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insomniamamma · 3 years

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Rain: Ezra X F!Reader w/Cee

A/N: Prickle ‘verse. Takes place after Prickle but before Clean Dirt. Can be read as a one shot. Reader is established crew with Ezra and Cee. This was written for @autumnleaves1991-blog ‘s Writer Wednesday. I am woefully behind. I legit don’t understand how some of you write fics so fast!

Warnings: Mentions of war, a little bit of angst, but mostly gentle fluff. Feelings.

"Hey, Ez," Ezra is engrossed in grading the latest haul, testing for clarity and hardness. The surface of CJ's World is cut through with oxbow rivers, fantastic hoodoos of striated sandstone slashed with valleys deeper than any found in Sol system. You're digging for fossils. These rusty carved out plateaus were once the bed of an ancient ocean. Through some trickery of mineralization and chemistry the fossils of CJ's world shine like the fire opals of Old Terra. Big or small, they all have value. "Ezra," says Cee, "She's doing it again." "Doing what, birdie?" Ezra takes off the loupe and rubs at his eyes. Rain pelts on the tent, even sheltered the humidity soaks through. "Look." Ezra draws open the tent flap and sees you, standing in the rain, your head tilted up, no gentle shower this, rain that pelts down hard, turns the view across the sharp-cut canyons to silver curtains. Your clothes are plastered to you like a second skin. The rain actually aids your cause, washing away loose sediment, making the fossils easier to get to. You bow your head and let the stinging rain hit the back of your neck, let it fall on your closed eyes, your outspread arms. You laugh at the sky.

"What do you know about Falnost?" Cee's eyes go distant for a beat. She has a memory to rival Central computers.

"Hmmm..about two thirds standard grav, class C5, would've rated lower if not for it's primary. Dustball." "Mmm-hmm." "She's not used to real weather," says Cee. "Observant as ever," says Ezra. The rain is not gentle. It is chilly and hits your skin like handfuls of flung sand, but is so different from anything you've known, so new that you can't help but stand there with a huge, dumb grin plastered on your face, even as your teeth chatter with the cold. Ezra comes and gets you. "C'mon, Artichoke, while the rain does feel slinky and delicious it is not worth hypothermia." "Sorry, Ez," you say and allow him to take your hand and lead you back to shelter. This has become something of a habit. Many worlds in the fringe are dustballs like the one you fled, algae and fungus growing on every bit of pipe that condensation beads on. On Falnost they had a deal with the ice-miners, discounted accommodations on world or on station in exchange for chunks of ice from your primary's lush rings de-orbited, burning and evaporating as they fell. The idea was that, eventually, there would be moisture enough in the atmosphere to trigger rains. Someday Falnost will have an ocean, but you won't be there for it, half your life spent harvesting rills of water from sail-traps, careful irrigation channels covered over with plastic sheeting, calorie vs water consumption ratios discussed every planting season. How many credits do we net vs wha† we have to spend? You got fucking sick of dreaming of an ocean your great grandchildren might paddle in. You skimmed enough to buy your way off world and since then you have seen things that you never would have believed as a child. The first time you heard thunder was on a world called Ingwy. Your first thought was artillery. Ingwy was a contested world, Karoclan and Lussia Collective skirmishing over land rights, while small stakes droppers like you and Ez and Cee swooped in to reap the spoils while the big corps and clans fought each other. It was the middle of the night and you were on your feet instantly, railgun in hand, screaming that there was incoming, to take cover. Someone had flicked on a utility light hanging from a cord that swung, illuminating the inside of the tent in sickening arcs, and there's another explosion, this one so loud you feel the pressure change in your ears, hear your own voice crying out in tandem, white hot light even through the thick weave of the tent. "It's just thunder," Ezra yells over the sound of rain slamming against the tent. "That was an explosion!" He presses gently on your arm until you lower the rails. "It's just loud," says Ezra, "It can't hurt us. We're safe here. Put the gun down." You set on the edge of your cot and put your face in your hands. "Kevva. You must think I'm the dumbest dirt-farmer this side of the Great Arm." The cot dips as Ezra sits beside you. "Not at all," he says, squeezes your shoulder, "I come from a backwater as well. First time I ever saw a proper ocean I nearly lost my breakfast right there on the beach." Thunder peals again and you flinch, shrink against him slightly. "Static electricity," says Ezra, "That's all it is. Builds up in the clouds and discharges into the ground." He keeps his hand on you as he speaks, fingers gently squeezing the juncture of your neck and shoulder, "The sound you hear is the air in the path of the lightning instantly heating and expanding. It makes a sonic shock wave, like any explosion." "Like the boom when ships lift," you say. "Just like that, Artichoke," he says, "Storm's already moving off, see?" The rain pelting the tent has settled into a steady drone. Thunder grumbles, a low, almost soft sound, not the air-rending explosion that shocked you out of sleep. "We should try to rest," says Ezra, gives your shoulder one more firm squeeze and a little shake, and when you look up, he's smiling, dimple just beginning to sink into his cheek. "Yeah," you say, "Okay." He kills the utility light and settles into his cot. You can hear the music from Cee's headphones, the tinny, fast pop she favors, threaded through the white noise of the falling rain. She slept through the whole thing.

The ancient life of CJ's world favored heptagonal symmetry, long-dead mollusks like seven-sided shields shine out of the rusty ground, the smallest the size of a fingernail, the largest the size of dinner plates. This is a good deposit. The small ones are fashioned into jewelry and buttons. "They take these great big ones and slice them micron thin," says Ezra, "Use them for window-glass in the temples of the Ephrate. They say it is like standing inside Kevva's very beating heart." "I can see why," says Cee, and so do you. The minerals that limn the shells shine translucent red with brilliant streaks of orange, yellow and even thin threads of green and blue. "They say that Kevva's first heart-beat ignited the explosion that became the universe," says Ezra. "You really believe that?" Asks Cee. "I don't know if believe is the right word," says Ezra, "We all grew up with these stories, why my grandmother..." You smile and tune him out. The back and forth banter between Cee and Ezra is a pulse that underlies every harvest. Cee has grown more talkative with each drop. Their relationship has a growing ease to it. You don't know exactly what happened between them before you joined up, but Cee's initial skittishness and Ezra's new healed scars tell a story you can guess the shape of. You let their conversation fade into the background, focus on the work of your hands, the meticulous scrape of soft sediment away from the hard glitter of the fossil, working around the seven sided edge, loosen enough up to get your fingers under the shell and you can pry it out, focus on the sounds of the world around you, no birds on CJ's world, but there is a range of bug-music, hidden in crevasses in the midday heat, all metallic clicks and creaks. Your rail-gun rests within easy reach, as always. You worm your fingers under the edge of the shell, wiggling it like a loose tooth, pops out of the sediment suddenly and you plop on your ass in the sandy dirt. "You all right there, Artichoke?" Ezra grins at you. "I'll recover." You dust yourself off and take your prize over to the tub that sits in the shadow of the pod. Further cleaning and grading can be done after dark. Nights are long at this latitude. You stretch in the sunlight. This job is a milk-run compared to other drops, but hunkering in the dirt still hurts your knees and you feel every bit of it when you stand. There's a familiar sound, like a rumbling stomach, thunder, you think and glance up. "Ezra!" Your voice is urgent and sharp and he's scrabbling up in a heartbeat, hand on the thrower at his hip, but when he stands there is only you pointing out across the vast expanse of sharp-carved valleys and hoodoos, lined in sharply delineated shadows and rusted cliffs where the light catches. The rainbow swoops skyward into grey cloud-bellies, a luminous curtain against the grey clouds, distant rain falling across the canyons.

"Ezra, look!" Ezra exhales, tension leaching out of his shoulders. His hand drops away from the thrower. "Oh, hey, a rainbow," says Cee. You lower your arm and just stare, transfixed at the glowing phantasm, brightening and dimming with the movement of clouds between it and the sun. "It's beautiful," says Ezra. But he's not looking at the rainbow. He's looking at you. Your eyes are wide, lit up with wonder, an unconscious smile creeping across your face, crinkling the corners of your eyes. The stiff professionalism that you wear as close as your body armor momentarily set down, forgotten. Ezra's heart squeezes. There you are, he thinks. He can count on his one hand the number of times he's seen you smile like this, open and carefree, rare and precious as the gems the three of you pull from the ground. Part of him wants to kiss you, but he suspects he would end up on his back in the dust with the barrel of your railgun jammed beneath his sternum, so instead he brushes his hand against yours and your fingers find his and squeeze hard. "I've never seen one before," you say, barely aware of Ezra's hand linked with yours, "I mean, I know what a rainbow is, but I've never seen one. Not in the real, just in vids." "They don't have rainbows on Falnost?" Says Cee. "They don't have rain on Falnost," you say, "Get's a little hazy sometimes after the ice-haulers make a drop, but that's about it." You shake your head as if just waking, the rainbow still shimmers, a bit duller now, and you are suddenly aware of Ezra's hand clasped with yours, the gentle pressure of his grasp. "Sorry," you drop your eyes, "I got distracted. We got work to do." Ezra gives your hand a squeeze and then lets you go. "Not to worry, Artichoke, rainbows are fleeting things. You look your fill while you can." And so you do. So does he.

#writers wednesday #ezra x reader #ezra x f!reader #ezra prospect x f!reader #ezra (prospect) x f!reader #ezra and cee

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number1salesman1997 · 2 years

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✨ Noelle

Angry. He is so angry. Angry, and desperate.

Why, when he finally has gotten the chance to have real power, is this God damned kid getting in his way? His fans whirr at top speed to vent the heat building at his core and in the energy blaster in his right arm as he just. Keeps. Shooting. To defend his one and ONLY chance at finally grabbing his life by the strings.

Phantom warning messages flash in front of his eyes. Overheat imminent. Damn it, not now! He can power through it.

A silver sword reflecting pink and blue light slashes through the strings feeding power into his robot body. Power level dangerously low. Switching over to internal power.

Pilot compatibility 25%. Battery life remaining: 2 hours.

He allows himself, despite the pain of his damaged body ripping straight through to the puppet (or is he the puppeteer now?) inside, to bark out his ragged crazed laugh.

Two hours?? This won’t take two minutes!! He aims a shot for the ground beneath Kris’ feet, sending them off-balance as they have to leap to avoid the large blast.

For his next shot, Kris allows themself to take most of the blast to their back, propelling themself forward, to slash at more of the cables tethering Spamton NEO to the ceiling.

If they would only. Hold. Still.

It hurts, but he bets it doesn't hurt nearly as bad as that risky maneuver the kid just pulled.

Power level dangerously low. Overheating. Weapons overload imminent. Shut up! Shut up!! Not when he's so close!

It burns. He's overloading every circuit in his mechanical body just to keep up with the lightner. But from the way they sway back and forth on their feet, the light of their soul glowing a bright yellow as they fire magic shots back at him haphazardly enough for even the wobbly mech to dodge all but one bullet, it's clear they can't take much more either.

Who would even miss this sorry brat anyway, he wonders? Spamton might have known what they were up to and taken advantage of the opportunity to take out Queen, but he didn’t expect them to be such a bloodthirsty little beast. A few casualties here and there fell into the margin of acceptable losses, but as Spamton’s glorious new robotic neural net had informed him the moment he inserted himself into it, the population of the city had practically been halved from the lightners’ little game.

That was a lot more than he bargained for, and he intends to make them pay for it. The remaining citizens would hail him as a hero for smiting the killer, wouldn't they?

Damage level critical. Emergency defenses activated.

A magic aura surrounds him, shielding him from any further damage. Kris leans heavily on their sword, their eyes searching the shields around Spamton's body for any point of weakness. Finding none, their head droops.

"...Ralsei....Susie...."

Spamton cocks his head sharply to listen to what they're muttering. Could those be their friends' names? He laughs, jerking wildly back and forth on his strings as his body is wracked with vicious laughter. He mocks them for their naivety, and spits on their fear. Having come all the way here, dragging such a bloody trail behind them, they have no business quivering now.

"...Noelle...."

"HER? YOU'RE STILL TRYING TO USE HER??" Spamton whoops with laughter, snapping a few of his own cables from the force of his heavy body swinging about. That's just too rich! "YOU THINK SHE CAN HEAR YOU NOW, MUTTERING HER NAME? WHAT'S SHE GONNA DO? MAKE ME AN ICE CREAM?"

As he laughs, he charges his blaster, letting the charge build until energy arcs dangerously from between the plates of his arm.

It's over now.

...

It's cold.

Behind Kris floats the snow angel herself, her eyes as white as the snow that whips around her, blind to the chaos she has wrought, and likely not even seeing Spamton in front of her either. Just some nameless other, an enemy to be defeated in the quest to get stronger. With her hands outstretched, she summons the snowstorm again, making it fall too hard and fast for the bot to have any hope of evading or countering.

It's cold. So cold.

The last string snaps.

He falls.

The ice coating his chasis shatters into shards as he hits the ground, the newfound chill freeing up some of his overheating systems.

Power level dangerously low.

Better make this one count, Spamton.

As he hits the cold hard ground, he looses that powerful blast, and aims it directly toward her.

In the midst of the rapidly swirling snowstorm, the swordsman sees that oversized ball of energy shoot out and tear a path through the airborne snow, watching as their friend takes the blast.

The snow stops falling, and then there are two bodies lying in front of the fountain.

Kris struggles to their feet, using their sword as leverage. Their face is stony, and their actions jerky, like that of a puppet on a string. Kind of like himself, Spamton thinks.

Only his strings were cut. And so were hers now, come to think of it.

Now, more than ever, he can feel in this moment that his fate is in his hands.

Snow starts falling again.

Kris approaches Noelle on unsteady feet, their voice sounding out louder and clearer than it has any right to for how battered and bruised the kid is. "Are you still alive? Shall we proceed?", they speak in a voice distinct from their own.

Again, he thinks to himself how alike they are. Perhaps in another time, they could have bonded over their shared lack of agency. But it's too cold for any warm feelings now.

