#the bard of wet food

[ogsynergyfox]

He has a history of sleeping at odd angles

[sh1-n0bu]

𝔫𝔬𝔟𝔲’𝔰 𝔨𝔦𝔫𝔨𝔱𝔬𝔟𝔢𝔯 𝔬𝔣 2023!

day 25: praise kink with rosaria from genshin impact

warnings: praise, fingering, clit pinching, eating out, slight exhibitionism, fluff at the end

notes: rosaria is so pretty. i dun know if i want to be her or want to be with her

being dragged off to the side to have a quickie should be considered a sacrilege especially when it's inside the church of mondstadt. the very same place where thousands of thousands come to pay their respect and reverie to the anemo archon barbatos. more so, when the one who is being dragged off into a dark, empty room inside the church is one of the sisters. but rosaria was never one to worship the gods nor was she one to be considered holy with how much she loves alcohol and sneaks off to smoke behind the church.

and neither were you.

factually speaking you are one of grandmaster varka's most trusted knight. the perfect example of a strong, steady and unwavering knight who stays devoted to their knighthood to do good and to protect mondstadt. yet there were a few problems. you didn't worship the anemo archon despite swearing your loyalty and life to mondstadt. when asked why you never once worshipped the god of freedom you would simply shrug with a carefree grin.

"i like being free. pretty sure barbatos would support my decision. besides it was the people and the nation i swore my loyalty to, not the god" you would always carelessly say out loud, uncaring of anyone's judgements. why would you be when a certain, green bard would knowingly flash you a cheeky grin before turning away from you?

and why would it matter when you would find something way better than worshipping an absentee archon as you excitedly drag a certain sleep deprived sister to a dark room inside the church, making sure to lock the door behind yourself as you silence her annoyed grumbles with a kiss?

rosaria always acts like this. like she is uninterested when she very much clearly is. an eyeroll here and there, a scoff, a demeaning comment aimed at you, ready to tear down that carefree grin from your face whenever you come bearing flowers or just yourself. just yourself and your expert fingers and tongue flicking her open.

"you really don't know when to give up, do you little knight?" the cryo wielder huffs softly, propping herself on the table inside the dark room. what room it was, she couldn't give two shits about. little knight, that's what she always refers to you as. a way of demeaning you at the beginning that slowly over time turned into... a weird form of endearment.

"what can i say, rosa? you're just so undeniably beautiful. i would rather worship you rather than that god" you giggle out, hooking your fingers on the high waistband of her fishnets. with an approving nod from her, you ease the thin fabrics off of her legs, throwing it to the side before her panties followed.

"wearing this one? you could have just called me if you really were starting to miss me, rosa" you hum softly, the black soft fabrics in your hand familiar. she always loved to wear this one for some reason whenever you two would agree to meet up for a quickie or a night to blow off some stress. in response, rosaria only whacks the top of your head gently as a warning. one that you clearly overreacted to as the woman on the table silently thanks the room for being so dark inside so you won't see the slight flush of her cheeks.

"you sure talk a lot, little knight. put that mouth to a good use for once?" you only nod with an eagerness, rolling your eyes at her huffy attitude. not that you minded it. you actually loved this enigmatic sister of the church just the way she was.

gently pushing her legs apart, tucking the slit of her dress to the side, you mumble a "thank you for the food" before diving in. the familiar scent of her arousal, the slight wetness forming already and the familiar feeling of her metal clawed hand tugging on your hair bringing an odd sense of tenderness and grounding. nestling your nose until it was bumping against her clit, you test the waters.

a long stripe up her drenched folds got rosaria to tug on your hair with a muffled moan. she was oddly sensitive today. not that you minded as you continue to eat her out, switching between dipping your tongue inside her warm walls and suckling on her clit. each time you pull your tongue out of her clenching plushy insides, you would mutter a breathless praise. of how you adore her, how beautiful she was, how capable, how strong and just how goddamn happy you would be if you were to be crushed between her strong thighs.

each breathless words of praise and adoration caused rosaria to clench down on your tongue more and more. her voice becoming more and more breathless as concealing her moans and grunts of your name becomes harder. she was close.

as if knowing that she exactly needed a little bit more push to teeter over that blissful edge and to release that tightening knot in her stomach, you slip two fingers inside. to which rosaria immediately clenched around, a punched out gasp of what seems to be your name falling out of her lips. soon, she was saying your name over and over like a prayer, even though you were the one kneeling on the floor in front of her. just a few soft of your finger against that one soft spot inside her tight walls and a harsh suck to her clit and the cold woman was coming on your mouth with a soft whimper.

each drop you slurped up with an eagerness for another round, the noises sounding incredibly lewd that it caused rosaria to whine out your name. or maybe that was the slight oversensitivity kicking in. you were still sucking on her sensitive nub as you lazily pumped your finger inside her addictive plushy insides. with a soft peck to her clit, you finally pull your fingers out, noticing only now that her thighs had slight tremor to them.

"you alright? was it too much?" you ask in concern, helping her slide her panties and fishnets back on. all you got in return was a nod, the usually cold sister unable to find words to say that she was okay due to the slight sensitivity of her cunt. with a soft kiss to her fishnet covered knees and thighs, you help her up into her feet.

after checking the hallways for anyone being around, you two walk out after confirming no one was around like nothing happened inside that room. holding hands and laughing and joking about bunch of random things as if you didn't fuck rosaria to the point she couldn't even talk properly.

"so, will you be free on saturday? how does going out for a nice dinner sound, sister rosaria?" you joke, squeezing her hand in your own softly. but imagine how low your jaw dropped when the usually reclusive sister of the church agrees.

"what's up with that look on your face, little knight? i was actually going to ask you out but you beat me to it" the cryo user simply laughs at your shocked face, squeezing your hand back. never would you have expected her to actually agree. but damn, you definitely have a date to plan and to impress this approaching saturday.

[lyralit]

100 fantasy jobs

Academic/professor (history, science, economics)

Fisherman

Prostitute

Fletcher

Ropemaker

Saddler

Adventurer/explorer

Florist

Sailor

Adviser (e.g. royal, military)

Footman

Sculptor

Animal trainer (e.g. dogs, falcons, horses

Gardener

Servant (e.g. laundry, kitchen, cleaner)

Gladiator/arena fighter

Archer

Glazier (makes glass)

Shipwright (builds ships)

Armourer

Hatter

Shoemaker

Assassin

Healer

Shopowner

Baker

Inventor (e.g. spells, potions, weapons, science)

Silversmith

Barber

Goldsmith

Bard

Minstrel

Jester

Smuggler

Barkeeper

Jeweller

Soldier

Blacksmith

Lady's maid

Spy

Locksmith

Stable hand

Bladesmith

Logger (cuts trees)

Stonemason

Bodyguard

Mapmaker

Surgeon

Bookbinder

Master of ceremonies

Sweet maker

Bounty hunter

Merchant (e.g. cloth, jewels, food, materials)

Tailor

Brewer

Tanner (makes leather)

Butcher

Taxman

Carpenter

Midwife

Thatcher (makes thatched roofs)

Carriage driver

Miner

Chariot racer

Musician

Thief (e.g. pickpocket, mugger)

City guard

Necromancer

Toymaker

Cook

Nun/priest/chaplain

Trapper (traps animals)

Cooper (makes barrels, buckets etc.)

Nurse

Tutor

Nursemaid/wet nurse

Undertaker

Dentist

Painter

Weapons instructor

Detective

Papermaker

Weaver (e.g. fabric, rugs, baskets)

Diplomat

Pirate

Dressmaker

Potioneer

Wheelwright

Farrier (makes horse

Prisoner (hard labour)

Witch/Wizard hoes)

Prophet

Wisewoman

Knight

Majordomo

Papermaker

Typesetter

Archivist

Hermit

Doctor

(via; via)

[the-hidden-pages]

Kinktober Day 4 - Thigh Riding | Sex Pollen - Jaskier x Fem!Reader

Thigh riding | Sex pollen | Forced orgasm 

Disclaimer: I did interpret “sex pollen” as loose as aphrodisiac - it’s not an actual pollen, it’s a liquid.  Also, it's late, I have work, I did rush a little to get this out but it's better than another day sans post I hope!

Summary: Geralt had warned you of the dangers of consorting with witches. But you had never anticipated the dangers being this.

Warnings: NSFW, Public Sex/Orgies, Aphrodisiac, Dub Con because of the aphrodisiac but they love each other I swear.

Geralt had warned you.

Geralt had warned you of the dangers of witches often enough. Even Yennefer, a witch herself, often advised against mingling with others that dabble in Chaos.

But that didn’t stop Jaskier from accepting the opportunity of performing on behalf of a town’s witch.

It didn’t stop you from attending the gathering in support of him.

Which is how the pair of you wound up in the mansion of the local town’s “healer”, surrounded by townsfolk that were in the know, and various other mages and witches.

Jaskier had sung wonderfully, as captivating as he ever did - and to hold the attention of those as vain as witches and mages was no small feat, you’ll give him that.

As the night went on, he was free to mingle, returning to your side and sip on the wine that was being freely poured, to feast on the foods presented.

“And to think Geralt was worried,” Jaskier scoffed, in his element, overconfident in the way he often became when things were going a little too smoothly.

It didn’t stop you from smiling though, an easy grin matching his on your face. “A worrywart, that one. A white haired worrywart of a Witcher.”

“Isn’t he just? He ought to have more trust in us.”

You chuckled, taking another sip before waving your glass in emphasis. “Did he warn you about the wine?”

“No, what of it?”

“Yennefer mentioned some witches put something in it, an aphrodisiac. Makes the night more fun as it goes on.”

Jaskier made a face, somewhere between a grimace and a grin. “Oh woe is me, a witch’s orgy. Save me, Butcher of Blaviken!”

A snort escapes you as the pair of you take another sip, continuing to pass the time discussing his various adventures with Geralt, his performance, and the various attendees of the soiree.

The conversation carried on easily, until the vibe of the room suddenly, inexplicably, intangibly…Shifted

Suddenly the air was heavier, thicker in a way that was hotter, heavier. It felt as though the voices of the other partygoers was quieting, slowing down. You became more aware of certain things - men sitting with their hands on other women’s thighs, just a little too high. A flush on women’s cheeks that ran a little brighter, went a little further down than the typical blush from too much wine.

And you were very aware of Jaskier sitting beside you.

His thigh lightly touching yours was suddenly scalding you, but in a way that you felt you simply couldn’t move away.

You hadn’t realized you had stopped listening to the conversation entirely until Jaskier called your name.

You met his eyes, ready to apologize, before immediately regretting it.

Were his eyes always so piercing? His hair always so soft? Did you always notice how deeply he unbuttoned his shirt, how noticeable the droplets of sweat were running down it.

Oh.

Oh.

“Jaskier,” you croaked out, suddenly noticing how dry your mouth was. You licked your lips and continued. “Jaskier, the wine. I don’t think Geralt was wrong.”

“Hmm?” the bard only hummed, and you met his eyes again. He was practically in a trance, staring at where your tongue had darted out to wet your lips.

Slowly, around you, you begin to hear soft sighs, and the lower, hushed tones of lovers speaking to one another.

You grow more aware of the unbearable, present, nearly painful heat between your legs, and when you shift, you realize that you’re already drenched.

“Jask…”

The bard reached forward, placing a large, warm, calloused hand on your thighs.

“They spiked the wine,” he breathes out, turning himself enough that his head is resting against yours, words breathing right in your ear and sending chills down your spine.

“Mhm,” your eyes are closed, trying to ignore the stimuli coming from all senses that your body seems hyper aware of. The gasps, the quiet moans, people growing closer.

Jaskier right beside you.

“Darling we can leave right now,” he breathes, hand on your thigh growing tighter, wandering ever so slightly higher. “We can rent a room in the nearest tavern - or two, if you want to wait this out. We don’t have to stay -”

You cut him off, pushing him back. You can see him start to form an apology, but before giving him the chance you stand and move to position yourself on his lap, straddling his legs and capturing him in a frantic kiss.

