#loop helps in subtle ways through the whole game. and in less subtle ways like begging sif not to use the dagger. and while yes the

[lucabyte]

So does anybody else ever think about how Loop felt the need to demonstrate that the party's deaths wouldn't have any effect on the loops. I know I do but that's besides the point. Anyway I don't think Loop actually needs to bathe, they just like to feel included.

[emcapi-gaming]

@elizabethrobertajones: #how did they cope with scary lightning aspected things like Ramuh or the Aery? :O

Couple of ways!

One is that they started out as a conjurer, and picked up sage notably earlier than the game officially allows (still haven't decided whether white mage is canon for them in this AU, I think they may have gone right from conjurer -> sage). Arkose is really good at coming up with creative solutions (something Ardwin shares, but hasn't had as much necessity to develop the skill in the same way). So what they come up with here, which gets them through ARR until they've got the fully empowered Blessing of Light, is an earth-aspected shield spell which can nullify most levin-based magic that gets thrown at them (so long as they react fast enough to cast it in time).

The other, as mentioned, is that the full-power Blessing of Light provides them with pretty solid protection. It prevents corruption, which in Arkose's case, means that getting hit with levin won't make their imbalance worse, so they're no longer getting lingering symptoms if they miss a shield or two. This helps with Ramuh, since he only shows up during the ARR patches, after collecting all six of the jolly ranchers crystals of light - he's terrifying, but relatively manageable.

It helps less with the Aery, since Midgardsormr blocked all the crystals. Arkose makes it through by keeping the earth shield up basically the entire time, but it can't fully block out the environmental effects. Having to maintain their personal shield for so long, combined with handling normal healing and combat, drains their aether so badly that they collapse as soon as Nidhogg is dead.

Estinien has to haul them back to Ishgard to recuperate for several days from both overtaxing their aether and the worsened levinsickness symptoms before continuing on with the MSQ. (Arkose absolutely forbids Estinien from going to talk to Hraesvelgr without them, because they - with good reason - do not trust him not to be a total asshole and screw up the whole thing. Fortunately, Estinien is not immune to the Arkose Sad Puppy Dog Eyes. Nobody is immune to the Arkose Sad Puppy Dog Eyes.)

Also, in response to your other tag... come to think of it, I think Hydaelyn might be nudging them to keep them apart on purpose, because she's concerned about destabilizing the Elpis time loop. If they get too close to meeting, her memories start blurring on who Venat met in Elpis. If they stay apart, it's very clearly Arkose.

She knows that she only met one of them, so she has to make a choice. In her opinion, Ardwin seems very competent, but Arkose is doing very well as the WoL and has two major qualities that make her think they have a better chance of stopping the Final Days: the creative problem-solving, and the fact that they're significantly better at dealing with emotional stress. Arkose's main coping mechanism is humor, as opposed to Ardwin's repression, and they've actually been to therapy before and came out with a basic understanding of The Necessity Of Emotional Processing that Ardwin completely lacks at this point.

So, even though it feels rather cruel to keep them apart, it seems like the safest option, and she starts figuring out how to give them very subtle suggestions to keep them at a distance. It's different enough from her usual modus operandi that it takes some time for her to get the hang of it, leading to a lot of especially close misses early on that are very stressful for her, and very entertaining for the rest of us.

(There's a reason why she knows she only met one, but can't tell which: if they properly meet, they end up as co-WoLs. When they reach the point where Elidibus sends someone back to Elpis, he only has enough 'juice' for one of them. They literally flip a coin for it, hence the uncertainty. Unfortunately, Venat/Hydaelyn is working off very limited knowledge, so she assumes the two of them must be mutually exclusive.)

Some of the basics of the AU where Arkose is the main WoL:

They're still from S9/Heritage Found.

After their falling-out with Endless Sphene - and subsequent falling-in with Oblivion - but pre-Domebreak, they somehow manage to get ahold of the dimensional key.

Given the strength of their wish to Get The Fuck Out Of The Dome, they immediately get launched through the rift - and land on the other side of the world, somewhere deep in the Twelveswood, and some months before the start of ARR MSQ.

This results in a stable-time-loop situation.

Ardwin is still around somewhere, but literally and metaphorically missed the boat, and is off doing her own thing with a group of adventurers independent from the Scions. (They keep having increasingly comedic near-misses on meeting each other, though they may eventually meet after the time loop gets wrapped up.)

Since they've already had the Echo awakened (thanks a lot, educational VR documentary on the geological history of Yak T'el with all the meteorites), they get hit with the Hydaelyn Broadcast Special almost the second they come out of the rift and get the Blessing of Light, which results in some immediate improvement on the levinsickness front. They get some further improvement just from being out of the dome, though they also have to deal with some muscle atrophy (not to the same degree as in their original timeline as they got out of the dome earlier, but it's part of the reason for the time stretch from arrival -> jumping on board MSQ). They're still dealing with mild residual symptoms all the way through ShB up until the Ardbert Incident, though getting the full 6-crystal power-up in ARR at least solves the effective "permanent levin vuln debuff" issue.

Although their initial motivation was mostly just getting out for their own sake, Arkose definitely starts keeping an eye out for potential solutions to fix the horrible environmental situation inside the dome, and they're increasingly determined to make it back eventually and deal with Endless Sphene and Zoraal Ja - hopefully before they can carry out their invasion plans.

However, that'll be a teeny bit more complicated if they don't manage to keep the rest of the world in one piece long enough for the timeline to get caught up.

[absolutelyfizzing]

unwanted feelings

james potter x reader

description - You'd had a crush on James Potter for years and when he kisses Lily Evans in front of you, you are heart broken. Later you find that he didn't actually feel as you expected and he explains himself.

warnings - some angst, unsure reader, fem pronouns, self doubt, negative self talk, not eating for a day cause reader is avoiding someone

word count - 2800

A/N - so this one isn't my best work by far but i wrote it so looks like its getting posted. i don't know why all of my reader inserts lately are so fem and sort of bubbly, i guess it's sort of what i'm aiming for for myself right now but i'm sorry if it maybe isn't coming off as relatable.