Thorns bite into the steely finger that pilfered it, sending pain signals straight the way through the robot exterior of the darkner and into his true body inside. Into his soul.

The pain is all consuming and inescapable, and so too is the cold.

The cold consumes them all.

And when he is done, the fountain stands tall.

The robot with the ring kneels on the ground before the fountain. In one hand is the ring, and in the other a softly glowing soul, still dyed in yellow from the fight preceding its appropriation.

He chains the heart inside his chest, doubling over in pain, and again as he makes a fist of the hand wearing the ring. It hurts. He screams, but it doesn't stop hurting.

He doesn't know how long he stays there before the fountain, letting his body gather the dwindling snow like so much dust, but when the powerful throb of his new soul subsides, he is greeted with another set of notifications from his diagnostic systems.

Power restored. Pilot compatibility 100%. Weapons systems offline. Emergency defenses deactivating. Self restore initiated.

It hurts no less, even as he is healing and he still has bodies to clean up, but finally he is whole.

Finally, he will claw his way up into heaven. And he will lead them all there. He is the hero of justice, the new God of this world that will save them all from the darkness.

He will show them. He will show them all...just as soon as he can lift his shaking knees and drooping head.

#[[you’ve got mail : ask]]#(( spachiel doesn't have any real interactions with any noelle on a personal level so have more fucking PAIN ))#(( noelle is featured in it at least lol ))#(( i wrote this over the course of days and kind of wanted it done because i make everything too ambitiously long #so i hope this is like. not choppy and awful ))#[[with your halo slipping down : snowgrave verse]]

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springtimebat · 3 years

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The Autumn Meeting (Part 1/4)

Six suns peer down from perching clouds, leaving heavy, gilded dents on the heavens. They watch with amused, greedy eyes, their eyelids soft and rusted. They sit and wait for a hymn to be sung.

The city of tomorrow arrives in the early morning, on a thousand dying legs. The crow is beginning its call as the sun sets in the east, and the queen begins to cross the old town bridge just as the sky turns pitch black. The queen is young and full of life. Her hair is dark and wild. Her eyes are electric green. Naturally, the shadows clamber over each other, desperate to touch her skin. They claw at her footprints, grasp desperately at her diadem. The Queen places a shawl, a piece of midnight, careworn and devoid of stars, around her shoulders. She places galoshes on her feet. They snap against the cobblestones. The shadows attempt to bash her brain in. The queen pulls the shawl tighter around her neck and carries on. She must begin her quest before it's too late, before she misses her window. She pulls apart the ghoulish bonds restraining her and slips into the forest, the heavy frame of her home balancing on stilts behind her.

When the clock strikes the right time, three pilgrims meet deep inside the bowels of the forest to tell stories they stole off of wanderers backs. One is skull and bones, the second is more shark than man, the last is cast in iron and gilded armour, kept together with unsteady bolts and springs. The three are old, dear friends with different destinies that lead them to separate for months on end. Still, now they gather for a night in. They gather for the stories and for listening.

The forest is a protective shield, swarming with thistles, brambles and decaying pieces of junk. Years before, during the days of the dust, a king set up booby traps in the forest, hoping to capture some kind of beast. Now spikes and barbed wire festered among the moss, weary of a world full of colour beyond the tree trunks. The queen notices flashes of silver as she races through the trees; simply shadows against the bruised sunset and the sad oaks. Her feet dance around the puddles and quicksands. She flies through the grass and the rock until she comes across the meeting place from her stories. In a clearing stands a roaring fireplace and three men, huddled together like three fates. One stands up and hurls wood onto the fire, his back muscles tensing. He is a fish-man, with silver scales framing his brow and giant saucers for eyes. He wears the same strange uniform the Queen had seen him wear in an engraving once, all frills and ridiculous trimmings. The second man sits watching the third as they recite a poem. His body is masked by a suit of metal armour. Atop his helmet sits a boar’s head, its eyes closed, bored. The final man shakes their bones and clacks their teeth. He disguises his lack of skins with a cloak, similar to the Queen’s. He is standing by the fire, whistling a strange sonnet:

“-so the little girl set off to win back her foot. But the ogre’s own pair of feet were large and heavy. He was quicker than the little girl and it took her months and months of travelling to catch up-”

“Didn’t her parents worry about her?” Interrupts the fish man from his space at the mantle-piece, “Poor girl out on her lonesome.”

His friend groans and stamps his foot.

“She had no parents Abram. She was all on her lonesome to begin with and that’s how she lost her foot. Haven’t you been listening, you knucklehead?”

“Surely she has friends who would wanna know where she is...right? I mean, surely one of you guys would wanna know about my fins being cut up? Or my scales being punctured-”

“Enough! I have a story to finish Abram. Leave questions ‘till after the workshop.”

Abram lets out a tiny squeak but speaks no more. The skeleton grins in the firelight and begins again:

“The little girl carried on, always searching for her missing foot. She asked everyone she came across and slaughtered the many who tried to take her for their own, with their nets and their traps and their cages. By the time she finally found her foot she was covered in blood and guts and body parts. Still, she had found her foot and that’s what truly matters-”

“Where’d she find it Emil?” Abram asks, his eyes widening.

“I’m getting to that! Now where was I- oh right! The little girl, all alone and bloody in middle of a winter wood, found her foot on the low branch of a great oak much like these-” The skeleton waves his arms at the trees encasing the three storytellers, “The bone was still brand new, like a new pair of shoes elastic new. It had been left there many, many moons before by someone very tall.”

“What did she do then?”

“Well, she grabbed her foot from the oak tree and put it back, snapping it into place so to speak. Then she began the journey back home. As she did she thought to herself, “The ogre must have not needed the foot as much as I did.” The End.” Emil raises his skull to the sky, grinning proudly.

His friends give awkward coughs.

“What happened to the ogre?” Abram asks, frowning, “Surely something interesting happened to him.”

“Unimportant.” Emil growls.

The suit of armour gives a squeak and stretches his wiry arms. Emil rolls his head to the side in annoyance.

“What the girl did once she got home does not matter Gus. Not in the slightest. Don’t you understand what I was trying to get across? What I was trying to convey?”

“Not really.” Abram says, poking at the fire with a stick.

“The moral of the story, of the stanzas, was that quests of revenge, of bloodshed, are simply pointless. The journey is important and needed. All the other benign details are just...unnecessary!”

“It was good ‘till the ending. You just need to rework the ending.”

Emil scoffs, “Amateurs! Both of you! And Francis, Boris and Johnson and…all of the folding folk at the board up in the mountains! I cannot compromise my masterpiece with...amateurs!”

“I enjoyed it.”

The three men turn to see a young girl approaching their campground, her eyes an electric green, her pupils dancing. She has an amused smirk on her face. Her hair is a dangerous dark brown. Abram just stands there, blinking, confused. Emil turns his back on the visitor, muttering some obscenities about damned fairy folk under his musty breath. Gus on the other hand, recognises the queen immediately and falls to the ground in a bow, his chest plate and helmet clinking. The queen’s smirk grows into a grin and she pats the knight on the shoulder.

“I enjoyed the blood and the guts...and the body parts.”

“Yeah you would,” Emil growls, “You and your tasteless, tasteless people.”

Gus gasps and places himself in front of the queen, as if Emil’s words can pierce her skin. Emil simply laughs.

“Look at this old fool! This old, old fool! She doesn't care for you at all my boy! She looks at you as she looks at the bugs swarming around her feet. Learn that Gus! Learn these young girls only want to look at you in amusement and never want to settle down!”

“I want to settle down,” The queen replies, and she strides towards a chair the men have manufactured from fallen Autumn leaves, “I am going to settle down.”

“Ah see! I knew it! I knew you were that queen I’ve heard gossip about!”

“Gossip?” The queen’s eyebrows raise, “Gossip about me?”

“Oh yes. I’ve heard quite a lot of tall tales about you. Stories about you eating babies, stabbing your own knights with their own swords-” At that, Gus swallows and sits back down on the forest floor, shaking, “-stories of you charming snakes and cobras. Stories of you sleeping in their coils.” Emil stares at the queen, goading her to respond. The queen tuts and stretches her short, stubby legs. They were tired from hours of running as their owner searched the dark places. Her skin stretches and shifts in the firelight.

“I only ate one baby. The rest is just nonsense.”

“Hmmm. All the gossip came from your kind so I never took any of it seriously. Seeing you now makes me think it wasn’t so far fetched.”

The queen furrows her brow and rolls her eyes.

“Are you all telling stories?” She asks, focusing on the dirt beneath her leaf throne instead of the man in front of her, “ When I was little I read stories about you telling stories together. In an endless loop.”

The men fall silent. The queen sighs.

“I would like to join you all. For just one night.”

Emil growls. Abram roasts a marshmallow. Gus shivers in an invisible wind. His legs make a strange croaking sound and detach themselves from his waist, stumbling about on the rocky terrain.

“What are you queen of, exactly?” Emil asks.

“All sorts of things really.”

“Like what? What do you do? What are your day-to-day ac-tiv-teees?”

“I look after the lost ones most of the time.”

“The lost ones?”

“Folks made of time and sand. They come to us, my husband and I, full of regrets and sorrows. They lose themselves in our corridors and become our subjects. We transform their troubled minds into something sweet.”

“Sweet for the monarchy, one supposes, but not for everyone else,” murmurs Emil, picking at his cloak,“ I heard you two aren’t married already.”

“We will be soon.”

“Once your quest is complete, I’m guessing.”

“Yes. Once I return.”

“Do you take babies?” Abram asks, sitting cross-legged on the milkwood grass, “I heard you take babies.”

“Sometimes.”

Emil clears his throat, which makes his bones rattle in a very unattractive way. He then nods to Abram, who nods back. He turns to Gus, who by now is just a bunch of scraps flailing about in the mud. Gus’ head, however, has enough time to tilt his head back in agreement.

“Very well. You may join the club for a night. A single solitary night-”

“No baby eating!” Abram shouts from his corner. The Queen tuts and crosses her heart with a wicked finger.

“I promise. No baby eating.” She grins.

“-And you’ll be the last to go. No cuts!” Emil growls.

“Very well.” The Queen sighs and closes her eyes, listening to the whispers in the breeze.

Emil looks to his companions, sitting by the campfire as they always do, and shrugs.

“Now that…compromise has been met I suppose we can continue with the workshop.”

“Finally,” Abram mutters.

And as the four take their places in the storyteller’s guild, the woods begin to shiver with excitement.

The annual Autumn meeting was only beginning.

#creative writing #my story #a devil's palm story #fantasy #monsters #parallel worlds #cryptids #cryptidcore #weirdcore #oddcore #american gothic #surreal #southern gothic #character study #ongoing series #a rough draft #part one of four

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saferemercer · 3 years

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Worthy

June 26th, Late Evening, After the Queen’s Gala

"There ya go lass, she's all set for yeh!"

Safere glanced at the dwarf gryphon master, still holding the winning ticket in her hand. To the right of her, stood Snowbeak, the majestic, white Wildhammer gryphon she had just won in a high society raffle. The beast was immaculate; feathers shining in the moonlight, beak seemingly polished to a mirror sheen and talons sharp as adamantine steel. She was straight out of a storybook.

Safere looked down at her rented tuxedo; a crab meat stain on her collar, one cufflink gone and her shoes having stepped in something grey and slimy. She didn’t want to think about that too much. All in all, she felt pretty damn foolish standing in front of this paragon of gryphon-kind, ready to take her as a mount.

“So uh...you have any tips for how to...uh, care for her?” she asked. “I mean...I have another gryphon, but he’s older and kinda half-blind…”

The dwarf chuckled, unlatching the gryphon’s chains. “Oh, Snowbeak is ah’ feisty young lass, she’s gonna want ta’ fly around prettah’ often. You’ve got ah’ roost fer her, yeah?”

Safere rubbed the back of her head. “Yeah...definitely,” she hoped.

“Good, good. She needs tha’ best of care! You gala types can manage that, ah’m sure. You ah’ knight or ah’ cleric of some kind?”

Safere rubbed her head, harder. “I’m...a...uh, protector.”

“Protector! Ha, tha’ sounds good! Yeah, Snowbeak is fit fer the grandest of adventures. The soarin’ clouds, the tallest mountains, the greatest-”

“I get it, I get it,” Safere said, through gritted teeth. “I’m...sure we’ll have a wonderful time together.”

The dwarf shrugged and gave Snowbeak a final pat on the snout, before he opened the gate and led her out of the pen. Safere walked up to her, trembling just a little. She raised a hand and brought it down to touch her beak. The gryphon stared into her eyes, as she was touched. Safere swore she could sense a subtle disappointment in those eyes. She sighed.

“I know, Snowbeak...we’ll...make this work,” Safere said, now starting to regret ever taking a raffle ticket.

July 20th, Mid Evening, Crowsfield.

Snowbeak was screaming at her. Well, squawking might have been more accurate, but it sure felt like screaming to Safere. If the beast could speak common, she had an idea of the level of vitriol she’d be experiencing right now.

“I know, I get it, you’re angry!” Safere grumbled, trying to clean her feathers with an old brush. “We don’t...we don’t fly as often as you’d like...and I wish I could fix that, but I just...don’t travel as often as some people. Ok?! Buddy doesn’t mind, do ya pal?”

She turned to the black gryphon in the pen next to her. The cross-eyed, older gryphon was chewing on a large ferret he had caught earlier that day, but in the same way a tired farmer might sip on a tall glass of sweet tea. He was in no rush.

As if Snowbeak could understand Safere’s words (she was almost certain she could, some days), the majestic gryphon snorted at her, in seeming disgust.

Safere sighed. “Yeah, I know, you don’t like being compared to Buddy. But he’s the only gryphon I’ve ever really known before, so maybe we can just-”

Snowbeak raised her legs and flapped her wings right in Safere’s face, knocking her to the ground, landing flat on her ass in the dirt.

