; Eddie does not hide his laughter this time and preens as he is told to ride on. 

“Oh, Hawkins, old friend,” he mutters under his breath, not even bothering to hide his smile. “You and I shall have so much fun, shan’t we?” 

~*~

He barely makes it to the home he has been sharing with his uncle since the ripe age of twelve with minimal fuss, unsaddling his horse and guiding her to the trough, when he hears it. 

“Eddie!”

Halting in his motions the currycomb, he looks up from the rusty brown that shines red like embers in the sun and spots Dustin racing down the street towards him. 

He lowers the comb and steps around his horse, grinning at his rapidly approaching friend. 

“Why, good day to you, young traveller, what brings you to my humble abode?” 

Dustin doesn’t falter in his approach, doesn’t even slow down, and Eddie braces himself for impact. Years of experience have made him quite practiced in handling tackle-hugs, but Dustin has grown quite a bit since he last saw him, and they both stumble backwards when Dustin’s arms wrap around Eddie in a way that seems to press all air out of his lungs. Eddie laughs as he hugs his friend back with as much ferocity. 

“I’ve missed you! I was writing to you this morning when I remembered you said you’d come this week. I didn’t think it would be today!” 

“I came as soon as I could. Such is the Munson way, or did you forget?” 

Dustin shakes his head and finally lets go, though Eddie yearns for another hug. It’s been too long. The boy has grown. He’s hardly a boy anymore, though he shall always remain as such in Eddie’s heart. He smiles and ruffles Dustin’s locks, realising with a pang that they’re almost of a height now. 

An ache like homesickness settles in his gut and wears on his heart heavily. 

“What is it? What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing,” he shakes his head, smoothing out the curls he’s put in disarray. “It’s just been too long. And I’ve missed you, too. You’ve grown quite a bit since last we talked.” 

“I have!” And he looks so proud of it, too, preening a little under Eddie’s faux scrutiny, and it’s what makes him pull Dustin against his chest again. 

Eddie continues taking care of his horse, feeding her, combing through her mane, making sure she has as much comfort as he can provide after their long days of travel. Dustin sits on the fence and watches him tend to her, feeding her the occasional apple when he thinks Eddie isn’t looking. He hides his smile and pretends not to see. 

God, but he has missed his friend. 

Their twosomeness is rudely and entirely too quickly interrupted by Lord Harrington of all people, who hurries down the street in search of Dustin. 

Eddie never did like the lord and his pompous appearance coupled with his rude personality. He always acted like a prince among men, subject to many a jest in Eddie’s younger days. On one memorable occasion, Eddie managed to steal the lord’s clothes and swap them with his own, making him walk about in linen rags and torn-up trousers. 

Days later, all of his lute strings ripped just as he was getting ready to play at the tavern, and he never messed with Harrington again — even though there was a parcel three days later with new lute strings and his old clothes he had made the lord wear. No note attached to it, because Lords didn’t stoop down to converse with lowly peasants even for revenge. 

So, seeing Harrington now on the very first day of his being back, it sours Eddie’s face and his humour. 

“Why, Lord Harrington,” he speaks before the man can get a word in. “To what do I owe the displeasure of seeing you here? Have you suffered a fall from grace yet, or was it a hit in the head that left you disoriented, bringing you to my humble abode?” 

Harrington frowns at him, though Eddie deems to detect confusion more than distaste. 

And then he has the audacity of not even answering to Eddie’s ruse, simply ignoring him and instead turning around to Dustin. 

“Dustin, Master Clarke is expecting you. I will not cover for you once more.” 

“But—“ 

“Spare me,” Harrington says, hands on his hips now, and Eddie is starting to feel defensive over Dustin. How dare his lordship come and steal his best friend away when he hasn’t even been home for an hour yet? 

Before he can get so much as a word in, however, Dustin is already jumping from his perch on the fence and trudging towards Harrington, rounding the man and leading the way up the hill towards the castle. 

“I’ll come back later, Eddie,” Dustin says over his shoulder, and then he is gone, rounded the corner, out of his sight. 

Harrington, however, lingers. Eddie raises his eyebrows in question and challenge, and the Lord scoffs a little. It’s like he wants to say something — but what could it be? What could Lord Harrington have to say to him, years after they last saw each other? 

He does look stunning, Eddie has to admit with a grudge against his self and his integrity. The golden light of the afternoon sun catches in his hair, likening it to strands of gold that kings and queens pay alchemists across the world to procure. Eddie, for a moment, feels like he has found it in Lord Harrington’s hair and the skin of his face, but he quickly snaps out of it, cutting off that particular train of thought before it can run away form him. 

“I hear you are a bard of great renown these days.” 

The words catch him off his guard, for Eddie was sure that the Lord would not attempt to converse. Yet it seems that propriety still has a tight grip on him. 

Does Harrington like his ballads, his plays, his poetry and sonnets? Has he heard them? Or has he heard of them? Has word travelled across the countries, telling of Eddie the Bard and his brave-hearted muse his soul yearns for and his quill bleeds for?

Eddie is not sure which option thrills him more, but whichever one it is, it makes him smile, feeling quite bashful and yet proud. 

“So you hear,” he says, approaching the stiff Lord. “What exactly is it that you hear, my Lord?” 

He swallows, following Eddie’s steps with his eyes, turning his head when the bard circles him slowly. “I hear you sing of beasts slain and brothers banished, a knight at the heart of your ballads.” Eddie smiles at that, knowing that Harrington has at least heard of two of his Knightmærs. I hear it sounds like mockery, the knight but an object of your hyperbolic fascination and flowery imagination, his pain and bravery nothing to you.” 

He stops dead in his tracks, his feet planted right before Harrington. The Lord looks like he is taking personal offence to his works, and it irritates the bard. 

“And what, Lord Harrington, would you know of fascination, pain and bravery? I cannot imagine you have faced a lot of hardship in your life, and the only acts of bravery you had to chance upon were mislead in the name of false honour.” 

“False honour,” Harrington repeats, his words like poison, sharp and dangerous as the sword’s blade at his hip. “You would know something about that, I imagine, telling stories of which you have no idea. Immortalising glory where there should be sympathy.” 

Eddie studies him, the frown between his brows, the hard line of his jaw, set and calmed to keep more words from spilling. Imposing, this Lord is. A sight for sore eyes even in his  purely misplaced anger. 