It’s not coordinated, or careful, or planned. The moment Jaskier’s brain catches up to what you’ve done, he’s immediately pried your lips open with his tongue, tasting you, claiming you, his hand coming around to cradle your head and pull you in deeper. His other hand wanders quickly, greedily, grasping at every inch of you that he can.

You already don’t want clothes in the way.

As quickly as you get on him, you stand again. The bard is dazed, bright eyes nothing but dark pupils gazing at you as you begin to make quick work of your clothes.

It’s the wine, some tiny, miniscule part in the back of your mind speaks. It’s the wine making you strip in front of a room of strangers, the wine making you mount your friend in a fit of desire.

The wine. Only the wine.

It has to be.

Your hands, in their flurry, begin to struggle with the laces, of which Jaskier is far too eager to help you with.

He leans forward, reaching up to help you loosen the corset. As it’s flung somewhere to your side, he makes quick work of your undershirt, your skirts.

Quickly, so quickly it all began, and just as quickly you’re completely nude, with the bard urging you back into his lap.

In your haste, you slip a little, falling to one side and straddling only one of his thighs.

Despite this you moan, jolting slightly as sliding on the thigh offers some friction to your throbbing clit.

“Fuck,” you gasp, grasping on to his shoulders tightly, your body moving without your full consent as you seek any form of relief to the growing burn within you.

It’s too much, the feeling of the cotton trousers beneath you, offering a burning friction to satiate your need, the growing groans echoing throughout the entire room. 

It’s not enough, when Jaskier himself lets out a beautiful moan, feeling you begin to soak through his clothes as you claw at him desperately.

“Dove, please,” he begs, leaning forward to pepper your neck and collarbone with bites. Your hips rock faster, until he tugs harshly at your hair, exposing your neck fully as you shout. His teeth mark your neck and his grip remains firm, his other hand wandering down to aide your movements. 

Your mind, in its wine and drug and lust addled haze, can only focus on two things: easing the burn between your legs, and hearing one of his beautiful sounds again.

And so your hand promptly finds his cock, working it through the flap in his trousers and stroking.

Gods is he hard.

It’s his turn to have his head thrown back, to let out a loud, melodic moan to the room to join the symphony of the others’. It’s rougher than you expected, lightly due to his night of signing and shouting boisterously to a room, but hells did it ever manage to turn you on.

You’re rushing it, you know it, he knows it, but somehow no one can bring themselves to mind as you raise yourself up further, straddling him properly once again.

You stare into the bard’s blue eyes, taking in every expression as you sink down fully, gasping as you feel every inch, every curve, every vein. It’s easy, with how wet you’ve become, and within seconds you’re riding him and hard as you can.

He’s eager to help you, hands grasping your hips so tightly they’re bound to leave bruises, controlling your pace and pulling you ever so slightly closer.

“This isn’t,” Jaskier gasped out, between groans and moans bites to your neck. “This isn’t what I wanted for our first night together.”

“You dreamed of this?” You tease half-heartedly, feeling a warmth in your heart bloom despite the absurdity of the situation.

Was this bard really about to give you a love confession whilst balls deep in you in the midst of a sex party?

“Of course,” he moaned, head thrown back and eyes clenched shut. “Gods, so many nights I wanted to have you, in the nearest room in a tavern, against the nearest wall, in the midst of camp. There was a plan, wine and dinner and singing and flowers, just us - fuck do that again.”

You reach for his hair, forcefully pulling his head back to meet your gaze.

“We’ll do this again,” you promise, thighs burning as you ride faster, chasing that growing feeling within you. “I’ve wanted it too, and we’ll talk about it when this damned wine isn’t in our heads but Jaskier, please just fuck me right now I’m so close -”

He stops you, hand travelling forward to meet your clit, rubbing in just the right way that has you seeing stars within seconds.

With your high comes his, and you can’t help but whine at the feeling of his cum shooting deep within you, warming you from the inside out as you clutch each other desperately, needly, as though you were the answer to some eternal unasked question.

As the pair of you come down, gasping, panting, your ears pick up the rest of the party beginning to quiet as well. It was almost as if the spell had a time limit, you thought aimlessly.

As you came to, and the sensations began to dull, your mind grew louder.

You had just fucked Jaskier.

You were still sitting on his cock.

As you go to move, his hand holds your hip tightly, and the other travels upwards to brush some hair out of your face, cupping your cheek. His gaze is gentle, kind, but hungry.

“We’ll do it again, you say?” he teases, that overconfident smirk back on his face. You can feel him hardening inside you once again, and you shift as a reflex, causing a burst of heat to ignite in you once again. “What say you to back at the inn?”

********************************************************

They did not give me cannonical aphrodisiac usage at witch parties for nothing.

Thank you to @flightlessangelwings for their Kinktober list this year!

[adastra121]

*at the Wet Wick* Bard: *singing while playing the lute* Vere: So...this is what passes for music here... Leander: Heh, you’re more than welcome to take the stage yourself, if you think you can deliver a better performance! Vere: Tempting, but my artistic talents end on the page. This racket is a little out of my vocal range. Ais: *shrug* Mm, dunno. I’ve made you hit pretty high notes before. Kuras: ... Mhin: =_= *loudly throws their fork into their unfinished food, stands up and stomps away*

[annmarcus63]

The warm night envelops the camp with its deep black cloak. Jaskier is sitting in front of the campfire when Geralt appears from the shadows carrying a bag and a pot in each hand. The bard snorts and turns his gaze to the flames.  

"It's been two days, Geralt."  The witcher proceeds to hang the pot over the flames to heat its contents and offer the bag to Jaskier. He reluctantly takes it to discover that it's full of apples and grapes, his favorites. But Jaskier doesn't appreciate the gesture, being that Yennefer was the one who gave him the food. "I've waited for you for two days." adds Jaskier a little more firmly. Then Geralt sits down next to him on the log leaving inches between them, as he always does when Jaskier is upset. "I know." Jaskier lets out a disgruntled chuckle.  

"I know, he says. Well, I don't like it." The confession floating between them. 

"You never seemed to mind" Geralt responds after several seconds in silence. 

"No I didn’t, because it was different." And that's the problem, both have had affairs, lovers and adventures, both have enjoyed each other and others. But Yennefer...it's something else entirely.  

The wood gives way to the fire throwing sparks into the air, the crickets sing and Jaskier envies their joy. "We never talk about what we are to each other, I know it's not something you like to discuss." Geralt grunts softly to let him know he is listening. "But we had an agreement, or a pact so to speak: no matter who we were with or how many, we would always go back to each other. You would always come back to me.” 

"I'm here." replies Geralt somberly.  

"No, you're not." Jaskier hates himself for the tears clinging to his eyes. Don't cry, he begs to himself. "Not since the Djinn.” The bard turns tentatively to face the witcher. He carefully places one of his hands on Geralt's powerful forearm and clings to it, a little desperate, a little broken. "I'm here, Geralt, but I'm alone." Jaskier kisses Geralt's shoulder and then rests his forehead on it. "Come back to me, Geralt." He then raises his face to meet Geralt's disgruntled eyes. Such beautiful eyes. "Please, come back to me. I miss you. I don't want to lose you."

"You won't." Geralt puts a hand on Jaskier's and squeezes. "You won't." he repeats to convince Jaskier, or maybe it's to convince himself and isn’t that worrisome. 

"Please come back to me." Geralt then wraps his arms around him and kisses his temple and then leaves a wet trail all over his face.

That night Geralt takes him lovingly, slowly and affectionately, making him come twice. That night the soup over the fire burns. That night Jaskier realizes that it is inevitable that he will lose Geralt.

[thedemonofcat]

Jaskier's distinctive trait was his tendency to be exceedingly expressive. Since childhood, he has experienced emotions more intensely than most people.

This heightened emotional sensitivity undoubtedly enhanced his skills as a bard but fell far short of fulfilling his parents' aspirations for him as a Viscount.

From his earliest years, Jaskier had sung along with birds and wept over the demise of fireflies, much to his parents' bewilderment. It wasn't until he turned fourteen that a healer diagnosed him with Hysteria, coinciding with his decision to run away from home.

Travelling offered Jaskier a liberating sense of freedom. However, most individuals never remained with him long enough to truly understand his complex nature. Jaskier's exuberant, boisterous demeanour was enjoyable in brief encounters.

Nonetheless, it stung deeply when Geralt, who had stayed the longest, eventually cast him aside, fearing Jaskier's overwhelming presence again.

During his time apart from Geralt, Jaskier became distracted and inadvertently ventured too close to Lettenhove. This proved his downfall, as his family's guards apprehended him and forcibly returned home.

Upon his return home, Jaskier's parents wasted no time in discussing his impending arranged marriage, which he promptly rejected. Surprisingly, his parents displayed concern, particularly his mother, who believed they should have anticipated this, especially in light of Jaskier's ailment.

Despite Jaskier's knowledge that he didn't suffer from Hysteria, his parents sent him away to a facility to "cure" him of it. Memories of the facility became a blur in Jaskier's mind, from his arrival to the involuntary head-shaving and the sensation of being restrained during meals. The food seemed drugged, and the healers prioritized punishment over care for his outbursts.

It took Geralt several months to locate Jaskier, but by then, the bard had been reduced to a mere shadow of his former self. The facility had stripped away everything that defined Jaskier.

Geralt immediately noticed one "treatment" involved subjecting Jaskier to ice-cold baths, which had left him constantly wet and battling a persistent cold.

After liberating Jaskier from the facility, Geralt couldn't ignore the profound changes in his bard. Not only had Jaskier physically shrunk, but he had also become emotionally withdrawn. The once exuberant and flamboyant bard now seemed afraid to make any noise.

Geralt understood that to reclaim the Jaskier he loved, he had to help him heal from the traumatic "treatment" he had endured.

[peri-helia]

Love, Unsaid

Joe x Nicky Drabble. Canon typical violence, Character death (Nicky starts off dead but he’s fine), they hug it out, that’s it, that’s the fic

It’s slow going, removing the sword from Nicolo’s gut.

King Arthur probably had an easier time removing the sword from the stone. Between the constant rain lashing down on them and the constant blood swelling fresh at the wound, the mud that was once this forsaken battlefield anchoring Yusuf where he stands, it is no easy task. He’d snapped the arrows that had landed in Nicolo’s shoulders, the heads have already been expelled by his immortality. When Nicolo revives they’re going to have to reconsider which cause they lend their swords to, coin or no coin.

Still, it is nice to fight together, rather than fighting each other. It had been getting old, in a way they apparently don’t anymore. They are not quite friends, not yet. They shake hands if they part, clasp each other’s shoulders. Nicolo is showing himself to be a kind soul, at his core, repentant and eager to learn.  

This fucking sword.

Yusuf coughs with exertion, throwing his aching hands in the air. They are the only fighters left, only the scavengers, human and bird alike now picking their way through the available lootings.

His hands slip on the smoothed prongs of the handguard, wet with rain and water and blood and sweat before Yusuf swears, bends his knees and yanks.

There is a chorus of sounds, a squelching, wrenching crunch before the sword glides free and Yusuf tilts backwards, falling on his arse in the mud. All those minstrals and bards glorifying battles want murdered in a way that sticks. Flinging the weapon aside, he claws his way back over to Nicolo. Those singular eyes are still more reticent of seaglass rather than seafoam.

“Nicolo. Nicolo” Yusuf calls gently, shaking the other man’s shoulder.

“Nicolo”

There’s no movement. Not even a twitch to his little finger.

He glances down at the wound, washed clean by the rain. It’s healing. It must be healing.

Larger wounds take longer they know this. The weapon had obstructed his healing that’s all.

He’s not dead. Nicolo di Genova, the eternal thorn in his side, the handsome bastard who is his only constant in this world is not dead. He’s not allowed to be. He’s not going to be killed permanently by some jumped up rat-faced shit from England after everything Yusuf tried all those years ago.

Yusuf puts a hand on Nicolo’s cheek, still warm despite the icy sheen of water soaking them through.

“Nico”

There’s a wet gasp that’s halfway between death rattle and coming air that always accompanies when they are dragged from death to life and Nicolo bolts upright. He gasps several times, sucking in great lungfuls of air greedily.