MASTERLIST

Your throat tightened in anxiety as you watched James zoom around the pitch. He was reckless when he was playing quidditch and it was one of the things that made him great at the game and an excellent captain. It was also the thing that nearly gave you a heart attack every time you watched him play. You went to every one of his games and you always wore something of his with his colors when you were in the stands. You were stood up on your seat and a slightly bored looking Remus sat to your right, reading from a book you didn't recognize. You'd thought that Sirius playing would be enough to keep him interested but sports was just not something he enjoyed watching. You were usually that way as well but whenever James was playing, suddenly you were the most intent spectator in the stands.

You were more worried than you should have been. More worried than what was appropriate for a friend to be. That's what you were, friends. That had been reinforced many times by the shaggy haired boy and you tried desperately to get it through your head before you embarrassed yourself one of these days. Sometimes though, you just couldn't help it.

Really you might have thought he reciprocated if you didn't know any better. You often got comments on what an attractive couple you guys were but each time it was quickly corrected by James. Normally along the lines of 'Oh god no, we are just friends. Purely platonic' , sometimes followed by a shudder or a gag even. It upset you every time to no end but you played along. You rarely, if ever, contributed to the shooting down of any feelings but that was never noticed by the man you had feelings for.

You'd had a crush on him since you were probably in your second year and now you were coming to the middle of your seventh. There were a million times that you almost said something but every time there was a reminder that you were not the one he had eyes for. It usually took the shape of disgust at the thought of dating you or commentary as he pined over the Evans girl who you felt you could never compete with. How could you when she was just perfect. You saw her to the left of you as she stood in the stands as well and your hands shook with insecurity before looking back toward the game. Your heart raced nearly as quickly as James did around the pitch and you prayed that the snitch would be caught soon so that you could get rid of the stress surrounding you. You felt a hand on your right shoulder and you looked over to find Remus had stood and was looking at you caringly.

"Are you alright, Y/N?" He asked softly and you tried your very best to soften your gaze and calm your stance so you appeared less concerned with someone that you shouldn't have that much interest in in the first place.

"Of course I am. When am I not?" You smiled before looking out at the pitch.

"When youre watching the guy you're in love with play a dangerous game that you don't like." He stated simply in response to the question you meant to be rhetorical and your eyes widened.

"I don't know what youre talking about." You nearly whispered and Remus smiled.

"I'm not gonna tell anyone Y/N but its not exactly subtle. It probably doesn't help that I know the look on your face because it's how I feel too watching Sirius play." He was still smirking but your anxiety was far from eased.

"Oh god, does he know?" You asked scaredly, terrified that the answer would be yes and you would have to stop spending time with him.

"Shockingly, no." You sighed out in relief but Remus continued. "You should tell him though or else he might end up moving on."

"What do you mean? There's nothing for him to move on from. Everyone knows he's in love with Evans and he has made it pretty clear that he is opposed to being anything more than a friendly relationship with me." You choked out, struggling with the words leaving your lips but knowing them to be true.

"I mean he has a minor crush on Evans but it's nothing compared to the annoyingly huge crush he has on you. He's probably just overcompensating for the fact that he's insecure and doesn't want you to reject him."

"Why are you telling me this?" You asked sincerely. You were friends with Remus as you were with the rest of the marauders but it was nothing compared to the friendship they held within their group. You knew Remus was more loyal to James than to you so you couldn't understand why, if it was true, Remus would be telling you at all.

"Because he is trying desperately to move on seeing as he is under the impression that you aren't into him and I'd hate to see him throw something away that could be really good for him." Remus smiled gently and you looked at him gratefully.

"I really appreciate you telling me and all but I just don't think I can believe you. I can't even count how many times he has made a big show of not liking me. I love him too much to ruin what we have and I know that if I confessed and it went bad that I would lose him all together. I would rather have him in my life in a way that hurts than not have him in it at all." You stated sadly and Remus sighed but nodded in understanding.

"I get it but just know that I'm being honest and pretty soon he is going to give up on it. I just want to see you both happy but if its too big of a leap, I understand. That's exactly the excuse he tells the rest of us too."

Suddenly cheers erupted from the stands, cutting your conversation with Remus off as everyone ran to rush the pitch. The snitch had been caught and gryffindor won. You were excited for James but you were also a little terrified to walk onto the pitch to see him with the now conflicted thoughts running through your head. Your thoughts were stopped by the image in front of you which was causing the whole crowd to cheer. James had pulled Lily Evans into a kiss in his excitement and your heart stopped. You felt nausea rise in your throat and Remus caught your eye with a sympathetic look. You didn't look at him for longer than a second and you ran off the pitch with tears streaming down your face. You found your way up to your dorm, pushing yourself to get there quickly before the common room filled with students celebrating their victory. James was always one to love attention so he would be getting crazy after the game which he did just about every time they won.

When you made it to your bed, you hurried under the covers, throwing the shirt you were wearing which belonged to James onto the floor. You felt your heart clench at the despair you felt. You wanted to be upset at Remus for getting your hopes up but you knew he was sincere in his want to help. Still you felt that you would probably not be able to face James in the weeks to come. Maybe, given a little time, you could be around him and not be upset at the world for taking away your chance with him. As you laid in your bed, you stared at the ceiling. You felt tears streaming down your face and you grew angry at yourself. He didn't owe you anything, he wasn't into you. That wasn't his fault and it was so unfair of you to expect anything more from him when your feelings were not his responsibility.

You weren't sure how long you laid there but you could hear the party start and end in the common room. It must have been late. Sleep wouldnt come though, you could just feel your heart continue to break and you were stuck in a loop of self pity. You made the decision that the following days would be spent away from James if you could at all help it. That was probably what he wanted anyway and it was the only way that you would get over the pain you were feeling. At some point your roomates entered your dorm and sleep overtook you for a few restless hours.

When you woke up, the sun was barely on the rise. You hurried up and got dressed and ready. You were planning on getting to breakfast early to avoid running into any of the marauders. You found your plans were not going how you wanted when you entered the great hall to find a head of red hair next to a mop of black. Your throat tightened and you quickly moved to turn and head out of the great hall. You heard a familiar voice call your name but you rushed out before you could give it too much thought. You knew that if you let him try to convince you, you would end up having a very upsetting breakfast with your best friend and his new lover. You would rather avoid breakfast.