Eddie huffs, his eyes travelling between the Lord’s where they are standing so impossibly close. 

“Sympathy,” he repeats. “Nobody, my Lord, wants a ballad of sympathy. It is glory that the people seek!” He steps back from Harrington, gesturing with his arms as he dramatically recounts the lessons he has learned over the years, passionate for his craft. “Glory, heroism, heartbreak and love! Yearning and longing and deeds of an aching heart, that is what the people want to hear. That is what deserves to be immortalised in art, in poetry, in song! I shall forgive you for being so painfully unaware of this, my Lord, but I shall not stand to be in your company much longer, calling my work lacking or a mockery when it is borne out of nothing but loyalty, fascination and love.” 

They are close again, because Harrington did not step back when Eddie approached him once more, his feet planted like a tree, fierce and strong and unbudging. 

It is intoxicating, though Eddie blames half of it on the passion and the rage, on the bravery that possessed him to send the Lord away, or the fierceness with which he came to his muse’s defence. 

Harrington swallows again, his eyes wandering over Eddie’s face once more, lingering at his lips, both their jaws set in determination and perhaps a sudden tension.  

“Forgive me for insulting you with my company,” he speaks at last, his voice nothing but a rasp. “You will find there is an irony to your words soon. I shall not rob you of that discovery. I ask you do not take it out on our mutual friends when you do, Munson.” 

And with one last glance, Harrington turns on his heel and hurries up the hill, too, leaving Eddie puzzled and quite dazed upon the lingering warmth of their close proximity. 

When did Harrington become so handsome? There was a fire in his eyes that Eddie got to witness for just the blink of an eye, but he wonders where that comes from, what it means, and what other secrets he holds. 

Perhaps, if he cannot meet his muse, the knight Dustin has only ever referred to as Steve, Harrington might serve to inspire a ballad or two himself.

~*~

Harrington catches his eyes on more than one occasion over the next days. Eddie is invited to the castle to play for Princess Chrissy, though she greets him like an old friend and makes him sit close to her at the banquet. Right beside Harrington, who merely nods at Eddie, his fists clenched as Chrissy asks the bard about one of his ballads — the one about the valiant knight slaying a horde of monsters to keep the kingdom’s children safe. 

The Lord must really hate Eddie’s work. It fills him with spiteful glee, for some reason, and he makes sure to play and recite all of his Knightmærs that night. Harrington excuses himself when Eddie hasn’t even made it halfway through his songs, and he doesn’t return that night. 

He takes personal offence now and vows to make the Lord’s life as difficult as he can. 

But still there is no sign of Steve. 

Eddie is starting to get frustrated. 

He was supposed to be here, stand tall and proud with a smile on his face upon seeing Eddie, sweep him off his feet, make him swoon, dare Eddie to fall in love with the face long after the name. 

His mood is sour, and only sours further when Harrington rounds the corner and stumbles upon Eddie who is tuning his lute for tonight’s banquet. The annual royal tournament is set for the next morning, so everyone is in a good mood. 

Well, everyone except Eddie. And Lord Harrington, by the look on his face. 

“Munson,” he says, straightening before he bows his head in greeting. “Forgive me, I was looking for some quiet. I shall look somewhere else.” 

And, somehow, that is enough to snap his patience that was already wearing thin. “Why can you not stand being in my presence, sir?” he asks, rising from his seat. “Does it disgust you so to be around mere peasants?” 

Harrington looks taken aback, shock and confusion clear on his face before a frown takes its place and washes away all further emotions. 

“It is not your presence that bothers me, nor the nature of your birth.”

“And yet you leave every time I so much as strum a tune, Lord Harrington, ready to throw both caution and propriety to the winds. Leaving me to wonder what it is that I have done to deserve such treatment.” 

Eddie finds himself walking closer and closer to the Lord, coming to a stop not one foot before him. He is drawn in by his presence, his charm as alluring as his cold silence. Everything about Lord Harrington intrigues him, horrified as he is to admit it. But with Steve not around to catch his eye and captivate his heart and mind alike, he simply has to find inspiration elsewhere. 

And the way Harrington’s face is taken over by a dangerous expression is the most inspiring, alluring thing he has seen in a while, even though it is directed at him. 

“How can you have the audacity to feign confusion over my disdain, bard,” he hisses, and Eddie shivers slightly. Harrington does not even have the sense to step back, staying right where he is, so close, so improper. “How can you pretend it is not my life you have taken and made your own, singing songs and telling stories, making into nothing but a jaunty tale recited by drunkards with no regard to the blood it was written in.” 

Eddie blinks, not quite catching up with the point Harrington is making. 

“What—“ 

“You sing your ballads, your histories, your Knightmærs like you know what they mean. Making a mockery of me, stealing from me every chance to tell my tale in my own voice, in my own tempo. Entire kingdoms will know before I will have had the chance to wake up from a nightmare, and they sing about it, sing about pain they did not have the misfortune to suffer, sing with a smile, with booming voices because you make them. And yet the only one without a voice remains the one who slew the beast.” 

Lord Harrington speaks to him as though he takes offence at the content of Eddie’s ballads, offence at the reality of their background. But what right does he have to take offence when his songs are based on heroic deeds, recounted to him first hand by his very best friend. What right does Harrington have to question the truth behind them? 

“If it is a matter of truth that concerns you, let me reassure you, my Lord, that all of my ballads are based on true events. I ask that you do not call me a liar, no matter how great your dislike of my craft.” 

“It is not a liar that I call you, but rather a thief.” 

Eddie gasps, offended now. “What do you suggest I have stolen, then?” 

“A person’s right to their own story. To their own nightmares. A man's right to flee from the horrors he lived through, acquainting every tavern in this kingdom and the next with his horrific and desperate deeds.” 

“How dare you call his deeds horrific,” Eddie hisses now, feeling protective over his knight. “How dare you accuse me of ill intent when every word out of my quill is written with nothing but love and admiration.” 

“For whom?” Harrington challenges, disdainful and cold. “Only for yourself, your vanity, your overgrown sense of artistic ambition.”