“You’re alright, You’re alright, it’s over. I’m here. We’re here” Yusuf finds himself repeating, rubbing Nicolo’s back of all things. Nicolo coughs once more, before twisting violently away, still grasping Yusuf’s wrist hard before he vomits.

Yusuf’s already reaching for the waterskin at his own hip as Nicolo spits the last of the bile out. “I’m sorry,” Nicolo rasps, the words coming slow. “Arrows were poisoned”

That English fucker.

No wonder the healing had taken so long. Nicolo’s system had been fighting off two things at once.

“It’s not your fault, my friend” Yusuf says before he can stop himself. Nicolo obviously hears him because he stares open mouthed at Yusuf for a moment, before wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He nods once, a sharp bob of the head as if he can’t quite believe it. Then before Yusuf can stop him, Nicolo stumbles upright, staggering to his feet like a drunkard. He rubs the rain from his face and stands before Yusuf, trembling slightly.

“How – how bad was it?”

They’re healing has quickened over the years, but worse deaths take longer.

“Bad” Yusuf says. They both need food and warmth. What’s done is done.

Nicolo hums, voice still worn. He’s still trembling too, probably cold. His eyes are big and wide and he’s never looked so young to Yusuf as he does now, except maybe when they’d come back to life that first time around, when everything was new and strange and yet still the same.

If it was anyone else, anyone from Yusuf’s old life, he’d probably have hugged them before now. He’s a tactile soul, always reaching out. But they’ve never hugged before.

“Do you – do you want?”

Nicolo barely looks at Yusuf’s half open arms before he falls into them, arms coming to wrap around Yusuf’s middle. Yusuf jumps when he feels a cold nose bury into his neck.

“Thank you Yusuf” he murmurs quietly after a moment, without letting go.

*

It’s so nice to be held, after years of hacking away across the continents, of lying and running and never getting close except out of necessity to sleep, or shoot or bandage.

Nicolo feels the moment all the tension goes out of Yusuf’s shoulders, so that he sags against Nicolo’s shoulders. He can’t help it, he smiles into the other man’s shoulder. This beautiful man who has opened his arms again and again to Nicolo, literally now, despite everything.

It’s so quiet, after a battle. During, you can’t hear yourself think, let alone hear what’s going on – it all melts into one incomprehensible din. Arrows and shields clanging, swords clashing, people screaming. After death has swept the field, it’s deafening in another way altogether.

They’re still holding each other.

In the back of his mind, Nicolo is vaguely away that maybe this hug has gone on a little…long than may be polite. He has taken so much, he should pull back, lest such a blessing not be offered again.

But when he goes to disentangle himself, Yusuf merely shifts his weight to his other leg and Nicolo feels his fingers dig into the mail of his shirt. Of its own volition, Nicolo’s hand comes up to cup the back of Yusuf’s head.

Well. Maybe they both need it.

*

“Andromache!”

Nile watches as Andy gets literally swept – more like scooped – off her feet into a massive hug by Joe. It’s the first time they’ve been separated as a team, the first time Nile’s seen a reunion after a long period of time. The first time she’s seen Andy all but giggle as she’s swayed gently from side to side, feet dangling as Joe hugs her.

Then its Nicky’s turn and its different but no less tender, the way he cups the back of Andy’s head, big arms coming round to wrap around her. They hold each other just as long, just as warmly.

And then the couple’s eyes fall on Nile. They’ve given each other their hands before, clasped each other’s shoulders, hell even had a thumb war on that really fucking long flight to Tripoli.

Nicky looks at Nile for a long moment and then, almost conversationally, opens his arms the tiniest fraction, intent clear. She can take it or leave it and either way is absolutely fine.

God, Nile’s missed hugs. And Nicky and Joe? They give the best fucking hugs. Just…being lightly squeezed, so much that her aching shoulders finally seem to release, in a way that there’s no limit.

What was it Nicky had said?

We’re not meant to be alone.

[flowercrown-bard]

“Here, you can have mine.” Jaskel, please 💕

thank you for the prompt! I love it!

word count: 1690

AO3

Jaskier's shirt was plastered to his chest and Eskel was not looking. If he had been anyone else, it would have been different. Everyone always looked their fill of the bard and Jaskier didn't seem to mind, but with Eskel it was different. Jaskier had said so himself, one summer evening years ago, when they had both taken off their sweat soaked shirts. Jaskier had slouched his shoulders lazily, hadn't tried to make his body look more appealing - not that that was necessary or even possible - and then he had thanked Eskel. Thanked him that with him, he didn't have to make himself into something desirable. The implication had been clear. Jaskier saw him as a dear friend he could trust, but certainly not someone he would ever consider taking as a lover. 

So Eskel wasn't looking. He kept his eyes on Jaskier's face, though that proved even more dangerous. His damp hair was curling at the ends and some droplets were still dripping down the strands and onto his cheeks. Eskel had to clench his hands into firsts to stop himself from reaching out and wiping then away. 

"Look at this!" Jaskier lifted the wet sleeping bag up and pulled a face. "I get that the drowner pulled me into the water, but couldn't it wait until I had let go of my sleeping bag? It's going to take forever until this is dry again." 

Eskel swallowed the words that were fighting their way up his throat. 

We can share mine, he wanted to say. I can hold you at night and keep you warm.

Instead, he said, " Here!" and tossed his own bedroll to Jaskier, who struggled to catch it but managed to do so eventually. When he gave Eskel a confused look, Eskel shrugged. "You can have mine."

"Don't you need it?" 

"I'm good. I don't mind sleeping on the ground. Besides," he threw a glance at their surroundings. "I should probably keep watch. Make sure no more drowners show up."

Jaskier frowned and for a moment it looked as if he was going to protest, but then he set the bedroll on the ground without another word. 

Eskel didn't find any sleep that night. But the next day, when Jaskier handed him his bedroll back, it smelled like ink, lute wood and lavender and that was better than a full night of sleep. 

--

Eskel stared at the plate in front of him. He should count himself lucky, he knew that the innkeeper had given him any food at all. Still, his plate had barely been half full when he had received it and now it was already empty. Judging by the growling and painful twisting of his stomach, so was Eskel's belly. He scraped uselessly at the crumbs left on his plate with his fork. 

Jaskier, who was sitting opposite of him, frowned. He looked at his own plate, which was still laden with potatoes, bread and some vegetables. His scowl deepened and he pushed his plate toward Eskel. 

"Here," Jaskier said, "You can have mine."

"What?" Eskel's stomach did a flip. "But you -" 

"I'm not the one who has to fight some ghouls later. You'll need your strength. I'm full anyway."

When Eskel hesitated, Jaskier snatched up some of the bread and held it up to Eskel's lips. 

"Eat something," Jaskier said softly. "Please."

Eskel, weak as he was, complied. 

--

"I am an empty shell of a man," Jaskier lamented dramatically and dropped the book he had been reading onto his face. "A fool and a doomed soul."

"What's wrong?" Eskel asked. With his finger he marked the page he had been reading and looked to Jaskier, who was lying next to him amidst the flowers. 

"Valdo Marx. That's what's wrong."

"Of course." Eskel's lips twitched upwards. "What has he done this time?" 

"He asked me to proofread his newest poetry collection and it's just so bad . I cannot read a single sentence more or I'll lose any poetic ability in my possession." 

"Then don't." 

"Yeah, but I don't have any other book with me, I'll be bored."

Eskel snorted and rolled his eyes fondly. 

"Here," he said, took another look at the page he had marked to remember where he had stopped reading and handed it to Jaskier. "You can have mine."

"What, really?" Jaskier perked up. "But you have been talking about this for weeks! You were so excited to read it!" 

Eskel's cheeks began to glow and he had to look away. At the tip of his tongue lay the suggestion that Jaskier could simply read it to him. But that would be too intimate and it would only solve half of Jaskier's problem. So instead, Eskel snatched up Marx' book. 

"I'll read this instead. Let's see if I can give Marx some criticism."

He pretended to be immediately engrossed in his new reading material, though he felt Jaskier's gaze burning into him. After a while, Jaskier began reading. Still, Eskel found it hard to concentrate, as every once in a while, Jaskier let out little laughs or gasps as he read. Out of the corner of his eye, Eskel caught sight of him reading. Maybe finishing this book could be a reason why they should travel together a little longer. And maybe, once they inevitably parted, they could write each other letters, discussing the book. It wasn't as good as getting to hear Jaskier read it to him, but it was pretty damn good nonetheless. 

--

"This really isn't the right festival for people with allergies." Jaskier let himself fall onto the bench beside Eskel. A bead of sweat ran down his temple and his eyes were alight with joy. "You never think about how hard it is to dance while wearing a flower crown. Let alone three. Those things are really difficult to balance."

Eskel rolled his eyes goodnaturedly. 

"Maybe if you weren't so charming, people would stop giving you all those crowns." 

"You think I'm charming?" 

Eskel choked and flustered as he was, he failed to explain himself any better than, "I mean… people think you are. I assume. Or else they wouldn't give you the flowers, would they? I mean. Not that I don't think -" with a groan, he broke off and covered his face with his hands. 

Thankfully, his rambling didn't insult Jaskier, who merely laughed and nudged Eskel in the sides. 

" Don't worry," he said lightly, "I know what you mean. I would say the people have good taste, but - where is your flower crown?" 

Eskel snorted at the absurdity of anyone giving him such a token of affection. 

"I don't have one." He tried to make it sound as if he didn't care, but even as the words left his mouth, they tasted bitter. 

Jaskier stared at him, his brow set in a determined frown. 

"Here," he said and pulled one of the crowns he was wearing off his head. It was the one with little blue blossoms that had almost the same shade of blue as Jaskier's eyes. "You can have mine."

Eskel's heart skipped a beat. 

"Really?" 

"Of course. It's not right that you don't have one. You're handsome and generous and kind. Why wouldn't I give you a crown?" 

Because of what comes after, Eskel didn't say. There was no need to make this uncomfortable. Maybe Jaskier had forgotten about the tradition and Eskel wouldn't hold him to it. 

Slowly, he took the crown from Jaskier snd placed it on his head. 

"Beautiful," Jaskier whispered. He pushed the crown a bit higher up, so that no leaves would tickle Eskel's forehead. His hand came to rest on Eskel's cheek and before Eskel had time to ask what Jaskier was doing, Jaskier was leaning in and brushed his lips against Eskel's scarred cheek. It wasn't quite the kiss tradition demanded, but it still left Eskel stunned. Jaskier cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck. 

"Alright then," he said with a strange smile. "Guess I'll leave you to it then. Happy Belleteyn."

"Happy Belletyn," Eskel echoed, but Jaskier had already disappeared back into the dancing crowd. Only the memory of his kiss lingered in Eskel's skin. 

--

It took Eskel a while to find Jaskier. Instead of mingling with some folks at the bar or singing in the middle of the room, Jaskier sat at a table in the corner, away from any prying eyes. In front of him stood a concerning amount of empty tankards. In his hand, he was gripping another one. 

He had deep bags beneath his eyes and his tousled hair looked as if he had spent the past hour running his hands through it. 

"Jaskier."

At the sound of Eskel's voice, Jaskier looked up at him with bleary eyes. 

"Oh. You're back." Jaskier tried for a smile, but it was shaky and his eyes were glistening. 

Eskel frowned, uncaring of the way the expression tugged at his scars. As gently as he could, he pried Jaskier's fingers off the tankard and held his hand.

"How can I help you?" he asked, lost for what else to do. "What is wrong?" 

Jaskier gave him a long strange look that slowly wandered to their linked fingers. 

"Nothing," he eventually said, so softly that Eskel would have missed it, were it not for his witcher hearing. "I just lost my heart."

Eskel's blood turned cold. He had seen Jaskier fall in and out of love so many times, but this was different. Normally, Eskel's heartbreak at least meant that he got to see Jaskier laugh and smile and have that beautiful shine in his eyes when he talked about his paramour. Seeing Jaskier like this, so miserable in his love felt like his chest getting pierced by a blade. Eskel wanted to help, wanted him to be happy. 

Here , his foolish hope was screaming at him to say, you can have mine! 