“Oh, fine!” Safere shouted, lying down in defeat. “Have it your way! I’ll just let you-”

“Might I be of assistance, Miss Mercer?”

She looked up to see a man in copper colored armor, standing above her, offering a hand. She turned around and gripped his palm, rising back to her feet. She recognized the man immediately. He was the only one she knew who would wear a fully enclosed helm in such sweltering weather.

“Mordecai, right?” Safere asked, despite knowing she was right. She just..hadn’t spoken to him that much.

He nodded. “Indeed, Miss Mercer. Mordecai Sharpe, at your service.” He sounded calm and helpful, even if his expression was entirely unreadable. That copper-colored mask he wore always bore the same neutral, placid expression. His eyes were the only thing that could be seen. Kind brown orbs, blinking every so often.

Safere sighed, dusting off her trousers. “Well, uh, have you got any experience with gryphons? At least more than I do?”

Mordecai nodded once more. “I rode one for nearly a decade. Back when I was a more...active member of The Silver Hand. She was a gorgeous creature, fair and swift...but I didn’t appreciate her at the time.”

Safere blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that I...neglected her,” he began to say. “Not in the sense of health or feeding, I assure you. I always kept her well fed, clean and cared for. Until the day she died, she never missed a meal, nor was she abused. But…”

The man’s shoulders fell, for but a moment. “I didn’t truly appreciate her. I never even named her. Not really. Whenever a fellow knight would ask me, I would say something like...Silverwing or Judgment. But it was a hollow excuse for a title. I simply didn’t care. She was a beast to be used for glory. Much like a sword or a shield. Cared for, certainly. But never loved. Never seen as more than a tool.”

Mordecai turned to look at the gryphons. “Do I have your leave to approach her?”

“Sure,” Safere replied, shrugging. “Just be ready, because she’s in a mood.”

He walked up to Snowbeak, slowly reaching into a pouch on his waist and retrieving a handful of wildberries. Once he reached the gryphon, he held out his palm and let her eat from it. She did so with some trepidation, but soon enough, had cleaned his gauntlet entirely. She then leaned her head against his arm, as he stroked her gently.

“A beautiful lady...you should be very-”

“HELP!”

Mordecai and Safere turned around to see a young woman running toward them, a distraught expression on her face. The paladin ran forward to meet her halfway.

"Miss, what is wrong?!"

"Please, they took my brother, please they took him into the forest-"

He laid a hand on her shoulder...and she seemed to calm down, enough to explain more clearly, at least. By then, Safere had joined Mordecai by his side and was listening closely.

"She took Theodore, the...some witch, I saw her snatch him from his bedroom window and take him into the moor! I tried to run after her, but these...skeletons rose up from the dirt! Undead monsters! Out in the Bleakmoor! Please sir, miss…please help my brother…” the girl wailed, tears welling in her brown eyes.

“We have no time to lose. Miss, return to your home and wait for us there. We will find him. Safere,” Mordecai said, turning to face her. “Might we-”

She nodded, already running back to Buddy. “Come on!” she called back. Fiddling with her ebon gryphon’s chain, Safere mounted him and pulled the reins. He may have been an older gent, but Buddy knew when it was time to get serious. Years of getting Safere out of sticky situations had given him a kind of sixth sense. He rose to his feet and flapped his wings, ready to burst off.

Mordecai was running up now, while the young woman returned to her homestead. He looked at Buddy and Safere. “I...don’t know if I’ll be able to fit on there with you. Or if your gryphon can carry my extra bulk,” he said, gesturing to his mix of chain and plate mail. “Perhaps if-”

Safere shook her head. “You’re taking Snowbeak!”

The paladin shook his head. “No, miss Safere, she is yo-”

“This is not the time to argue, pal! Get to it!” Safere shouted.

Mordecai nodded and ran to the ivory bird, expertly climbing upon her saddle without even a wayward twitch from the proud beast. She shrieked out a battle-squawk and took to the air almost immediately, leaving Safere and Buddy to catch up.

They were soaring above the hills now, keeping low enough to spot any figures...if it wasn’t so bloody dark.

“I can’t see a damn thing down there!” Safere shouted, the wind coursing through her hair.

“Let us remedy that,” Mordecai roared back. “Cover your eyes, Mercer! For just a moment!”

Safere did as she was told, bringing her wrist back across her eyes, just as the night turned to sunrise in front of her. Her peripheral vision was a holy inferno, but it soon faded enough until she felt comfortable to gaze openly again. Mordecai was still glowing, casting a net of light across the hilly moor below.

“There!” he said, pointing down. Sure enough, no longer shrouded beneath a barrow-hill, Safere could spot a crowd of figures. Over a dozen skeletal warriors, covered still in the dirt and grime of their former resting places. Most gripped broken hatchets and rusted blades. A couple held ancient shortbows. These two decrepit snipers took aim as Safere and Mordecai came down upon them. With surprising dexterity, an arrow was loosed, aimed right at Snowbeak’s chest.

But the gryphon saw it coming, swiping the missile away with a talon. The other shot toward Safere and Buddy; its aim was less true, allowing them to dodge the projectile with a quick turn. By then, the two of them were landing. Hard.

Snowbeak smashed into the center of the undead, scattering two of the boney bastards into splinters. Mordecai pulled his great morningstar from his shoulders, the flanged head gleaming with golden fire, as he slammed it into the rotting ribcage of another, crushing the sternum and wasting the foul creature away.

Safere came down less glamorously, but no less effective. Her cutlass in one hand, silver edged and shining, slicing through the skull of the axe wielding monster nearest to her. The foolish archer she had landed by, tried to swat Buddy with his bow, only for the elder gryphon to grab him in his beak and snap his spine.

“Interlopers!” A shrill voice screamed. Safere turned to see a wretched old hag, twisted and deformed, holding a young boy by the scruff of his pajamas. The child was wailing, kicking at his captor, to seemingly no avail. “You will not stop the sacrifice to Gorak Tul!”

“Gorak Tul is vanquished, fiend! Killed in his own realm of shadow and failure!” Mordecai growled, shattering the knees of an approaching skeleton. “You will accomplish nothing!”

“Yeah, you suck!” Safere helpfully added, stabbing another undead.

“Fools! Gorak Tul’s spirit lingers, forever! And I will be his new bride!” the witch shrieked, raising a twisted dagger to the child’s throat. “The boy’s blood will show me the way!”

Safere grit her teeth, looking around for any options. There were still a half dozen skeletons advancing. Buddy was fighting off one more to her left. Snowbeak...was gone. Where had she-

Mordecai let loose a sharp whistle. The gryphon moved so fast, she was more of a blur of white upon the wind, than any discernible form. Just as the witch had barely begun to look behind her, she was rammed by the Wildhammer gryphon, sending her gangling form flying forward, her loose grip on the boy’s shirt going slack, as he fell a few feet to the ground.

Safere ran over to him, making sure he was unharmed. Aside from some dirt stains and a bruise on his shoulder, he seemed to be fine, if still wailing and terrified. Within that handful of moments, Mordecai, Buddy and Snowbeak had dispatched the handful of remaining skeletons, their bones scattered and unmoving. The witch...lay in a defeated pile nearby, groaning like a sickly weasel.

“You are beaten, monster. Submit and be judged!” Mordecai commanded, his aura pulsing like wildfire. He stood above the subdued wretch, morningstar at her throat.

The witch mewled and raised her elongated arms, in a show of surrender. “I...yes, I am defeated! Oh, brave and powerful paladin! I...submit to your mercy! Please!” Her yellow eyes wide and pleading.

“Mercy! How could a villain such as you deserve-” Mordecai began to say...before stopping and sighing. “Very well, witch. You will come with me, bound and subdued...to be judged by the people of Autumnhearth! And see what mercy they lay upon you!”

The paladin barely shifted his gaze, but for a mere moment, he did glance at his belt, to retrieve a length of rope...only for Safere to watch as the hag began to channel a pale blue energy in her palm.

A Ruinous Bolt! Safere thought to herself. She had been researching just last night. In a flash, she drew her Gnomish pepperbox from the back of her trousers and fired. One, two, three, four…

Her aim did not fail her. Each silver shot ripping into the hag’s flesh, with the last metal ball landing right between her sour yolk-yellow eyes...which made the spell in her palm fade away and the witch slump back onto the ground, as dead as her would to be husband.

Mordecai looked back at the shot riddled body and exhaled. “My thanks, Miss Mercer.”

She nodded, sweat dripping down her forehead. In her arm, the young boy blinked and wiped away tears. “That was...so loud!” he squeaked.

“Ah yeah...sorry about that, Theodore,” Safere said, grimacing. “But it’s over, your sister is waiting for you.”

The boy nodded and hugged her, still crying, but less feverishly. Mordecai came over to him, kneeling down and offering a hand.

“How would you like to fly on a gryphon, master Theodore?” he asked.

For likely the first time that night, the boy smiled.

--------------

The reunion with Theodore’s sister (Charlotte, they learned) was full of more tears and smiles alike, but the boy was soon returned to his own bed, with a small number of local farmers promising to watch over the house until morning. Mordecai would join them, sitting down by the front fence with Safere. Snowbeak and Buddy waited nearby.

“That was...an exciting evening, wouldn’t you say, Miss Mercer?” Mordecai said, having removed his mask, among the two of them. Safere had seen his burned visage before and grown accustomed to it. The permanent half grin across his partial lips and exposed cheek, were little more than a beauty mark to her by now.

“Hell of a lot more...fighting than I expected, that’s for damn sure,” she said, sipping from a glass of fresh milk. Supplied by Theodore's grateful farming family, after the two of them had refused the meager amount of silver they had scraped together as a reward. “But this is good cow juice.”

Mordecai sipped from his tin straw and nodded. “Indeed. Regardless, you fought well. Thank you again for your expert shooting.”

Safere chugged the last half of her moo-juice and stood up, brushing off her pants. “Don’t mention it, Mordo. Last thing I needed tonight was having to tell Wes that her Warden took a Ruinous Bolt to the chest.”

He chuckled and stood with her. “You recognized the spell? How impressive.”

“Yeah, all that reading paid off, just like Mere said it would,” Safere replied, smiling.

“You make the steward proud, I’m sure,” Mordecai said, resting a hand on her shoulder. “Are you returning to Easthollow with your gryphons, then? They’ve had a busy evening too.”

“One of them, yeah,” Safere said.

“Good, I hope they-”

The paladin turned to look at her, confusion in his eyes. “One of them?”

“I’m leaving Snowbeak with you, Mordo. You made an incredible team. And I’ll be damned if I’m gonna break that up.”

Mordecai shook his head, raising a hand in disagreement. “No, Miss Mercer, I couldn’t accept such a-”

“First off, call me Safere. Or Saf, even,” Safere said, making sure her cutlasses were properly attached to her belt. “Secondly, I’m not gonna hear any arguments on this. Snowbeak deserves someone like you. Someone brave and worthy of her. Someone who can make the best use of her skills. And that ain’t me.”

The man was silent for a moment. “You are worthy of more than you think, Mi...Safere. And you are as brave as any champion of the Hand that I’ve ever known. You joined me in the search for Theodore without a second thought. Lent me your steed, without hesitation. Charged into the mass of undead and stood by my side.”

He whistled, causing Snowbeak to trot over. Mordecai rubbed her neck and watched as she nuzzled back. “If this is your desire...your command, I will do so. I will care for and love Snowbeak, as I failed to do for my former steed. But never believe it is because you are unworthy. Promise me this.”

Safere sighed and smiled, looking down at her boots for a second or two. Before returning his gaze and nodding. “I promise.”

He nodded back. “Good. Also, I ask that you bring Buddy along to visit every so often. The two are quite...attached.”

She blinked and looked from Snowbeak to Buddy. The white gryphon was looking back at him, softly cooing. Buddy in turn was waving his wings slowly and...prancing?

“Buddy, you scoundrel!” Safere exclaimed, laughing. “Have you been laying down some moves behind my back?!”

Buddy squaked, shaking his wings and hopping up and down. Snowbeak scraped her talons in the dirt and squawked back.

“Best warn your gryphon master of the possibility of eggs, in the future, eh?” Mordecai cautioned, chuckling along with her.

Safere gave him a thumbs up. “You bet. Keep safe out there, Mordo! See you soon!” She left with a spring in her steps, mounting her flirtatious bird and soaring off toward Easthallow. The wind in her hair felt like energy flowing through her. She let out a loud “woooooooooo!” and grinned.

It had been quite a night to fly.

#warcraft ocs #warcraft story #short story #gryphons #safere #mordecai sharpe

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betabites · 3 years

Photo

[Image ID: nine photos of painted miniatures.

The first photo is of two dwarves. One has green clothes and a large barrel on his back. He leans over so the second dwarf, in red, can fill his tankard.

The second photo is of a dark-skinned old dwarf leaning on a barrel. He has a silver and gold tankard of beer, and a blue surcoat.

The third photo is of two barrels, one small, one large. The large barrel has two runic ‘B’s on it.

The fourth photo is of a mimic monster that had been pretending to be a four-poster bed. Its mouth is open wide, and it reaches out with pseudopods that had been the posts of the bed. It is bruise-colored.

The fifth photo is of a very large skeleton in golden full plate armor. It has a black iron mace.

The sixth photo is of two mummies, one male-presenting and one female-presenting. The male mummy has green flesh and is mostly swathed in bandages, except for a brightly colored kilt. The female mummy has dark skin, a bikini top made of bandages, a long loincloth, and a golden snake-headed staff.

The seventh photo is of two frankensteins, one male-presenting and one female-presenting. The male has green skin, brown pants, a long black coat, and broken chains around his wrists. The female has a long red dress, and is made of a patchwork of several different skin tones.

The eighth photo is of a fishing boat made of dark green wood. Across the bow is written ‘Gatorbane’ in gold letters. Within the boat is a set of oars, a net, and a basket. A lantern hangs from the prow.