“No,” he shakes his head, hands clenched into fists as he finds himself incredibly close to Lord Harrington, their faces only inches apart now. “It is love for this person I have never met, whom my dear friend has told me about. A man who has kept me awake at night as I was pouring over letter after letter, hoping he should be well. It is a love so strong it has to be turned into art, into song, love that should be sung in every voice of the kingdom.” He scoffs, stepping back to catch his breath. “I do not expect you to know such a love when all you have in your cold heart is disdain for all things beautiful. You would never know bravery if it looked you in the face, you would never know love if it was the very fabric that makes this world. It would slip through your fingers, my Lord, for you would be busy yearning for the day your life found its meaning.” 

He is seething, heaving breaths, out of control over the words tumbling out of his mouth. Insulted in his pride and his muse, offended, hurt. Confused, still, as to why the Lord hates his songs with such vigour. 

“Is that your opinion of me?” Harrington whispers, though even in that toneless voice of his lies so much that Eddie cannot begin to decipher. 

“Yes,” he whispers back, the fight leaving him now, the very air sucked out of the room they share. “I believe I made that clear just now.” 

Harrington takes one step closer once more, but Eddie does not budge. 

“Then I suggest you forget that knight of yours,” he says, quiet and final. “And forget the idea you have of love. To love someone is not to turn his nightmares into song. To love someone is not to look him in the eye and insult his very existence even further. You love yourself, your craft, your mind. But you do not love him. You would not recognise him if he shared the same breath as you.” 

Eddie huffs, just barely able to stop himself from rolling his eyes. “And what makes you so sure of that, Lord Harrington?” 

A smile twitches his lips, though there is no mirth, no glee. “You have just proven it to me, Mr Munson.” He takes a step back and evades Eddie’s eyes. “I believe you should return to the fest now. Good night.” 

And with that, he turns around and leaves. 

Eddie finds himself rooted to the ground, air returning to the room now but still he is unable to catch his breath, staring ahead as he is. 

Words echo in his mind as the picture paints itself and a horrible, horrible realisation dawns on him. 

You will find there is an irony to your words soon. 

How can you pretend it is not my life you have taken and made your own?

But you do not love him. You would not recognise him if he shared the same breath as you.

You have just proven it to me, Mr Munson.

But… There is no way. There is no way that Dustin’s friend, Dustin’s knight and protector, his saviour, Steve, should be the same as Lord Harrington with his careful, quiet, disdainfully quirked eyebrow. 

Except, Lord Harrington collected Dustin from Eddie’s home, speaking with him in a tone filled with such familiarity, they cannot be mistaken as anything but friends. 

And Lord Harrington had listened with such rapt attention when Eddie played his jaunty tunes and the well-known classics at the banquet days ago, looking like he enjoyed Eddie’s play. His face had only soured when people started requesting his newer original songs, his fists clenched upon the opening chords of The Knight and His Nightmare, leaving the hall altogether when people requested more. 

You sing your ballads, your histories, your Knightmærs like you know what they mean. 

Eddie’s heart falls when he realises what he has done. How blind he was to the frowns and the tension, how deaf to the hints and insinuations, how ignorant he was of the pain he inflicted on Lord Harrington. Lord Steven Harrington. Steve. 

His Steve. And yet not his at all.

He falls back onto the bench, dazed, as the weight of his realisation settles inside his chest. 

onwards to part 2

[roguishcat]

WIP Wednesday

💕Thank you so much for tagging me @inkymoonbunny and @honeybee-bard! 💕

This is the last one-shot for Augustarion that I will most certainly not finish in August. The prompt is DILF and it is mostly dialogue and random stuffs atm. But it will be something. I have a good feeling about it!

“Well, I never thought that I would be jealous of myself, but I guess here we are,” Astarion chuckled and pushed you gently before crawling onto the bed. “Just means that I have to try much, much harder, if I am to keep up with competition.”

“So… you are okay about the children part? I thought you hated children, you complain about them enough,” you blushed as Astarion played with the ties of your nightgown, gradually loosening them as he twirled them around his dexterous fingers.

“I complain about you taking in a stray after stray, yes. But being a father,” he paused a beat, “I never thought about it, admittedly. Not with the tadpole, constant fighting and near-death experiences being pretty much an everyday occurrence. But now that I am thinking about it… I wouldn’t mind it. With you, that is.”

You felt him pull at your underwear with his other hand, as he wiggled out of his own with impressive speed.

“Wait! Now? As in, right now?” you panicked as it sunk in. Your vampire seemed to have arrived at the conclusion that he would most enthusiastically start procreating as of this moment, and your sleepy self did not understand his intentions until he was literally on top of you.

“Yes,” he growled.

“No!”

“Yes.”

“Astarion!”

“Well, from what I heard of dhampirs, it is quite an undertaking that will require a rigorous routine. So, think of this as practice, us getting ready. And it’s not a race dear, it’s a marathon. One might say-”

You covered his mouth with your hand, because clearly Astarion was not done talking and him talking was usually just a way to distract you so you would drop your guard enough for him to pounce.

“But the others- hey!”

You felt him nip at your hand and quickly withdrew.

“Are not here and will not come back for a while, we have all the privacy we need. And anyway, you got me all worked up with all that sweet talk only to leave me feeling all blue? Oh, my dear, have mercy!”

No pressure tags: @fangbangerghoul, @preciouslittlebhaalbae,

@astarionancuntnin, @clazberryk, @pinkberrytea,

@busy-baker, @trashpandasaga,

@silent-words, @waterdeep-weavemoss, @orangekittyenergy

[betterluucii]

THINGKING

THINGKINGGG

CASUALLY INTIMATE VENLUMI

IM THINGKINGVGGG OUGHH

ITS LIKE THEYRE SO CASUALY AFFECTIONATE WITH EACH OTHER YOU WINT EVEN NOTICE IT UNLESS YOU REALLY FOCUS ON THEM LIKE

Just some small stuff like whispering or calling out their name can be so intimate for the both of them (especially since this is one of the easy ways of communication for lumine since she rarely uses her voice when communicating)

And like acts of service where lumine makes sure to peel and slice the apples for venti or when venti guards her head when she almost hits it from a sign (she has no spatial awareness when it comes to her head) OR or when venti makes sure lumine gets enough rest and checks up on her through the wind

And some other stuff too like they could be in a outdoor cafe/resto or just in the plains and lumine could give venti a bite of her food no questions asked or they could ever so slightly brush their fingers along each other and THEY'RE FLIRTING ( VERY SUBTLY BUT THEYRE FLIRTINGG )