But that wasn't the heart Jaskier wanted, even though it had been his for years already. 

So instead, Eskel gave his hand a helpless squeeze. With a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, he said, "Yeah. Me too." 

[guardianofrivendell]

One Morning in Laketown...

Fíli x OC Tullaina

Requested: no - requests are closed atm, this was written by me, for me

Warnings: awkwardness, pining, what is that ending though, this is not smutty 18+ but there is some morning excitement going on with Fíli fyi - also, I don’t know what pacing is so yes this feels rushed and unfinished (no pun intended)

Summary: Tullaina is cold, and Kíli thinks it’s the perfect opportunity to help his brother out. At least, that was the plan. 

Tullaina fic timeline: between Slippery When Wet and When in Mirkwood - during the Quest 

Word count: 1.9k

A/N: I’m alive! After almost 7 months of not being able to finish anything, I managed to get this out of my system. Did anyone ask for this? Of course not (no one’s waiting for OC content) and even I don’t know where it came from, but the idea kept bouncing around in my head so I had to write it down. 

This was supposed to be a little haha fic about Fíli’s morning wood poking Tullaina but then somehow I dragged fluff, inner turmoil and a dash of angst into this to even things out I guess. Bon apétit!

Also yes, we can all acknowledge that I’m still bad with titles. 

Laketown was grey, wet and cold. Even though the bowman had warned them it wasn’t a comfortable place to be, Tullaina had expected something a little more… dry. 

The smell of rotted wood and mold hung heavy in the air as they settled in his living room, irritating her nose and throat and keeping her from taking deep breaths. But Bard’s house was a safe haven, at least for now, a chance to catch their breaths, fill their bellies and dry their clothes, so she shouldn’t really complain .

A warm and hearty dinner made the Company’s good spirits return, and with the mountain now within their reach and their strengths returned through food and rest, the room was filled with excited chatter and laughter. 

Tullaina sat with her back against the wall, knees pulled up to her chest and a knitted blanket thrown around her shoulders, watching their merrymaking with tired eyes.

Sigrid had suggested she’d sleep in her room, thinking she could use a little privacy away from her male companions, but Tullaina had politely declined. After what happened in Mirkwood, there was no way Thorin, Fíli, Kíli or any other member of the Company would let her out of their sight, not even for one second. And she felt the exact same way. 

As the night progressed, one by one the Dwarves laid down to rest on the hard wooden floor, using the provided blankets and throws and whatever they could find to sleep on. Tullaina quickly followed their example, absolutely exhausted after their escape from the Mirkwood dungeons and travelling to Laketown, with Fíli and Kíli joining her not long after. 

But sleep didn’t came as easily as she would have wanted. Despite the room being packed with Dwarves and a Hobbit and a still smouldering fire in the fireplace, she couldn’t seem to get warm. The humid air and the cold had crept into her tired bones, her toes were numb and every inch of skin was prickled with goosebumps. She couldn’t stop shivering, no matter what position she tried to sleep in. 

After what seemed like hours of endless tossing and turning, Tullaina rolled onto her side, double-downed and clenched her eyes shut, wishing for warmth and sleep to come at last.

“Everything alright?” Fíli whispered, having noticed her shivering form. He was careful to keep his voice down, not wanting to wake up any of the others. But judging by their loud snoring, it would take a lot more than a hushed conversation to wake them up. 

Tullaina pulled the knitted blanket a little tighter around her, and nodded. “Jus’ c-cold, is all.”

Fíli reached out and covered the hand that clutched her blanket, easily enveloping it in his own. “Mahal, you’re freezing!”

On her other side, Kíli turned around so he could face them. “You want my blanket?”

“N-no Kíli, I swear I’m f-f-fine. You need your own b-blanket.”

“Tulls, you’re clearly not fine, I can feel you shaking. Are your clothes dry enough?” Fíli asked, patting down the blanket to see if it turned damp. “Seems okay to me.”

“I told you I’m f-f-fine, Dwarves are warmblooded, I’ll warm up eventually,” she tried to reassure them. If only her teeth would stop chattering so she could actually try to get some sleep… 

“That’s it!” Kíli yelled, immediately shushed by his brother, “don’t give me that look Fee, no one heard me. But Tulls is right, we are warmblooded. That’s what she needs, body warmth!”

“So what do you suggest?”

“Isn’t that obvious? See, that’s why I’m the smarter one out of the two of us. Fee, you need to share your blanket! Let her sleep against you so you can share your body warmth, she’ll be fine in no time and then we can all have a good night’s sleep.”

Fíli froze, immediately catching on to what his brother was trying to do and he opened his mouth a few times to say something, too stunned to speak. 

Tullaina tried to ignore the stab in her stomach when she realised Fíli was mortified by the idea of sleeping under the same blanket. She didn’t understand, there had been lots of times during the Quest and back home where they’d cuddled close to each other, and for Durin’s sake, when they escaped Mirkwood that morning he couldn’t let go of her, his arm firmly wrapped around her waist for hours after, so why would he be so against the idea now? 

“It’s fine, I-I can share with Kíli, I don’t mind,” she quickly suggested, trying to break the awkward tension.

“But I do!” Kíli protested quickly, “no offence Tulls, but I know you’re a heavy dreamer, I’m not looking to be kicked in the shins. Or worse.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Fíli stuttered after he found his voice again, “I’m sorry Tullaina, of course I’ll sleep with you-” 

Both Tullaina and Kíli watched the colour drain from his face as his brain caught up with his mouth. They stared at him with wide eyes while Fíli prayed that the inside of Bard’s house was dark enough so no one could see how flushed he was.  “I mean- I don’t… That’s not… I- I’ll shut up now.”

He moved closer towards Tullaina, close enough so he could throw part of his blanket over her but still keeping enough distance between their bodies so his mother would be proud of him. 

“Is this okay?” he asked with a hushed voice, “I can move if you want.”

“Fíli, it’s fine, don’t worry,” Tullaina hummed, instantly relaxed by the extra warmth and comfort radiating from him, and she could feel her eyelids getting heavier by the second.

“Now that everyone’s settled and comfortable, can we finally go to sleep?” Kíli’s voice sounded from behind them, and Fíli muttered a good night in return. He noticed Tullaina remained silent, her breathing already evened out. The shivers had stopped, but Fíli still pulled his part of the blanket off of him and covered her with it, keeping none for himself. 

*

It was still early when Tullaina woke up, feeling well-rested and warm. She could hear soft snoring right next to her, and as she slowly opened her eyes, she was greeted with Fíli’s sleeping figure. Their noses almost touched, they were that close to each other and she could feel his breath brush her lips with every sigh. 

Even though the room was still shrouded in the night’s darkness she could see the outlines of his face perfectly. His long nose, his moustache braids she knew he was so proud of, the lines around his mouth and eyes - the ones she could read like a map, every little skin crease depicting a different emotion, a different meaning behind them - now smoothed underneath the promise of a safe night. Her fingers twitched, eager to stroke the stray hairs out of his face, his usually well-kept braids untangled, a reminder of their flight from Mirkwood, making him look more like Kíli than he would have wanted. 

She shouldn’t. 

They were about to reclaim Erebor, their long lost home and it would change everything. But it was their home, not hers. 

They were actual royalty for Mahal’s sake, and the closer they came to ending their quest, the more she realised that she was going to lose them. She didn’t belong in their world, or at their side. She, an orphaned daughter of an Ered Luin seamstress and a miner, had no place beside the throne. When everything was over and settled down, she would make the journey back. Alone. 

After all, princes didn’t make friends with commoners and they certainly didn’t court or marry them. They would forget her soon enough. 

Tullaina sighed and turned on her other side, wanting to put as much distance between them as she could. She shouldn’t think about her goodbyes just yet, they had a dragon to slay first. 

Before she was able to inch further away, Fíli grunted and draped a large arm over her middle, pulled her closer and pressed his broad frame against her back. She froze at the sudden proximity and tried to fight her initial reaction of melting into him and folding her arms over his. What would the others think if they woke up and found them like this? Spooning? 

But those concerns were quickly pushed to the back of her mind when she noticed something else, something very prominent and very much awake. 

She knew what it was, she wasn’t a little pebble anymore, but knowing about it and feeling it pressed against your butt were two totally different things. 

Fíli would probably die of embarrassment if he knew and Tullaina was sure she would be right behind him at this point. She tried to carefully squirm her way out of his arms, without waking him up, but his hold on her was too tight. In any other situation she would’ve been flattered, excited even, knowing that he didn’t want to let her go, but now she wished she had accepted Sigrid’s offer. 

All her wiggling and squirming to get away only made it worse and Fíli more excited. There was no other option but to wait for him to wake up, hoping none of the others would do so first. 

And for once, luck was on her side because a few minutes later, Fíli started to stir. Tullaina patted his arm softly and whispered his name, trying to get him to let go before he realised what kind of predicament he had put them in. 

Fíli heard the slight panic and worry in her voice and wrongfully assumed there was danger looming. In an instant he went into full protective mode and pulled her closer against him, tightening his hold on her, shielding her body with his own. He groaned and bucked his hips involuntarily as Tullaina’s body made contact with his hardness, and that’s when he realised to his horror what was going on. 

He immediately let her go, his body jolting back as if she’d burned him. By doing so, he bumped into a sleeping Kíli, who was up in a second, startled by the sudden action of his brother. The yelps of both princes alerted Thorin, who was usually a light sleeper, whose movement woke Bilbo and in just a few seconds, the whole Company was awake. 

Fíli scrambled to his feet, muttering apologies as fast as he could, not knowing where to look. Tullaina was just as mortified as him, and trying to escape the questioning looks of everyone she quickly excused herself, mumbling something about helping Sigrid with breakfast, even though none of the Bardlings were awake yet. 

Kíli and the others watched her dash out of the living room, but no one dared to comment. Thorin eyed his nephews carefully, but decided to let it slide for now. If it was important, they would come to talk to him eventually.  

Fíli was still panting and beet red when Kíli came up next to him.

“That went well, didn’t it?” he commented, as they watched everyone getting ready for breakfast, the previous scene already forgotten.  

If looks could kill, the youngest Durin prince would’ve died on the spot, twice. Fíli muttered something about needing some air and stomped out of the house into the cold morning air. 

Kíli sighed heavily and pouted his lips, looking at the pile of blankets on the ground.

“Another good plan gone to waste.”

Permanent taglist: @roosliefje​ @kata1803​ @entishramblings​ @artsywaterlily​ @sleepy-daydream-in-a-rose​ @marvelschriss​ @kumqu4t​ @the-banannah​ @dark-angel-is-back​ @the-fandoms-georgie​ @lathalea​ @xxbyimm​ @katethewriter​ @aredhel-of-gondolin​ @elvish-sky​ @moony-artnstuff​ @kirenia15​ @vicmackeybullshxt​ @hey-its-nonny​ @beenovel​ @cassiabaggins​ @shethereadinghobbit​ @justfollowtheroad​ @laurfilijames​ @fizzyxcustard​ @brokennerdalert​ @linasofia​ @naimadrawsstuff​ @errruvande​ @amaryllis23​ @enchantzz​ @narniaandthenorth @sketch-and-write-lover​ @blairsanne​ @ruthoakenshield​ @midearthwritings​ @alone19-24 @medusas-hairband​ @ren-ni​ @kyramaximoff @megnotfound​ @middleearthpixie​ @aduialel​ @tree0frog​ @trappedinlimbo15 @brethil13​

Fíli taglist:  @bluewingedangel​ @spidergirla5​ @otakumultimuse-hiddlewhore​ @clumsy-wonderland​ @i-always-come-back-xoxo

[ckret2]

why do some songs' covers get a wider variety of genres than others

look up Blinding Lights covers and you find anything from metalcore to 80s new wave remix. I'm sure there's a medieval bard who's covered it. you can find anything.

look up Breezeblocks covers and you get a hundred laid-back acoustic covers with breathy vocals and, just for variety, two a cappella covers

alt-J puts just the right amount of intensity in Breezeblocks to convey barely-contained passion. on the other hand, any wispy acoustic cover sounds as passionate as a wet tissue. they're not eating anyone whole unless their beloved has the structural integrity of baby food.

listen. I want a version of Breezeblocks where the barely-contained passion is no longer contained. where are the metalheads who also like alt-J. I want a metal cover. I'll even take a pop-goes-punk cover. all I want is to hear one version where the singer howls "PLEASE DON'T GO, I'LL EAT YOU WHOLE, I LOVE YOU SO—" like a demon being burned at the stake

[mcfallen-god]

My tavs, a (long) post

Aesthetics and backstories above ✨

(yes too many, no you can't judge me, yes I play them all once in a while, no I haven't completed the game yet with any of them, yes I also have a game as Astarion, no you still can't judge me, yes I tell you shut the fuck up with most genuine and tender love)

Lothithil, high-elf, warlock, he/they, chaotic neutral

Lothithil is an orphan (maybe his parents died in a silly accident or murdered or he is a refugee from somewhere for some reason, neither Lothithil nor I know nor really care).