Throughout the day, avoiding James was proving to be harder than you had thought it would be. You had many of your classes with him and you even sat next to him in a few. He was insistently trying to get you to open up about why you were suddenly so closed off to him but you remained shut off, reassuring him that nothing was wrong and you were just a little tired from the game the day before. You avoided lunch for the same reason as you had avoided breakfast and you felt yourself starting to get a bit lightheaded. Your afternoon was spent avoiding James but soon he was preoccupied with Lily anyway.

You were hid in a corner of the library when a cough alerted you of someone's presence. You looked up to find the very eyes you hadn't wanted to see.

You pushed it down with a gulp and smiled a bit at him, trying desperately to keep the tears at bay but they were growing harder to hold back after keeping everything pent up all day. It probably didn't help that you were hungry and therefor a bit more emotional. You could feel the tears sitting in your eyes, waiting for something to go wrong so they had an excuse to escape you.

"I don't know what I did wrong." He mumbled while looking at the floor in front of you and you took a deep breath.

"There's nothing wrong James, I promise. It's just been a long day." You smiled and your heart picked up speed.

"Since when did we lie to each other?" He questioned and your heart stopped. You were left unsure how to respond.

"Since the truth would cause more damage than good." You spoke honestly. At this he looked up at you and your eyes met. A tear left you and James immediately moved to comfort you but you tried to move away, standing quickly to evade him. You regretted it as spots filled your vision, the lack of food catching up to you. You know that you turned a bit green for a moment because James looked slightly scared.

"Y/N I dont know whats wrong but you look like you should be getting to the hospital wing. You don't look well."

Before you could answer you felt your vision blacken and your legs give out before your consciousness left you completely.

When you woke up, you knew you were in the hospital wing. It smelled sterile and the bed was stiff underneath you. When you started to wake madam pomfrey came to check on you.

"You can't go around with an empty stomach like that again, do you hear me?" She scolded, though her eyes were soft. You nodded solemnly. "I was alerted that you hadn't been to the great hall to eat all day, you have to know that isn't good for you. I'm gonna have a prefect watch out for you the next couple days to make sure you're eating at meal times. Understood?" She asked again and once more you nodded before leaning back and sighing. You looked at your surroundings and were surprised to see the black haired boy next to your bed fast asleep. Your heart took off again and you felt trapped by your environment. As anxiety swirled around in your chest, James had woken up a bit.

"You're awake." James sighed, laced with relief. You still wouldn't make eye contact with him.  You felt the bed dip as he sat on it and you looked up to watch him put his head in his hands as he leaned over. You felt guilt fill your chest more than it already had from hating that you felt any claim over the man in front of you. You knew you were in the wrong and the last thing you wanted was to cause him any pain. "Remus talked to me." He almost whispered.

At that moment, you wished you could have apparated to anywhere else in the world. You looked back down at your lap and tears were once again brought to your eyes. You felt betrayal that Remus would reveal your feelings to James.

"I'm sorry." You apologized and you fiddled with your fingers.

"Why are you the one apologizing, I'm the one whos behaved poorly." He assures and you shake your head.

"That's not fair to yourself. You're allowed to want to be with whomever you want and my feelings should have no effect on that. You've made it clear for years that you weren't interested in me and it is my fault that I couldn't take a hint. I'm so sorry." You gushed out and tears started to fall from your eyes. You felt James get up from your bed and you prepared him to leave but instead you felt arms wrap around you and a kiss came to your head.

"Y/N I have had feelings for you for years. I was just always too scared for myself to even consider that you might feel the same." He whispered out but you felt only a different kind of pain. Even though he had now admitted his feelings, he was still dating Lily. Not you. Almost as if he could hear your thoughts he spoke quietly. "I broke it off with Evans." You pulled away immediately.

"What? Why would you do that?" You asked quickly and before he had a chance to answer you feared the worst. "Oh god is it because of me? James please dont let my feelings have any bearing on who you want to date, I can't stand the thought of being the reason you broke up. Even if we do have feelings for each other, you deserve a chance with Lily if that's what you want."

"It was mutual, actually. She understood that I had feelings for you and she said she had a crush on someone else. It just seemed like I had kissed her a bit rashly on the quidditch pitch and we agreed that we shouldn't have gotten together in the first place. It was only a day anyway." He reassured as he explained himself and you calmed a bit.

"So what does this mean." You got out, almost inaudibly.

"It means that, if you'll have me, I'd like to take you out on a date." He stated as if it were the simplest thing in the world and you almost couldn't believe your ears. Before you were even thinking you were nodding quickly, causing spots to once again fill your vision and James grabbed your shoulders to stabilize you before you both laughed. He pulled you by your shoulders toward him and he caught your lips in a kiss that somehow expressed all of the years of repressed feelings. When he pulled away he smiled at you and sat back on your bed. He spent the rest of the day with you in the hospital wing talking about all of the places he was going to take you in the coming weeks.

[aggressive-positivity-network]

do any of the mercs play board games?

Mercopoly (Board Game

Headcanons)

Scout:

You think he has enough of an attention span to play something that doesn’t involve sweating out his energy drinks?

Hell no!

He gets very bored very quickly, especially with something complex like chess.

He’ll play cards sometimes, but only Crazy Eights and Go Fish - that’s all he knows how to play.

However, there is one true board game he plays occasionally: Candy Land.

It’s one of the few board games that you don’t really have to read the rules for, and there isn’t any writing on the cards.

However, he only asks to play it when he’s not feeling very well.

Medic even has a page in his medical journal for the mercs that says, and I quote:

“The Scout has an extremely short attention span, and if an activity isn’t active or immersive, he will not stay long. If at any point he chooses a sedentary activity, a check-up is in order.”

As sad as it is, a request to play Candyland is a good way to know if Scout needs a little extra reassurance or support.

By the end of the game, Scout usually feels more himself, whether he wins or not.

Engie is especially good with Scout when he’s this way, being the one of the most emotionally sensitive of the group. But he also knows Scout would never admit straight-away how he was feeling, so he usually has a more fun way of getting answers.

“You feelin’ more like a King Candy or a Lord Licorice?”

“...Fudge Monster.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Yeah...”

Spy:

If you ask him, he will most likely go off on a tangent about chess, and how it’s a game of strategy, deception, and crushing your enemy with your wit.

He scoffs at any other game, and constantly makes fun of several of his more intelligent peers for finding interest in them.