The ninth photo is of five skeletal warriors. They are armed with axes, swords, and shields, and wear damaged bronze armor and blue tabards. End Image IDs.]

And all the rest of the minis, all from Reaper. I’m trying to get as much as I can done before Bones V shows up and drowns me in more minis. The mummies and frankensteins are technically of a set with the Zubat vampires I did back in October. And, uh, wow, monster sexual dimorphism is A Thing, huh? Admittedly, I did play into it by making the dudes green skinned here, but still, wow. That mummy sorceress is definitely not desiccated at all. And the Bride of Frankenstein couldn’t have been wearing a wedding dress, as opposed to a ‘mwahaha, I’m an evil sorceress’ cocktail dress? At least she’s still really tall?

Only minis I’m actively working on at the moment are Yang and the giant dragon from Bones IV. I’m doing the dragon as a red; got a basecoat down tonight. Gonna try for a quick paintjob, because it’s just too big for anything else.

#Reaper miniatures #miniature painting

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agoodgoddamnshot · 4 years

Text

Opulence [E] - Geralt/Jaskier

[Gif not mine]

Posted originally on my AO3 account - Rated E

Jaskier seems to follow his reputation like a shadow. More often than not, stories of the bard are already in a town or city by the time they actually arrive. For the most part, Geralt has to deal with the fallout of cuckolded men whose courtships or engagements or even marriages have been affected by the bard, in one way or another. It’s easy enough; noblemen, other bards, or even the occasional innkeeper take one look at Geralt – and Jaskier, who always seems to hide just behind the larger man – and tuck tail. On the occasion where ones may pick a fight, it’s not really fair at all. Noblemen, who’ve been taught to fight by great swordmasters, but never have seen so much as a drunken tavern brawl, often end up on the floor with little to no effort.

And while he knows that Jaskier doesn’t go cavorting with the affiances of the upper class anymore – because, for the past few months, it’s been his bed that Jaskier finds himself in – he does have to wonder just how many trysts the man had before settling firmly with Geralt.

“Oh, you don’t want to know,” Jaskier sighs into Geralt’s shoulder. The man has an arm firmly around the bard’s shoulders. His skin is speckled with sweat – a waste, after spending so long in a much-needed bath following days of travelling. But Jaskier just wouldn’t leave him the fuck alone when they were downstairs, drinking in one corner of the inn. Now, though, Geralt’s bard has a sleepy, contented smile lacing his lips.

Geralt arches an eyebrow. “What if I do? I want to know how many towns and cities we probably won’t be allowed into just because you couldn’t keep your hands to yourself.”

“You’re one to talk. You have people speak about you as well, Witcher.” Jaskier laughs. A light little thing, mostly into Geralt’s chest. “Between the both of us, we might as well just travel south and hope that the rumours stop at the border.”

One rumour that he is arguably grateful for, however, is how highly people thought of Jaskier’s singing at Cintra. Foreign lords and ladies had been at the banquet. Geralt had watched them; joyfully singing and clapping along with reels and polkas that Jaskier had played. He can only imagine when they travelled back to their own homesteads, rumours of the bard’s singing went with them.

An invite comes. How the message finds them, he isn’t entirely sure. All he does know is that a feast is being hosted in an affluent town almost a two-day ride from their current lodgings. “Oh, don’t be like that,” Jaskier all but pouts as Geralt fetches Roach’s saddle. The mare regards both men for a moment, before going back to her hay. With Geralt’s back to them, Jaskier fishes a small sugar cube out of his pocket and holds it out for the mare. Her ears twitch, and she knickers softly at the treat, but this is still their secret. She still won’t let him on her back without Geralt, but at least Jaskier can be in the same space as the mare without fear of being kicked in the shin. Jaskier wipes the small string of horse spit from his hand and watches Geralt set about tacking her up. “I followed you half-way around the country, into all manners of situations. You can do the same for me, can’t you?”

Geralt huffs. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

Setting Roach’s saddle snugly on her back, Geralt looks over at Jaskier. “Anytime you say for me, you expect me to drop everything and do what you want.”

A small smile tugs at the corner of Jaskier’s lip. He pets Roach’s muzzle before walking over to Geralt. The Witcher grunts softly, making a few last adjustments to the placement of Roach’s gear, before fetching the girth underneath her stomach. He barely has a chance to attach it to the saddle before he feels Jaskier all but drape against his side. The stables of the inn are well-kept. Stalls are divided by wooden planks that run from the ground to the ceiling. In private, and sheltered from the wandering eyes of stablehands, Jaskier presses a light kiss to Geralt’s neck. “Please?” he mumbles against the skin, smirking as he trails his nose along a tendon there. “For me?”

Geralt turns, catching Jaskier’s lips in a kiss that, if he wasn’t completely aware of how discreet they have to be, would become so much more. Jaskier still doesn’t move his hands though; one on the small of Geralt’s back, and the other holding on to a forearm. When he pulls away, Jaskier tries to follow, but a barked order from one of the grooms to a nearby stableboy makes him pull away.

“Siren,” Geralt sighs. He would follow Jaskier anywhere. The bard knows that. He’s abused that fact. But the city they’re heading to has a reputation; draped in gold with springs of silver in the main square, it’s opulence at its finest. And Geralt is pretty sure that, although he’ll appreciate the comfy bed and the nice food they’ll be provided with, he’s going to fucking hate the rest of it.

Gathering Roach’s reins, Jaskier smiles brightly. “It’ll be great,” Jaskier says, as though he’s a mindreader all of a sudden. Then again, Geralt has different kinds of scowls. And Jaskier is just very good at reading them.

The city is everything he expected it to be. High, thick walls encase it, shielding it from a forest on one side and the foot of a mountain on the other. The main road into the city is packed with other travellers. Merchants with horse-drawn carriages walk alongside them, selling everything from cloth to spices and herbs to books. Sentries line the top of the walls, with their gleaming armour so polished that the sun, perched high in the air, makes them shine like beacons.

Two guards vet everyone approaching the gates. Both Geralt and Jaskier pass with little trouble. The letter that had been delivered to them has the royal sigil stamped on to one corner of the page. A guard with a battle-worn face merely waved them through.

Each person that they pass on the main road through the town seems clad in silks and cottons, with their heads adorned in shawls or headpieces or tropical flowers.

Even the gutters running along either side of the cobblestones look spotless.

Jaskier nudges Geralt’s side. “You look even more constipated than usual,” he remarks, fiddling with the letter. “Mind telling me why?”

It’s not the worst place they could be in. Nice cities mean nice inns, nice food, nice beds. But something Geralt wonders is why a city like this, pinned between a dense forest and a scaling mountain, sitting on a plateau of land with not much agriculture on it, could find its wealth. It doesn’t sit right with him. But he looks to his bard, and finds that he hasn’t given much of a verbal excuse. And Jaskier just keeps looking at him for an explanation. He sighs. “This is a city that is too nice.”

“Too nice,” Jaskier laughs. “You should hear yourself. You always complain about staying in the backrooms of people’s houses, and thin, uncomfortable mattresses. This will be the best we’ll have for a long time.”

Geralt never complains. He barely has enough wherewithal to clench his jaw shut. You’re the one who complains.

Instead, he breathes out a sharp sigh. “You’ll be singing in the king’s court, and what am I to do? Spend the night being your guard, again?”

Jaskier pets Roach’s neck. “Be my consort instead,” he looks up at Geralt with a spark in his eye.

He levels the bard with a look. “I’m not sure how people think about that sort of thing here.”

Jaskier shrugs. “Guess we’ll find out, then.”

“No, we won’t.”

“If you really do find the thought of spending the night with me appalling, then I’m sure there is something else you could be doing.” Jaskier huffs. Petting Roach’s muzzle, Jaskier then slows down slightly, walking along with Geralt. “I’m sure even a city like this has a pest problem,” Jaskier says quietly, smiling politely at a captain of a passing squad of patrolling guards. Geralt regards them. Chainmail, with heavy armour sitting on top of it. The royal crest is painted on to the breastplate. A plate, Geralt notes with a frown, with not a scratch on it.

They find themselves in a townhouse near the royal district. “We can’t just have anyone staying within the castle walls,” a spokesperson for the king smiles; one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I hope you understand.”

Jaskier nods. “Completely.” Someone comes to collect Roach and take her into the neighbouring stables. Geralt shrugs them off, leading the mare into the yard himself. Jaskier stays with the spokesperson, happy enough to talk about what etiquette is expected of him. Geralt can’t help but snort. Jaskier, for all of the rumours that would say otherwise, knows how to behave in front of dignitary.

He’ll just follow the bard’s lead.

If he’s going, that is.

Roach nudges him once he’s removed the last of her tack and strung up a net of hay for her. A knowing look sits in her eyes. “Don’t,” he points a finger, stepping out of the stall. She huffs.

A couple of hours stand between them having to leave for the banquet and now. The space is large enough for two double beds on either side of the room, and a bathtub that has already been brought up. On a nearby table, there’s a collection of salts and perfumes. Even with their caps on, the vials give off heavy aromas.

Jaskier fiddles with them, regarding each one carefully. It wasn’t a long trek from their last lodging; but muscles ache after a while, and he’s been on the road too long to ever refuse the offer of a bath.

Jaskier takes the cork off one of the vials. A pungent smell of lavender seeps into the room, and Geralt, even setting the last of his things down at the other side of the space, wrinkles his nose. “Unless you plan on falling asleep during your performance,” he says, “don’t use that.”

Jaskier closes the vial. A small frown creases his brow. “You can smell that all the way over there?”

“It’s not like I’m an entire country away, Jaskier.” Geralt slides the sheathes of both of his swords underneath one of the beds. They’ll lock the room when they leave, but he won’t be too careful. Geralt looks over his shoulder. For the first time in a long time, Jaskier hasn’t replied to a quip he’s made. Looking at the bard now, there’s a look on his face that he can’t entirely make out. “What?”

“Interesting,” Jaskier mumbles, picking up another vial.

It’s not the worst gathering he’s been to. The king – though, he finds out from a hoard of gossiping guards that he isn’t a king at all, but a man with grand notions of his place in the world – allows him to sit with the rest of them. Any friend of the bard is a friend of mine! Geralt’s eyes threaten to roll to the back of his head. But he settles for looking out on to the main hall, already packed with people who’ve had their fill of food and drink.

Long tables are laden with just about every meat Geralt can think of, with bowls packed with seasonal vegetables and spiced fruits in between each platter. Everyone seems merry; aided by the small army of servants wandering around to each table setting, filling goblets back up with ale and mead and wine just as soon as they’re empty.

When a server comes for his own goblet, Geralt covers the lid with his hand. “I’m fine,” he says gruffly. The server bows her head slightly, before going to the next person. It takes a lot of drink to even affect him, thanks to the mutations. He never quite understood it; a high metabolism, most likely. And he’s pretty sure that he would be able to get that volume of alcohol here, if he looked for it. The king seems keen for the visiting nobles to have a good time. Opinions easily bought with good food and drink.

But Geralt sits back in his chair, content to just watch his bard. A small gathering of others have joined him off to one side. The great hall is almost like a throne room; high vaulted ceilings held up by marble pillars. The space sprawls onwards, almost like fields. It would be impossible for Jaskier to play alone, and be heard by everyone. But he gives it a fair go.

Jaskier looks like he belongs there. A begrudging smile pulls at the corner of Geralt’s lip, threatening to show itself. He does his best to school his expression. Jaskier would never let him live it down if he saw that Geralt was actually enjoying himself.

Well, that’s not entirely true. He hasn’t so much as glanced at the dancing nobles in the middle of the grand hall. He’s fairly certain that a diplomat and her sister, or cousin, or daughter, have been talking to him for the past ten minutes; but he hasn’t taken in a single word.

After each song, Jaskier takes a moment to himself, looking out on to the applauding crowd. Geralt’s chest tightens. Stop, he has to keep telling himself. If he could shake the feeling away, he doesn’t know if he would. There was never any good in his life. Fleeting bed-partners came and went, as did faint flames of romances. This is different. A feeling churns his stomach and just won’t settle; simultaneously setting fire to his bones and making him shiver, as if a winter’s wind caught him off guard.

It’s frightening.

Jaskier looks at him first. After each song, he’ll seek out Geralt’s eyes from across the room, before smiling at him. Geralt can’t get over the fact that Jaskier’s eyes are so pale. Grey, with specks of blue in them. The golden lighting of the hall doesn’t do them any justice. Geralt lifts his chin in acknowledgement. Jaskier winks – a fucking wink – and moves on to the next song.

By the time the music finishes, gods’ know how many hours have passed. Geralt watches with some faint feeling of pride when those who had been dancing offer the first claps of applause, shouting for another couple of songs.

Nobles sitting alongside Geralt join in.

The most vocal of them sits in the centre. “Marvellous!” the king applauds, looking to each person beside him. “Wasn’t he just marvellous?”

There’s fevered agreement. Geralt watches it out of the corner of his eye, but ultimately settles for taking a long sip of wine. Jaskier holds his lute close to his chest, bowing his head in thanks. When he looks over to Geralt again, Geralt inclines his head. Well done. Because fuck if Jaskier is going to get a verbal praise out of him.

It’s enough for the bard. He places his hand on his heart and smiles. The minstrels that had accompanied him disperse back into the crowd, pulled into groups of chattering dignitaries. Geralt watches as Jaskier tries to navigate the room, serving between people, heading straight for the head table.

Because of where Geralt is, he’s the first person the bard seeks out. Up close, Geralt spies that the bard’s skin is speckled with sweat. And he seems slightly out of breath. Then again, Jaskier is never happy to just sing; insisting on dancing around the room whenever he can, getting a crowd going. The man is still so skinny, and Geralt has to wonder if that’s why.

Jaskier puts a hand on the back of Geralt’s chair. He tries not to shudder at the feeling of knuckles pressing into his back. The last time they had so much as brushed against each other had been before the doors to the hall opened, and they were both swept away to different sides of the room. Now, Geralt’s grip on his goblet tightens.