He was found by an inn keeper around Baldur's Gate (Lothithil has very, very little memory of how and where the human found him, he just remembers living with him for some years)

The man who picked him up was a human and had the boy working at the inn through Lothithil's early years. The inn owner is not exactly a perfect good guy, he had never been violent and treated Lothithil bad, but he is a gambler and tended to have a lot of debts.

One day he gambled too big for his own good and he couldn't afford to repay the guys he was in debt to. So, naturally, these guys came and threatened to burn his inn if he didn’t pay. He begged them to spare the inn and offered Lothithil instead. And just like this, the boy went from hand to hand.

The boy felt a bit betrayed at first, but as he thought it out, he never got involved emotionally with the man, neither did the innkeeper. They were not family to begin with. He offered the kid a shelter, food and a place to sleep. After all Lothithil was but a stray dog to the human. So he never exactly felt mad at him, just thankful for the time he spent at the inn, but he never really held grudge (and being a long-live beings help to put things into perspective, he now just looks kind of fondly at his years at the inn).

With the group of thugs, Lothithil learnt to lie and to steal (the guys kinda liked him, the boy was resourceful, charming and fun).

After some years, those guys – who were mostly human or at least aged like humans – turned old. As they eventually aged and retired – just left Baldur’s Gate, got arrested or died anyway – Lothithil was teenish and parted way with them.

He then met a couple of human warlock, who offered him to come with them. He was more or less adopted by them and joined their family. They had very small ‘cult’ where all of them were warlocks and shared the same patron. Lothithil choose to become a warlock as well and to join the ‘cult’.

Though, they all remained humans, aging and eventually passing away. Their children took after them to carry their little cult on, but Lothithil decided to leave.

Now he is almost an adult in terms of high-elf age, and he has enough resources to get his own ass out of mess and all. He doesn’t have any specific goal in life, he just likes to hang in there, sometimes on the roads, sometimes in the city. He likes to meet people and learn about their stories, he likes to mingle with them and have some fun (*wink wonk*), but he remains relatively without ties.

He is not aromantic, but maybe demi-romantic. He is really at ease with sex and is opened to many things. He is pansexual, kind-of switch but he likes it when he has his p*ssy stuffed lol.

Ash/Lith (DU), half-high-elf, bard, they/them, neutral evil

Ash (Lith) is my Dark Urge.

Their early life was happy and peaceful. Ash’s parents were two gentle, humble humans who found the baby by their little cottage’s door. Back then, Ash had another name, but they never ever used it again after the ‘event’...

It happened one night, the whole day Ash suffered a terrible fever and, through their sleep, they heard it. The dark urge calling.

Everything happened pretty quickly, and when Ash came back to his senses, they were standing in the middle of an inferno, the little cottage burning madly and the both corpse of their parents were ripped at their feet. Wet blood gleaming under the raging flames.

Ash felt disoriented, looking at their hands covered in blood and at the two dead bodies; they couldn’t *feel* anything. As a joist broke and crashed on Ash, half of their face and their left eye were burnt. It took them out of the torpor and they ran out of the blaze.

They stayed by the burning house, looking at flames until it died as well. From the ashes, they took their new name. The dark urge remained strong within them after that, and turned them rather insensitive and disconnected from their feelings, apathetic.

They are completely aromantic, and probably something like demi-sexual, as they are actually turned on by violence, murder, lies and generally by situation like: people witnessing the results of their crime without knowing it is Ash’s doing.

After the tadpole event, even if they wake up without any memories, they feel at ease with the killing urge and love the little itch it is to them.

Willow/Tathar, half-wood-elf, paladin, they/them, neutral good

Willow (Tathar) lived their early life with their father, their human parent (he gave birth to Willow, as both mom and dad are actually trans characters).

Willow’s mother and father sincerely loved each other, but knowing he will age and eventually die way faster than her, they both agree they should parted. Though, dad hardly ever let go of his feelings for her, while she, being an elven kind, got easily detached. Yet, when mom left, she didn't know dad was pregnant (neither did dad). Dad never got angry with mom, and never really tried to find her either. He understood that elves have a different emotional attachment due to their long life expectancy. And dad knew to begin with, at the start of their relationship, that it would end this way, they enjoyed their love story, but it was just impossible for them to stay together forever, obviously.

Dad always was very sincere with Willow and explained how happy mom and him were and how they parted on an a common agreement. He  also explain how he will eventually die when Willow is still young.

The both of them lived a happy and quiet life, for many years, but as dad started to age way faster than Willow, he had to have a talk with his child about their future. Father encouraged Willow to go connect with their elvish culture. As they never grew up among wood elf, Willow have some (many) things they don't know about their own origins and traditions.

Willow hardly agreed at first, but they quickly understood their father just wanted his child to have ties with their mother’s side. They promised they will left and wandered the world to learn about their culture, but only after their father is gone. They stayed at dad's side as he aged and passed away. It was their father who made them pick a god to worship. With such a patron, father was sure Willow would be safe after he left this world.

Now, Willow wander and feel eager to learn about their other mother's side, they are not especially trying to find her, as she is basically a nobody to them, but at least to learn about wood elf’s habits and customs.

Willow is a bit silly, very kind hearted. Thy can't bear injustice and don’t mind to hit first talk after if the situation requires so. They have no issues to kill, but they rather only kills the bad guys. They are a very enthusiastic person in terms of relationship, but has a hard time to label and bounder the said relationship. A friend can be a lover or a sexual partner alike. It is not mean, it is not absence of caring, but they just genuinely don’t know the limits, but if you explain very clearly and straightforwardly you look for an exclusive relationship, they will understand, but I’m not sure they will stick with you on a one-to-one relationship. Thus, Willow is clearly pansexual and polyamory.

Perslay, human, bard, he/him, true neutral

Perslay has the plainest backstory.

He is born from human parents, themselves part of a theatre company. He grew up in Baldur's Gate with them and the troupe. He started to be part of their show at a young age and he always meant to be a people entertainer. He never really went into an actual adventure ever, though he travelled with the troupe and can definitely fight for himself.

When his parents retired due to aging, and settled down in Baldur’s Gate for good, Perslay left and travelled with another company. Him and his parents are not in bad terms, he is just naturally independent and eager to perform on stage or in the street.

He only really was punched into adventure kind of travel because of the mind flayer’s abduction...

Perslay’s grumpiness and rather selfish temper makes him a bit hard-to-befriend person, but he is not completely heartless either. If you learn how to handle him, if you successfully pass through his attitude and become his friend, he will be your best ally and kill for you. But if you decide to betray him, you better be prepared man.

He is not exactly a warry person, he is more like: no matter who you are, what is your business, can you help with my problem? Come on, wanna try to stop me? Get lost.

He is very, very homosexually gay and loves big, strong men. Perslay is that one gay friend gossiping with his she friends about you. He never fell in love, but doesn’t mind trying; in the meanwhile he is a pretty sexually active guy.

Macyra, tiefling, sorcerer, she/her, lawful good

Macyra is homeless and alone; as her homeplace had been attacked and destroyed by humans. It happened when she was young and doesn’t remember much of the original event that triggers the conflict, but she remembers her father taking her sister and herself and taking them out of the house. The little village was burning and everyone was running away.  They got separated at some point, her father letting go of her and she had been dragged away by the running crowd. She doesn’t know if they are dead or alive.

After the tragedy, Macyra roamed with a couple of other young Tieflings, in the wild. At some point, they met with an old woman, a sorcerer Drow living by herself in the wood. She saved them and raised them rightfully. The Drow taught them to hear and use their natural magic.

She also taught them to always remember their origins, but to not feel restricted by it; she warned them that humans would never fully accepted them, as their appearance is the stigma of their ancestors’ misbehaviour and it is not a reason to prove them right. One should be judged on their own actions and not on their kins or kinds actions.

These teachings never left Macyra as she grew up and left the Drow’s side to wander the world by herself.

In every time and place, she uses her natural magic to work for people and to try to make them see her – and her kind – as less threatening.

As she travels, she tries to find any information about her father or her sister, unable to give up on them.

Macyra is a quiet and rather serious woman. She enjoys books, calm time, and she hardly just knows how to ‘have fun’ but she is not against it. She is just kind of hard to herself, socially clumsy and always does things like taming her voice, her moves, her actions to be sure to not frighten  people around her. She is naturally tall and large, and her whole appearance can be a bit scary for those not used to the sight of a Tiefling, but she is a good girl.

She is an helpless romantic, even if she never allowed herself to indulge in the warmth of romance. Macyra is not ace, but she is a bit impressed by sex and, since she is naturally large, she knows she can easily frighten partners. She never thought about her romantic label and thinks she can probably be with anyone as long as she fell for them, so you can consider her as a pansexual. Also, she might be very romantic, she is not opposed to the idea of polyamory.

Jas, githyanki, barbarian, he/him, chaotic neutral

Jas is just a… kind of himbo? Or more like he-bimbo?

Nothing goes in his mind really. Eating and using his strength is all he understands, and cares about.

Oh and he absolutely LOVES silver things (plate, forks, weapon and coins alike).

He will do whatever you ask him if you are persuasive enough, unless it is the opposite of what he wants.

About his young years, he has a rather classical life for a githyanki. Fight and fight and win fight and one day, ride a dragon kind of life.

After the mind flayer’s abduction, he sticks to Lae’zel. She is like him. She looks pretty. She is strong. She can fold him in half. She is githyanki with a brain.

She is not ugly and kid of scary like the long nose guys and the horned dudes.

He hardly grasps the concept of romantic attraction, but is really happy at anyone able to give him a good time, pegging him down, regardless of gender.

Veylin, half-drow, warlock, he/him, chaotic neutral

Veilyn is an orphan Drow (half elf, half Drow actually, but that is fact unknown to himself) who was raised in the Underdark.

As an orphan, he ended up "employed" (basically a slave) at the house of a rich and powerful Drow's couple.

He was their "boy-who-do-everything"; cleaning, cooking, shopping, and other dirtier jobs: like cleaning after their ‘parties’ (if you know what I mean), or if the couple had an enemy, Veylin was sent to assassinate them over the night.

At some point, Veylin grew exhausted of this lifestyle; especially since he is not exactly well treated, being fed with left overs or little dishes, being physically punished when his work is not good enough – or when one of them is just upset –, assisting to all kinds of debauchery, and having absolutely no freedom.

One day, another slave decided to riot. They teamed up with other slaves and started to fight with those who were still loyal to the Drow’s couple. It all was a big mess.

People fighting, slaves running away, house burning, authority coming to try to settle the shit down. But, in the end, Veylin used that opportunity to run away.

By then, he is barely a young adult who knows nothing from the outside world, apart from its existence. He is barely able to read; but he knows how to speak basic, since the Drow couple had many kind of visitors and he had to learn how to serve the guests well. He has good assassin’s skills, he can cook.

Though, he never ever saw something as shiny as the sun ever, so when he finally, firstly reached the outside world, he was scared by sight of so many light and hid back for a while. As night came, he saw the light going down and wandered out. It was a shock for him, that the outside world can be sometime so full of light and sometimes so dark.