“You are mercenaries. Blood-thirsty killers of men. And you are playing ‘Hungry, Hungry Hippos’ like a hoarde of kindergartners?”

But one thing he cannot resist is Sorry.

He considers it above normal board games because it has strategy - or at least that what he says.

He actually just likes it because it’s a game of revenge, which is like a drug to him.

He’s gotten so good at it that if he asks you to play Sorry with him, it’s almost guaranteed that he’s mad at you and just wants to let off some steam by giving you a horrendous loss. However, occasionally, he’s the one who loses.

Spy isn’t a poor sport, exactly - he’s too cultured for that - but sometimes his pride outweighs his manners and he convinces himself that the other player cheated through made up signs of deception.

He simply “allows” them to win because he “doesn’t want to make a fuss.”

But god help the unfortunate soul who decides to rub their win in his face.

Sniper had won five games in a row, and it was clear Spy was getting hot under the collar.

Sniper ended their games with a mischievous, “You’ll get ‘em next time, tiger.” and a small pat on his shoulder.

Spy immediately saw red, grabbed Sniper’s hand, and before the aussie knew it, he was against a concrete wall with a butterfly knife to his throat.

“I could kill you right now. Your final cry for Medic will be drowned in blood, and I would leave you here to die a painful, dramatic death. You’ll be replaced with a rusted trash can of a bot until they could grow another clone of you. Every memory will be gone. The team will be shrouded in grief, not because of losing you, but losing what the clone can never have. And I shall bide my time, ask the clone to play the same game, and kill them when they win. Another clone, another kill. And again. And again. And again. You think the Manns give a damn as long as their work is getting done? You will never be able to form a single thought before I spill your blood - caught in an eternal prisoner’s dilemma where you always lose.”

After gathering his bearings, Sniper finally spoke.

“Is this about your takeout?”

Spy scoffed.

“Do you really think - !”

“Tonight, my treat if you don’t kill me.”

Spy squinted.

“Egg rolls?”

“And an extra order of crab rangoon.”

“Your treat?”

“Yep.”

“How do I know you won’t poison me?”

“Chemical test before and after the food arrives.”

“How do I know Medic isn’t in on it?”

“Miss Pauling as a witness and Scout as an overseer. Pauling’s main objective is to keep us alive, and Scout can’t do bloody anything subtle, even if he wanted to. You can also play back the cameras in the lab, if the mood really struck ya.”

Spy held Sniper against the wall for a minute or two while he thought it all over, then let Sniper fall to the ground.

“I don’t need your sympathy, bushman. But you had better keep your end of the deal. I am the only backstabber around here.”

Demo:

Can’t even stay awake long enough to play most board games.

On the rare chance that he’s sober, he, Engie, and Medic like to play Monopoly.

Here’s the thing: you should never ask a drunkard, an engineer, and a sadist genius to play Monopoly together. It will not end well.

They have been playing the same game for years, with new rules in place and physical extensions to the board in order to try and end the game. Every other Friday, they take the weekend to try and finish it.

However, it all ends up fruitless.

Demo is usually the one keeping the peace, since he is the least competitive out of the three. That isn’t to say he isn’t clawing for the win as much as the other two, but he is definitely the least invested. He’s mostly staying out of principle.

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned, ‘s ta ne’er give up, e’en when the goin’s gettin’ tough. Roll the dice, doc.”

Despite his confidence, he’s not even sure what he would do if he or anyone else won. It would seem more like a relief than a celebration.

Medic:

He’s the one who started the Eternal Monopoly game, which has led to some theories that the game itself came straight from hell, and is one of the many punishments used on sinners. The box does smell a bit of brimstone…

He seems to enjoy the chaos that each round brings and the challenge of coming up with new rules to the game. To any outsider, his commentary and directions are complete nonsense.

“According to zhe ‘Calvinball Rule,’ as stated by Engineer, and the ‘Double Kill,’ as stated by myself, since the current time ends vis a three and ve all received at least two kills zhis veek, ve need to double every other roll and whomever loses zhe resulting game of ‘Bim Bum’ vill have to go to zhe Purple Jail.”

The rules and mechanics are like an unholy amalgamation of Monpoly, Sorry, chess, D&D, Bluff, and poker.

However, when Medic isn’t stapling pages of rules together, he likes to play a nice, relaxing game of checkers with Heavy.

Both of them are excellent checker players, but neither of them care who wins.

In fact, they usually talk over the game, taking the other player’s pieces as one of them shares a story from that day’s battle.

They’ve even played while Heavy was in surgery - leading to many unfortunate times when Medic had to fish a piece out of Heavy’s intestines.

One would think that a genius doctor would also have a passion for chess, but he expresses his disdain for it almost every time the checker board is brought out.

“Ach, people think chess is such an intelligent sport. Let me tell you, liebling, it is terribly overrated. If zhe devil can play chess, anyvun can. He might as vell just give souls avay, vis those shaky claws of his.”

Engineer:

Being the engineer, he is usually the one to add to the Eternal Monopoly.

Pieces, board extensions, cards, trivia - it gives him a nice break from all the weaponry.

He’s usually the one who remembers all the mechanics and rules, and serves as the judge if rules contradict each other.

“Alright, now let’s see here…we’ve got the Infinity Loop over here, but now you’ve got the Time Travel card…how many years? Infinite? Ho boy…looks like I’m gonna have to add a Hilbert’s Hotel square somewhere. Hold on…”

Despite his affinity for Eternal Monopoly, Engineer will play almost any board game. He learns new rules and figures quickly, and enjoys the challenges that brings.

However, if he’s particularly burnt out, he likes to take a break by playing Jenga. He and Spy have a friendly rivalry, since Engie can tell which blocks are supporting and Spy has quick fingers.

Spy, oddly, is a lot more amiable losing in Jenga - he knows Engie won’t think less of him - but Engineer hates when the bricks fall over. Not because it means he lost, but because, to him, it’s a failure on his part…even if it was someone else that knocked it over.

He’s made several blueprints for the perfect Jenga game, but has concluded that no human hand could put it into practice.

During one particularly bad day, Engie bumped the table, causing the whole column to come crashing down. Spy had already recovered from the noise, but Engie was still standing there, stone-faced.