“Well, you big brute, did you enjoy yourself?” Jaskier leans down to Geralt. His eyes go to the man’s goblet, and must-see how white his knuckles have turned, because the grin that spreads across his face is just chaotic.

Geralt huffs. Jaskier plays his games. Geralt plays his own. “I didn’t want to throw myself off of the parapets, if that’s what you’re asking.”

The noblelady beside him balks slightly. Geralt grins. Something mirrored by the bard. “The highest of praise,” Jaskier marvels, patting Geralt’s shoulder. The touch scalds his skin, even through the layers of nice, formal clothes he had been almost-bribed to wear.

The king beckons him over. As Jaskier brushes Geralt’s back, moving towards the king, he lets his fingers trail over Geralt’s shoulders. Geralt tries his best to swallow a low growl.

A slight flourish of air signals that Jaskier has moved away. A scent follows, trailing along and skimming the bottom of Geralt’s nose. He allows himself to breathe it, for a moment. The air inside the grand hall had steadily become heavy with the scent of drink and food and sweat. Even when the tall lancet doors were open, leading out on to a large balcony looking over the city, the sea breeze wafting in couldn’t entirely chase the harsh scent away.

But what’s here now is different. All consuming.

Geralt looks over to Jaskier, sliding into a place made for him by the king’s side.

Honey. Nutmeg. A slight trace of orange blossom. It’s a scent that coils around his chest and spreads along his veins, easing his muscles. For the first time during the entire night, the world around him all fades away.

Jaskier makes idle conversation with the king. What it’s about, Geralt isn’t entirely sure. Blood rushes through his ears, sounding like the crashing ocean outside, battering the nearby cliffs as the moon churns the sea.

He catches Geralt’s gaze out of the corner of his eye. Without turning fully away from the king, a loose, content smile curls along the bard’s lips. Geralt all but balks. He knows that smile – one that’s always painted over his bard’s face after nights spent together. One that he sees either before falling into bed, shortly after, or even in the morning hours.

One that is being sent his way, in front of the lords and ladies of gods know where, in front of an elite family. In front of other people who had been drafted to come to this event, all surely looking towards their table, seeing what the king thinks of the bard who performed all night.

Geralt schools his expression; a hard thing to do, when the grip on his goblet becomes so much, he worries vaguely about distending it.

That little siren—

Geralt, in his long life, has weathered some tough situations. But the walk back from the castle’s keep to their lodgings is definitely up there.

It doesn’t help at all that Jaskier, under a guise of being merry – the King just kept offering me drink, Geralt. I can’t turn him down! – all but drapes against his side. Their fingers brushed on the walk over, knuckles skimming each other, until Geralt tried outstretching his fingers to try and catch Jaskier’s. When the bard took it upon himself to press against Geralt’s side, one arm was flung loosely around his shoulders, while a hand placed itself on Geralt’s chest. Geralt tried biting back a growl when that particularly hand slipped underneath Geralt’s shirt, fingers skimming across his chest.

The temptation is there – stalking around in his brain. All he would have to do is drag Jaskier into a nearby street; a small alleyway where the guards aren’t patrolling, and one that they won’t even glance down. But gods, Jaskier would complain. We are not doing this like back-alley whores, Geralt. He can already hear the man’s voice in his head.

But he does hear something. He’s been playing with the man since stepping into that fool’s palace, casting glances and smirks across the grand hall, turning away coyly when Geralt wants to curse him out.

The inn is quiet. Stepping inside, Geralt is slightly surprised to find only a couple of men are posted by the bar keep’s counter. Another handful are by the hearth, mugs of mead in hand, chatting quietly among themselves. It’s a change from the inns and taverns that line country roads, which never seem to sleep. They walk straight through the tavern, with Jaskier nodding what seems to be a goodnight to the woman gathering plates around the room. But no one else even lifts their head. The hearth still crackles. Men slouched in chairs in front of it still discuss what road they’re going to take in the morning to their next destination. The lady who owns the tavern finishes putting away the polished tankards.

When they reach their room – upstairs, with a lancet window looking out on to the town – Geralt barely lets the door close behind them before he has Jaskier pushed up against it. The bard laughs, almost giggles; something smothered when Geralt catches his face in between his hands, bringing them together in a heated kiss.

Nimble fingers work at the laces of Geralt’s shirt. The top of it had been undone for a few hours now. The grand hall had been warm, and Geralt was done with Jaskier’s coy games. He could play them too. Jaskier breaks from the kiss, resting his forehead against Geralt’s. “You should have just taken the fucking shirt off,” he groans. “You were already halfway there with how much of your chest was out during that feast. Honestly Geralt, you need to work on your modesty.”

Geralt tries to catch Jaskier’s lips again, but the bard pulls back, focused on getting at least one article of clothing off of the other man. Geralt could help. Of course he could. His hands aren’t doing anything; keeping hold of Jaskier’s neck and head. But there’s something thrilling about how he can feel Jaskier’s heartbeat through the hand on his neck.

“Everyone was too busy looking at you,” he replies instead, freeing one hand to momentarily skim down Jaskier’s side.

The bard scoffs. “Are you going to be pissy about it?” With the last of the shirt laces undone, Jaskier makes quick work of wrestling it up and off of the man. Jaskier finally kisses him again, looping his arms loosely around the span of Geralt’s shoulders. “Whenever I looked for you, you had the same sulk on your face as always. What’s wrong? Did you not like all the attention being on me for once?”

He’s playing again, Geralt thinks. He’s egging you on. “If you really want to know,” he says lowly, undoing the buttons of Jaskier’s doublet. Peeling it back and off, Geralt sets his lips and teeth against the length of the bard’s neck. He hides a smirk into the skin when Jaskier’s head tilts to one side: when his breathing starts to falter and hitch. “I’ve never been prouder.”

Suddenly, the bard’s hands are on his shoulders, and Geralt is wrenched back from Jaskier. “What?” the bard balks.

I can play your game too, you siren. Geralt sets his chin. “You were in your element. I spent the night watching people singing along with you, dance to your songs. I had to endure endless praises said by a king and his court.”

Geralt returns to Jaskier’s neck – at a slight loss, since he wants to watch the bard’s eyes go even wider at the praise. But the bard’s skin is still steeped in sweet notes of honey and nutmeg, and Geralt can’t find it in himself to part with it just yet.

Jaskier’s mouth opens and closes. For the first time in a long time, nothing actually comes out in the way of words. Instead, his breath catches when Geralt’s hands find their way underneath his shirt, tracing fingers along his bare sides. A shiver ricochets throughout Jaskier’s body. The arms around Geralt’s neck tighten, keeping him pressed firmly against the bard’s front. Truth be known, Geralt doesn’t know how long they stay there; pressed against the door, bodies moving against each other while hands wander, pulling at clothing and pawing skin. It could be a couple of seconds. It could be hours. The distant hum of people downstairs and walking in the hallway outside fade away entirely, until the only sounds that Geralt can hear are the crackling of the hearth and soft groans wrenching from Jaskier’s throat.

Wealthy towns mean wealthy inns; an ever-burning hearth with chopped wood nearby, plush beds stuffed with goose feathers, and quilted blankets and furs folded by the end. Geralt guides them across the room, until Jaskier’s knees hit the foot of the bed, and they pull each other down. The bard huffs against Geralt’s lips, pulling away for a second to press his forehead against the other man’s. He looks down as Geralt pulls at the laces of his shirt. Within seconds, because his Witcher moves fast, it’s flung across the room. Out of sight, out of mind. “Tell me this,” he says. Geralt hides a smirk into the centre of Jaskier’s chest at how breathless his bard sounds already. “Do all Witchers have a thing for smells, or is it just the one I’ve got?”

Teeth nip at Jaskier’s side.

The bard presses on. “Don’t get me wrong, I like nice smells as much as the next person,” he says, carding his fingers through Geralt’s hair. Recently washed, and pulled back into its normal, simple tie, he delights as it comes undone. “But you seem to really like it.”

It’s still there; honey, nutmeg, and orange blossom. Although it’s faded, in the hours since bathing, replaced with tones of wine and sweat, Geralt can still find traces of it in the pores of the bard’s skin. Geralt’s lips trail downwards. His fingers make quick work of getting Jaskier out of his breeches. Another scent seeps into the air; one he’s quite fond of. He’s grown used to the sharp smell of sex; bedrooms of taverns tended to reek of it, no matter how many times sheets were washed and mattresses are turned. But there’s something different about scenting it on Jaskier. The bard has a very particular smell, one that Geralt has come to know over their time together. With Jaskier bared in front of him, Geralt loops his arms underneath the bard’s legs, and tugs him closer. Setting his mouth into the groove of Jaskier’s hip, Geralt breathes. “I like this better.”

Jaskier gives a half-laugh. It dies completely at the familiar feel of lips against skin. “I can’t go around smelling of sex all day, Geralt. What will people think?”

Geralt hums. “Nothing they don’t already assume with the rumours they used to spread about you.”

“Geralt.”

“If anything, I think it’ll only prove them right.”

“You’re not funny.”

It should bother him: how familiar they are with each other. How well both of them can map out each other’s bodies, find where they’re most vulnerable to lips or teeth or touch. It should bother him how well Jaskier knows his mind, and how their usual banter continues into an act like this. Sex had never been like this with anyone else. Not even the more serious of his lovers in the past, the ones where he felt sparks in his veins. But Jaskier is like an inferno, setting his body on fire, and never fully being put out. It should bother him. And yet it really doesn’t.

Gentle hands running over his shoulders bring him back. “Everything alright down there?”

Geralt looks up. Pillows piled up against the headboard help the bard sit up slightly. Geralt can’t help but imagine him as some sort of regent, reclining and observing. Geralt lets his hands wander down the outside of Jaskier’s legs. He presses one last kiss to the join of the bard’s hip and leg. It’s not where Jaskier needs him. He knows that. Some part of him delights in watching the other man squirm: how he’ll try and shift his hips slightly, urging Geralt to put his mouth somewhere fucking useful—

“You’re being cruel.” Jaskier frowns down at him with all the power of a child not getting what they want.

Geralt hums. “Am I?” He moves past the man’s length, all but missing it completely, to worry skin of the other side of Jaskier’s hip.

The bard groans, letting his head fall back against the pillows. “And obtuse.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Jaskier squirms. He’s strong; something not many people know about him. The bard isn’t completely helpless. But at the same time, Geralt has little to no trouble in catching writhing legs and hips, and holding them down to continue doing whatever it was he was doing not a couple of seconds before.

But Jaskier’s top half is free. Geralt looks up for a second, watching the bard reach for the bottle of oil they have on the bedside table. He frowns slightly. He doesn’t remember fishing it out of Roach’s bags, which means that Jaskier took it inside. And Jaskier left it on the bedside table, for all the world to see.

And Jaskier definitely knew that they would come back to the tavern and fall into bed together.

He flings the bottle down towards Geralt, almost knocking the Witcher’s head with it. “If you’re going to spend the rest of your days down there, could you at least do something useful?” Jaskier huffs, sitting back on his elbows.

“This is useful,” Geralt replies easily. For all their games – for all the times he prods and pokes fun at his bard, because it’s genuinely amusing – he does take pity. Searching blindly for the bottle, Geralt adds a couple of more bruises to Jaskier’s hip. “There’s no point in rushing things. We have all night. And tomorrow morning.”

Uncapping the glass bottle, the smell of oil suddenly enters the room. It’s not entirely unpleasant, but it’s not his favourite thing in the world. It’s heavy, almost smothering, as it coats the roof of Geralt’s mouth. He coats his fingers, making sure that there’s enough left behind because, for all people say about Witcher’s and their stamina, the same could be said about Jaskier. And he will want something akin to a second round in the morning hours.

Jaskier’s head falls back against the pillows as Geralt’s finger traces his hole. Geralt lifts his lips from Jaskier’s hip, watching intently as he slips one finger in; humming when there’s no resistance at all.

A groan echoes through Jaskier’s entire body. “There you go,” he sighs, “another.”

Geralt gladly obliges, after a time. He likes taunting his bard. There’s a humour shared between the two of them that he doesn’t have with anyone else. But eventually, it always leaves when they get a bit too close. When something else takes its place. They’ll still share breath when joined, and Jaskier will always loose a content little giggle into Geralt’s neck once they’ve finished. But right now, it’s not the time.

A second finger joins the first. And Jaskier’s body starts to squirm again. Geralt runs a hand over the man’s flank. Beneath his hand, gooseflesh bubbles to the surface. Geralt takes his time, coaxing muscle loose and making sure that nothing ever hurts Jaskier in any way. He returns to the bard’s neck, tracing his lips along the tendon that stands out whenever Jaskier tries to swallow back moans. The second that he runs his nose along it, though, Jaskier gasps. “I appreciate – fuck – I appreciate your attentiveness Geralt but – for fuck sake – get on with it, please.”

A third finger slips in. Geralt hums against Jaskier’s stomach, watching how his body seemingly recognises his partner’s touch, parting for him easily. Geralt turns his hand slightly, curling his fingers, searching and feeling out for something. He knows he has found it when a hand slaps against his shoulder. Geralt smirks: the bard’s fingers coil over the meat of his shoulder, nails pressing into skin. “For fuck sake,” Jaskier groans at the ceiling, “are you going to torture me all night?”

A gentle kiss is pressed to Jaskier’s stomach. “Maybe,” Geralt hums, tracing the pads of his fingers gently over the spot, relishing in how his bard both wants to squirm away from the overstimulation, and grind his hips back on to his hand. “You do look good lain out like this.”

“I’d look even better with you fucking me,” Jaskier bites, looking down at an entirely all-too-smug Witcher. His eyes narrow. “So get to it.”

“Bossy little bastard, aren’t you,” Geralt says, leaning up to catch Jaskier’s lips in his own. He has them for a brief moment, before the bard pulls away with a huff, pressing his head back into the pillow when Geralt’s fingers brush against his prostate again.