ALSO SOME OTHER STUFF like venti could look at lumine for hours, studying how she looks like under the warm gaze of sunlight or the enchanting veil of the moon and the world would just stop like it was made for the two of them. Just silly people, a bard and a traveler yearning in silence

BUT ALSO THE FACT THAT LUMINE PAYS SO MUCH ATTENTION TO THE COLOR OF VENTIS EYES like she can decipher every shade of teal and blue that reminds her of home. AND and this homeliness is exactly what brings lumine closer to venti, it's that melancholic nostalgia that brings her comfort and the soft confessions that would come in between

And In these instances they didn't say the word love because they don't have to. They show it in small and subtle ways, their love is quiet, it is gentle and tragic because each time they find a way to cross paths but never do they ever go through the same one ( lumine being a traveler means she won't stay in one place too long/ searching for her brother/ leaving teyvat once everything is over and the fact that if prompted venti would wait in the hopes of her return)

[ghostinthelibrarywrites]

ooooh for the fake dating prompts: geraskier + #1? pretty please 💜

They were actually quite the good kisser, but they of course would never ever tell them that.

“We need a cover story,” Jaskier says. “If the Duchess thinks you’re here as a witcher, she’ll have her guards throw you out before you have time to get annoyed by all the people.”

Geralt wants to argue, but the bard actually has a good point. “I could pretend to be your bodyguard again. At a gathering this size, there have to be at least a few nobles there you’ve cuckolded.”

Jaskier wrinkles his nose, considering. “You showing up with swords might put her on her guard, whether you're here as a witcher or bodyguard."

“Then what do you suggest?” Geralt crosses his arms over the chest, scowling. After passing a couple of messages for the Redanian Secret Service, the bard thinks he’s some kind of mastermind at espionage.

Jaskier thinks for a moment, then brightens. “I know! You can come as my apprentice who is really my lover.”

“Why not just your apprentice?”

“Because no offense, Geralt, but no one is going to look at you and think you’re in training to become a bard. And gods help us if anyone asks you to sing. So it behooves us if they think that the only reason I keep you around is because of the service you provide to my instrument.” He wiggles his hips.

Geralt feels his lips twitch of their own volition. "Hm, not sure if we can pull that off."

“And whyever not?” Jaskier looks offended.

“If I’m your lover, you’d have to go at least three days without letting anyone else into your pants. Might kill you.”

“I can go three days without sex!” Jaskier plants his hands on his hips.

“Since when?”

“I went nearly two weeks without when we were traveling through Velen!”

“And you bitched the entire time.”

“I would have done that anyway. Velen is terrible.”

Geralt can’t argue with him there. “No one’s going to believe we’re really lovers.”

“Why not?”

"Because no one’s going to think that I’m the kind of person you take to bed," Geralt doesn’t say, thinking of the pretty barmaids and fancy nobles Jaskier normally pursues. Instead, he says, “There will be people you know there. They’ll have seen you with your lovers before.”

“And?” Jaskier arches an eyebrow.

Geralt searches for the right words for a moment. “When you’re sleeping with someone, you’re usually all over them. You can't keep your hands or your lips off them. It’s why you nearly get gelded for fucking the wrong person so often. You’re not subtle.”

Jaskier opens his mouth as if to argue, then closes it. “Then I suppose I’ll have to do that with you.”

Geralt snorts, skeptical.

“What?” Jaskier asks, taking a step closer. “You think it will be such a hardship, draping myself over you?”

The neck of Geralt’s armor feels a little too tight. Did he have it fitted wrong? “No one will buy it.”

Jaskier takes another step, moving into Geralt’s space. “Then we really should start practicing now.”

“I don’t need to practice,” Geralt growls. “I’m not a spotty youth who’s never held a girl’s hand before.”

Not that hand holding comes up much in his intimate encounters, but he’s not going to bring that up.

“Even the greatest master at his craft needs to keep his skills sharp.” Jaskier tilts his head to the side, studying Geralt’s face. “And you’re right. We’re only going to be able to sell this if we look like two people who are used to being intimate with each other. Kiss me.”

Geralt can’t quite school the surprise out of his face. “What?”

“Kiss me,” Jaskier says again. “Do you want to take the Duchess down or not?”

“Not sure how kissing you will help that.”

“We might need to kiss at some point to maintain our cover,” Jaskier says. “Best not to risk it, right?”

Geralt lets his gaze drop to Jaskier’s pink mouth. The bard’s lips have always been inconveniently pretty, especially when they’re parted in stunned offense or curled into a wicked smile. He almost says no, that he’ll figure out another way to get close to the Duchess. It’s best not to let Jaskier anywhere near a contract this dangerous anyway. Jaskier can go back to his succession of pretty lovers and Geralt can find and kill a monster, just like they always do.

He’s about to pull back when Jaskier seems to get tired of waiting for Geralt to make a move. Before Geralt can react, Jaskier’s lips are on his and suddenly, Geralt isn’t thinking about the Duchess or the contract anymore.

Jaskier’s lips are warm and soft against his, tasting of the wine they had with dinner. He doesn’t realize that he’s cupping Jaskier’s face in his hands until he registers the prickle of stubble against his palm. He slides one hand down, over the silky fabric of Jaskier’s doublet, warm from the bard’s body heat. Jaskier shivers as Geralt’s hand rests on his lower back.

Geralt drags Jaskier closer, breath hitching as Jaskier’s fingers tangle in his hair. He can hear Jaskier’s heartbeat hammering and can practically taste the arousal in the air. It would be so easy to drag Jaskier the short distance to the bed, to lose himself in Jaskier’s taste and the feel of him and…

Jaskier pulls away, blinking up at Geralt with the dazed look of someone emerging from a deep sleep. For a moment, they stare at each other. Jaskier’s pretty mouth is swollen from kisses, a sight that sends something hot and possessive surging through Geralt’s belly.

Jaskier clears his throat and laughs, the sound more high-pitched than usual. “And you think we couldn’t pull it off!”

“Pull what off?” It takes Geralt a moment to remember why they were doing this in the first place. The Duchess. The contract. Right.

“Pretending to be two people who are intimately acquainted.” Jaskier waggles his eyebrows. “Now you won’t have to pretend to be unable to get enough of my lips.”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “Sure, bard.”