His eyes were covered by his goggles, but it was clear he was crying.

Several of his machines had broken on the job, and to him, this was just another egregious mistake.

Spy carefully put the blocks back in the container, and Engie came to his senses.

“I’m real sorry, Spy. Maybe another time…?”

Spy only nodded. He was thinking.

The next time they played, Spy brought out a different container.

Instead of wood, the bricks seemed to be made of a sturdy foam.

“They fall a bit more…quietly,” Spy explained. He dropped one, and it only made a small bouncing sound. “Pyro uses these, but they allowed me to borrow it.”

Engie was a bit skeptical at first, since it was a new material, but he got the hang of it rather quickly. He was almost ecstatic the first time it fell - the blocks barely made any sound at all!

After a few games, Spy had to leave for an assignment. Engie put a hand on their arm.

“Thank ya, Spy. Maybe you ain’t the cold-blooded backstabber I thought you were.”

Spy chuckled, but said little else. He didn’t want to admit that noise sensitivity plagued him as well.

Pyro:

Pyro loves board games, and has quite the collection in their room.

Each plastic piece is at least a little melted, and all the boxes have two or three scorch marks.

Hungry Hungry Hippos, Candyland, and Uno are among her favorites.

He is an absolute beast at Uno, though.

They take each game very seriously, especially when they can convince the whole team to play.

As you can imagine, it’s pure chaos - it even led to a rule in the Merc Guidebook: “When playing Uno with three or more players with the inclusion of a Pyro, at least one Mann Co. representative and/or a mediating Medic must be present.”

Pyro has been known the hide cards, bribe players, or even try to set flame to competition. Playing Uno is almost like a mission, with weapon preparation and Spy posing as other players.

The mercs even have a betting stand that Sniper runs. All parties have lost a lot of money that way.

It’s pretty much the only time outside of battle that the team remembers how cruel and malicious Pyro can be.

Sniper:

Conventional board games aren’t exactly his forté, but he does enjoy a bit of cards every once in a while - Solitaire being his favorite.

He even has a pack of cards in his Sniper Square for that exact purpose. It allows him the pass the time without having to look away from his targets too often.

On occasion, he could be pressed to play poker, but only if the stakes weren’t monetary (i.e candy pieces, crackers, duties, etc.).

His favorite part of every match is shuffling the cards. Pretty much every merc could shuffle cards, but Sniper could make them almost float with how quick his fingers and wrists moved. He always began the game with a new trick he learned, which delighted his fellow players (usually Spy, Engineer, Medic, and Demo).

You could always tell if he had a busy day because he would avoid tricks with too much movement, which would be murder on his sore fingers and hands.

Pyro is currently learning card tricks from Sniper, and show off what they learn at the beginning of every Uno game.

Heavy:

He isn’t a huge fan of the bright, plastic-y board games that Pyro has, although he will play them if asked.

It’s mostly because of how complicated the rules are and the fact there are almost never a Russian translation for the directions.

He always prefers checkers, cards, or mancala, which he almost exclusively plays with Medic because he’s the only one who speaks fluent Russian.

Heavy can play a mean game of mancala, though, and it’s the only game he can beat Medic at.

Soldier:

The only games he will play are Battleship and Uno - but only after Miss Pauling convinced him it was “American enough” because the game had red, white, and blue cards.

He prefers the electronic Battleship because of the sound effects and voices. However, if it’s out of batteries, he’ll make his own sound effects.

Miss Pauling is the best at pretending to be a commander, so she’s usually the one playing with him - but, sometimes, Demo gets in on the action, too.

[emilia3546]

Eyes On Me - Nesta x Cassian x Azriel NSFW

Ignoring Cassian has always been a dangerous game, but Nesta knows just how much to push him to earn herself some fun. 

*****

Nesta laughed, tossing her head back, and almost spat out her wine, cursing Feyre once she was able to breathe again, but froze at the mention of Nyx escaping his crib,

"He was fine," Feyre reassured her, and Nesta relaxed,

"Don't scare me like that," she complained, ignoring Cassian's subtle gesture, she'd go and see him in a minute, once she'd finished talking to Feyre. She met his gaze, letting him know that she'd seen, but turned her gaze back to her sister, snorting again as Feyre kept telling her about another one of Nyx's misadventures, only a few months old, and the child was already up to mischief.

Nesta. She inwardly rolled her eyes at Cassian's demand,

What? She snapped,

Please don't ignore me,

I'm talking to Feyre,

Looks like she's finished, Nesta glanced back across, and huffed when she realized that Feyre had slipped away when she'd gone quiet, and was now sneaking upstairs with Rhys, well, sneaking was a generous description for the way she was practically dragging him with her. I wouldn't ask you to come over if it wasn't important, now c'mere. Please. That was true, and he probably wanted to tell her something good, but she loved the stories about her nephew. She sighed as the room slowly cleared, with everyone finally going home, leaving her and Cassian, and Azriel, but he was getting ready to leave as well,

"What did you want?" Nesta asked, slipping into Cassian's lap, and looping her arms around his neck,

"I wanted to check that you were okay, you seemed tense,"

"I was fine, Feyre was telling me about Nyx escaping into the less baby-proof parts of the house, I was worried he'd gotten hurt,"

"Well, that's good to hear, but what isn't good to hear is an attitude," Nesta frowned, glaring at her mate,

"It's a family gathering, you can't expect me to be by your side the whole time,"

"I don't. But I do expect you to come back when I'm worried about you, and I don't want to have those conversations over the bond," she huffed again, but sucked in a breath when he gripped her chin in one hand, forcing her to look at him, the other pinning her against him, "Az, don't leave, you can come back with us if you want," Nesta couldn't turn her head to see the shadowsinger, but she did nod her agreement, and tried to move at the dark chuckle from behind her,

"I wouldn't miss it for the world," Nesta was about to respond to Azriel when Cassian shot to his feet, leaping out of an open window, making her scream and cling on to him, tucking her face into his neck as they neared the ground, only opening her eyes when they were soaring high above Velaris,

"I know you were with Feyre, but you know that I need to check in on you, and you need to let me," Cassian murmured,

"I know, I'm sorry," Nesta murmured, "I just wanted to let Feyre finish her story, I should have told you that," Cassian hummed his agreement, and brushed his nose up Nesta's throat, sending a wicked heat burning within her, "You can punish me if you want,"

"What?"