“I spent an age bathing and getting nice for you. Not to mention how much time I spent riling you up in the king’s halls,” Jaskier all but huffs. Geralt smiles, sitting back on his haunches. With the Witcher not covering him anymore, a slight chill trails over Jaskier’s bare skin. Even with the hearth blazing, he feels cold. “The least you can do is actually follow through with those bedroom eyes you were sending me all night.”

Geralt cleans his hand on the far corner of the bed. Hooded eyes watch him make quick and deft work with the laces of his breeches. His boots are lost to the room, toed off at some point on their journey from the door to the bed. Gods only know where they are. “If you had the patience to spend all that time playing coy,” Geralt smirks, slipping his breeches off and flinging them on to the floor, “then you can wait a few more minutes until we’re ready.”

Geralt returns, and Jaskier feels warm again. Kisses litter his torso: lips either barely brushing skin at all, or wet presses along the ridges of his collarbone and ribs. It’s lovely. It really is. But Geralt feels another objection from the bard coming when his shoulder is lightly smacked.

“I’ll find someone else,” Jaskier groans.

“Right.”

“I will,” he bites, “someone downstairs will take better care of my needs.”

“I’m sure they will.”

It’s always in jest. Well, it’s always in jest when it’s between them. Geralt knows that it’s his bed that Jaskier lies in, that he’ll always come back to. Jaskier knows the same. He can joke with his bard about his past affairs – since there probably isn’t a town in the continent that hasn’t been saved from Jaskier’s past romances. It’s never a joke when it’s someone else; when someone in an inn or tavern, or drunkard stumbling out of a brothel at night, seeing them walk by. It’s never a joke when those people say it.

Geralt finds his place again, Jaskier’s legs parted and framed around him. He hovers over the bard, leaning on his arms, placed on either side of Jaskier’s head. They can be close, that way. Geralt kisses him again, humming as he feels Jaskier pull his hair free of its tie, and runs his fingers through the strands. When they part, it’s only a fragment. Their lips brush and their noses are set against the other’s. Any scorn that the bard had been feeling not a couple of moments ago has seeped away. Jaskier’s fingers trail from Geralt’s hair, to his temples, down along the ridges of his cheekbones and coming to a rest along his jaw, mapping out lines. “I’m yours,”

“And you’re mine,” Geralt agrees, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

Their joining now is just as intense as it had been during their first. Many moons ago, aided by blood humming slightly with ale and a warm bed, when the first brush of naked skin set them both alight. Geralt buries his face into Jaskier’s neck, the urge to bite the skin there rising, but he thinks better against it. If his bard has been this tightly strung all night, best not to let go of the string.

Jaskier’s legs wrap around his waist, with his feet poised at the small of his back. The movement jostles Geralt slightly, wrenching a small groan from both of them. Either one of them could finish early. The night’s tension all rushes upon them now. Geralt nips at the join of Jaskier’s shoulder and neck. “Alright?”

“Very much so,” Jaskier sighs, head tilted back and eyes staring straight up at the ceiling. They roll back at the first slide of Geralt in him: a slow draw back and push forward, the tentative first movement, and a quiet question of is this okay?

Finding no reason to stop, Geralt moves faster and deeper into the body below him. Jaskier all but moulds himself to Geralt’s frame, arms draped over and crossed around his shoulders and back, keeping their chests flushed together. Even with several nights of lying together behind them – so many that Geralt has stopped keeping track – it still surprises him how quickly a coil of heat starts to wind around his core.

Jaskier turns his head, moaning into the pillow. “There,” he gasps at a well-placed thrust, “there, there, keep going.”

There are things people say about Geralt that don’t hold an ounce of truth. Usually, it’s the whole Witcher thing. People will make up all kinds of rumours and beliefs, and stand by them, to justify distrust and hate. Other things are frivolous – like how he is as a lover. Jaskier thought some of them, at one point. One of the prevailing beliefs being that Geralt was going to be rough and coarse, and the entire thing would leave him unable to walk the next day. And while some times the latter is true, Geralt has never once bore teeth and nail to Jaskier – unless he explicitly asked for it, of course. Geralt is attentive; he reaches blindly for one of Jaskier’s thighs, hoisting it higher up Geralt’s torso just so he can get deeper. It wrenches something caught between a moan and yell from the bard.

It’s always for Jaskier.

Geralt wants to watch. He wants to see the bard’s face and body, but he presses his nose against Jaskier’s skin instead, drawing in a lungful of sweet and salty scents. It sends a thrum of pleasure down his spine.

“Geralt,” Jaskier gasps. His nails dig into the flesh of Geralt’s back. “Geralt, please. I’m close.”

“You can come for me without my help,” Geralt pulls away from Jaskier’s neck, but keeping his face close to the other man’s. “Can’t you, my little lark?”

Jaskier’s eyelids flicker closed. “Geralt-” The bard body tightens around him, and for a brief moment, all Geralt sees is white. Their foreheads knock gently together as Jaskier comes, holding on to Geralt for dear life as wetness shoots between them.

A choked groan wrenches out of Geralt’s throat. It’s all too much, the tight heat and the scents encircling him, and the fact that it’s Jaskier. With one last hard thrust, he stills, emptying himself into Jaskier. The bard moans, shifting his hips slightly. The legs around Geralt’s waist tighten, keeping the man pressed close.

Some sort of whine leaves Jaskier’s throat when Geralt manages to pull away from the bard. With whatever energy is left in him, Geralt uses it to avoid falling down directly on to the body beneath him. Instead, he moves on to one side of the bed, but keeping Jaskier within an arm’s reach.

Jaskier peers down at himself. They should bathe. But bathing would mean going in search of the tavernkeep and asking for hot water. It would involve them moving and putting clothes on. The idea is quickly thrown out the window. It’ll be a problem for the morning.

Both of them lie there for a time, content to catch their breaths. Sweat cools, and soon, Jaskier starts to shiver slightly. Even with the hearth, it’s not enough. Their legs are still joined, entangled, keeping them tethered to each other. The very thought of having to move away, even just for a second, makes Jaskier’s heart clench.

But they do move after a time, albeit, just shuffling around slightly to lie facing each other.

“For all the grumbling you did on our journey here,” Jaskier says, reaching out to brush some strands of white hair back from Geralt’s face, “we had a lovely time in this city, don’t you think?”

“Hmm.” Geralt’s eyelids droop close. Jaskier moves to fetch the linen sheets, kicked down towards the foot of the bed. When he drapes them over their bodies, Geralt shuffles slightly, throwing an arm loosely around Jaskier’s waist, tugging him closer.

Jaskier pillows his head on one arm, pale blue eyes scanning over the Witcher’s face. He’s mapped every inch of it in their time together; the ridges of cheekbones, the small scars on his temple, how his eyes, although they stay that amber colour, can change to different shades depending on what mood he’s in. Jaskier smiles. “Thank you,” he says softly. “For coming here with me.”

Geralt hums. His eyes remain closed, but from his breathing alone, Jaskier knows he’s not asleep. Though, he could very well be teetering on the edge. “I was hardly going to let you go alone,” he rasps. “Gods know what kind of trouble you would have gotten yourself into.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t to watch me perform?” Jaskier smiles, something hidden into his arm. But his eyes crease with how widely the smile spreads. “Since you had such nice words for me when we got back.”

“Did I?”

“You complimented me, Geralt.”

“That doesn’t sound like something I’d do. You have me confused with someone else.”

Jaskier pokes his side. “No, I vividly remember you saying that you were proud of me. Seeing me in my element, as you put it.”

“Go to fucking sleep, Jaskier,” Geralt mumbles. The words are mostly lost into the cotton cover of the pillow, but he feels Jaskier shift slightly, finally settling after a couple of minutes.

The town outside sleeps, except for the patrols of mounted guards that pass every half an hour or so. Horses’ hooves echo along the cobbles outside. If he strains, he can hear the guards chattering amongst themselves. There are other sounds too; the crackle of burning wood in the hearth, the groaning of boards in the tavern’s walls as the night begins to cool. All sounds that Geralt tries not to listen to. He turns his head, burying his nose into Jaskier’s mop of hair.

It’s still there. Traces of it, clinging on to his skin for dear life, but Geralt fills his lungs with honey and nutmeg and orange blossom. The mattress seems to part for him as he sinks into it, holding the bard’s body close, and letting sleep wash over him.

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gaymergoose · 3 years

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Favourite food for everyone - or if that gets asked before me, favourite article of clothing!

you are the first to ask, so I will do both! warning: i went off a bit oops this is long

Malika - her dwarf mom’s famous (in Malika's eyes, at least) dumplings, which are literally just bits of dough boiled and then sauteed with some butter, onion, and a pinch of salt. thats it. they are bland as all heck but Malika loves them more than any fancy food she's had on her adventures. / her prized set of Adamantine full-plate armour, which has seen her through so many near death experiences (and a few actual deaths) and have become synonymous with her sense of self as the group's shield, literally and otherwise. now that it's been enchanted to always be comfortable to wear no matter what, she never takes it off if she can help it, even sleeping in it!

Thalia - sweets!! especially those lil sponge/jam cakes they have at parties that are just tiny cubes cut from big cakes. most of her life spent as a member of a noble family and being forced to attend boring parties was spent squirreling away these little treats to her own hiding nook where she would spend the whole party out of sight munching in a less-than-ladylike fashion / speaking of fashion, her favourite item of clothing is her favourite pair of boots! comfy enough to adventure in, but still nice enough to justify wearing them during her everyday affairs as baroness of Irinia. she hates being made to wear high heels, the most she'll tolerate for formalwear is a low stable 1-inch heel

Zeegs - m....mm.......m e a t s............ (as much as they're reluctant to admit to anyone, human flesh is by far the tastiest thing they've ever been able to snack on. probably dont wanna to ask for elaboration on that) / they don't say it, but it's easy to tell that they love their new cloak of resistance, this white cloak is by far the nicest article they own, it's soft and warm and more than once has been used as a blanket in a pinch and by morning Zeegs was cuddled up with it like a child with their blanket (don't tell them that though - they'll likely bite your arm off)

River - grilled or smoked fish, the good shit. they're not hard to please, clearly / if they could have it their way, they wouldnt even wear clothes at all, but public decency n all that jazz, so they stick to a minimal unobtrusive wetsuit-like shorts and throw their armour on over their bare chest, or over some mesh fishing net that they don when they get the "no shirt, no shoes, no service" talk

Soleil - beer-BBQ sauce-slathered pheasant wings, and other pub food most often found at her favourite temples of Cayden Cailean, and of course, her own signature brewed beer and spirits that are disgusting to anyone but herself, though she won't turn her nose up to any alcoholic drink (its the alcoholism babe) / a nice long, flowy skirt is comfortable and mobile, and whoever says pants are better is a damn fool

(keeping the rest shorter since I ranted far too much on those first ones)

Azure - food from her homeland of Qadira always brightens her day / anything that's light and breezy and twirls so she can dance in it!

Fern - used to be she only liked her own home-cooked druidic recipes passed down from her parents' extended druid clan, but she's developed a sweet tooth for her gf Seren's baking ;3 / she used to treasure the silver pendant bearing the holy symbol of Gozreh that her parents gifted her when she moved away to Absalom, but for the last year ever since her brother came to live with her, she hasn't been seen wearing it once.

Tallis - only the most expensive and luxurious seafood dishes can truly satisfy this discerning palette! (aka anything with shrimp) / only the finest finery and glamourous gaudiments are fit to be tailored on the finest of forms! (aka anything with excessive amounts of glitter)

Rienna - she likes spicy things, the hotter the better, especially if it hurts / black leather and lace. that's all you need to know.

Zara - prefers her food cold, and raw. you don't want to know any more than that / a sensible set of laboratory-safe apparel suitable for performing unethical experiments in the name of scientific discovery

Ritu - anything her lovely gf Marie makes!! also spinach pizza, and sprite with lots of ice / anything with lots of rainbows or bright colours, the world needs to know that this superhero is gay!

#pathfinder #ocs #asks #answers #iozefverse

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whisperthatruns · 3 years

Text

Air Rights

The French Church--- never much on looks, red brick leaning in the direction of Romanesque---

settled into modest circumstances how many decades on West 16th? Nothing divine in the details,

veneer peeling from doors never meant for here, never open. No light, evenings, through colored glass,

though by day you could discern, twenty feet above the sidewalk, Christ stepping onto the waters of Galilee,

sea and savior oiled by exhaust, nearly indistinguishable. Weeknights, downstairs, a dozen groups renounced

at length crystal or alcohol, skin or smoke, and what each circle resisted glowed at the center of their ring of chairs,

nearly visible; there you could consecrate relinquishment, or find someone already ruined to pursue whatever made you, for the night,

unsinkable. The rent, collected each time they passed the hat, kept the church afloat. Of the congregation eight souls remained,

Haitian evangelicals. Only once I saw someone mount the stairs toward those slapdash doors

---who could have missed her? Under a plane tree clearly considering giving up all ambition, an idling towncar’s

rear door opened, she stepped out, and I knew at once that if she’d ever been thwarted, she simply summoned

more of some alloy of metal and will she drew up from beneath the pavement, maybe from Haiti itself, from generations

that stood unbending in her. In her green hat, in the forgiving archways of her dress, her capacious black purse,

she conquered the stairs, and raised her hand to open the door. Just once. The meeting schedule disappeared

from the basement entry’s wire-gridded glass, the rooms stayed dark, addicts no longer smoking and talking under the miserable tree.

Twilights, before they were gone, I’d walk through a climate so thick I could almost taste it, meet the gaze of men whose eyes locked

into mine. Was this the night they knew was coming, the night they’d fall? I recognized them, I wanted

to put my hand into the wound at their sides, that we might be real to one another. A barrier went up

around the entry, papered with signs and permits, and an ‘artist’s rendering’ ---fourteen stories clad in bluestone,

suspended above the somehow freshened brick of the church. A flyer in our vestibule said they’d sold

the space between their sanctuary and heaven for a cool eight million, and units in what would be

the highest stepped-back Nineveh tower on our block: raise the faithful high, plunge the neighbors into shadow.

