#courier magpie

[catcas22]

OC Series -- Icarus, Haligtree Courier

Icarus is a misbegotten in his early teens, a messenger in service to the Haligtree and eventual squire to Maleigh Marais. He was brought to the Haligtree by his parents as an infant, and he knows no life apart from Miquella's sanctuary. Having been so young when his parents fled Altus, he was never subjected to the mutilations that many misbegotten servants endure, and both his tongue and his claws are intact.

I love the idea of misbegotten being chimeras that draw features from a wide variety of animals, with a broad spectrum of phenotypes even between siblings (when they're healthy instead of all being malnutrition-grey). Icarus draws his features primarily from magpies and ringtail lemurs. The "hair" on his head and along his spine is actually a crest of white feathers.

[madeleinehylandlove]

From Madeleine's instagram, May 7 '23

Hello folks - firstly just to say a ginormous thank you for all your messages on the birth of my wonderful daughter - we are really well and having an unspeakably beautiful time getting to know each other. She now rolls and laughs and occasionally even humours my terrible guitar practice.

Secondly - I’ve just released a new artwork - here is Magpies, which I have up at home because it’s a palimpsest with a very dear wee moment in its layers, and looking at it makes me feel happy. A few of you that follow us @theamazingdevil might recall an evening a couple of years ago when us two giggling mugginses decided to fingerpaint the name of our forthcoming album on an as yet barely prepped canvas. After a while I wanted to keep going with the painting so I turned it upside down and stuck my favourite corvids on it. But if you look closely the writing is still there.

It’s a limited edition of seven, and there are just a couple left (my mailing list gets the heads up first). The original is pretty big, A0, (33.1” x 46.8”), acrylic and mixed media on canvas and paper, slide to see it in situ for an idea of scale. They will be Giclée prints on premium archival quality paper, unframed, numbered and signed by me. I’m happy to print it at either A0 (£600) or A1 (23.4” x 33.1”, £500), with courier delivery included. Please email me at madeleinehylandart@gmail.com if you would like one (or if you’d like to be added to the mailing list).

Sending all my love xx

[radiowallet]

Promise

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x Marcus Moreno Summary: Dieter gets a gift while away on location. WC: 1.9K Warnings: 18+ MDNI Sexual content. Exclusive M/M dynamics. Written in third-person POV, male protagonists, allusions to smut, and dirty talk. Mentions of food and drug use. Small angsty moments. Yearning. So much yearning. AU Marcus Moreno (no wife, no Missy). A lot of purple prose and waxing poetic in this one, besties.

A/N: We're back with more of these boys. What can I say? I am obsessed with their dynamic and as long as my broken brain keeps sending me ideas for them, I intend to keep writing them down. Big thanks to @magpie-to-the-morning and @jazzelsaur who are patient as patient can be while I barge into their DM's to screech about these two soft, vulnerable boys. I love you both.

Pretend Alleyways Masterlist II Main Masterlist

For any new writing follow @radiowallet-writes and turn on notifications.

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

The bouquet had been delivered to set, the candy cotton pink petals hard to miss amidst the cranes and cameras and all the rest of the hardware it took to put a film in the can. Everyone had fawned over the flowers from the moment they arrived, their delicate shape a marvel beneath the heat of the Moroccan sun. 

But when the courier called out Dieter’s name, the room almost erupted, everything from squeals of elation to nosy questions being tossed his way. Dieter couldn’t help himself, cheeks warming and chest puffing, as he accepted the vase, the increased attention not only from the crew but also his fellow actors, stroking his ego in a way he couldn’t help but relish in. 

Maybe some would be embarrassed at the sheer honesty in that one single thought but Dieter found peace in the sentiment. Hell, he was an actor. What else was there to say other than the truth in validation, hoping that enough of the attention could one day fix the broken pieces inside his heart. 

“One of your many admirers sending you flowers now, Bravo?” A well-meaning production assistant asks in passing. 

“Something like that,” he hums, taking care to tuck the card into his pocket for later. 

After that, the flowers find a place on the craft service table, and if an extra take or two is needed because Dieter’s eye line strays just a tad too far left no one makes mention of it.

The day is called just as the last of the light is lost, the sun setting far behind the rows and rows of beautiful blue houses. There’s an offer for drinks and dinner brandied about, a few cast and crew breaking away. Dieter quietly bows out, and again, if anyone notices the once infamous party boy choosing a quiet night in over a raucous night out, not a word is said. 

Once back in his hotel room, Dieter is instantly restless, the flowers moving from room to room, the vase twisted left, then right, then right again. Self-doubt starts to dig at the base of his spine, the very beginning of a panic attack creeping up his back, tight and hot and painful, a wicked whisper telling him he should have just gone out, damn all and any consequences. There is only a bouquet of pink peonies in this hotel room to keep the loneliness at bay tonight, and not for the first time, Dieter feels the icy cold fear that he’ll forget all he has waiting for him back home.  

He does his best to ignore it, breathing slowly around the rubber band across his chest, counting each second with the tick of his fingers. One, two, three, four, in. Five, six, seven, eight, out. Twice more is enough to chase the feeling away, giving Dieter the space he needs to finally breathe fully, his head clearing just enough to ground him back to the moment. The blossoms finally find a home right beside his bed, the low light of the bedroom illuminating the pretty pink petals, and only then does he actually start to settle down for good. He fishes the card from his back pocket, dragging his thumb across the seal.

It’s nothing remarkable; a white envelope, only his first initial scratched across the front. But it’s enough to have his cheeks warming all over again, the tip of his nail finally piercing through the thick paper. The card is equally unassuming, but when he opens it up, the words are anything but. 

Dieter reads it over once, then twice, then one more time for good measure, lips moving along with the lines, one promise after another infused to each and every one. It’s enough to have him scrambling for his phone, dialing with shaky hands and a breathless laugh. It only rings once before it clicks over. 

“Hey, baby.”

“The flowers…” Dieter starts, his mind racing faster than he can manage to speak, any sort of coherency lost at the sound of Marcus Moreno’s soft baritone on the other end of the line. 

“They were too much.”

“No! Fuck no!” Dieter is quick to cut the other man off, refusing to let him think that for even a second.  “No, sweet boy. I love them!”

Marcus would do this from time to time, doubt himself and his place by Dieter’s side. It always brings him back to the moment in that lavish hotel room, Marcus’s warm breath painted across his cheek, lips bruised and fingers grasping, when the heroic had admitted that most couldn’t handle it. To this day Dieter can’t help but wonder if he was maybe talking about more than just superpowers.

He thinks maybe Marcus doesn’t realize. That he doesn’t see what it means to possess a heart so big. Bigger than anyone deserved, the weight of it nearly dragging him down, away from the light and into the shadows. The very ones he tries so hard to protect the world from. And Dieter knew that when the man fell, he fell fast. Fully. All of him hanging out on a precarious line, waiting for the other inevitable shoe to drop. 

Dieter wishes he could figure out a way to convince him that both of his feet were firmly planted on the ground. 

There’s a beat of silence and he swears he can hear the words neither of them dare to say. Not yet. Not with things so new. But he can feel them. Always feel them. With each kiss Marcus pressed into his skin, every drag of his fingertips, each scrape of his teeth, there was the promise of an affection too great to imagine. It was there, on the tip of the other man’s tongue, quietly unspoken but still so very very present.