“Oh, don’t lie to me. You have to admit, that was a damn good kiss.”

“I’ve had better,” Geralt lies.

Jaskier gasps, mouth falling open. It’s a sight that makes Geralt glad that his new armor has a codpiece. “Pure and utter slander! I’ve had it from reputable sources that I’m the finest kisser on this side of the Amell Mountains.”

“You know they’re paid to give you pretty compliments at the Passiflora, right?”

“Brute.” Jaskier pokes Geralt in the chest. “That’s a terrible thing to say to your pretend lover.”

“Forgive me,” Geralt says dryly. “I’ve never had a fake lover before.”

“And at this rate, you never will again.” Jaskier turns on his heel, nose in the air.

With the bard looking away, Geralt reaches up to touch his lips. He can still taste mulled wine and can still feel the warmth of soft pink lips against him. He’d like nothing more than to pull Jaskier close and lose himself in another one of those kisses.

But this is just pretend and Geralt can’t let Jaskier know the effect he has on him. So he wipes away the lingering taste of Jaskier with the back of his hand and goes to sharpen his sword. There’s a monster to kill, after all.

Fake dating prompts

Tag list: @kueble @mollymawkwrites @feral-jaskier @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde @dawnofbards @thisislisa @tsukiwolf42 @mosaicscale @rockysstupidity @fontegagrilledcheese @kuripon @help-i-need-a-cool-username @julek @flowercrown-bard @eveljerome

[mlmxreader]

Dragon's Tongue | Bard x gn!reader

『••✎••』

↳ ❝ Hi!

Can I request the prompts “Take it, I want you to have it” With Bard please? ❞

: ̗̀➛ Bard doesn't mind being in a relationship with a soldier, especially not one that's lost absolutely everything.

: ̗̀➛ violence & death, angst

•───────────────★•♛•★──────────────•

You coughed weakly as you started to stir, heat rising and bubbling from your stomach up to your face as you stretched and looked over next to you; Bard was still sound asleep, lying on his stomach with his arm draped across your stomach, his fingers splayed out so he could feel the rise and fall as you breathed.

You almost felt bad for it, in all honesty. Being awake so late while he was so sound. But you couldn't help it. The life of a soldier was an entirely different world than that of a bargeman, after all.

Everything you had seen, you could still picture it so clearly. You did your duties, you paid the price of a mile ten thousand times over - yet it felt like it had all been in vain.

Lucky to be alive, you were one of the few that survived from your regiment; one of the few to be saved by the very thing that Bard had been born to kill.

You had spent years defending a dragon that slept soundly within the mountains of a small island; you could still hear the steady rise and fall of its great breath, an earthquake beneath your feet, when it slept.

You could still feel the heavy vibrations when it grumbled and alerted you to danger. It wasn't like any other dragon; it had given its life to defend the people of part of the small island.

Towering in stature, its winged seemed to form two massive mountains on their own, its legs thicker than any stone or metal you had ever known. The smallest of its sharp and pointed teeth was still longer than you were tall.

But its red scales, shimmering in the golden hour sun, were always so beautiful. Brilliant crimson and ruby shades mixed with garnet and merlot. Its eyes were angular, and its tongue formed a massive pointed arrow at the end, almost identical to its tail.

Its great claws were able to tear apart even the heaviest of stones, and the spikes that littered its body seemed denser than anything else you could have imagined. The dragon never hurt anyone, though. It seemed to know who its people were, and was only ever hostile to outsiders.

You had spent years guarding it, keeping it safe. The dragon's tongue was always more natural when leaving your mouth, as opposed to the language of men.

The sword that currently sat at the beside, now dulled and neglected, had once been pulled from a lake by that massive beast, who had insisted that you needed it. It never said when, or why. But you did find out.

You found out the day that they attacked from the east. Men, armed to the teeth and with gnashing and gnawing accents, Men, who wanted to take over the part of the island that you belonged to, and would stop at nothing to take it.

They outnumbered you, and they had more artillery; you and your men would never have survived, if it hadn't been for that dragon.

It had fulfilled its promise, coming to aid its people when they needed it most; using its massive tail and claws to take down as many as it could - but it did not expect them to have catapults, and nor did it expect them to use them to chain it down.

By the time it had broken free of its chains, you and your men had all but entirely been wiped out by the men. The dragon had managed to fend them off for long enough for the survivors to flee, but heavily injured, you never got far.

But what those men did to your home... you could never forgive such animosity. Such beastly and inhuman actions.

They had taken everything. They banned the dragon's tongue, and anyone who was caught uttering even a single word had been beaten and bruised to the point of near death.

They took your homes, demanding that they owned them, and forcing you out of your own lands. They outlawed your practices - culture, traditions, holidays. Everything.

That poor dragon, who had given its life to defend you and your people, was trapped inside the mountain.

They promised that it would never come back, that they would slaughter everyone if it did.

Lake-town was your best option. Far enough from those men that you could feel safe, yet close enough that you didn't miss your home too much. Even though it wasn't your home anymore. Even though they had destroyed every ounce of your home.

Bard, despite his distrust and distaste for the beasts, had encouraged you to teach him and his children the dragon's tongue - he picked it up well enough, although you still had to wonder off a few times.

Sometimes it was too much to remember that you once had a lovely, beautiful home; situated within deep Valleys near the mountain. Near the river that ran through the part of the island that you and your men had given your lives to protect.

But Bard had never been anything but understanding. A soldier, you were never really used to kindness. You were never used to a gentle touch and a soft kiss. But Bard changed that. You would trust him with anything, everything.

He stirred what he felt you move, shifting around to lie on his side as he let out a long yawn and looked at you with such horrible softness in his eyes.

"The mountain?"

You nodded, a little surprised when you swiped a hand down your face and felt something wet near your eyes. "Ei gwrol ryfelwyr, gwladgarwyr tra mâd, tros ryddid gollasant eu gwaed..."

Bard nodded, frowning as he moved a little closer, looming up at you and daring to smile sadly. "So did you."

You shook your head, clearing your throat. "I should be dead. I should've died in... in my home..."

It was a particular kind of homesickness, Bard knew that better than anyone. The type of homesickness that wasn't just limited to a place; it was missing a language, a culture, traditions. People.

