Be Good To Me - Jaskier x Reader OS

Be Good To Me

You were ten years old when your family moved from Ebbing to Toussaint, eager to claim a more neutral plot of land in Nilfgaardian territory. You were of ranking birth, the daughter of a Viceroy, and you were just about old enough to understand their concerns for moving - the politics involved - as well as their anxiety about moving. Toussaint was a place of wealth and abundance, and you were essentially relocating to the bottom of the social ladder. Your mother lectured you again and again on the long journey that you were to uphold your family's good name, to be a lady (this she said with great emphasis), to abandon your bug-collecting and rough-housing in favour of needlework or singing or painting. As a daughter, your duty was to become a product to be sold when you came of age. Nobody wanted a girl with no accomplishments, a dirtied hemline, and scuffed knees. You'd promised your mother you'd try your best, bowed under the weight of parental expectation.

Unfortunately, you were only to keep that promise intact for approximately four hours upon arriving in Toussaint.
Servants busied themselves with unpacking your furniture hauled in on carts as your mother and father fussed over fine details and the care required with moving antiquities; you'd explored your new manor, discovered the best places to spy upon others or make yourself unseen when hiding, and had summarily grown tired of nesting rather rapidly. You were under your mother's skirts, and she turned you outside to play - nicely, she reminded you - and she went back to frowning at a painting she was hanging, trying to get it perfectly level.

The first time you'd met Julian, you'd wandered down to the river to watch frogs - you weren't going to catch any, because you'd promised - but you saw little harm in looking. The sound of a scuffle caught your attention as you knelt by the cool water, poised to poke a salamander with a curious index finger. Like a wraith, you'd slunk closer to the commotion to peek, safely hidden in the shadow of a fir tree's trunk.

"Give us your flute, rat-boy!" A plump pre-teen was taunting a chestnut-haired boy, who was clutching the instrument, red-faced. You could see his lip was split and bloody.

"Yeah!" A second kid jeered, bolstered by the first - who you presumed to be the local bully, or at least one of them. His accomplice was slight, short, and already blessed with blotchy spots on his chin. You wrinkled your nose, both at the unfairness of the fight, and the tangle of testosterone that was so wildly unnecessary.

"My name is Pankratz!" Their target raged, and held the fife closer to his chest. "It's not my fault your father spends his money on wine and women, and not on you!" You winced, wondering if he knew that he was adding firewood to flame. As you predicted, the baited bully rose.

"Take that back, you shit!" The rotund rebel insisted, curling his hand into a fist, lining up for another punch. You realised the flute-hoarding boy wasn't going to defend himself properly when he screwed his eyes shut, anticipating the blow. Enough was enough.

"Let him go and be on your way." You announced yourself, stepping out of the shadow with hands on your hips. At your short height, in your periwinkle blue dress with red flower silk embellishments, you looked about as threatening as a newborn foal finding its footing. The three stared at you; the two brutes openly laughed.

"And if we don't?" The skinny kid sneered, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.

"Yeah, are you gonna tell on us? Throw flowers? What're you gonna do, little girl?" The largest boy mocked. Your reply was a saccharine smile; on that day, the two would learn the importance of observing aposematism in animals; the brightest specimens were often the most venomous.

Stepping forward, you simply pushed the large boy away from the one clutching his flute, sending him stumbling slightly backward. You counted on his temper and his awkward momentum to propel him forward again; anticipating the movement, it was easy for you to lunge out of the way, and kick the back of his knees as he overbalanced, falling face-first into the dirt. To avenge his friend, the slight kid took a wide swing at you, hitting air as you ducked. Using the strength of your legs, you employed the heel of you hand in a swift upward jab, connecting with his jaw hard enough that you heard the sound of his teeth clacking together.