“I love them,” the actor says again, determined to make his point stick this time. 

Marcus hums, and Dieter can almost picture him then and there as if he was sitting beside him on the 1000 thread count duvet in Morocco instead of miles and miles away, in an empty apartment, his only plans for the night a crappy tv dinner. He could chide the heroic, remind him to have fun, take more chances, but that’s a sticky subject all its own. 

It had been a running theme of the last few months of their lives, the two of them stealing what little time together they could. Marcus would plan, meticulously, weekends away explained under the guise of training or intel or some other bullshit excuse. Dieter would make a stink to his manager on those days, stomping his feet and demanding a mental health break. Maybe it was the fact that he returned from those weekends brighter and lighter than ever before, but Marissa never fought him too hard. 

They would lose track of the hours as easily as they lost themselves in the other, tangled sheets and broken sleep bookending their pleasure. The give and take between them deepened with each weekend that rolled around. Dieter delighted in Marcus’s company, preening beneath the wonder of having him all to himself. The way his whole heart became the center of the universe, genuine affection and care feeling better than any late night or black out bender. 

Marcus would watch Dieter paint, only a sheet around his waist as his eyes traced the curves and colors inspired by his own tender touch. And Dieter would marvel at the bend of the other man’s form, following his steps to the gym, his own eyes wide as twin blades cut through open air. They stayed in. Always in. The pair of them forgoing even ordering in, digging through Dieter’s freezer in search of mini pizza bagels and knock-off taquitos rather than risk breaking the peace of their privacy. 

And if he showed up to the set of the big budget action movie with his belly still soft, it hardly mattered. His heart was full, his mind at peace, and even as the director rolled his eyes, all Dieter could see was Marcus dropping to his knees, nuzzling into the patch of coarse hair smattered across the swell of his stomach, before swallowing him down to the base. 

Those days gave them both something to cling to when life and work and reality would push them back to opposite sides of the country. Memories they could remember in the between, when it was only phone calls and FaceTimes the touch of their own hand to chase away the anxieties hiding around the corner.  

Dieter learned in great detail how to coax those little whines from the heroic, memorizing the ragged sound of his cries as he whispered all manner of filth into the crease of his skin. Marcus matched the energy in kind, splitting up inside the actor, lips on his throat and hands in his hair. Dieter called him sweet boy and Marcus declared him his whole sky, a promise of more following every goodbye. 

And Marcus always keeps his promises. 

When it came time to leave for Morocco, six months of loneliness looming in the distance and one awkward farewell party behind them, Dieter did his best to remind Marcus to not linger in his solitude. It would be too easy for him to fall back on old habits; long nights on rooftops chased by haggard days in the gym, but Dieter hoped the hero would make time to tend to his heart in ways he had forgone for so long. 

Marcus took care to meet Dieter where he stood, urging him to hold onto every word he ever said, his whole heart following Dieter, even when he physically could not. The actor clung to the sentiment, doing his best to remember every weekend spent wrapped around the other man. He held onto every ripple of pleasure and each drip of afterglow. 

Dieter shakes his head, refocusing on the present, even as he wishes for all the little things he so desperately wanted here and not there. Plush lips and dimpled cheeks, brown eyes wide as he nods and quietly accepts the truth in Dieter’s words. 

“I’m glad.”

The silence is back, but more of a comfort now, the blend of their breath lulling the last of the sun and sand and stress away from Dieter’s heart. His eyes are heavy in the best way, his fingers loose where they curl around the phone, still matched to the curve of his cheek. 

“You should shower, Dee. Then sleep,” Marcus prompts, his voice somehow even softer. 

“Mmm, jerk off with me first,” he half whines, free hand already pulling at the threadbare sweats he had worn from set. 

There’s a chuckle, low and sweet and steady, one that Dieter has learned means a promise is about to be made. 

“I’m at the office now, mi cielo, but call me when you wake up and we will.”

It’s enough for now, Marcus’s gentle voice in his ear and the catch of pink petals in the low light, giving Dieter the push he needs to let sleep find him. In a few hours' time he’ll wake up, his stomach empty and his neck sore, but the fresh scent of peonies and an aching promise have something else curling deep inside his belly. And when he dials, the answer comes on the first ring. 

After all, Marcus always keeps his promise. 

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

Pretend Alleyways Masterlist II Main Masterlist

For any new writing follow @radiowallet-writes and turn on notifications.

[tewwor-moving]

interaction call ( weird group #1 ) — so a magpie, pigeon, damsel in 9-to-5 distress, and manic clock wannabe walk into a bar.. aka an interaction call solely for the following muses :o) if you don't specify who you'd like, i will be randomizing them.

chinmae — oriental magpie shifter. works as a good fortune courier ( always delivers a bit of good news / sometimes items to help along the way ). is not the cheery, bubbly goody two shoes one might expect. instead, he's tall and handsome with patience that's on thin ice. sign the goddamn package please so he can be on his way for the next delivery. has the build of a ballerina because, well, he does partake in ballet. also partakes in kicking ass whenever he deems fit ( again, barely hanging onto patience ). also is isaak's resident childhood friend / poly is open with them.

yunseo — pigeon shifter. quite literally a messenger of the dead. allows spirits of the deceased to deliver their dying message through him. yes, the spirit's actual voice is emitted from this flamboyant pretty boy. while the act itself can be very fulfilling for the spirit, he does not give a damn about the living. he's there to help the dead, not the other way around.

isaak — liaison / handler in training of the criminal and norm. much like dolly once said 'workin' 9 to 5' but a lot less boppy and with a ton of tears. overworked, underpaid, everything gets on his last damn nerve. training to be a handler is a fairly new job description, and all the partners so far have created the reoccurring chance to be held hostage. again. also is chinmae's resident childhood friend / poly is open with them.

seongho — bodyguard / agent that swears he's mended his ways of thieving. very much here for a good time and a long time. which, speaking of time, he can coincidentally borrow time. does it impact his body in horrible ways? yes. does it erase that timeframe from the person's memory? yes. does he do it anyways? absolutely yes.

[roseyturtles]

I posted 6,570 times in 2022

98 posts created (1%)

6,472 posts reblogged (99%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@tharkflark1

@kr1llz

@kinkshame-the-courier

@wizardpotions

@voulinn

I tagged 293 of my posts in 2022

#fallout new vegas - 65 posts

#arcade gannon - 53 posts

#fnv - 52 posts

#benny gecko - 22 posts

#soupposting - 19 posts

#fallout - 15 posts

#courier six - 14 posts

#homestuck - 13 posts

#unreality - 12 posts

#goncharov - 11 posts

Longest Tag: 122 characters

#ok i can see the argument that the followers of the apocalypse don’t have nearly the education system pre-war america does

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

Gonna say something similar to what I said about Encanto: Turning Red is a movie about growing up as a teenage girl, particularly as the daughter of a Chinese immigrant, before queer theory ever enters the picture. Do not forget that.

251 notes - Posted March 14, 2022

#4

The thing I love most about the "Humans are Space Orcs" style of writing is that it makes us look at our world from an outsiders perspective. We're so used to mosquitos and magpies and turkey vultures and geese and tornados and poisonous plants and the weird humanisms we do on a daily basis that approaching it from the perspective of someone who has little to know experience being an earthling adds zest to the whole world for a little while

252 notes - Posted November 27, 2022

#3

Boone, to Ceasar's corpse: Thumbs down, you son of a bitch.