Veylin started to travel, mostly at night, because he is more at ease with the darkness. At some point, he met with another traveller, their encounter was a bit chaotic at first, as the other traveller was a green-skinned woman Tiefling with long, curved horns and dancing tail. Veylin never ever met a Tiefling before, and he felt a bit freaked out, but the Tiefling was kind and patient enough to help and explain. She explained about her kind and listened to Veylin’s story; she also warned him about how Drow were perceived in this world and he should learn to act accordingly. They parted ways at the next village, after she showed him the basics of life here.

After the abduction, Veylin’s main goal is to get rid of the tadpole at every cost.

He won his freedom and he craves to keep it. He will kill and fight his way out of anything without hesitation in the name of his own freedom. On his journey, he will learn how to make friend, open to others and – most importantly – entrust others, but it is not an easy thing for him.

Veylin is still young, unexperienced in terms of love, but experienced in terms of sex. He doesn’t mind the gender of his partners, but he definitely is a bottom.

Kiaran, drow, wizard, she/her, neutral good

Kiaran is an old Drow lady who values knowledge and culture above anything. She lived part of her young years in the Underdark with her mother. One day, a man came in their life, a human wizard. He was kind and wise, he initially visited the Underdark for his researches, but fell in love with Kiaran’s mother and stayed with them. He was kind to the little girl and taught her the base of his knowledge. Kiaran liked him and his words a lot, they could spent all days together, reading books and learning magic, he said she was really talented!

It was a nice period. After some years, the human proposed the two Drow to come with him, back to the outside world. They agreed.

Kiaran was still young, but she clearly remember the amazement it was to her, to discover so many new things. They installed with him in his laboratory, on the edge of a village. More nice years passed peacefully; even though the villagers weren’t so happy to have ‘dark elves’ so close to their homes, the old wizard always managed to keep peace in the neighbourhood.

But the wizard was an old human and he eventually passed away when Kiaran was still young. As he was not there anymore to protect them from the villagers, then the tragedy occurred.

They came and threatened them, wanting to force them away. Kiaran’s mother refused, saying they have as much right to stay there as these humans. They disagreed, but left them be. For now.

The head of the village paid a mercenary to come and get rid of them. The man acted at night, locking all doors and windows from outside, and set fire to the laboratory while the two Drow were sleeping. They woke up and tried to get out, but all the exists were blocked. So, Kiran’s mother took her daughter and ran upstairs, and from one of these windows, she throw the girl out.

Kiaran survived, but had her face and body burnt, and had other injuries from the fall. Her mother died in the house, alongside with all the old wizard’s books, notes and knowledge.

After that day, Kiaran decided to never ever let anyone look down on her or treat her bad regarding her appearance or origins. She wanders the world to learn always more and more, she also take on herself to educate people the soft or hard way on her journey.

She is basically your local mommy; bisexual, and kinda dome-like, she doesn’t mind her partner’s preferred role, she can do it all.

[chromiumagellanic06]

The Silver Knight: Warrior, Princess, Wife

Daemon Targaryen/Original Fem [Targaryen] Character

Chapter 11: A Feast

MASTERLIST

Summary: A feast. A dance. An interruption. A failure.

Word count: 3.4k

Warnings: nothing, really

Wine, food, silk gowns and garners, jewels and gold, and luxury were all Daemon saw. There were glasses, silver forks and knives, and the finest, most delectable foods of the realm, and there was laughter and lavish glee and music. There were servants passing around aged cheeses and tropical fruits, pouring sweet wine, and nobles dancing to the bard’s songs and music. There were torches and candles, and there was a golden glow to it all, while his wife alone gleamed silver.

Naera had changed out of her gown covered in horse shit and wet mud, and into a dress of white and grey accents, with diamonds as jewels, though the shine always evaded her, and braids in half her hair. She looked like a bride—ethereal, enchanting, enticing, with her bared neck and smooth skin—oh, he was actively resisting the urge to just consume her.

Daemon saw the way the men stared at her—it was the way the women stared at him, only but that ladies were trained to hide their lust and men were far too privileged to feel the need to shield theirs. He would repay them one day, but tubis daor—not today, when he sat beside his niece, his Valyrian Bride of pure descent, his beautiful lady wife who had defeated him just hours prior.

It made him burn, in a way not at all unpleasant—not at all unwanted, for he knew what would come after the droll of the banquet. He’d consume her completely, and make her his.

Right.

Their plan.

Fuck.

Daemon held her hand under the table, leaning towards Naera as she conversed with her father, and he whispered, “What of our…Naera?”

She turned her head towards him too fast, and he felt the burn of her silver-gold hair brushing against his face too fast, but she smiled at the end of it, as a wedded woman would on the banquet of her union, and said, “Is the boy drinking?”

Daemon passed a glance towards the end of the table. Aegon sat pouring a near endless stream of wine down his throat—Dornish Red, as Naera had specified to the kitchens, and a very special kind indeed that was a lot stronger than it seemed at a taste. Elysabeth Tyrell sat beside him, joking and smiling and bantering as a young lady is expected to do. Perfect.

“Yes,” he smiled fondly, turning back to Naera.

“Well, we must wait, then,” Naera winked, carefree, but not careless, with pride and freedom, and he held her hand tighter.

“Happy with ourselves, are we?” Daemon teased her victory. “You may not always win, Naera,” and he kissed her cheek, innocent to those who crowded the banquet hall, but it set something aflame within Naera. She clutched his hand, now sweaty, and sighed a calming breath onto herself.

“Are you suggesting that you went easy, kepus? I think not,” and she ran a finger down the healing cut across his cheek. She took a mouthful of sour Dornish wine, and leaned her shoulders just a sliver towards him. Daemon wrapped his arm around her tighter, and let his breath flutter across her neck.

Naera shivered, cheeks flushing. 

Daemon began, “I shall not lie—”

“What, are you too honourable for it?” Naera jabbed with a laugh, “Lies get you very far, Daemon. Lies made me a rich woman, in a walled city across the seas.” There was pride in her voice and none of the honour that spilled out of a northerner when you stabbed them. He was entranced by it, by her brazen hubris over being dishonourable.

“Where?” Volantis, perhaps? Where those descended from Valyrians lived within obsidian walls, and she had declared them dislikeable, thus she knew them with certainty.

“One day,” she repeated his words, grinning, smiling, laughing in all but those wine-stained lips. Ah, those lips, and he was leaning forth to grant himself a chaste peck, just a taste of her smooth, supple skin, of her delightful self.

“Princess Naera, Prince Daemon,” a strong Dornish accent drew them away from their thoughts. It was a boy, young, younger than Aemond, with caramel brown skin and wavy hair. He was dressed in embroidered red and silver, to honour the family the best he could, but the obligation of the situation was as clear as possible. They had come only for Naera, and not for House Targaryen.

“Prince Qyle,” Naera greeted the member of the Dornish company who had chosen to attend the wedding. Prince Qyle was the firstborn son of Prince Qoren Martell, as well as his second heir, should he need one, following Princess Aliandra. Given when she had departed from Dorne, she had not met the young boy at all.

“My father, Prince Qoren, sends his congratulations on your marriage,” the young boy, the prince, spoke aloud to the music and chatter of the feast. “He…he asked me tell you that he has…” Qyle was unable to voice the words, for they made him uncomfortable, nearly ashamed, even.

Silence fell on the King’s table as Viserys turned to the blossoming hesitation in the Dornish prince.

“Yes?” Naera leaned forward, smiling as a visiting adult would to a shy little baby, encouragingly, and sipped some more wine.

“Prince Qoren has kept on his rehearse of the lance with vigour, is what he asked me to relay to you.” The nervousness in Prince Qyle’s face drained him as Naera threw her head back with a delighted laugh—euphonious, delicate, like a blooming flower in the midst of spring that is laced with morning dew and sparkles beneath the dawn sun—perfection.

He smiled at her, at the boy who chuckled also, and she responded, “Tell him for me, Prince Qyle…that if he can name the Houses of the Vale whilst honing his skill with the spears, I shall be rather impressed, indeed.” Naera grinned at her old good brother’s son, no, at her old would-have-been good brother’s son. Her good brother now was— “Oh, your grace, my dear good brother,” and Daemon held his laughter, “I believe I must send a most beautiful spear to Dorne with the group as a present, and, of course, a list of the Houses of the Vale—”

“Thank you, my princess,” and Qyle excused himself with a smile, on to question whether he would have such a friendship with his own good siblings when he had some. If Alicent Hightower and Laenor Velaryon were anyone to go by, Daemon would bargain that Naera was a special case indeed. She was friendly and brave, and beautiful and daring, and cunning as she was wise—perfect.

Naera leaned back into his arms, watching the dancers bow and circle and spin in delight. The alcohol had taken hold on, for it was obvious she had lost some clarity in her actions and her thoughts.

“Do you wish to dance?” Daemon asked when the child prince left them to their wine and dine.

“Can you dance?” Naera referred to the horrendous stab wound his leg had suffered at her behest. Daemon wrapped an arm around her shoulders again—perhaps, just to burn the minds of whoever desired her as his own—and leaned close to her neck again.

“Do you believe me this weak? Angoda iksan, ābrazyrys,” I am offended, wife, and Naera couldn’t suppress the blush that overtook her at his words. She felt a breeze of the coldest winter brush past her face, in that they made goosebumps scatter across all her skin.

She stood up, taking Daemon by the hand, “Pār, ivestragī īlva lilagon, valzyrys,” Then, let us dance, husband, and Daemon shuddered at the words—delightful, an irenic, tristful endeavour that calmed his beating heart but set it ablaze all the same. He stood suppressing a yelp, hiding a hiss, if only to not let her win once again—there would be a lifetime for that, for he’d never leave her go.

Daemon held her hand and wondered why hers were always colder than his. He watched her spin around her chair, and she dragged him along, towards the open spaces crowded with nobles and guests, who had all paused frozen at their arrival. A few of them backed away as they approached, and others joined the crowd to share a dance with the day’s beauty. He watched, out of the corner of his eye, at Elysabeth Tyrell leading Aegon to the floor himself, at the silly, dazed smile on his face, enchanted.

The bards began a slow, shrill tune, one he hadn’t heard before, and he took Naera’s cold hand again, holding her waist with the other. She rested her hand on his arm, an inch past his shoulder—correct. He wondered who had had the pleasure of teaching her the dances.

Naera swayed a step with the music, eyes calmly closed in peace, and with the clutter of her shoes against the marble floors, she began her dance. The tune grew faster, and he dragged his lady wife to follow the dance he just knew how to perform. She moved with the tranquillity of a seasoned dancer, as though she had been dancing her entire life. She swirled and twirled and spun like a cat—agile, slender, and elegant. Like her sword-fighting, Daemon realised.

She danced with the sword as she did with him, pivoting at just the correct moments, bending and dipping low in response to his own movements which appeared stiff in comparison. He followed her tugs for a change, ignoring the stabbing pains in his knee, and he wished his wound did not bleed once again, for he could not stop now. He could only aid, help, and be the consort to her free musings.

He gazed, and gazed, and thought, and thought, of the gold and the silver that twinkled in her purple eyes, and he asked, with his own identical eyes, he told, as well as he could, you are beautiful, and Daemon clenched her waist close, leaning close, closer and closest, to watch her eyes flicker and darken, to feel her flesh warm beneath him, burning.

Naera gasped small, shuddering breaths, her lips parted in a broken smile, her lips, which were painted the perfect shade between rouge and rosewood, with not a smudge out of place and not a whisper out of sound. Perfect. She pivoted her weight on a single foot, her chest rising and falling with tumultuous breathing, her chest, her bodice, her jewel and her lace, adorning her waist and her rounded breasts—Zyhon litse ābra—his fair woman, and his heart shuddered, his blood rushed to pleasant places at the thoughts.

“Ñuha gevie ābra,” he whispered close to her ears, and Daemon felt his face warm too far, he felt his hands sweat profusely as they held hers, he saw the shimmer in her eyes, and he knew, my beautiful woman.

Naera averted her eyes, her pale cheeks red, redder and reddest with the rush of blood, and perhaps, he hoped, lust, pressing her lips into a thin line, wetting them, making them shine, and his Silver Knight twirled away in sync with the song, and fell back in his arms with ardour, as the music came to standing still. She curtsied as a woman is expected, and he bowed in respect to his lady wife.