The true meaning of home. It was never about a place, it was never about those beautiful Valleys or that deep, blue river or those cold rocky mountains. It was about the humanity. It was about what had been stolen so violently. It was about the people.

There wasn't much Bard could do, except get up as he hummed under his breath. He grabbed his leather and fur coat, and tossed it over to you as he dared to flash you a quick smile.

"We'll go sit outside, come on."

You nodded, tugging it on and inhaling his scent for a moment before falling into step beside him and standing by the front door.

"I used to think it was funny," you mumbled. "I was born to protect a dragon - you were born to kill one."

Bard smiled as he laughed softly, daring to take your hand in his. "Why don't you think it's funny anymore?"

You shrugged, swallowing thickly. "I love you too much to care about the difference anymore..."

"Are you feeling alright?" He whispered, getting close enough so that his lips were beside your ear.

You shook your head. "I don't know... is that bad?"

"No," he said quietly. "The children are all put tomorrow in the morning... what do you say you come to work with me?"

"Won't I distract you?"

"No," Bard hummed. "It might do you some good, get you back onto lakes and rivers... besides, you can wear my coat again."

"I couldn't-"

"Take it, I want you to have it," he told you gently. "Please."

[devilsrecreation]

Outlander drawing prompts I got from Wannadraw

- Jasiri gardening

or as Deadpool

or as a model

- Madoa as a warlock

or as a popstar

or steampunk

- Janja drawing a picture of himself

or chibi style

or as a popstar

- Chungu as an evil queen (king)

or wearing an outfit made of flowers

or as an artificer

- Cheezi made of cheese (hehe…CHEESE-i)

or playing with fireworks

or skydiving

- Nne riding a dragon into combat (a komodo dragon lol)

as a demon

or as a puppet

- Tano adopting 50+ cats (bonus if they’re all disney cats)

or dancing in a music video

or as a bard

- Mzingo chibi style

or as a cowboy

or if he was one of the mean girls

- Mwoga as a lego character

or going to prom

or as a ranger

- Reirei as a bard

or rocking a ballgown

or at the Olympics

- Goigoi going to highschool (new au??)

or on Valentine’s Day

or traveling the desert

- Dogo if he was a disney prince

or sporting a giant anime sword

or as a superhero (SUPER JACKAL)

- Kiburi wearing 50’s clothing

or dressed like Nicki Minaj (WHEEZE)

or gardening

- Tamka as a model

or drawn in hayao miyazaki’s style

or on Valentine’s Day

- Nduli as a barbarian

or flying on a magic carpet

or as a Mortal Combat character

- Neema as a rogue

or running from a bear

or surfing

- Shupavu as a llama

or as a druid

or as a character from your fav video game

- Njano as a plant person

or as a wizard

or stranded on an island

- Kenge as a druid

or as a pirate (PIRATE AU?????)

or made of cheese

- Sumu going to a Ren faire

or stranded on an island

or as a ballerina

- Ushari climbing a tree

or drop dead gorgeous

or wearing a bikini (ig as a human-)

Bonus: Vitani’s guard

- Vitani falling in love with an ice cream

- Shabaha as a warlock

- Kasi cooking

- Imara in Lady Gaga’s clothes (bonus if she wears her meat dress)

- Tazama as a character from your favorite video game

Double bonus: Makuu and Hodari

- Makuu if he was two inches tall

or in a Halloween costume

or as an angel

- Hodari at comicon

or as a paladin

or wearing an outfit made of flowers

[geraskierfanficprompts]

Prompt 135

Julian has a favorite tree in the woods near his home. Julian was barely old enough to walk when he first hugged his favorite tree in the greenwood. For years he visited, picnicked with, spoke to it, hugged it, and tended it. When he was around 8 years old, an older boy began bullying him for escaping court and lessons to spend time in the woods and sing. Julian sobbed into the embrace he gave his favorite tree. Julian has told his tree for years that he loves music, that he hates being a viscount. He hates it, he hates it, he hates it. When his bully follows him into the woods one day, Julian is afraid. His bully raises a fist to hit him, only for a branch from his favorite tree to fall and bonk the older child on the head. The child ran away crying, and Julian was just fine. The bully never picked on him again. Julian thanked his tree, before growing worried over the dropped branch. Healthy trees don't drop branches, surely- So he makes sure to tend to his favorite tree extra the next few months, make sure it's healthy. No more branches drop, it was just that one on that one day. Julian continues to grow, and Julian continues to rebel. He decides one day as a teenager that he's decided he's going to run away. He climbs his tree, and lounges in the suspiciously comfortable set of branches, and tells his tree the whole plan. He's going to become a bard, and change his name, and travel the continent. "I'll miss you. Terribly. Thank you for being with me all these years." Julian sobs as he hugs his tree. He sleeps in the arms of his tree that night, away from his supposed home. It was his last night in the area for years. Jaskier is on his way to perform for a court, and unfortunately, to get there he must cut through lettenhove. He's sure if he keeps his head down, doesn't play any music, and just rushes through, they'll never even notice he was there. But he can't NOT visit his tree. It's been years. So one night, he creeps into the woods near his father's manor. When he spots the tree, healthy and strong as always, he tears up. "It's me. Julian. I- I'm Jaskier now, but It's still me. I'm so happy to see you. I'm so sorry it's been so long-" He walks closer, going to hug his tree, when he hears a voice clear it's throat, and he spins around in surprise. Fuck. His father. "Julian. I knew you'd end up back here." "...I was just leaving." "No. No, you weren't." And guards reveal themselves, coming out of the woodwork. Jaskier swears there's even extra hired muscle there, as if Jaskier is something to fear. In a fight against men with weapons? No. In a fight via poetry and insults? Yes! Doesn't help here, though. "You are coming home, and you will fulfil your duty." "I don't care about my duty! Just as you've never cared about me!" "And why would I care about such a disrespectful mutt, Julian!?" The guards creep closer, just as his father clenches his fist, and Jaskier is trapped. If he tries to run, they'll catch him. If he climbs, they'll climb too. If he fights, he'll just be hurt as they drag him away. But then the guards freeze, their eyes widening in horror. One drops his weapon and runs. Jaskier is confused. Sure, he raised his lute like a weapon, but it shouldn't be that frightening. I mean the men here had blades! "Back away from him." A deep voice growls, startling Jaskier. Jaskier turns and sees that a man is walking out of his favorite tree. The man is hench, and in armor, and holding two giant swords, and he just came out of Jaskier's tree. Tree man THERE IS A TREE MAN! Jaskier is trying very hard to process this, when he hears his father snap to the guards to fight the man off and capture the viscount by any means necessary. A guard grabs Jaskier's arm hard enough to bruise, and suddenly the man no longer had a hand, as the Man From The Tree slices it cleanly off, and blocks Jaskier from their view with his own body.