Arcade: ...up.

Boone:

Boone: What.

Arcade: If you want to match his Roman aesthetic you would want to say thumbs up.

Arcade: When the ceasar gave a gladiator a thumbs down, it meant the losing gladiator could put his sword down because he was more valuable alive.

Arcade: But a thumbs up is believed to have been a signal to thrust upward into the heart.

Boone:

Boone: Do you seriously think he follows that level of consistency?

Arcade:

384 notes - Posted June 26, 2022

#2

I hate when people interpret Arcade as your average blonde prettyboy with nothing behind the eyes because like.??? This is a 35ish year old man who has spent his entire life running from the government on the principle of who he was born to. He is rough around the edges. He has trauma. He has scars, mental and physical. His history is riddled with tragedy. He conceals his earnest love for humanity with dry wit and literary references because expressing too much love has brought him pain. If you draw Arcade and it doesn't feel like he's a man glued together by idealism and the hope humanity may finally learn from its msitakes then what is the fucking point

726 notes - Posted September 18, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

"Cryptocurrency is dying, repost this to make it die faster" No. No, I want cryptocurrency to die slowly, by attrition. I want it to stop being popular among rich people to have NFTs that harm the earth and start being popular to grow your own garden, I want crypto bros to scramble to find a real job or go back to school, I want the glaring blue light of their overloaded computer's screen to bore into their skulls as they watch that number get closer and closer and closer to zero. Cryptocurrency is a rabid animal, and as it grows out of the aggression stage, the seizures will get worse and more painful. I want everyone to refuse shooting this animal. I want cryptocurrency see the Earth staring coldly at its failing body and know that there is no mercy in this world or the next.

2,209 notes - Posted June 14, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[myths-of-fantasy]

Name: Foxglovechime

Meaning: Deadly and Serene

Age (Cat Years): 

Age (Human Years): 

Identity: Genderfluid - Pronoun Positive

Orientation: Queer

Clan: SolsticeClan

Rank: Sun Warrior

Breed Inspiration: Norwegian Forest Cat

---

Blood Type: Emerald

Power: Necromancy

Power Explanation: Foxglovechime uses her powers constantly in the form of her companion and servant, Anubis the undead raven. For the most part Foxglove tends to swap between various corvids that she reanimates to sit around her. They use them as guards, as couriers and as messengers for any situation that they could. Foxglove will send her second most used servant, Herald the magpie to keep an eye on her family so he’s the most well-known of her creations.

Anubis - A truly massive raven with a missing left eye and a fractured left side of its skull. His feathers are glossy from the care and love Foxglove put into raising him. Anubis is easily her most favorite servant. Herald - A large black billed magpie with almost wiry feathers, with a cracked beak. Herald is the second of Foxglove’s Trinity Team and was the victim of a mobbing from his fellow magpies after attempting to steal from their stache. Herald was saved by Foxglove attacking and catching one of his killers and raising him the second he died. Ammit - A barn owl that was scavenging on corpses due to its surprising appetite on top of actively hunting. Invading the nest of a smaller owl was their last mistake and Ammit was slaughtered while attempting to go after their owlets and fell to Foxglove’s feet. She watched the owl die and calmly raised her - now Ammit with a cracked skull no longer hungers for anything but to serve her mistress as best as she can.

---

General Appearance

---

Eye Color: Blue with a white halo around her eyes

Eye Shape: Round

Fur Color: Calico

Fur Pattern: Appaloosa

Fur Type: Glossy and Thick

Pad Colors: Gray

Build: Powerful and Stout

Gait and Stature: Slow and deliberate, Foxglovechime moves with purpose behind their every step.

Accessories: A deep blue bandanna frequently tied around her ankle

---

General Personality

---

Likes: Her family, poppies and nightshades, rain, corvids

Dislikes: Social gatherings, interrupting naps, being cold

Hobbies: Collecting prey skulls, writing and reading,

Favorite Meal: Fresh Loon

Least Favorite Meal: Owlets- they’re mostly feathers

Strengths: Unflappable - Thoughtful - Far Thinking

Weaknesses: Low Emotion - Fierce - Harsh

Overall Personality:  Foxglove is a smart and gentle cat with a mind for scheming - something she uses to secure the well-being and happiness of her loved ones. She’s a gentle manipulator, preferring to put gentle pressure on someone and make offhand comments than openly threaten them leaving her with a mysterious air. Foxglove is cool and analytical, rarely making decisions based on her emotional state and struggles to express herself to others clearly. 

Those who her them know that Foxglove is caring and always willing to help but resting face tends to inspire fear and discomfort from the average cat. Despite her tendencies towards manipulation, Foxglove usually leaves well enough alone, only interfering when she thinks things are escalating in a way that will bother his kin.

---

Relationships

---

Mother: Nightpoppy (Close) - A tortie and white molly with pale green eyes and a calm demeanor. Foxglove inherited many of her morals and unflappable attitude from her. Nightpoppy instilled in her eldest daughter the importance of kinship and protecting her family even above the clan unless their kin has already betrayed them. Nightpoppy was always bad at showing emotion to her kits but she does love them. Cold - Loyal - Homebody

Father: Fennelgrove (Close) - A cream and white furred tom with blue eyes. Fennelgrove is anxious and nervous spending much of his time near his mate. He’s a transmasculine cat and is consistently worried that someone can tell and is judging him in private. He flip-flops between trying to bond closely with his kits and being hypermasculine until his mate reassures him. Anxious - Loving - Gullible

Sibling(s):

-> Nightshadesong (sister) - A green-eyed mostly black furred molly with a white tail, white chest and socks. She has speckles on her toes, throat and beneath her eyes. Nightshade has a good relationship with her sister who more or less runs the show. While Foxglove plots and plans, Nightshade socializes and carries things out. She has a strong moral code albeit she defers to her sister as the ultimate authority in life. Cheeky - Forceful - Social  -> Sorrelpetal (brother) - The youngest of the litter and the most spoiled by his siblings, Sorrelpetal is a ginger and white tom with black toes and ears and bright green eyes. Sorrelpetal is extremely confident in everything he does and is prone to boasting about everything he ever does - being the baby, his whole family doted on him and his sisters usually got in trouble for his mistakes as a kit. Despite this, he does love his family. Bratty - Family Orientated - Boastful 

Mate: N/A

Kit(s): N/A

---

Enemy(ies): N/A

Rival(s): N/A

Friend(s): N/A

Best Friend: N/A

---

General Educations

Hunting

Fishing: Foxglove enjoys fishing - she spends a lot of her free time swiping minnows from streams or teasing salmon with her claw on the surface of the water. Sometimes she reanimates a fishing bird to help her catch larger prey. If SolsticeClan can count on hr for anything, it’s always providing them with more than enough fish to stay well-fed. She has aspirations of snagging an alligator tooth but admittedly doesn’t know where she’d get one. Flyers: Foxglove rarely makes an effort to catch birds. Considering most of her reanimated servants are avians of some kind, she feels compelled to avoid actively hunting them although she’ll still eat already killed birds. That doesn’t say she won’t catch them if she needs to however - if the waters are barren and the clan needs food, she’ll do what she has to. Stalking: A powerful hunter, while Foxglove is capable of hunting and stalking after small prey, she dreams big and often finds herself taking down larger more impressive creatures.