"I broke a rule, doesn't that earn a punishment?"

"I was just checking on you, it's not like you deliberately disobeyed me," a year ago, the thought of giving away control of anything to anyone else would have disgusted her, but not now. Now the idea of her and Cassian setting rules, giving her a bit of structure thrilled her, helped her manage the world, especially when she didn't have to fight so hard to control everything anymore, sometimes she could just let him lead.

"I sort of did," she said, leaning back slightly to meet his gaze,

"I suppose you did, is that what you want, Nesta, you want me to punish you?" She nodded, "This won't just be a little fun thing for you, if I'm punishing you for disobeying me I won't half-ass it," if anything, that promise turned her on more, and she squirmed, quickly agreeing. Cassian smirked at her, "Hold on tight," he whispered, and dove for the House, carrying her right to the bedroom, with Azriel on their heels. Azriel silently closed the door behind them, and Nesta sighed when Cassian wrapped his arms around her from behind, resting his chin on her head, and quickly untied her dress, leaving it pooling at her feet. He groaned at the sight of her bare body,

"You think I could have worn undergarments with this dress?" She teased, but he just nipped at her ear,

"Get on the bed," Nesta, for once, did as she was told, leaning back against the pillows, and spreading her legs wide so that he could see exactly how much she wanted him. "Here's how this is going to work, sweetheart, you broke a rule, so you have to be punished, which means no coming until I say so, and I don't intend to say so for a while," Nesta nodded, that was what she wanted, but her breath caught when Cassian shared a look with Azriel, who quickly stepped out of his own clothes. "And you keep your eyes on me," Nesta glanced at Azriel stalking across the room, and back at Cassian, who raised an eyebrow, waiting for her response,

"Yes, General," she muttered,

"I didn't hear that,"

"Yes, General," she repeated, louder this time, her cheeks burning at how composed he appeared, while she was naked, waiting in his bed. Azriel lifted her up, guiding her forwards onto her hands and knees, a hand running down her spine,

"Look at him," Azriel murmured when she made to look around at what he was doing, and guided her chin back to Cassian, now lounging in an armchair by the window, a glass of bourbon in his hand. Nesta trembled again at the light touch down her back, trying desperately to hold still, but squirmed under Cassian's unfaltering gaze. She flinched at the gentle smack across her ass, not in pain, it hadn't hurt, but in surprise, Azriel had never spanked her before, and from the way Cassian's gaze darkened, he liked it too. She subtly pushed her hips back, and Azriel smacked her ass again, a little harder, but not straying into painful territory, just leaving her trembling, and biting her tongue to keep from begging. Azriel slid a hand up her spine, leaving her skin pebbling at each touch, and slipped a hand into her hair, pulling her head back so that she wriggled, but found herself unable to move, completely trapped by his hold on her, "Pretty isn't she?" he murmured,

"Absolutely gorgeous," Cassian said, grinning at her in pure sensual promise, "But she'll look prettier once we're done with her," Nesta whined, and tried to wriggled again, but Azriel tugged on her hair, forcing her to still in his grasp, her breath sawing out of her as he held her still for Cauldron knew how long, simply on display for both him and Cassian. Nesta could practically feel their gazes on her, and she whimpered softly when Azriel's hand drifted closer to where she needed him, but slipped away again,

"Please," she whispered, and Cassian chuckled, leaning back a little more in his chair, but nodded to Azriel, who let go of Nesta's hair, pushing her forwards a little and sending her sprawling on the mattress, his hands slipping down her sides to settle on her hips. She scrambled to get her hands back underneath her, but Azriel tugged her backwards, knocking her balance again. She yelped when Azriel pulled her up, and let her head fall onto his shoulder, sighing at his slow gentle caress of her waist, but wriggled in frustration when his hands never moved any higher or lower, leaving her more and more desperate by the second, especially with Cassian's eyes never once leaving her, Azriel chuckled when he noticed where her attention was, why she was unable to completely silence her whines of frustration,

"Hush," he murmured, and she did fall quiet, but squealed when his hand did finally dip below her waist, swiping through her sex to find just how thoroughly soaked she was, "Quiet," he said again, and Nesta lifted her head off his shoulder,

"Fuck me then," she was still glaring at him when he raised an eyebrow, and glanced towards Cassian,

"Oh she's all yours right now, deal with it," oh shit, she was definitely in for a long night if they were both going to actually respond to her attitude, she shrank away slightly, but Azriel hauled her back, pushing two fingers into her mouth, the fingers that had just been at her sex. She blinked in surprise, but couldn't pull away with his other hand holding her head in place, she squirmed and tried to twist her head, tears pricking her eyes as she fought the urge to gag.

"That's more like it," Azriel murmured, and Nesta whimpered softly, but didn't try to wriggle away again when he guided her head back to his shoulder, leaving his fingers in her mouth, and she swirled her tongue around them, sucking gently to distract herself from the ache in her stomach, the slickness starting to slip down her thighs. Through the roaring blood in her ears she managed to just about make out Cassian's voice speaking to Azriel, but not the words, not even when Azriel responded, but she did register the way Azriel kept calmly talking to Cassian as his hand dipped lower, lower, before brushing against her clit. She whined around his fingers, her hips moving almost of their own accord, rocking against his hand as he kept speaking to her mate, her mate who still hadn't moved.