Lord thou preparest a banquet for me... Workers boxed the plane tree’s trunk in a cage of 2 x 4s, heavy equipment scooped

a new foundation, hammered the pilings in. How do they stand it, in Cairo or Rome, when any shaft in sand reaches down

five thousand years? Bad enough in New York: artifacts of quarantine and revolt, bullets that did or didn’t strike rioters,

squatters or immigrants, Irish or black. Cemetery slabs etched with the hex of David’s star. Oyster middens,

pipe-stems, crockery stamped with eagles and shields. And in the Historical Society, dug from a site like this one,

an object I can’t forget, nightmare thing, its plutonium half-life still ticking: brass shackles,

superbly made, locked into place by a brass bar, sized to fit the wrists of a child.

That sign the angel placed outside of Eden, forbidding re-entry? No arrow, but these joined zeroes

fetched up out of the mud, their poison seeping into the groundwater. The backhoe clawed,

rebar spiked its way up, and some days traffic stopped while the concrete mixer’s rotating drum poured into place more

of the solid substance of our block. The city stopped work more than once. I saw, where they’d poured the footing

a little short, workers float a three-inch layer along the top of the foundation: sure to crack, maybe one day bring the whole thing down?

Though walking home, after hours, late winter, I found towering at midnight’s center a vertical representation of heaven,

nine episodes of the exaltations of light: builders’ lamps diffused by silver ceiling joists, filtered through layers of tarps,

an unfinished model of the spirit’s progress, a pilgrim ladder. Where did it lead? Each story occupied a rectangle

of what once was formless, unglazed windows opening on a flecked and spattered galactic swirl...

Up there above the streets, might not desire be articulated, spoken till seen through?

Half-finished, swathed in black netting, translucent scrims veiling the lights left burning within, that building

would never be so beautiful again. Thank you, Haitian evangelicals, for that. Now the Bradford pears open

dusty blooms against a scaffolding crowning the new Barney’s down the block, and black girders sketch out more floors

above a French Church caged in spars of steel, wave-walking Jesus shadowed by the bristling supports

of a terrace just above. Do the faithful look up toward a future in a world of light, more square feet? More power to them;

who doesn’t want a privacy to fill with memory or anticipation, room for the self to billow out in dreaming?

The shadow pooling the street’s grown cooler, gained in depth. Sometimes I walk a city block and notice everyone’s

looking at a screen, or talking to someone who’s somewhere else, so that here seems to thin out, dispersed and characterless.

I miss the addicts. I’ve done time in that school of longing and resistance, a sometime citizen of the knot

I threaded nights on my way to anywhere, under what the builders have chopped to a lame, broken arm of a tree.

Nearly everything we said beneath it concerned our endless desires, the thing that doth shine and so torment us,

our coins passed from hand to hand until their inscriptions all but wore away. Those old longings---at least we said them

to each other. We are of interest to one another, are we not? The evangelical woman, in her superb hat, will she look down

from that glassy paradise and find me of interest, or the men and women who unroll blankets over flattened cardboard

under Barney’s stainless awning, its steel-cloud sheen? They sleep and dream before a chamber gleaming with refusal

all night, inviting no one in, sealed plate glass displaying ---ready?---necklaces, shown on featureless,

streamlined busts, under relentless halogen, to foreground shine. Ten feet away, tulips fenced in iron spear-tips wrap

wings around their furnace flames, heat drawn up from the center of the earth; a strength never bridled yet,

even the mutilated tree aura’d in a froth of green. No intention to quit, none whatsoever.

The new tower’s blank surface offers fewer chances to engage, an old church’s ramshackle intimacy

shrinks beneath what we all see coming: a seamless façade interested only in itself, dwarfing the red brick it doesn’t crush

because---why should it? The air rights are for sale. Fit yourself around whatever it is you want, pay them some fraction

---enormous, in their eyes, but nothing to the unreal numbers you’ll accrue; build, and keep on display what you

swallowed to erect this chilly Babel tower on my block. I’m all judgment, I know; the Congregation won’t regret the sale

of light and air, and those who sleep on Seventh Avenue, their midnights raked by precious glitter

---on the space between their skulls and the empyrean, no one puts a price. The new tower’s a glacial expanse.

The tulips ember in their spiky bed. We dwell down here in shadow and in spring.

Mark Doty, The American Poetry Review (Vol. 49/No. 6, November/December 2020)

#mark doty #air rights #poetry

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officerofcybertron · 4 years

Text

Data Entry: 1 Fort Scyk

His forces swept in on the enemy from either side. Twin points spearheading into the undulating mass of their enemy. Where the points crossed, a noose was made. Entrapping, and thus decimating the Deceptions caught between the newly arrived fighters and the Autobot forces.

They had joined the battle for Fort Scyk.

The outward lying loop of soldiers protected the inward, shielding the backs of their comrades as they forced the Decepticons onwards into death. Blades slid into spinal struts, blaster bolts melted armor plating from behind, the triumphant roar of the Autobots shook the ground, and when not a single Decepticon soldier stood within the execution zone the noose loosened.

It reared out and to the sides. Cutting into the Decepticon ranks and removing another group of fighters from the safety of numbers. Cannon fire echoed through the rubble and the heap of bodies, and ever between his forces and the oncoming horde, Ultra Magnus swung his hammer.

Sparks and bolts spat out at crimson-eyed madmen. For every victim struck, another five were forced back by the electromagnetic discharge; their sensor and neural nets distorted and blown. Even when the hammer’s blow only came unto the surface of the planet, the arcs of energy stretched out and ravaged any poor fool to stand too closely.

He stood as the central column to his soldiers, did Ultra Magnus. Immovable, unassailable. His every movement, every command, brought with it: death.

Fire flashed, a bomb detonated. Ultra Magnus allowed himself a moment to turn and look back upon the empty wasteland that lay out before him. Rust particles twirled in a temporary cyclone, drawing his mind from the haunting images, and taunting blaster fire.

Here, where once bodies littered the ground as so much scrap on the floor of a smelting furnace, there was nothing left but ruins.

Ultra Magnus turned back, watching again as a young mech, newly minted to the Autobot cause, attempted to join in with the reforming pincer formation. Even now, focusing on the spot where the mech fell before his very feet, Ultra Magnus could not remember the color of his armor. He thought it had been blue, or maybe silver. They had been popular colors, almost a counteragent to the deep purples and grays of the forces they battled.

There had been no time to mourn. No time to move his frame from the field. Ultra Magnus had merely stepped over it and continued on.

Truthfully, he had been dead before he hit the ground. Ultra Magnus remembered that much. His optics already dark. The gray beginning to spread. The smoldering hole in his side, under his arm, providing a perfect shot into his spark chamber as he foolishly brandished his pilfered Decepticon sword high into the air in some ridiculous war cry.

It was for that very reason that Ultra Magnus avoided lifting his hammer above his head as much as possible. Instead he utilized sweeping gestures, attempting to create a larger area of effect. It allowed him to keep the weakest point of their line solid. Allowed him to protect the soldiers at his back, but not those foolhardy enough to move around to his front in a vain attempt at glory.

He stepped forward, the familiar weight of his hammer at his back giving him some bizarre comfort despite his inability to wield it properly without the use of his other hand. It meant there was more weight in his step and Ultra Magnus adjusted accordingly. His arms swung at his side, as much with their own weight as his forward momentum. Never swinging too far forward, or back. Always within a certain range of motion. It provided for a confident stride, but lacked the cocky swagger of younger, lighter mechs.

It was the walk of a Commander. The walk of someone who had been forced to walk over the bodies of his troops, the bodies of his enemies, and still call for more death. Knowing it to never be enough. It was the weight on his shoulders. The truth in his spark that he believed he would be one with the All Spark before the war was over. That it would be Optimus, and not he, who led Cybertron into the next age.

The sky above was clear, but on this same ground so long ago it had been orange. Bright, burning. The stars in the night sky could not be seen through the smoke and fumes of the battle. Even the bolts from his hammer seemed to reflect upon it.

Had a human seen such a cloud of destruction they might have believed the gods had gone to war; Ultra Magnus mused. He did not believe in gods in-as-much as the humans did. Primus, he knew, was real. As was Unicron, but they were not quite the immortal deities that one may pray to and expect those prayers to be answered. Embodiments of Order and Chaos, they could be trapped. They could be weakened, and should they turn their awe-inspiring powers against the other, they could be killed.

So, what were they if not gods? He did not know the answer.

Ultra Magnus turned from the primary lane that had been delved out of the city as a battle ground. They had won Fort Syck that day. He with his team, later to be once more named the Wreckers, and the Autobots.

Ultra Magnus paused, turning as he approached one of the abandoned, and decaying, buildings. His pincer-like hand reached up, brushing the edge of the crumbling ruin. He’d stopped here before. Turned to look at happy, and tired faces, alike, before following after a smaller mech who had summoned him. He turned now, as he did then, giving the broad shoulders of his back to those who watched him leave. The living and the dead.

Down between the rows of the alley, past the ruins of another building, lay a smaller, simpler abode. It had, by chance and fortune, been spared the wrath of the Great War, but now lay as so much rubble…

The entryway was almost too small for him to enter. He had to duck in order to prevent his helm from scraping the door frame and when he stood up his optics landed on the younger mech who now led the Autobot forces.

That he was here, working with his closest advisors, bent over datapads and maps, and not out with the bulk of his forces celebrating was telling. Ultra Magnus watched as Optimus spoke with one of his advisors, his voice quiet, calm, encouraging rather than demanding. He took the offered datapad, pointed at something, and asked a question. The mech nodded. Smiled and took back the datapad and rushed out, pausing only for a split moment to stare up at Ultra Magnus before scurrying out of the building.

Distracted by the awe-struck expression Ultra Magnus did not immediately notice the measured gaze that had been leveled upon him. When he turned back to Optimus he found himself locked optic to optic with the mech who would soon become his closest friend.

Ultra Magnus stood on the edge of what used to be a building. Some of the support structure still stood, but the remainder had fallen. Like much of Cybertron Fort Syck would need extensive rebuilding. Iacon was well underway, though it would still take many years, and even more supplies, to bring it back to what it once was.

But was that the right course to take?

Was it a wise decision to rebuild everything in the exact image of what had once been? Society and the leading classes had been corrupt. Building great cities on the back of work forces that rarely were seen by a medical professional and even more rarely were provided proper rations.

It was a debate for another day. For now, Ultra Magnus strode past the building and moved further into the ruins. He was here for another purpose, another cache that he had personally stored in areas of significance to him personally.

A mech might be forgiven to think that this location, where he had first come face to face with Optimus, was a location of importance to him and dig through the tumbling rubble of the broken building. It was important, but he and Optimus had not become immediate friends. At first, despite his decision to join the Autobots, Ultra Magnus had been uncertain of the former-Clerk’s measure. The Council had chosen him, and insofar there had been no reason to doubt him. Still, it would not be until later that they would become close.

Steps echoed against the hollow buildings. Cyan biolights and optics offered an empty light, emphasizing the rust that clung so tight to the metal of the once proud city. It was some distance to where he had left the cache, and it was possible to Ground Bridge directly to it, however, Ultra Magnus saw no reason to surrender the opportunity to patrol the area.

Metal chipped against metal. Ultra Magnus slowed and scanned the area. More clattering, chips and pieces falling. His optics moved up and caught sight of a long tail slithering away from the edge of a building. It was small, nothing that would threaten a mech of his size unless they swarmed in number.

Life was truly returning to Cybertron. The Autobots had seen some evidence that more minor-life forms were crawling their way, slipping through cracks in the wall of the Well.

He continued on, sliding past large portions of fallen buildings, and climbing over piles of refuse. It would have been impossible to move this far in his vehicular form, but it was close now...

“In this modified pincer maneuver, the two teams will cut off the head of the Decepticon Advance,” Ultra Magnus explained, holding up a holo-projector which emulated the strategy he was discussing with his troops. “The inner loop will close on the soldiers caught between our advance and the Autobot main line. We will have to be fast and accurate. There can be no hesitation.”

“Hardly seems like a fair fight. Shooting and stabbing them in the back,” groused one soldier. Ultra Magnus turned to nod in his direction, acknowledging his objection.

“It is not,” Ultra Magnus stated, “but war rarely is.” A pause. He had to remind himself that many of those here had never served in an army before. They were, all of them, capable and a bit mad to have agreed to join Ultra Magnus in his gambit, but it would be successful. So far, the war for Cybertron had been one sided. The Decepticons were used to the blood of battle and the Autobots were ill equipped against the seasoned gladiators of the Pits. Ultra Magnus intended to change that balance, and if not tip it in the Autobot’s favor, at least make it a more even competition.

He looked over his troops. At the grim faces, and grimmer optics. He did not know how many of them would survive this battle, but already in his spark he could feel the stirrings of pride. They could change the course of the war.

Ultra Magnus was not one for inspiration. He had stood back as the Prime and the Council spoke to the people, spoke to those they oppressed and those they would lift above on gilded chariots. Now, though, he knew he must say something more.

“Today we fight,” he began, his voice calm and even. He had no need to raise it, the silence allowed it to hang in the air. “We join with Optimus Prime and his Autobots to turn back the Decepticon tide.”

“I promise you neither honor, nor glory,” Ultra Magnus stepped forward, closer to the mechs who would follow him into battle. He was leading them, yes, but he was one of them. “We have gathered because we understand what is necessary in order to win.”

Helms began to nod and though the grimness about the group did not change, it was growing into something more.

“And we will win.”

Ultra Magnus braced his shoulder against a fallen slab of wall and heaved. The balance shifted and it toppled backwards revealing an empty section that had been, at one point, a carefully concealed cache.

It was empty.

Ultra Magnus to Databank.” Ultra Magnus stepped away from the rubble, turning and scanning about the area for some clue as to what may have disturbed the area. “Databank, are you reading me?”