Fighting

Offense: Though powerful and stocky, Foxglovechime prefers to attack swiftly and decisively from the shadows. They will frequently use their murder to harass their enemies in battles and to scout out enemy positions. Though she won’t kill unless she has to, Foxglove aims for the throat to firmly end a fight before it begins. Defense: Foxglovechime is a skilled defender, leaning towards powerful strikes and pinning her opponent to force a surrender under threat of worse injury. They often operate as the cavalry in a fight, rushing in and beating enemies until they flee.

--

Healing

---

Foxglovechime is a decent healer for a sun warrior, knowing enough herbs and medical procedures to be capable of getting their clamates off of an active battlefield and into the paws of a proper healer. She can keep a cat from bleeding out or having to get a limb amputated due to infection but that's as far as her skills go.

---

Religious Beliefs

---

Personal Notes:

-> There are rumors Foxglove once took down a young buck all on her own but she’s such a private cat, no one’s sure how true that is -> Foxglove is extremely affectionate towards her Trinity - the few times she’s shown anger have been in response to them being intentionally injured -> Wild ravens are rather fond of her because she frequently leaves bits of prey out for them -> When her sister weaves her flower crowns, she wears them unironically until they wilt or Nightshade makes her another -> Despite her cool demeanor, she’s been known to allow kits to climb all over her 

Songlist

16 Shots

Scuse Me (Lizzo)

Whatever You Like  (TI)

Trust in Me (Scarlett Johansson)

Bad Girls (Neffex)

[sitlascl]

Stalker call of pripyat spawn items

#Stalker call of pripyat spawn items full

Sndcachesize 4, 32 Sets size of sound cache. Sndacceleration 0, 1 Toggles hardware sound acceleration. Wealthy: Collect 100,000 RU during the game.Saves a JPG screenshot under the Documents and SettingsAll UsersShared DocumentsSTALKER-SHOCscreenshots directory. Trafficker Of Information: Sell Owl any nine pieces of information. Seasoned Stalker: Visit every anomaly in the game, and certain points of interest. Artifact Hunter: Collect one of each artifact in the game, this includes, compass, oasis, wheel, and spiral. Research Assistant: Successfully complete all Scientists quests and deliver Oasis to them. Pioneer: Plant scanners in all anomalies and complete the 'Rotten Grove' quest. One Of The Lads: Successfully complete Yanov and Skadovsk quest lines in favor of Stalker faction. This includes Bloodsucker Lair, Bloodsuckers in the Swamp, Unknown Mutant Den (Burers), Wounded Chimera, and Nocturnal Chimera. Mutant Hunter: Successfully complete all the mutant related quests given by Gaunt and Trapper. Man Of Balance: Sell General Tachenko's and Morgan's PDA to Owl. Marked by Zone: Survive three blowouts using Experimental Anabolic drugs.

#Stalker call of pripyat spawn items full

Leadership: Recruit a full squad including, Zulu, Strider, Vanov, and Sokolov for the Pripyat Underground Mission. Kingpin (Unconfirmed): Successfully complete Stalker quests in favor of Sultan. Keeper Of Secrets: Give any information concerning Strelok to him. High Tech Master: Bring Nitro all three toolsets. Friend Of Duty: Tell Shulga about Flint and give General Tachenko's and Morgan's PDA to him. Friend Of Freedom: Tell Loki about Flint and give General Tachenko's and Morgan's PDA to him. Friend Of Stalkers: Successfully complete all Stalker related quests, including those required for One of the Lads. Detective: Successfully complete the 'Missing Stalkers' quest line. Diplomat: Solve Mitay and Vano's quest lines without killing the bandits. Courier Of Justice: Successfully complete the 'Magpie/Flint/Soroka' quest line. Successfully complete the indicated task to unlock the corresponding achievement:īattle Systems Master: Bring Cardan all three toolsets. Changes the combination sequence for ending #1 and #7 to the best outcome. Allows the combination sequence for ending #1 and #7. Finding out about the fate of Barge and Joker for Cardan. Get the 'High Tech Master' achievement, but not the 'Battle Systems Master' achievement. Get the 'Battle Systems Master' achievement, but not the 'High Tech Master' achievement. Get the 'Trafficker Of Information' achievement. Get the 'Pioneer' and 'Research Assistant' achievements. Get the 'Friend Of Stalkers' achievement. Get the 'Courier Of Justice' achievement. Get the 'Battle Systems Master' achievement. Successfully complete the indicated task to unlock an extra sequence of the ending you normally would not see:ġ. The ending you get is determined by actions you take over the course of the game. For S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Call of Pripyat on the PC, a GameFAQs message board topic titled 'Is there a way to move large numbers of items around faster?' In the east, under the house's wall, in the chest - a rifle, sight. The mechanic here doesn't need alcohol to work. Generally the place is similar to the Zaton base, apart from the item supplier, who is nowhere to be found in Jupiter. Inside you will find the representatives of two hostile fractions - Duty and Freedom. Allows spawning of NPCs at an offset from the player. Allows you to spawn NPCs, Items, Ammo, Weapons, other Misc Items. Adds a new option to the main menu while in a Single Player game, which allows you to open the spawn menu. Reactivates, and fixes a debug spawn menu created by GSC. I just want to get the f2000 before having to even go through the end cause its practically impossible to get it before going through the point of no return. No disgusting casuals are needed in STALKER.

[necromatador]

Doodle I started last Friday and finally finished by staying up way too late tonight.

Aeron (naked because I can’t be assed to draw his clothes) with his newest addition: an entirely bleached white tail feather thanks to a Revivify he cast on a party-member, Keyleth, who died to a strange bug demon thing from his own backstory.

Aeron also promised Nimh if they “fell” (as they put it) that he wouldn’t bring them back because it’s basically entirely against their beliefs (and is technically against Aeron’s as well), and his patron is bugging him about how now he holds life and death in his hands and calling Aeron on how his promise was basically a lie, he would never let Nimh die.

[birds-of-a-fallout]

i drew all of my fallout ocs and their birds, I’ll put the ones that have yet to be on the oc page one day. I’ll finish this probably after I finish my sep idk, we’ll see

oh yeah if u wanna see all of their names + birds its below the cut

Most of their birds are pretty obvious but I’ll list them anyway. 

From left to right:

Crowe Sharp (Crow, obv lol), Robyn Sharp (Robin), Jay Hanson (Blue Jay), Gray Hawke (Gray Hawk), Avem “Ave” de Paradiso (Lesser Bird of Paradise), Starling Smith (Greater Blue-eared Starling), Magpie Jones (Magpie)

[skymagpie]

I've heard desertrose for rey/rose, which I think sounds so pretty

Oh desertrose is such a good ship name, I love it! Thank you I will start using it now! 

[x-nephophile-x]

You'll struggle and falter Amble around Just follow some other storm 'Cause I'll only weigh you down Still you carry me home Thanks so much to the wonderful @chaaistheanswer for this amazing piece of Fallout: New Vegas, Joshua Graham and my Courier, Abigail Walker, based on my fic “Good Morning, Magpie”. I did not even mean for a fic to happen but when you find your ‘drabbles’ and ‘what if imagines’ have turned into a 30k tale within a month, you just have to go “huh, guess these two just live in my head rent-free now”. This piece turned out incredibly beautiful, just as nuanced and detailed as I had been able to lamely describe; as always, Clara knocked it out of the park! Thank you so much for bringing this idea to life!