Daemon rested his hands on her shoulders, and let them drag up, up, up her delicate neck which he would scar himself, and the ivory skin, and cupped her cheeks—her burning face, and he leaned forward and brushed his lips against Naera’s. Her face was tender, as were her lips—gentle, soft and welcoming, unlike everything she had been just hours ago. Oh, just hours ago when she had defeated him with more ease than the Hightower’s cunt had all those years ago. Perfect. She was perfect.

 “I wish the royal couple all the fortune of this world,” they turned to face a man in indigo garb, silks and satin, with dark, curly hair ending at his ears, and a face with a twisted nose. The man smiled, as expected, and bowed a fraction as a display of allegiance.

Daemon let his hands drop, and Naera responded, “Thank you, my Lord…” but it was obvious that she couldn’t recognise the man. Daemon couldn’t, either.

 “Akka, davra atthirar, Khaleesi,” He understood the words, or rather, he heard them, but could not determine their meaning.  

“What did you call me?” Naera asked, her voice barely a whimper over the music that had already encompassed the room again. He saw her shudder, her hands shook, and her jaw trembled.

The man smiled, dark, “Khaleesi, ven’r hash,” and the Dothraki words rolled off the man’s tongue in a way more natural than his lips ever seemed. Daemon could not understand a word, but the tone, the tenure was hostile. Threatening.

Naera spoke the words with fluency, might, fight, with power, and the harsh words spoken by Naera’s lips seemed the same as the finest Valyrian poetry to Daemon. He sensed panic, however, in the way Naera clutched the white lace of her gown, her breathing bated, her eyes set on the lord who had just arrived.

“Naera?” Daemon watched the noble lord cautiously, unable to recognise any crests or emblems in his features, cursing himself for never learning the languages of the east. Dothraki, she spoke the language of the Dothraki.

“Sek,” the man agreed, speaking slow and drawling, yes, “Vosma yer addrivat jin khal Roq’ko—Haji yer hash jin Khaleesi,” Daemon recognised the word again—Khaleesi—a Queen of the Dothraki. Naera squeezed a handful of her gown, wrinkling the fabric irrevocably. She was afraid, the first time since Wisestone’s disappearance, he noticed. She was afraid.  

“Here,” the man smiled, as though no fear reached his face, no fright sweated his skin, and he spoke once again in the common tongue, “A gift for the princess of the Seven Kingdoms,” and the man, the noble lord, led them to the doors without, to the cold corridors leading up to the rooms. The guards were missing, Daemon noted, as a pitch-black chest was handed to Naera.

Naera fiddled with the steel clasps cautiously, perhaps only because her hands trembled uncontrollably. Daemon let his warm hand cover hers, and she sighed at his actions. She did not face him, but her gratitude was taken nonetheless. She cracked open the onyx chest, throwing back the covers, and Daemon’s blood ran cold.

It was a face—a face he had never seen, and he thought back to her drunken squalor the other night when she had recalled the tale of a man who wished to hack her face off. No.

No, but caution must colour every action in King’s Landing, and Naera held down Daemon’s hand, for she knew how he’d react. She was right to do it, for Daemon did not take to it well—he eyed the thin, parchment and silk-like mask with sun-dyed skin, and lips, and closed eyes, and dark hair, and structure. It was a face, but just a carving of it, as though someone had taken great care to flay a man of his face and preserve it also.

Naera did not move, barely breathed. She only gazed, and gazed, and gazed, and closed the chest with a thud. The man did not speak. He did not smile. He stood there, motionless, watching, waiting.

Naera spoke first, adopting another tongue he had never heard before, and spat out a dozen words too fast for him to register. Then, she turned to him, the chest clattering on the floor, and she held his hands, leaned close, and said, “Nyke jorrāelagon ao naejot nārhēdegon bisa, Daemon,” I need you to forget this, Daemon.

“Naera, skoros…” what?

“Daor, kepus, rȳbagon,” No, uncle, listen, and her face had paled beyond health, her eyes were no longer pools of dark lust, instead only shallow splatters of fear. He glanced at the man—the man who had feared her, ignoble, lanky, weak, and yet he threatened her as so. “Nyke jorrāelagon ao naejot dōrī ȳdragon hen bisa, dōrī pendagon hen ziry, sesīr…” I need you to never speak of this, never think of it, even… “Dōrī ivestragon mire issaros ken skoros ao ūndan.” Never tell any person of what you saw.

Never speak of this, that a false lord had called her queen and gifted her a face of a man, and she had cowered in fear, never think of it, as though he was the strongest man alive—as though he could resist the thoughts, never tell any person of what you saw, and he would do it all. For her, it was little to fulfil.

“Kostagon gaomā bona syt nyke, kepus?” Can you do that for me, uncle? Her voice was trodden and strangled, as though her heart had jumped up to her throat, as though it threatened to lurch out of her, as though endless dread churned within her. Fear, for him? A fear he had not witnessed in her before. A fear that came out of a life well lived when the terrors of a childhood tale no longer bothered, for the greatest evils have been seen and felt and lived. What has she seen? What has she done, that destroyed her? And with calm, and decisiveness, Daemon accepted. He'd know it all, soon enough. 

“Issa, ābrazȳrys,” Yes, wife. He nodded, slow, gazing cautiously at her sweat-laden face, at her trembling, cold fingers.

The man was gone. The chest remained.

“Thank you,” she whispered, “One day,” she quoted him, relief washing through her, calming her, warming her hands and cooling her mind at the same time, “I shall tell you every tale.” A promise.

She sent the chest back to her solar, paired with the express order to leave it closed, and she returned to the corridor outside the banquet hall, holding Daemon’s hands, fear drained thus.

“Naera, I…” he had a question—just one, and surely, she would answer him. “Who was he?” He asked, harmless, for he could not be faulted for forgetting the name of a lord.

“No one,” Naera answered quickly, shaking her head, interrupting any thoughts he may have had, “One day, kepus, you must believe me, it was no one,” and the way she said the words retained the ominous absolution to them he recalled from those nights past. Faces, no one, flaying?

Hark, footsteps, clicking and clacking of timber heels against the marble. Elysabeth Tyrell approached them with a sour face. Her rose-coloured gown was stained with a spill of red wine by the side, though the patterning hardly striked hard enough to scandal.

She stopped before them, grasping Naera by the forearm, she leaned close to them, and said, with an annoyance beyond words, “The boy’s asleep.” Defeated, they were, it seemed.

Naera sighed, her shoulders slacking, face dulling, “Thank you for trying…I…” she shook her head, the panic and fear had left her dizzy. Daemon held her shoulders with care. Naera turned to smile, bleak, but something told him that half a glass of wine worth its gold would chase away these thoughts well enough.

“Oh,” Elysabeth smirked, brown curls waving, “It was a daft plan, by all means,” and Daemon flinched at her bluntness. “Come up with something better when you’re finished gazing lovingly at each other, will you?” Yet, the Rose’s glance was sinful and suggestive, passing a blame most carelessly owned by them both. They had been far too distracted to think of a better scheme.

Naera sighed through her nose, biting her lower lip, blushing, and he would be a liar if he claimed that he did not also. Naera chuckled, “Thank you, nonetheless,” of the fun you have lost, which you would have lived by after Aegon was slapped in the face by his whore of a mother.

“Oh,” Elysabeth laughed in glee, and when her eyes dropped to where their hands lay tightly clasped, she spoke with a deviant tenure, “I most certainly intend to have my fun, still, Naera,” and with a look of intemperate evil, she pulled at Daemon’s arm which was closer to her, and turned to the hall, “I believe it is time for the bedding!”

MASTERLIST

[yunessa]

Fanfic spoilers for my stuff/ Yunessa but I'm stuck in line waiting for my car to get fixed so I need to write something. So it's time for Yunessa facts. You've been warned.

Yunessa hates mongrel food. Not because it's bad, but because Yunessa has had it so many times after they wake up below the caves.

Yunessa likes fruit flavored liqours or alcoholic teas. They've never been a fan of wine or beers. They crave sweets.

Yunessa 's favorite meals almost always have some form of meat and a thick sauce.

Yunessa is terrible at healing magic. So terrible that it's like pouring massive amounts of water through a sieve. They could help, but really it wouldn't be that helpful. If at all.

Yunessa is impulsive and prone to listening to absurd plans. This tends to work out because impressive unfathomable stupidity can be mistaken for genius when it works spectuarlly well.

Yunessa has no idea what fashion is and will happily wear what to they think looks nice, durable, and "bard like".

It's important to be able to wake up quickly in the morning rather than dallying about. There's a crusade to be had after all. Yunessa either whistles or will play their own version of 'hot cross buns' in an attempt to subtly train the others to wake up quickly. This works more for Daeran than the others.

Yunessa would love cursed memes. Cursed memes make the world better.

Yunessa 's humour is dry and, when they get to know someone well, it will be revealed that their humour can be quite cutting and dark.

Yunessa likes candies. Bright colorful candies. No candy is safe with Yunessa around.

Yunessa can be eternally patient if the need arise, ignoring impulses to focus on the task at hand.

Yunessa cares very little what gender they're called. But they are very particular about being addressed by their name. They picked their own name and not using that, or a title that is theirs (i.e. commander, bard, or say, Woljif calling them 'chief') is a quick way to get on Yunessa's petty shitlist.

Yunessa will devour books and knowledge if given the opportunity. No bard should deprive themselves of knowledge, so they reason.

Yunessa has no desire to find out who they were pre-curse/memory loss. A dead man, Yunessa will reason, is a dead man. Also they like who they are. They place a lot of value on that.

Yunessa is a sucker for animals. They're banned from feeding Soot because Soot is getting chunky from begging Yunessa for food.

Yunessa's temperr is akin to a teakettle. If you cut it off before the steam makes the kettle whistles then you're fine. If the teakettle whistles then Yunessa won't forget this.

Yunessa will happily sit next to you in silence for hours, just vibing. If nothing is said that's fine.

Yunessa likes watching nobility for the sheer weirdness of what they are and their funny rules.

Yunessa can use a bow well but doesn't prefer it.

Yunessa is prone to falling ill when the weather changes rapidly.

Spite is a motivator that can be stronger than anything else.

Perfectly chaotic neutral. They value their freedom. Good or bad, right and wrong mean nothing- freedom is the goal. That doesn't mean they'll lean towards evil deeds or go the fishmalk route. Yunessa values what they deem important and will prioritize that. Their freedom to choose is important. Trying to force them into a choice will inspire resentment and grudges that will die long after your grandchildren do.

Yunessa doesn't like theatre plays.

Yunessa hates being muddy worse than being cold or wet.

Yunessa craves coffee as much as they do sweets.

Oddly, Yunessa has very nice handwriting.

Decent with a sword and better with cantrips.

[onthesandsofdreams]

Sleepless Nights

Fandom: The Witcher (TV)  Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x Reader  Rating: T Summary: The five sleepless nights you spend with Geralt and the one were you both sleep. Words: 1063 Notes: Mention of illness Tagging: @flashfictionfridayofficial​

Read @ AO3

The first sleepless night you spent with Geralt was when he stumbled into your cottage looking worse for wear. Not to mention the fever that was making him miserable, he did not have it in him to argue with you as you helped inside and began tending to him, doing your best to make sure he would heal as quickly as possible.

His distrustful eyes followed you around as you made the potions and teas necessary to help him, and even went as far as give a drink of each to prove to him it wasn't poison.

You were a healer that worked with plants and knew best what to make to help with common illnesses and some poisons. But Geralt did not know you yet, so you understood his worry. Fortunately, he came to trust you after you had spent the night at his side, putting cold wet rags on his forehead and body to help him cool.

The next morning, once the fever had broken, he had tried to pay you, but you would not hear of it. You had offered your help for free and would not charge him for this one time.

That was how you two became friends.

*

The second sleepless night you spent with Geralt, was when he was traveling with Jaskier.