After a few minutes of sword clangs and panic, the men all retreat. Jaskier's father spits out one last insult to him before running off with his men.

And then the gorgeous guardian turns back to him and hugs him, tight and warm.

"My tree?" "My Jaskier."

[writerman]

hey, for the writing prompts, if barduil and 'fog' and/or 'glass' work for you that would be great, or if those words work for Garrett and Aro, also feel free to go for it! <33333333

Thank you <3

I would have finished this earlier but I went for a walk with my friend that ended up being way longer than expected aha.

Also, I genuinely thought I would never be able to write Barduil again, so I sincerely and genuinely thank you for the prompt.

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Title: Howling Night

Pairing: Bard x Thranduil (Barduil)

Word count: 2064

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It was cold.

The kind of cold that latched on to a man, icy fingers caressing each vein the deeper it sank in, leaving the skin to tingle as shivers, unbidden, eager to seize the entirety of the body ran over gooseflesh skin.

Bard had been travelling toward Mirkwood, having left late night soon fell around him and with it a fog rolled in thick, a swirling mass of white overlaying the darkness of an already moonless night.

Picking his way through the marshland was already difficult, such had always been the way with terrain of its kind, but past rainfall had left the way treacherous, and ill ease had fallen over him as his horse proved overly skittish as they slowly squelched through mud with only a small lantern for light.

It was too late to undo his mistake.

While Bard was acutely aware of how far from both Dale and Mirkwood he was being on the marsh, he could not pinpoint just where he was, for all he knew his horse could have been leading him in circles, not that he could leave the blame on her entirely.

With what meagre light came from the lamp he had fastened to the saddle, Bard halted his weary steed and tried to assess just what he was going to do. Vestele shifted nervously beneath him, her huffing breath mingling with the fog still swirling around them.

“Shush now, we’re alright, we can move again once I work out where in the Hells we are.” His words were a whisper as he tried to soothe her, though he was sure his own worry radiated well enough that Vestele likely picked up on it tenfold, as animals were known to do.

An eerie and distant screech echoed through the night air, a howl much like a wolf appeared to respond, Bard grabbed at the loosened reins hoping to pre-empt any attempt of the horse bolting, he was a moment too slow and with a panicked whinny Vestele reared up high throwing Bard from her back before she bolted into the dark.

The sound of her hooves splashing through streams and mire grew distant until he could no longer hear a single thing around him. The silence was overwhelming and dread drenched Bard’s insides as he picked himself off the floor. His clothes are soaked, smeared with mud and the sickly-sweet smell of rot that only came from the peat marsh.

The terrible screech sounds again, a howl follows, closer than before. Two beasts of the night conversing in a song that would chill even the most steeled of nerves.  Bard rested his hand on the hilt of his sword as he tried to gauge which direction it had come from, and he curses under his breath.

A fine thing it would be to have the newly crowned King of Dale die to beasts because he eschewed having a guard accompany him. It was out of habit; Bard had always done things alone and assumed he still could.

And yet, there he was standing shivering in the cold, blind to what lurked in the mist with no idea where he might be and how long until the sun would rise.

Would the fog even clear when the sun rose?

There was no use standing around waiting for danger to find him. He had to keep moving, as he takes his first step, he feels something solid crunch beneath his boot, crouching down to see what lay in the mud, Bard could scarcely make out the rather forlorn sight of his lamp, the glass shattered the flame long since dead.

The mire enveloped it causing it to, essentially, vanish right before his eyes.

Bard’s brow only furrowed deeper than it already was as he tried desperately to peer into the swirling mist and darkness before him, raising back to his full height, he moved on and began to trek to… well, wherever he ended up.

There was something strange, almost unsettling about the marshland, as much as Bard wished he could attribute the worry to his bad luck, something told him to be careful of what he might come across.

Time appeared to drag as Bard wound his way toward what he hoped was either Dale or Mirkwood.

With an aching in his bones and a persistent and sharp pain in his leg plaguing him, his progress had slowed to something akin to a determined stagger until he conceded to no one in particular that he had to stop and rest.

With the absence of light Bard could not inspect the pain, nor determine if the strange sticky wetness on his clothes was blood or mud. With the air so damp and his spectacular fall earlier his clothes were still soaked through and as the night proceeded on as the night usually does, the chill on his skin began to worsen and lay heavily over him seeping into his bones until his teeth chattered.

Fool King, that is what they will remember me as when I am found frozen solid with chunks torn out of me from night beasts.

Bard internally bemoaned. He had been so full of confidence and perhaps a smidge of bravado when he had sped out of the city on his mighty war horse with a winning smile to the crowd as they gawked at him.

The gawking, he understood now, was utter disbelief at his stupidity and not his people being struck by his very person being near them. He had very little ego, but at that moment, leaning against a sturdy shrub, he accepted that what ego he had was now dust in the wind.

Through his inner turmoil and humiliation, there was a howl again, the screech had since died out, close and clear. So loud it had startled Bard and he scrambled to get to his feet. A hand, still trembling from the cold, reached for his sword.

A pair of golden eyes appeared in the dark, and slowly the form of a grey wolf came into view. It stared at Bard for the longest time before throwing back its head and howling several times in succession before falling silent.

Worried it had called for the rest of the pack, Bard unsheathed the sword at his side, hand moving back ready to swing if he had to. The wolf does not move, aside from sitting down- the golden glow from its eyes had receded and there is silence.

There is a low rumble, something familiar and yet it was not thunder. Bard eyes the wolf warily before slowly turning his attention to where he believed the rumbling came from, the rumbling soon gave way to the sound of many things splashing through muddy waters.

Unless the wolf had somehow summoned a behemoth, it had to be the thunderous pounding of hooves, horses!

With renewed hope Bard tried to call out, whoever it was be it hunters or guard drills he would set aside his embarrassment of being lost and hope for rescue.