[nukaworld]

i usually thought that people taking obviously gay/lesbian characters and saying “but they didnt say it explicitly in canon so--” was a myth from the depths of deviantart hell or smth until it happened to me and yeah it happens in this day and age right here 

[salamanderpie]

All of my Fallout characters, in one single location. Descriptions under the readmore.

Gavine Belmonte- young adult Boomer teen wanting to learn about the rest of the world and maybe get away from his family. Trans and gay.

Jasper Shi- mean lesbian Great Khan who’s grappling with her heritage and what the Khans mean to her.

Wendy Shi- the mean lesbian’s mother. Trying to be there for her adult daughter but it’s a mixed bag.

Lou Carver- a former field medic exposed to many terrible things on the front, he suffered a “fast” ghoulification and then wandered the continent before settling down in Louisiana. About 260 years old.

Leo- ghoulified Chinese Sole Survivor here to smoke cigarettes and meditate on the nature of the apocalypse.

Robin Yu- art thief based on the East Coast, somewhere between a counterfeiter and cat burglar. Loves to sell garbage to rich idiots who don’t know better and can spin yarns very quickly and easily.

Tierra Fontana- a mechanical mind who considers the Kings to be extended family, she works with the Followers to repair water spigots, piping, vehicles, robots, and the occasional musical instrument. An older Latina trans butch lesbian with a good to strained relationship with her siblings.

Josue Fontana- a caravaner and traveling merchant by trade, who likes to make friends in each town. A little flighty. A little bit of a charmer. Very bisexual.

Mack Fontana- a bisexual biracial bigender Chairman entertainer who moonlights as an assassin. Loyal to Benny and his plan to take the Strip from House. Might even start out a little hostile to the courier.

Charlotte “Charlie” Nash- granddaughter of Ruby and Johnson Nash in Primm. She is in the process of becoming a doctor and hopes to open an office in Primm, since the closest is Doc Mitchell in Goodsprings.

Magnolia “Magpie” Pines- a young thief born in the Central Wastes (Kansas), who joined a group that rebuilt a train system, explored a crashed space station, and might have stopped a faction of supermutants kidnapping ghouls. After a long time, they have all gone their separate ways, and Magpie’s way was a floating city with her girlfriend.

Beans- beans.

Isabella- Railroad associated Sole Survivor. Before the war, she was hellbent on taking Robert House down. After the war... who knows?

Grace- Minuteman Sole Survivor, more focused on moving on from the prewar era and rebuilding than looking back.

Mx. Stitches- independent courier with a penchant for explosives. Slowly ghoulifying and is trying to make the best of having most of their skin.

Sweet Caroline- a crawrad rancher who has stayed in the same multigenerational farm her entire life and has only recently been meddling in the affairs of others.

Ginko- a problematic fave lone wanderer courier who buckles psychologically at the wrong moment. A poor decision for her and for everyone on the continent, being a primary tool in the NCR’s expansion eastward. Her ‘adventures’ continue into Wasteland 2 and 3. In the end, her agency is denied at every level.

C6-38- later known as Courier-6, a synth in the far future after the NCR finds the Institute’s tech and starts building its own synth coursers based on the brainscans made of Ginko herself. She is tasked with the same kind of horrid work that Ginko was made to do, a diplomatic first contact in most cases.

Daisuke Kubo- a nuclear physicist from before the war, who, after the war, has decided to become a land steward. Hated by the Brotherhood of Steel. Gay.

Zoe Nicolazzo- a Follower botanist and environmental scientist who learns about Vault 22 and gets extremely pissed about it.

???- what if Y-17 Trauma Harnesses were just a little more fucked up than they are in the base game? What then?

Washington Richardson- an evil bastard. Originally a Legion playthrough courier but it’s a little up in the air. Grew up so hateful of the NCR for what it did that he would give anything to see its ruin. Imagine Wile E. Coyote but so much worse. His singular humanizing trait: he likes dogs.

[apprenticevida]

So I saw the Reversed Courier AU by @drakonishe and I wanted to do the thing for Vida.

I think they would be the court librarian, in charge of keeping track of mystical and obscure knowledge. They inherited the tile from their Tía Duende, who convinced Montag and/or Nadia that it’s be easier for her to train Vida instead of a new librarian.

Vida would make deals with the Devil for knowledge and Queen of Cups for relationships, especially when they catch feelings Asra and Ilya catch their attention. Since the Queen of Cups is a minor arcana her powers aren’t as effective and Vida accepts the role of a useful resource to the two instead. They want to be part of a toxic triad so badly it’s disgusting.

Transformation Stuff

I think Vida’s demon form would look like a peryton. Not intentionally, but because their familiar is a deer and they feel a strong kinship with magpies. Since this Vida didn’t die from the plague they don’t have Basil and Madrigal wasn’t hunted by Lucio after they disappeared.

Vida’s antlers grow and shed seasonally, and they save them to trade with Asra. Not many people use the library, so they don’t normally feel the need to hide them. If someone is in the library, they use an old red scarf as a makeshift headdress. They have been known to say the antlers are a spell or potion gone wrong if they’re caught.

They wear long black gloves to hide their bird hands and claim it’s to protect the books. One of the ways they try to bond with Ilya is to show that they have the same hands.

Tarot Meaning

The Reversed Queen of Cups can mean cutting yourself off from your emotions, being too dependent, and smothering love. Vida has a little too much of all of the above. They put all of their attention and focus on making Asra and Ilya happy. They have little patience or interest in new people.

Asra sees Vida’s affection as annoying and distracting, but values their antlers as components and their ability to find obscure reference material for spells too much to completely ignore them. They (Asra) prefer to use people for their own achievements and Vida is all too willing to give everything they have to the court magician.

With Ilya as desperate for validation and affection as he is, Vida is all too ready to take up the responsibility when Asra isn’t available. Vida also finds a sick sense of power over how Ilya responds to their version of flirting (pressing their boobs against him “accidentally” or leaning over too far so he can see down their shirt. This Vida is not good at being subtle). Ilya is certain their affection is a test orchestrated by Asra.

Extra Stuff

Their outfit is a white “peasant blouse” that sits off-shoulder, a black waist corset, and a Vesuvian Crimson skirt with an asymmetrical hemline. 

They rarely leave the library, partly out of agoraphobia and partly because they want to be easy to find for Asra and Ilya.

One of the deals they made with the Devil was to be able to find anything they want in the library. No matter how rare the book or how long ago it went out of print, it’s somehow on the shelves.

One of the deals they made with the Queen of Cups was to always be useful to Asra and Ilya. The Queen refused to directly manipulate Asra’s and Ilya’s feelings so this was a compromise she made for Vida.

[amuseoffyre]

Rating: PG+ Summary: While scouting out an art gallery for a job, someone sets Crowley up to take the fall for an art theft that he - for once - had no part in. He really, really wants to find out who.

Snippet:

In the less glamorous backside of the museum, the security guard leafed through the paperwork. “Oh! Right! Yes! We have a big painting to be packaged up and transferred down to the holding bay to the courier truck.” He slid the orders across the desk. “I’ll get Carmine to come down and take you up to the gallery.”

As planned, Crowley thought happily.