Oh, the bard was charming and talented, but you rebuffed his advances and offered him a bed for him to sleep after dinner. You and Geralt had remained at the table, wine on hand and simply speaking quietly to each other of the things you both had seen and done.

You did not realize how fast time passed until you heard your rooster greet the sun. But you did not mind at all, Geralt was great company once you got to know him, and considering he had become a friend after you had healed him, he was.

The day they left, you sent him off with bundles of herbs and teas in case they were necessary for healing. Geralt thanked you quietly and Jaskier made a show of kissing your hand.

You waved them off and told them to come back whenever.

*

The third sleepless night you spent with Geralt was another emergency. Fortunately or unfortunately, this time was Jaskier who needed help.

According to Geralt, the bard had pissed off someone who had somehow managed to hurt him when Geralt was busy with purchasing food and traveling equipment. So, once again, you slipped easily into healer mode and did your absolute best to make sure Jaskier did not died.

Even if Geralt denied it, the bard was his friend and you knew that he would be upset should Jaskier were to die. That whole lie about Witchers having no feelings was just that, a lie. One that you understood why people believed and Witchers did their best not to dispel, it's easy to hurt someone by hurting those they care for.

Luckily, Jaskier pulled through and this time, Geralt did paid you... by hiding a few gold coins among your jars for you to discover after they were gone.

*

The fourth sleepless night you spent with Geralt was when he finally admitted to have trouble sleeping.

That had brought you into a halth, you usually did not have to deal with something as bad sleeplessness as Geralt's before. Usually, your tea blend for sleep was enough, but it did nothing for Geralt.

So, you had spent a whole night trying different mixes and quantities to help him. You could not have him be unable to sleep under your roof, so even if you did not find the cure that night, you vowed to him and yourself to find the solution and make him a special blend for him to sleep.

Geralt had smiled at your determination and said, "And that's why I trust and care for you."

And you knew how precious both were.

*

The fifth sleepless night you spent with Geralt, was the day you had met Ciri.

The Princess was tired, but you sensed the anger boiling beneath the surface, but you knew that if anyone could be able to handle her, it would be Geralt. He was already in full papa bear mode and it amused you seeing him so, after all, this man had not wanted his child surprise and yet, you were sure anyone who so much even looked at Ciri wrong, they would meet with Geralt's sword.

After dinner, and sending Ciri to bed, you two spoke about everything once more. Made plans to make sure that Ciri would be safe and you had promised that she would always have a house and home in your cottage should Ciri ever need it.

Geralt had been thankful, and on a moment of impulse, had invited you to Kaer Morhen to meet his fellow Witchers.

You accepted with a smile knowing how rare this gift was.

*

It was in Kaer Morhen, after dinner and when most Witchers had gone to their bed, that Geralt had asked if you two could talk. You accepted, why wouldn't you?

In the privacy of his room, you two spoke of the future of things to do and how you would be safe in an ever growing unsafe world. He invited you to remain at Kaer Morhen. "I already spoke with Vesemir about it, he would welcome your expertice in healing." Then, he licked his lips and quickly looked away. "I would feel much better too, knowing that you are protected."

You smiled at him and cupped his cheek, "Then, I'll stay. Everything I have in my cottage can be replaced, and I already brought my most precious things. Perhaps I could go back only for my books, but I would stay." You took a deep breath, "There's something that feels right about it."

Geralt smiled with relief. "Good, then, there is something else I must admit." You looked at him and waited. "That I have fallen in love with you."

Your heart jumped to your throat and your hands shook, you were attracted to him. Possibly loved him too, but you had resigned yourself to simple friendship. "I love you too," your voice was breathless when you admitted it.

Geralt leaned downwards and gently took you in his arms and kissed you.

That was the first night you two slept in each other's arms.

[rucow]

some fíli (and kíli) headcanons under the read more bc i adore them 😋 this is SUPER long

don't interact if you ship them in any way

- fíli is a picky eater (he's super duper autistic (he gets it from thorin)) and prefers bland food, while kíli prefers more flavourful food, and especially spicy food! they work together perfectly bc each of them eats what the other one doesn't like off their plate ahaha

- fíli is very fast and stealthy for a dwarf, he also likes climbing things. he hates getting wet though and will only get in water with kíli, he won't do it on his own (like most things he does)

- fíli fidgets and bounces when he's nervous (u can see him doing it in dos when hes meeting beorn!)

- fíli is also very serious for his age, and very responsible, though he does have his inner child who likes to play around and be Silly, but only in a safe environment that he feels comfortable in

- he's aroace & agender and not interested in looking for a romantic partner, he has other things on his mind. but he LOVES children.. i can see him adopting lots of children once erebor is rebuilt!!

- fíli keeps in touch with bard's kids (i call them The Bardlings™) and the people of laketown. i hc that he helps them rebuild dale and he keeps close ties with them and with bard

- fíli went on the quest for kíli. if kíli hadn't wanted to go, fíli would've stayed home with dís and he would eventually be crowned king there. the throne in ered luin is the one that fíli was born and prepared to sit on, and he misses ered luin even if it was nowhere near as grand as erebor... fíli has never been drawn to grand things in the first place, he has worked alongside kíli since they were both children. he knows what it's like to be poor. he doesn't want or crave wealth

- speaking of wealth, fíli hates gold. he's always been compared to gold, and he hates being associated with something that holds so much power over people and often causes conflict and corruption. he's more than a piece of metal. goldsickness doesn't work on fíli for this reason, but instead it latches onto his protective nature and exploits his fear of anything happening to kíli / his family... but kíli is always there to support him, and if thorin was able to break free from the dragonsickness, fíli never even fully succumbs to it

- dís told fíli and kíli about the goldsickness and warned them to keep an eye on their uncle. thorin never knew that his nephews know about it

- fíli is a mother hen not only with kíli, but with thorin as well (on rare occasions though), like. if thorin gets sick? fíli is the one to bring him food and care for him, it's just how he is. he's caring

- he CAN hoot like an owl! just like thorin can speak to ravens, fíli also has a thing for birds,,,

and he looks like a barn owl himself!! note the colours, the patterns, the heart shaped face... fíli is a barn owl 😭

- hes quite reserved and private, and doesn't voice his opinions often. but he does judge. he judges people's actions. he just doesnt say anything

- fíli is semiverbal and only speaks on certain occasions and with certain people. he and dís have always been afraid that this would be an obstacle for him since he's heir to the throne, but everything turns out well and fíli becomes much bolder and more confident after botfa. we already get to see him stepping into his role as leader & protector ever since laketown where he takes bard's children under his wing, and then when he leads kíli, bofur & oin to erebor, and then again when he was ready to go over the wall and take the dwarves with him when thorin wouldn't do it (due to being dragonsick)

- fíli makes a generous and practical king, and he has kíli by his side at all times. he always asks kíli for his input and always considers his ideas. with both of them being very open minded, the two of them bring much needed change to erebor, and they form strong connections with the men of laketown (now residing in Dale) *and* the elves of mirkwood. kíli works incredibly hard to get on the elves' good side (as does tauriel)

- speaking of kiliel!!! fíli really does not mind their relationship, he respects kíli's choice but he also doesn't really understand the relationship,,, tauriel also has to get used to fíli always hovering around kíli (the same way kíli has to get used to legolas lurking around tauriel (tauriel & legolas are step siblings to me))

- fíli was INCREDIBLY happy to see thorin getting close to someone (bilbo) and finally allowing another person into his life. fíli was so proud of his uncle for finally making a Friend (and more than that), but he's also just like thorin in the sense that fíli also doesn't really allow himself to get close to people :') he thinks it's selfish to have a personal life considering the important position he's in.... really, he's So much like thorin

- usually, people think kíli's the chaotic more energetic sibling and that fíli's the calm one, but it's the other way around. kíli is very in tune with his emotions and feelings and identity, and knows how to control them, and how to connect with people. fíli doesn't, because he's always had huge expectations placed upon him and he's never had a very good sense of self, and he bottles everything up. he is calm in public because he masks a lot, but in private he's much more intense and kíli knows this! kíli is more in tune with fíli's emotions and can read him better than fíli himself 😭

- fíli is very much a cat in dwarven form, and he's got very good balancing skills + he's very keen on being well groomed & having a neat and proper appearance.

- fíli and thorin both keep their beards short as a sign that they're in mourning. fíli also doesn't grow his out because it makes him look too much like his father :( he only lets it grow once he's king, because it's kind of expected of him. he also lets his hair grow out a lot and it gets super long!

- this is a sad hc i have. dís never told her kids how their father died, but fíli found out by himself and never told dís nor kíli about it. dís told them that their father was killed by a wild animal or something of the like, but little fíli wanted to know what happened, so he snuck out and retraced his father's steps and he followed his footsteps in the snow, until he found the scene...he dug through the snow and found his father's coin purse all ripped and torn and empty. and in the snow he saw larger foot prints, like they were made by the boots of men (there are towns of men south of the mountains in ered luin where the dwarves live), and little fíli pieces together all the clues and comes to the conclusion that his father must have been robbed, but knowing his father he knows that he must have given all his coin willingly, and even so the attackers still murdered him after he paid them everything he had... dís of course knew this, but she never told her sons, and fíli never told her that he knows the truth,,, he never tells kíli either bc he doesn't want to cause him any more pain :(

- fíli respects and admires thorin, truly, and he watches and observes and analyses everything thorin does, and the older he gets, the more he realises that he would do things very differently from his uncle, and he finds that he doesn't exactly see eye to eye with him. the scene in laketown where thorin left kíli behind was the last time fíli looked up to him (literally, because he was down in the boat looking up at thorin and then after he made his decision to stay, he climbed up and stood on equal ground with thorin. he had grown up and become his own leader in that very moment, and he chose his own path (that of staying loyal to his family no matter what)), but even so he doesn't resent thorin and doesn't blame him for anything, bc he understands how difficult his position is. he's going to be in the same position himself soon 😭

- if kíli *had* died either in laketown or in botfa before fíli, that would be fíli's villain origin story.

- bonus: the one ring speaks to fíli very loudly, whether fíli's alive or not (if he's in the Halls, the ring can still reach him and then we'd have a ringwraith dwarf on our hands fdhdj), if he could resist the goldsickness, he can't resist the ring. the ring sees the full extent of fíli's potential

- a happier hc: fíli loves animals! (we see him petting his ponies in the movies!!) and he's definitely a cat person! he would love to have a snuggly cat!!!

- there is no weapon that fíli can't use

- the braid at the back of his head signifies that he's heir to the throne, and two of the four braids on either side of his head (the same ones that thorin has) signify that he's firstborn in a family with multiple children. fíli's own eldest daughter has the same braids as him. he also has the same braidstache beads as thrain (u can see this in the movies, fíli and thrain have similar facial hair which is interesting considering they never met, so i wonder if it was dis who styled fíli's braidstache that way)

- in my mind fíli has 5 daughters (one of which is adopted), i gave them all names and designs and personalities and everything 😭 and one of them is named after kíli (of course), it goes like this (from eldest to youngest): Háni, Lóvi, Díli, Líki, Elí

- kíli and tauriel also have 3 children of their own. in other words, fíli & paddy (my oc) and kíli & tauriel singlehandedly repopulate erebor with a bunch of part-elf children fhdgbd

- fíli loves sweets, and back in ered luin he would have coffee with dís every morning. they were very very close. fíli loves his mum so much

- fíli has a very pleasant voice but you rarely get to hear it. hes quite soft spoken and usually speaks very quietly

- fíli and kíli are both musically inclined, like most dwarves are! kíli loves playing the fiddle and singing as a way to connect with people, to connect with the audience, so he's not so focused on being perfect, he just sings and plays and performs for fun. fíli is the opposite, he's concerned with every note being perfect, and he concentrates very hard when he plays his fiddle. when he was little, you could hear fíli practicing his fiddle alone for hours at a time. both fíli and kíli are very good with their musical instruments, and fíli has a lovely singing voice, we just don't get to hear it much! the singing bit in an unexpected party was a rare occurrence!

- fíli and kíli don't smoke. fíli uses his metal pipe for stimming because the cold metal feels nice, and kíli tried smoking Once and choked on the smoke and hated it and never tried it again aha