When Azriel pulled his fingers out of Nesta's mouth the world crashed into her, and she squealed when he plunged two fingers into her, his arm around her waist holding her up as she rode his hand, feeling his grin against her neck as she moved against him. Cassian held her gaze as she moved, but the moment he broke their eye contact, his attention switching to the male behind her, Nesta trembled in anticipation and sobbed in desperation when Azriel released her, letting her fall forwards onto the bed. She fixed Cassian with a desperate glare,

"Please," she whispered, "Please, Sir,"

"You know," Cassian ignored her pleas, "You could have just asked me to fuck you tonight, and I would have," she knew that, but she'd wanted more than just fucking, "But you wanted a punishment, you wanted a spanking didn't you?" She had, but she wasn't going to admit it, and she shook her head,

"Just you, please," he grinned, smiling over her head,

"You can have the next best thing,"

"Next best? I think Nesta can be the judge of that, unless you're worried that I fuck your mate better than you do?" Azriel teased, his hands falling onto Nesta's hips, and she glared at Cassian again, but screamed as Azriel tugged her hips backwards, sheathing himself inside her in one stroke, slamming deep into her. Her cheeks flamed at Cassian's unwavering stare as he slowly sipped his bourbon, watching calmly while Azriel pounded into her, pulling her hips backwards with each thrust, leaving her trembling and sobbing with pleasure, but still unable to fall over the edge. No matter how good it was, how perfectly Azriel hit every spot inside her, she could not climax until Cassian said so, until he got off his ass and touched her. But her mate stayed in his chair across the room, perfectly relaxed, his movements slow, unhurried, his wings draped across the floor beside him, perfectly calm while another male was buried deep inside her. Nesta dropped her gaze to the bed, unable to cope with seeing Cassian just out of her reach, but Azriel immediately pulled her head up, "Look your mate in the eyes while I fuck you," she didn't want to, she wanted him right here, wanted to imagine that he was touching her while Azriel fucked her. Azriel spilled inside her, groaning as he came, but didn't stop, still moving inside her until he hardened again, and deepened his thrusts. Nesta lost the thin semblance of control she'd tried to maintain, screams falling from her lips with each thrust he made into her.

She sobbed in pleasure, but Cassian ignored her pleas, her desperation for him, ignored the way she tried to reach out for him, only to collapse face-down on the bed, leaving her completely at Azriel's mercy. She tried to crawl away from Azriel to reach him, just to hold him while Azriel found his pleasure again, Cauldron knew she couldn't find hers without Cassian. Just as she tried to move, Azriel dragged her backwards,

"You'd better come and join us, Cass, this is just mean now,"

"You think? What do you say, Nes, you want me as well?"

"Yes," she sobbed, "Please, Sir, please, I want you," she broke off with a gasp when Azriel shifted his hips, and Cassian finally crossed the space between them, stealing the sound from the air as he covered her lips with his own. Nesta moaned into his mouth, reaching up to grip his hair, and tugged on it as he slid his tongue alongside her own, she couldn't wait any longer, she needed him inside her, needed to feel him filling her, it didn't matter where. She let her mouth fall open when Cassian sat back, her plea in her eyes. Cassian kept eye contact with her while he unbuckled his belt, kicking his pants aside and pulling his shirt off. Nesta opened her mouth wider in invitation, and Cassian chuckled at her desperation, how messy she undoubtedly was now, but he didn't say anything as he slowly slid into her mouth, Azriel even slowed his thrusts to allow her to adjust. Nesta drew in a breath through her nose, tipping her head back to allow Cassian better access, but he still wouldn't fuck her throat the way she liked it yet, no, now he was just offering little thrusts, not even all the way in before pulling back out, and Nesta squeezed his hip to reassure him that it was okay, that she could take him deeper, wanted him deeper. A few moments, a gentle touch along her jaw, then Cassian was gripping her face, and thrusting his cock right to the back of her throat, then Azriel was moving again, trapping Nesta between two sources of pleasure, unable to find a climax until Cassian said she could.

She let herself go, let herself lose control to the two males inside her, they had complete control of her body, but Nesta didn't mind, she liked this loss of control, this was safe. Her eyes flickered shut when Azriel released inside her again, and settled back onto her knees when he pulled out of her, his hands gently working her shoulders as she reached up to cup Cassian's balls. She looked up at him, and he swore at the sight of her, his cock between her lips, looking up at him as if he were the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen, which he was. She reached up to lace their fingers together, holding on tight as he thrust once more into her mouth and spilled himself down her throat. She swallowed around him, and kept holding on to his hand when he pulled out, tipping her chin up to look at him,

"You okay?" She nodded, still catching her breath, "You did so good, sweetheart, you wanna come now? Keep being a good girl for me?" Nesta melted under the praise and nodded again, sighing when Cassian eased her backwards so that she was leaning against Azriel, who gently kissed her jaw, his hands rubbing her stomach while she recovered, but slowly drifted higher, reaching her breasts at the same time that Cassian dropped to his knees beside the bed, throwing Nesta's legs over his shoulders. "Come for me, Nes," Cassian murmured before swiping his tongue through her sex, sending her eyes flickering shut again, and dragging another moan from her lips. It didn't take much for him to send her flying over the edge, not with the tension that Azriel had already built up within her, especially not when Cassian was concentrating his efforts on the spots that he knew made her see stars. It felt like mere heartbeats after he'd spoken that she screamed his name, release tearing through her as he slipped two fingers inside her, keeping at her high, until she screamed again, her release coating his fingers and lips. She panted for breath when Cassian finally allowed her to come down from the high, her eyes barely focused, but she still reached for him, and he crawled up the end to wrap his arms around her, leaving her limp and sated in Azriel's arms as he licked her release off his fingers.

*****

She must have fallen asleep because when she opened her eyes, the bedroom was cleared, and she was in one of Cassian's shirts, her nightgowns lying unused in their drawer, with a male body pressed against her back, and a pair of arms wrapped around her waist from behind,

"Still okay?" Cassian popped his head out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist, shaking his head to clear the water from his hair. Nesta snorted at the image it made, and leaned back against Azriel,

"I'm okay, I want to be able to touch you next time, though, you stayed away just a bit too long for my liking."

"I can do that, do you need me to do anything, or just be close to you?"

"Just be close, I want to be able to reach you if I want to,"

"Okay," Cassian sank down onto the bed beside her, pressing a kiss to her forehead before slipping into a pair of sleeping pants. He held Nesta against his chest, and she snuggled into him,

"I love you," she reminded him, and he drew a wing over all three of them, quite happy to let Azriel sleep until morning, especially since this would be the first time he stayed with them. Nesta sighed happily, Cassian's scent surrounding her as she closed her eyes and drifted back to sleep, his arms and wings wrapped around her, with Azriel tucked behind her, safe and warm in their arms.

[nagito-kissmaeda]

I really don't know if requests are open so I'm sorry if I didn't noticed they're closed 💔 However if they are open could you please write Nagito with female s/o that lost bet to Hiyoko and running around island in maid dress?