Around his various other covers, one of his most useful and lucrative side roles was the one Eric had created for him with Bentley Inc., one of the specialised contractors that did both in-house and external moving and transport of large material objects, frequently for museums.

The amount of clearance and access he got, even while supervised all of the time, had been useful so many times. Yeah, occasionally, he did have to coordinate lifting a heavy thing, but he considered that research, especially when the training included all the details of how to secure and transport very large and unwieldy objects.

Technically, he specialised in smaller pieces, but once in a while – like now – the knowledge he’d collected like a magpie with scraps of foil was definitely coming in useful.

[agoodgoddamnshot]

Lapis Lazuli - Geraskier [G]

[gif isn’t mine]

Warning(s): None

Word Count: 4,538

Originally posted to my AO3

Geralt suddenly realises how much time he and Jaskier have spent together, and all the places they've travelled around the Continent. He decides that it's time to give the bard something to show how much he appreciates all of it.

His bird flies to Oxenfurt for the winter. The Academy still likes to keep him around for the busier autumn semesters because students will actually listen to someone like Jaskier, and Jaskier likes going back because it’s paid accommodation to weather out the harsh winters in. And Oxenfurt is familiar.

Not that he hasn’t thought of going to wherever it is Geralt goes. And Geralt hasn’t not thought of extending an invitation. Vesemir has made it abundantly clear; if their guests can behave themselves throughout the winter, and won’t mind being put to work for the essential jobs, then his pups can invite whoever they like to Kaer Morhen. Lambert has brought people before; notably a Cat from the Dyn Marv Caravan wandering around the Continent. A Griffin has roosted within their keep before too. Both Aiden and Coën defer to Vesemir, acknowledging that they’re guests and he’s the head of the keep, as is the order of things, and the winters go by without anyone killing each other. And that’s all the elder wolf can hope for, it seems.

The invitation sits on his tongue every year. He knows Jaskier knows of the keep. He’s asked about it before, when his lute is propped on his knee and he looks at Geralt with loud wonderment at all of the things he can lure out of the Witcher about his kind and his guild. He can’t blame the little bird. If he was given the choice of a warm academy apartment, with set banquet meals throughout the day, and a steady pay to tide him by, or a crumbling keep perched on top of the northern mountains, still haunted by the ghosts of everything that’s happened before, he knows what he would pick. But Kaer Morhen is home, and he can see past every horrid thing that happened within those walls, because what’s left behind is his family, and he’ll go wherever they are.

They’re only ever parted for a winter. Even the winters that make themselves longer than they need to be, stretching into spring and keeping the frosts around, it’s only one season. It’s strange that he goes the rest of the three without him.

And this seems to be much worse. It’s quiet on the road; with only his own thoughts and Roach’s chuffs and nickers keeping him company. It used to be the way of things in a world before. Before Geralt found himself a songbird and it perched on his shoulder, following him around from village to town to city and never knowing when to go away.

Gods forbid if Jaskier knew that Geralt secretly misses his voice. He spent so much time of their first year knowing each other trying to get Jaskier to shut up. But it became a gentle hum in the background of their travels. Jaskier would ramble on about something or other while he strolled next to Roach, occasionally brushing his hand along the mare’s neck. And the mare learned to not kick out at Jaskier’s shins or turn and nip his fingers. Her master seemed to like him enough to keep him mostly intact. That, and a few secret sugar cubes and apples snuck into her feed from the bard seemed to win her over.

Spring means his songbird will fly back to him, and autumn means that he’ll fly away again. A secure income and a warm place to hunker down throughout a potentially harsh winter, Geralt can’t blame the lark at all for going to roost.

It’s just the familiar groan of loneliness left behind is awful, and he hates how it makes itself known at night, when he’s slipping into an inn’s bed and the empty space on the other side seem to stretch on for leagues. It’s cold and Geralt always wakes with his arm stretched across, reaching out for someone who isn’t there. And that’s when his chest tightens and he wishes he could cross the Continent within a matter of strides, just to get his little lark back with him.

A courier comes one morning. Nothing more than a lad barely into his adulthood, with spots still speckled on his face and a mop of thick curly hair almost shielding his eyes, who somehow manages to find him in a merchant town’s tavern. Geralt glances up from his breakfast, regarding the lad for a moment as he fumbles through a knapsack of letters and parcels. “Geralt of Rivia,” he says primly, holding out a letter. As soon as the letter is in his hand, the lad scurries away, and that seems to be the end of that.

Geralt thins his lips. Contracts very rarely come to him. His name may start to be travelling further and further into the Continent, but notices are usually left on boards within the village or town itself. Contacting him directly isn’t how it works. He’s never in one place for too long.

But the envelope in his hand is crisp, freshly printed card, and a maroon ink seal at the back tells him all he needs to know. Oxenfurt’s emblem is printed into the wax, and the card smells vaguely of old books and ink.

He thumbs the letter open, running his eyes over the elegant scrawl inside.

Meet me at the Three Crowns Inn for Beltane. Can’t wait to see you again. – Songbird

Geralt’s chest clenches. He can’t stand from his table and run out of the inn fast enough.

-----------

He doesn’t know when he started calling Jaskier his little bird, but the bard certainly had no problems with it. If anything, he greatly encouraged it. Having someone as grumpy as Geralt dote on him seemed to be one of Jaskier’s favourite things. It’s a side of the Witcher that only he sees; when they’re curled in a bed together, or gathered around a campfire, and it’s just the two of them.

Jaskier has a pretty voice, and his songs are beautiful. Not that Geralt would ever tell him that. A preening smug Jaskier is borderline intolerable. He didn’t know why it tumbled out of his lips one night, when Jaskier dozed beside him and Geralt threaded his fingers through the man’s soft and freshly washed hair. But songbird and lark all seemed to fit. And Jaskier revelled in them.

Jaskier is also a magpie in some regards. A mischievous little thing that has a certain penchant for anything shiny and grand. He plucks vials of oils and lotions and soap bars from merchant stands and revels in how they smell, uncaring that the cost of them alone makes Geralt’s eyes water. He adorns his fingers in rings that catch the summer sunlight and glisten, and Geralt likes running his thumb over the gems and engravings in them when Jaskier links their fingers together. He likes gold and silver and gems and fragrant oils, and any time he lingers for a moment outside of a merchant’s stall, nose wrinkled in thought of whether or not he could spare the gold earned from playing in taverns on something, Geralt watches.

He buys rings because he can wear them, and any oils and lotions and soaps that somehow end up in his bag are brushed off as ways he can make his Witcher finally relax for once after a particularly taxing hunt. And the gems he leaves behind. Even though he’ll pick them up, watching how they glint in the midday sun, he’ll set them back and part the merchant with a small grateful smile.

A few of those gems have ended up in Geralt’s pocket. He doesn’t know what he would do with them, or how he would use them or even gift them to Jaskier, but his songbird liked them and didn’t seem keen to part with them. So they take up a permanent residence in one of the smaller pockets of Geralt’s saddlebag. They come from all sorts of places; Nazair and Toussaint, to Aedirn and Poviss. Anywhere he and Jaskier have wandered together, he takes them as small reminders. And in the seasons he goes without his bird, he has something to remind him of him at least.

-----------

Getting to the Three Crowns will take him through a few kingdoms. If he keeps to the main roads, not lingering in any towns for longer than he needs to, he’ll make it to the inn before Jaskier. And he doesn’t think he could cope with having to sit in a tavern’s hall and wait for his little bird to fly to him.