“Ultr… Magnus,” the reply came, garbled, and static laden. “Apologies, sir, there’s… storm incoming. Comm’s are on the fritz…. Find it?”

"No,” Ultra Magnus replied, and straightened. “This one was empty, as well.”

“… what…. Sorry, sir, could you repeat?”

Ultra Magnus frowned and looked up at the sky. He could not, from his location, see the storm bank that approached Iacon, but if it were causing so much interference it would be best to return.

"Databank I will explain once I’ve returned. Send Groundbridge and recall all scout teams,” if the comms were going down, he did not want any Autobots stranded without a means to call for backup.

“Yes, sir!”

The event horizon of the Ground Bridge bloomed only a few steps in front of him, and sharp cracks of discharged energy arched away from it. Yes. If the storm were getting so bad that it interfered with the Ground Bridge it would be best to recall all teams.

Despite that, Ultra Magnus turned and scanned the area of the cache one more time. It was not a large, nor a particularly dangerous cache. Mostly emergency rations and medical supplies. He had several such caches scattered around Cybertron. Ultra Magnus had already retrieved 52% of the caches that still contained weaponry, but those that had contained energon seemed to have been pilfered. By what, he knew not.

Entering the swirling vortex Ultra Magnus began to examine the composite scan that he’d taken of the area.

Had another Wrecker returned to Cybertron? That was the only reasonable answer Ultra Magnus could think of, but if so, why had they not made contact?

Or was it just one of the creatures he had noticed before, sniffing out the rations that had been safely hidden here from those without a sensitive olfactory array?

The answer would have to wait until the storm had passed.

#Data Entry: Fort Scyk #Ultra Magnus Slice of LIfe

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kumeko · 4 years

Photo

A/N: For the @bnhaxmcu-zine! I think Peter and Deku would be great friends and a dual combo of these two number one fans would even overwhelm Cap. XD

Summary: When Izuku heard they were going to the Avenger’s Headquarters, he had hoped to maybe see one of All Might’s uniforms from his time there. What he didn’t expect was a team up with Spiderman and Captain America of all people. Maybe he can get an autograph after?

...

“This is really happening, right?” Izuku yelped as a sword flew over his head, embedding itself into the wall. Looking up, he recognized the hilt as one of Lady Sif’s swords. The blade was almost entirely buried in the plasture, a testament to how sharp the sword was or hard it was thrown. Either way, he swallowed as he touched his neck.

“That was a close one!” Spiderman chuckled nervously, bouncing from wall to wall as even more memorabilia flew past them. With a sickening crack, Iron Man’s gloves hit the bulletproof windows and shattered. He groaned. “Come on! That’s a collectible!”

A room full of rows upon rows of old Avenger gear had seemed like a great idea a few hours ago, when Izuku could spazz and fawn over them. It looked less great now, with a supervillain tossing everything he could get his hands on.

Worst. Fieldtrip. Ever.

-x-

“This is the main hallway,” a hologram of a primly dressed man droned as class 1-A walked through the halls of the Avengers’ Headquarters.

The Avengers headquarters. Izuku had to repeat that to himself several times and even then it didn’t feel real. You can’t become a proper hero without going to the center of it all, New York. Home of the Fantastic Four, Avengers, Captain America, and almost every other American hero. With no world-ending fight in sight, their class had been given special permission to enter this monument to heroism.

Which was so cool! Even Kacchan was watching everything with rapt attention; it was a childhood dream come true. Granted, in that dream they were Avengers, but baby steps. They were in the building. Izuku was never going to wash his hands or shoes again.

He practically bounced as they walked down a long hallway, glimpsing Avengers through the windows and in different rooms. A metal claw glinted in a glass box to his right and he made a beeline to it. Was that one of Wolverine’s claws? How did they even remove it? Nearby were Hawkeye’s arrows and Antman’s old suit and Izuku tried not to scream as he dashed from one glass case to another. Maybe he could find All Might’s old Avengers’ uniform. If he was lucky, he could even touch it. Silently, he prayed that their headquarters wouldn’t get destroyed by yet another villain attack, it would be a crime against humanity to lose all these things. Like Iron Man’s original glove or Scarlet Witch’s—

Izuku froze. In front of him was the holy grail of all memorabilia.

“Captain America’s first shield!”

That voice was definitely not his own, even if its heavy breathing and oh my gods echoed his thoughts. Turning to his side, he spotted another boy his age, maybe a little older, with shaggy brown hair and an excited smile . Noticing him, the boy covered his mouth in embarrassment, his neck flushed red. “H-hi.”

Feeling a little awkward and shy, Izuku nodded. “Hi.”

What was he supposed to do in a situation like this? Bow? Shake hands? Relief washed over him when the other boy rubbed his neck sheepishly. “Sorry, it’s just…this is…”

“Captain America’s first shield?” Izuku finished, turning back to look at the triangular shield. “Before he kept the round design the President gave him?”

“It’s even made with a different material.” The boy’s eyes lit up and Izuku could barely suppress a grin himself. No one he knew was interested in these tidbits. Extending his right hand, the boy introduced himself. “I’m Peter Parker, you?”

The handshake. Right. Hoping his palms weren’t sweaty, he quickly shook hands. Two was the right number of shakes, right? “I’m Midoriya Izuku…I mean, Izuku Midoriya.”

“Nice to meet ya.” Peter smiled brightly and turned back to the shield. “I didn’t think it’d be here. On display!”

Suddenly, Izuku was grateful for Momo’s impromptu English class before they came here. Rocking on his feet, he resisted the urge to press his face against the glass. “Think they have his other ones?”

Peter looked like he’d have a heart attack right then and there. His eyes darted around wildly. “It’s a big room.”

“It is.” Izuku shared a smile with Peter before they both started to meander through the room. “Did you see anything from All Might?”

“All Might?” Peter tapped his chin before shaking his head. “Nope. He’s your favourite?”

Izuku gave a shy nod. “He’s my teacher.”

Peter’s eyes widened. “Holy shit! Are you serious? You’re soooo lucky! My teachers are really ordinary and normal and All Might? Like, he could give Captain America a run for his money. Almost.”

Izuku resisted the urge to debate the ‘almost’. “He’s here with my class.” Turning around to gesture at his mentor, he suddenly realized that he was alone. Which meant he’d wandered off. Swallowing hard, he turned to Peter. “I don’t think this is part of the tour.”

It appeared his friend just realized it too. With an equally nervous grin, Peter ran a hand through his hair. “You don’t think they’ll throw us out?”

“Probably not, right?” Izuku laughed, a stilted thing. “I mean, there wasn’t a ‘do not enter’ sign?”

“Nope.” Peter shook his head quickly, as though to convince himself.

Crash! Something rolled through one of the doors, breaking several cases before finally coming to a stop in the center of the room. Stiffly, Izuku turned his head toward it. “Is that security?”

“Hope not.” Peter squinted, staring as a man slowly got up from the wreckage. “Wait, is that Armadillo?”

“Armadillo?” Izuku gaped as the intruder revealed himself. Towering over them was an armoured man, looking more like an animal than a human. Orange metal plates covered every inch of his skin and a tail protruded from his back. Sharp claws were arranged at the ends of his hands and feet and even his mask resembled that of his namesake animal. “He’s still around?”

“You know who he is?” Peter’s jaw dropped. “He’s a C-lister, so most people forget he exists.”

Izuku rubbed his nose, proud. “To be fair, he was first a B-lister, but then—”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” Armadillo growled. With a swipe he broke the glass case next to him.

Oh. Right. Izuku’s mouth dried, his palms sweaty. Whatever rank, he was still a villain. A villain blocking the closest exit and Izuku wasn’t sure if he could make it to a different one without getting caught.

“Two kids?” Armadillo smiled darkly. “This’ll be easy.”

“How is he here?” Izuku muttered. The why was obvious—this room had old tech, magic, and other gear that could easily be used for evil or a quick buck. “We’re in the Avengers headquarters.”

“Later! Go get help,” Peter urged, shoving Izuku out of the way as Armadillo charged at them, rolling into a ball as he gained speed. “He isn’t supposed to do that, right?”

“Definitely not.” Izuku looked around for something heavy to throw. The only option was one of the glass cases and with a grimace, he picked it up and hurled it at the villain. There went one of Hulk’s infamous pairs of purple shorts. “I’m training to be a hero—you get help, I’ll delay.”

Peter frowned, looking ready to argue, when Armadillo let out an irritated roar. Gritting his teeth, he nodded. “Just don’t get hurt!”

“I’ll try not to.” Izuku looked back at the gigantic man and clenched his fist.

There was no backing down now. Armadillo charged at him, swiping with his claws. Narrowly dodging the attack, Izuku added strength to his legs before he kicked.

It was the only reason his legs didn’t break when he hit the metal armour. He’d tried to hold back, to prevent damage to the building, but the thick armour on Armadillo wouldn’t crack to anything less than his best. As he recoiled, Armadillo reached out to grab him.

“Not so fast!” Thin, silver spiderwebs shot through the air, holding back Armadillo long enough for Izuku to roll away. Above them, Spiderman hung from the ceiling. “Hope you don’t mind me dropping in.”

“No problem.” Izuku pushed down the fan in him—he got to see Spiderman too?—and focused instead on the enemy. The already-free-enemy, his claws cutting through the webbing like it was paper. While he didn’t doubt his own strength, Izuku also knew it wasn’t consistent or fast enough to be used in battle like this. Especially against a seasoned pro. “Any ideas?”

“Do I ever have any?” Spiderman suddenly dropped from the ceiling as a metal bar was tossed at him. “Woah! That could have killed me!”

“That’s the idea.” Armadillo grinned and suddenly the most intense game of dodge-ball started.

-x-

Izuku hoped Peter found someone. Glancing at the damage Armadillo had already inflicted, he held back a wince at all the ruined relics around him. Not that he could have saved them; as it was, he could barely stay on his feet.

At least he wasn’t alone in this fight, for whatever good that did. Nearby, Spiderman leaped over a case as he dodged Armadillo’s swipes. Another glass cage shattered from the brunt of the attacks. This was only slightly better than Armadilo’s ball attacks, which felt almost unstoppable. Maybe if they had glue or a net or--

“Hey,” Izuku panted, watching their foe’s movements waryily. “Could you make a big web?”

“I’m Spiderman, not Spider.” Spiderman bounced from one end of the room to the other with speed that would make Tsuyu jealous. “He’ll just cut through it.”

“Not if you flip him on his back like a turtle,” Izuku muttered in a low voice, hoping Armadillo couldn’t hear him. “I’ll push him in.”

“Oh!” Spiderman’s eyes widened. “Got it. Buy me a minute!”

“I’ll try.” With a silent prayer for forgiveness, Izuku grabbed Captain America’s old shield. Even if it wasn’t adamantium, it was still fairly strong, and Izuku needed something that wouldn’t break under the pressure of his attack.

“Oh? Playing hero?” Armadillo sneered, not catching onto their trap. Charging once more at Izuku, he rolled into a ball again. Not catching onto their trap, Armadillo spun into a ball again.

“Not playing!” Izuku snapped back as he dodged Armadillo’s attack. He didn’t have Spiderman’s wit and whatever snazzy line he thought of fell flat when he said it aloud. From the corner of his eye, he saw a thumbs up.

It was time. Quickly, Izuku charged back at Armadillo. He raised the shield in front of him. Like a pinball, Armadillo bounced off the shield and into Spiderman’s waiting web. Izuku heard a soft crack and silently prayed he hadn’t broken the shield.

“Another web?” Armadillo laughed as his back hit the sticky strands. Glued tight to the sticky threads, he struggled to pull himself free and his laughter died down as he realized that he was stuck.

“Stronger than you thought, huh?” Spiderman chortled, landing in front of his captive.

“You’ll see strong,” grunted Armadillo. His muscles strained as he slowly pulled himself up. Slowly, web strands snapped one by one as he rose. Izuku could only watch in horror as Armadillo’s muscles strained and with a final roar, he broke free.

“He broke free…” Spiderman just stared as Armadillo rose in front of him, shocked. “How?”

Armadillo swiped, his metal claws slicing through the air to reach Spiderman.

“Spiderman!” Izuku yelled but his warning was too late.

A loud clang sounded through the room as Captain America suddenly stood between them. “Sorry for the trouble. Let me take care of the rest.”

Izuku watched in amazement as Captain America only took seconds to slam Armadillo against the wall hard enough to knock him out. Holy shit. The Captain America had saved them. “Wow!”

Turning around with a broad smile, Captain America asked, “You two okay?

“Y-yes.” Izuku quickly approached him and held out a hand. “I-it’s nice to meet you, you’re amazing and wow. Wow.”

Captain America stared at the hand in surprise before smiling and shaking it. “You did well despite the danger.” He pointed at the shield still in Izuku’s hand. “Nice to see it come in handy again after all these years.”

Izuku almost dropped it. He was touching the shield and touching Captain America and he was never taking a bath again. Ever. While he was still speechless, Spiderman gestured at Armadillo excitedly. “That was so cool!”

Captain America laughed. “No, it wasn’t that—”

Finding his voice again, Izuku eagerly nodded. “You just came in and hit him just once and how strong are you? How did you do that?”

“And the timing!” Spiderman was vibrating now as though he was going to drill through the earth. “A second later and I’d be a pancake.”

“Where did you come from?” Izuku glanced at the door. “I didn’t hear or see anything!”

Captain America turned redder and redder with each word. “I…it was nothing, you two—”

“Nothing?” They stared at him, completely in sync. “You call that nothing?”

“…right.” Captain America gave an uneasy smile, cutting in before they could go back to their questions. “How about we sit down and we can talk all about it?”

Oh man, this was a dream come true. Izuku pulled out his notebook; even more than an autograph (which he was totally going to get), a Q&A with Captain America?

Best. Fieldtrip. Ever.

#captain america #izuku midoriya #bnha #spiderman #peter parker #steve rogers #fanfic

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