At his side, the wolf appears standing beside him letting out a long and sonorous howl and a flash of golden light burst through the dark as countless armed elven soldiers come to a halt on their breathless steeds.

Their lanterns carrying a magical golden glow, reminiscent of the wolf’s eyes not moments ago, illuminated a far wider range than a normal lantern would have managed.

“My Lord, this way!” A soldier called to Bard, they dismount and hurry toward him before being unceremoniously moved aside by the very man Bard was really hoping would NOT show up.

Thranduil is moving toward him, eyes raking over him as he takes in the state Bard had found himself in. He cannot hold Thranduil’s gaze and looks away to the wolf still sitting patiently at his side, there is a slight wag to its tail which was actually very comforting because if Bard was a wolf he would wag his tail at the sight of Thranduil too, if he wasn’t so damned embarrassed.

“You are injured, someone attend to him immediately.” He raises a hand and beckons unseeingly to the soldier he had all but pushed out of his way. They hurry over with a thick cloak throwing it around Bard.

“When Vestele arrived without you, I…” Thranduil’s gaze had softened, and as if suddenly remembering his station realised, he was forgetting himself in front of his soldiers and cleared his throat. “We spend much time away from Mirkwood, your injuries cannot be allowed to linger here in the cold.” Without a word to the soldiers, they moved aside and into formation allowing Thranduil to lead Bard to the elk standing patiently in the dark unbothered by the nighttime escapade it had been dragged out to.

It would be a struggle to get up on the mountain of a creature Thranduil rode, especially given that his leg was now starting to cause more pain to the point he was limping, wincing with every step he took.

Standing before Mahtar, Bard hesitated before looking back at the others, who had the sense to avert their eyes as Thranduil with grace and, quite frankly, heart fluttering ease, lifted Bard to assist him on getting up.

“You will not walk, Lord Thranduil, I could not allow such.” Bard’s words tripping from frozen lips clumsily, blushing at how his decorum crumbled so easily in the elf king’s presence.

Thranduil did not answer as he climbed up sitting comfortably behind Bard reaching around his waist to take up the reins urging Mahtar forward with a gentle click of his tongue.

“It has been too long since we have been this close, I sincerely doubt I could manage to walk the entire way knowing you were so close and not against me this way.” Thranduil whispered into Bard’s ear as they headed toward Mirkwood without any issues from the fog.

“T-the wolf!” Bard stuttered trying to change the subject before he combusts from the heat in his cheeks, he certainly was not cold now, but he had to distance himself from the conversation. Just because Thranduil was whispering did not mean elven ears could not hear.

He twisted round to see the wolf trotting by their side obedient as a dog.

“He assisted us in finding you ahead of time- I did not want to leave to chance that you might have been injured or attacked in the dark. He let me see through his eyes for a spell, but once he had gotten too far ahead of us, he would signal to us where he was, and we merely followed the sound.

He will return to his home in the forest now.” This conversation might not have interested Thranduil, likely dull considering it was the norm for him, it fascinated Bard and many questions sprang to mind.

However, Thranduil was far more invested in talking with his hands as they slid under Bard’s clothes, his warm hand inching up Bard’s stomach to his chest.

It appeared the king had been anticipating Bard’s arrival with more fervour than expected.

“I do hope that injury of yours is healed with haste, if I must wait a moment longer to have you, I fear my behaviour might be unbecoming of a king.” The hand under Bard’s clothes rested over his pounding heart and Bard was gifted with the deep rumble of a quiet chuckle.

“Ada, please people can hear you!” Legolas appeared out of nowhere coming to their side on a sleek white horse, his face set in an expression of mortification before he sped off ahead calling over his shoulder that he was behaving like an elfling.

“Perhaps, we should enjoy the rest of the ride home in companionable silence.” Bard managed a laugh as he pressed his back against Thranduil’s chest raising a hand to softly caress his cheek in sympathy and consolation.

“Wise words, meleth nin. I would agree with you.” The response again was quiet with a slight pout in the words but nothing Thranduil would ever admit to.

The ride to Mirkwood was far more comfortable wrapped in a heavy cloak with an elven king wrapped around him, the only problem he had was that his injury now throbbed horribly.

But he could overlook the pain for his dear Lord Thranduil, his mell.

[samstree]

not sure if you’re still doing requests! but i’ve been wondering about jaskier and geralt being in a happy relationship, but jaskier being much more in love with geralt than geralt is with him, and it’s just something jaskier knows as a fact… do you have thoughts…

hi! i'm not sure if this is meant as a fic prompt, but i do have some thoughts.

perhaps jaskier has been in love for too long and too deep, he cannot fathom geralt being just as in love as him, even after they get together. he thinks it's a classic falls first/falls harder scenario, except he falls both first and harder, and what geralt feels for him in return is only a fraction of his affection for geralt.

sometimes, jaskier lets it slip. he drunkenly tells a barmaid how geralt "only tolerates a mouthy bard by his side" or how he "will just kick me out at the next chance" to geralt's face, while they are sitting there together. slowly, slowly, he notices how these words make geralt recoil every time. in dismissing the possibility that he could ever be loved back deeply, jaskier is also dismissing geralt's ability to love .

it takes time for jaskier to realize how hard geralt fell, how he's so careful with jaskier these days. geralt loves so quietly that it takes jaskier years to hear his love songs, and they are just as beautiful. maybe, jaskier did fall first, but geralt fell harder. that much, he has learned.

it takes even longer for jaskier to know that geralt fell first, too. there was attraction for him at first, as a young bard meeting a mysterious stranger in the terrible tavern in posada, but it took years following a witcher around for the love to build for jaskier. but for geralt, it took a day. it took a bard not being scared of him, choosing to follow him for love to take roots. the love was there all along for geralt. he both fell first, and he fell harder.

by this point, jaskier is retired with geralt at corvo bianco. on a summer night, a wine drunk geralt admitted to falling in love on the first day of meeting jaskier, how fast and how deep it was, to the point that he was knocked out of breath, watching jaskier sleep next to him on their first night together. a human bard, with his guard down, sound asleep next to a witcher.

you see, jaskier may think he knows something for a fact, but he is proven wrong over many years. by the time he learns of the expanse of geralt's love for him, he's an old man with grey hair by his temple. he does not want to waste time with doubt anymore. he just wants to be sure, of both their hearts.