Smaller merchant towns are kinder to him than the bigger cities. He bundles his cloak tighter around himself when he rides through the cities, keeping his eyes on the road ahead and not the badly hidden curious looks from passing people on the streets. The whispers soon follow, and inevitably, the word butcher will dust the shell of his ear. So he sets his heels against Roach’s side and continues on.

But the smaller towns are kinder. They’re quiet and people lap through them like gentle waves, flowing quicker in the day, but dissipating by night. Roach plods along, with Geralt slackening her reins and letting her stretch her neck out. It’s a quiet and still walk in through the town’s main street, and most of the shops are already beginning to board up their windows and draw their stands in for the night. An inn’s sigil hangs at the far end of the street, and Geralt aims Roach towards it.

Before he can let his shoulders slacken, his eyes fall on to a shop next to the inn. It looks like every other building surrounding it – red brick and ornately carved, with worn-paint signs hanging outside. The windows are still clear and its door is open, so he can presume that the merchant is still inside trading wears.

He blinks at the first recognisable word he manages to spot on the worn wooden sign.

Jewellers.

Geralt slows Roach to a stop. The mare huffs, pulling at her bit slightly. The inn and its stables are literally right there. He sets a gloved hand to her neck, scratching into her winter fur beginning to fluff her out. “Wait here,” he rumbles, hopping down from her and on to the cobbles below. He hitches her reins to a small post outside and starts to rustle through his saddlebags. Empty vials of potions he’ll need to brew again, purses of gold that he keeps away from his person just in case of brigands. He fishes out the gems. They’re tiny things, just enough to gather in the palm of his hand.

He pats Roach’s neck one last time. “I’ll only be a second.”

Roach huffs, but waits.

-----------

He doesn’t know what it is, but all merchants tend to look the same. Regardless of whether they’re travelling the roads with him, they all have this glint in their eyes and glasses perched on the end of their nose, with finely kept clothes that reflect the wealth of their trade. And this merchant doesn’t look that much different.

The man inside blinks as soon as Geralt steps inside. “Witcher,” is the first word to bumble out of his mouth. A brief flash of panic blinks across his face before he tries to fight his way back to say something better than a profession as a greeting.

Geralt lifts his hand. “It’s alright,” he murmurs, looking around the shop. It’s unlike the kinds of stores Jaskier likes to drift in to. Wooden shelves along the walls stacked with all types of ornaments and glasswork. The storefront is a mixture of dark cherry wood and glass, showing off the expertly crafted necklaces and rings and bracelets he’s sure are worth every golden coin used to make them. The shop smells faintly of varnished and broiled glass and paint. It wrinkles his nose, but he steps closer to the counter.

The merchant adjusts his glasses. “What can I do for you, Master Witcher?”

Geralt holds out his hand, showing the gems gathered on his palm. “I was wondering if you could do anything with these?”

Even in the fading light of day, the orange strands of evening sunlight that stretch into the merchant’s shop, the gems glisten and gleam on his hand. The merchant gestures to them. May I? Plucking each of them up and examining the way the light catches them, the merchant adjusts his glasses again, moving them up and down his nose and squinting through the lens. “Ah, yes,” the merchant muses, “amethyst, amber, emerald, garnet. You must be very well travelled, Witcher. Some of these gems are hard to come by in these parts.”

Geralt hums. “I travel for work,” he explains simply. “I’ve been everywhere.”

The merchant sets the gems along his work surface, lining them up. Some are slightly bigger than others, but all polished and showing off their colours. The merchant muses, running his eyes over them. “What would you like me to do with them, Master Witcher?”

Geralt lifts a shoulder. “That’s up to you,” he says. “I don’t have any experience in jewellery or fineries.”

And he tries not to bristle at the way the merchant’s eyes drift over every part of him for a moment. Worn and scarred armour, dried blood flecking his skin. He doesn’t even seem like one of the merchant’s patrons.

The merchant’s lips thin. He hums and turns his eyes back on the gems. “I could make something beautiful of these gems, absolutely,” he considers. “But it would cost gold and time, Witcher. Do you have anywhere you need to be in the coming days?”

He’s already going to be early for his meeting. A few days of rest before doing the last trek towards the Three Crowns might do him some good. If he showed up to meet Jaskier like this, after so many seasons apart, he could imagine the bard instantly trying to shove him into a bath laden with oils and soaps. He can stomach to lose a few days to rest.

-----------

The Three Crowns is their usual meeting point. Winter looms over the Continent, peering over the mountains to the west and already hinting at its arrival with chilling and biting winds that tumble down from the hills. The snow and frost keep away, thankfully. The last thing he needs is frozen roads. But they are somewhat flooded. He keeps to the main roads, laden with merchants selling the last of their wares before they can head home from the winter. And if he had any more gold left, he would buy some fruit or bread from them. But the last of his gold dwindles, just enough for a tavern room – something he’s sure Jaskier has already procured and readied for him.

His bones warm at the thought of being with his bird again. If Roach walks a bit quicker, with a noticeable spring in her step, it absolutely has nothing to do with the fact that Jaskier spoils her with more treats than hay and grains. And even she can appreciate having the bard around; also because it makes her companion happy.

The Three Crowns is nestled in the heart of some town straddling a crossing of roads. It sees its fair share of passing traders and huntsmen drifting in from the road only to be swept off again. It reminds him of Posada, and he can understand why Jaskier always insists on it being their meeting up place. Roach chuffs at the sight of it in the distance, almost breaking out into a gallop just to read the town’s wooden barriers.

Stableboys linger around the yard and don’t even blink twice at him setting some gold into their palms. He hops down from Roach and takes his bags off of her before she’s led into the stables around the back of the inn, pawing insistently at the ground to get somewhere warm and full of oats and hay.

The tavern is as crowded as it always is. A hum of noise and the smell of roasting venison assault his senses the moment he steps into the tavern. It’s familiar. This meets him every time he comes to greet Jaskier and begin their wanderings together. But it’s been longer than usual and he’s missed everything about it.

He hauls his saddlebags over his shoulders, stalking further into the tavern. All the tables are already occupied, farmers and merchants and passing huntsmen bowed over their dinners and knocking back tankards of ale and mead. Geralt’s eyes scan the room, looking for the familiar spark of colour that usually stands out from the rest.

And his ears twitch when he hears hurried footsteps approaching from his side. Through the maze of tables and people sitting at them, Geralt watches Jaskier almost trip over his own feet as he hurries towards him, a bright smile and glistening eyes already settled on his face. Geralt has just enough time to let his saddlebags drop to the ground by his side before he’s tackled into a hug. His arms hover in the air for a moment. The closeness Jaskier insists on having with him isn’t something he was ever used to. But he’s warming to it.

As his arms slowly coil around and gather his bard to him, Geralt buries his nose into the hollow of Jaskier’s neck. His lungs fill with the scent of the other man. Sea salt that he likes to scrub and soften his skin with, and the faint lilts of desert roses and vanilla coats the roof of his mouth and Geralt is loath to let the bard go. Jaskier seems to be in a similar position. His arms are curled around Geralt’s shoulders and neck, locked and unwilling to let him go just yet.

The rest of it fades away. The tavern, those gathered within it and all of their conversations melding into one lapping wave of noise. Geralt’s lungs can fill again as he breathes Jaskier in, and a deep rumble purrs out of his chest at the feeling of the bard’s hands settling on to his back, slowly rubbing at the plains of muscle there.

He isn’t sure how long he spends holding on to Jaskier, but eventually the bard tries to slip away. Geralt’s arms tighten. A light breathless laugh shakes through Jaskier. “Come on,” he murmurs, setting his hands on to Geralt’s elbows, “I’ve got us a room.”

He’s slow to let go of the little bird. Even then, he only allows a small sliver of space between them. Jaskier catches one of his hands, and even through the thin leather glove, he can feel the warmth of the bard’s skin blooming through his.

As soon as he has gathered his bags again, Jaskier leads him away, from the prying curious eyes of the other patrons nearby. He’s lured upstairs, until the conversations below become nothing more than a distant hum and Geralt feels like he can think again.

Just as he imagined, Jaskier already has the room ready. The hearth within the wall crackles and spits with a freshly fed fire and candles dotted around, perched on dressers and cabinets, offer a warm glow to the room. With fresh linen sheets and furs lining the foot of their bed, his bones ache at the thought of going to sleep.

A bath has already been brought up and filled, and the air is scented with the musk of desert rose and something sweet laced underneath it.

As soon as he pulls Geralt inside, Jaskier clicks the door shut behind them. He squeezes Geralt’s hand, but doesn’t move to pull away. “Now,” he says primly, “I’m sure you have stories to tell me, darling, but I insist on bathing you first. The road hasn’t been kind to you.”

Because you haven’t been on it with me. The words lodge in his throat and Geralt struggles to keep them behind a shut jaw.

With his saddlebags put to the side, Jaskier’s nimble fingers set on the many belts and buckles of his armour. It’s different; having someone else do it. He remembers the first time where he stood frozen, wondering why his newest travelling companion insisted on removing armour Geralt has been wearing for years. He can do it himself. But now he’s content to let Jaskier strip what he can off of him, leaving him in a worn linen shirt and breeches. He toes off his boots, leaving them alongside the pile of armour that gathers beside his bags. He’ll clean it in the morning, before they go, but as Jaskier drifts over to the bath, already rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, Geralt pauses.

Jaskier moves around the room so seamlessly, as he is with most things. He gathers what he needs to bathe Geralt; lotions and oils for his aching muscles, and a comb to try and wrangle his hair back into something tame.

The bard eventually catches his eye. “Are you going to stand there all night,” he laughs breathlessly, setting a hand on to his hip, “or are you coming over?”

Geralt blinks. His fingers flex by his side, not entirely sure what he should try and do now. He glances over to his saddlebags, piled up beside a nearby dresser. Geralt grunts, holding up his hand. Jaskier cocks his head, but watches the Witcher regardless.

He roots through his bag, looking for a soft felt bag kept in one of the more secure pockets inside. He fishes it out, making sure that the gift is still intact. He tried to keep it safe. He might have even lost hours of sleep because he worried about brigands and highwaymen storming him on the road and taking it.

But now, he somehow manages to force his feet to take him over to Jaskier. The bard looks at him puzzled, his gaze drifting down to the small bag caught in Geralt’s hand.

There’s a moment between them where nothing is said. And Jaskier tilts his head, eyes searching for Geralt’s as the Witcher tries to gather what to say. Because how does he even go about presenting something like this? Geralt clears his throat. Gods, words really aren’t his strong suit. He stretches out his hand, handing the bag over to Jaskier. When the bard looks to him again, lifting an eyebrow, Geralt rubs the back of his neck. “It’s, uh...It’s for you.”

Jaskier regards him for a moment, slowly letting his deft fingers unlace the drawstring and pull the ties apart. A lot of gold and time made what Jaskier is fishing out of the bag, and Geralt’s stomach churns. Gods alive, what if he doesn’t like it?

Jaskier blinks when he lifts his gift out. A necklace of gems, expertly melded together like petals of a flower. Each gem is its own petal, but together, they represent something more. Their journey together, the wanderings all over the Continent and the time spent together. The gems glint in Jaskier’s eyes, bright crystal colours joining the ocean blue Geralt likes losing himself in. The chain is something lithe and simple, small interlinking locks of silver that don’t distract from the flower hanging from it.

Jaskier rubs his thumb over each gem, and the thin and lithe metalwork that binds them all together. His lips part, something resting on the tip of his tongue, about to be spoken, but Jaskier all but gapes. “This...” he stammers, glancing over to Geralt. “Gods, Geralt, how much did this cost, I—it’s beautiful.”

Geralt can feel a flush warming his cheeks. “You, um,” he rasps, clearing his throat again. “You liked the jewels. In the markets we visited. But you never bought them, and I, I don’t know, I guessed that I would get them for you but, uh, I didn’t know how to present them.”

He nods to one of the gems. “The, uh, the lapis is from Toussaint,” he manages to get out, because if he talks about the gems and focuses on the gems and the gems alone, he won’t have to look at Jaskier staring at him. The lapis was the most expensive, but it’s the most beautiful. “The topaz is from that visiting spice market in Redania.” All things that caught Jaskier’s eye, but he had to leave behind. And now it’s here, for him, in a way that he could wear.

Geralt manages to tear his eyes away from the necklace, glancing up and catching the bard’s gaze. Jaskier stares at him, mouth and eyes wide, and for a terrifying moment, he doesn’t say anything. Geralt’s throat bobs. Maybe this is too much. Maybe he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t even mourn the loss of the gold spent on it, but the way he could potentially have soured things between them.

And then Jaskier’s moving. Geralt has just enough awareness to notice heat bloom on the side of his face before Jaskier leans forward, catching his lips in a soft and languid kiss. He stands stock-still for a moment before he melts into it, reaching up to brush the backs of his knuckles along Jaskier’s cheek. His own is nestled into the bard’s hand, his thumb brushing along his cheekbone in something so soft and undeserving of him and his life that he struggles not to shrug it away. Jaskier has always been so kind and soft to him, with gentle hands and lulling words.

Jaskier breaks their kiss when air thins, but he doesn’t go too far away. He sets their foreheads together; the ends of their noses brushing and a shared breath mingling between them. Geralt watches a bright and outrageously happy smile spread across the bard’s lips. “This,” he laughs breathlessly, “gods alive, Geralt, this is beautiful. Thank you. I, gods, how did you even think of something like this?”

He honestly doesn’t know. Jaskier is a worryingly big part of his life now and he needed it immortalised somehow. If, if, the bard didn’t come adventuring with him out on the road anymore, at least there is a reminder of all the places they did go together.

Jaskier lures him into another long and languid kiss. His lips are soft and it’s a struggle to break apart from them. Eventually, one of Jaskier’s hands settles on the centre of his chest. His smile hasn’t even budged. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

Geralt hums. It’s taxing, trying to muster words and make some effort to say them. And what could tumble out of his mouth may not be the way he wants them to come out. So he nudges his forehead into Jaskier’s, enough of a physical touch to widen the bard’s smile.

He doesn’t want to pull away. He has Jaskier back now, and he’ll bundle the bard off to Kaer Morhen with him for the winter, and spend the following seasons after that traversing the path with him. And the thought of all of that settles into the core of his chest and blooms warmth through him; undoing all the stresses of the past seasons, unwinding tension better than any bath or sleep ever could.