ミ☆ Sorry this took me so long! Also it got very nasty and i hope that is okay lol. I can’t help myself when it comes to Nagito. Word count: 2024 Contains: NSFW, fem reader, they/them pronouns, explict sexual content, voyeurism ミ☆ Please send me a DM or an ask if you’d like me to write something for you!

This is humiliating. 

The Jabberwock island sun is burning down hot as always, you can feel the skin of your bare arms already starting to burn and your legs are getting sweaty under the thick thigh high socks. This outfit was not designed for this weather, but clearly Hiyoko Saionji cared very little about that fact.

She is walking beside you, snickering behind a hand. The six inch heels she has forced you into makes her seem even shorter than usual.

You sigh, “How much longer?”

“I told you! One whole lap of the islands!” She taps a finger to her chin, feigning thoughtfulness, “We’re about...halfway done.”

You huff and cross your arms. You don't usually wear heels, your feet are already starting to ache, and the unpaved path on central island makes it even harder for you to walk, “Can I at least take the shoes off?”

Saionji scoffs, “Uh, obviously not. The heels are essential. You think i'm just gonna let you run around in sneakers? What would even be the fucking point?”

“Yeah, yeah, Okay. I get it.” 

To be fair, this was all your fault. After waking up from the Neo World Program, you and the rest of your classmates found that the island was a mess and had spent the past few months slowly making it livable. It must have been rotten luck that got you paired with Saionji to clean out the back room in the diner on the second island. Apparently the waitresses who worked there before the island was abandoned used to wear sexy maid costumes, and there happened to be one in your size. Saionji had said something about a bet, that if you were game enough to walk around in the maid costume, she would take on your cleaning duties for the next three days. It was a bad idea, you really should have said no.

There's a gust of wind and your short skirt flutters around your thighs. You clench your jaw and try your best to keep your panties from showing. Saionji laughs again. 

“Remember when we bumped into Hanamura earlier and he said that he thought you looked-”

“Shut up, Saionji.” You hiss, walking a little faster as you cross the bridge over to the first island, “Withstanding your ridicule was not part of the deal.”

“Yeah, but it wasn't not not part of the deal.” She sticks her tongue out. 

The heels are so loud on the wooden slats of the bridge, and it takes a decent amount of effort to stop yourself from getting stuck in one of the gaps and tripping. You can tell Saionji thinks it is very funny how hard you need to focus on your own feet. 

“Okay.” She says as you step out onto the island, “One loop here, and then back to the second island. You might actually manage it if you dont trip and break a leg on the way back,”

You shoot her a glare, “Was that a threat?”

She shrugs, “Just saying you should watch where you walk” She playfully taps your shin with the side of her foot, you manage not to stumble, but it was still a dirty move. 

Before you are able to call her out for her nasty trick, Saionji laughs again and nods her head in the direction of the cabins. You’ve just made your way in through the front gate, and are about to head down to the restaurant, “Look who was lucky enough to leave his cottage right as were walking past.”

Saionji’s intonation on the word lucky makes your stomach twist and turn. You’re too afraid to follow her line of sight, swallowing nervously and looking down at the ground, “Hey, uh, i think I’m calling it here. You win.”

You move to walk away, buy Saionji grabs you by the wrist, “What are you chickening out for? I didn't realise you were such a loser.”

“Saionji” You warn, glaring down at her, “You better let me go or else i will-”

“Ah, hello!” Komaeda interrupts. You freeze, heart racing at the sound of his voice. This is literally the worst thing that could have possibly happened. Your cheeks are burning “How lucky it is that I get to see the both of...ah…” His voice slowly trails off as he notices what you are wearing. It's with a newfound desperation that you struggle to escape Saionji’s grip, but she holds fast. 

“Hey, Weirdo.” Saionji jeers, her hand still tight around your wrist, “Do you like this cute outfit I found?”

“Oh...I...uh…” 

You let your eyes slip up to his face. Komaeda has his hair up in a ponytail and his cheeks are burning red as he stares down at the length of bare thigh peeking out from the top of your stockings. You can hear the sound of your heart beating in your ears.

You like Komaeda. As in, you really like Komaeda. 

Seeing him getting all flustered is doing strange things to your stomach, but you are still frozen with embarrassment. 

“I think he likes it~” Saionji taunts, smirking up at you. 

His eyes are combing over you, his lower lip pulled in between his teeth. There's warmth between your thighs, your fingernails are digging into your palms. You barely even notice as you start getting bolder, gently brushing the hemline of your skirt with your hand, tugging it a little further up your thigh. Komaeda’s throat bobs. 

“Did...did Saionji make you do this?” He asks.

You nod, still feeling too overwhelmed to actually say anything. He must see the way you are looking at him, the way his blush runs all the way down to his collarbones, the way you want desperately to see more of his skin. His eyes meet yours questioning, but hungry. 

“You look…” he heaves a shaky breath, eyes quickly flitting over to Saionji  like he is trying to remind himself that she is still there, “...good.”

You grip onto the fabric of your skirt to stop your hands from shaking, “Thank you. Um-” you look down at your toes for a moment,  “Hanamura got kind of weird about it, but i'm uh…” you look back up at Komaeda, his eyes are perfect and green, “I’m glad that you like it…”

He’s just staring at you now, and you hope that he understands the meaning of your words. That maybe this whole embarrassing ordeal is worth it if he finds you attractive. You want him so badly, you want him to want you so badly. The way his eyes roam over your body makes you quiver with something. Nerves? Excitement? 

“What the fuck is happening right now?”

You and Komaeda are suddenly pulled from a trance and forced to look back down at Saionji. She’s staring up at you with a mix of horror and confusion.

You feel a bolt of arousal shoot down to your center when Komaeda turns to her and says, “Would you mind leaving us alone, Saionji-san?”

Saionji blinks, “Huh? We’ve still got to walk all the way back to the second island or they lose the bet! I'm not going anywhere in case she cheats!”

“Bet’s off.” You say, pulling your wrist from her grasp and taking a step closer to Komaeda. God, even with the heels on he is still taller than you, “You should really go.”

Saionji barks a laugh, “Fine, but you better not complain when you have cleaning duty all next week.” 

He is very subtle about it, but you feel the cool touch of Komaeda’s fingers on your bare thigh, he stares at Saionji over your shoulder and is much less polite when he says, “Saionji, leave.” 

You don't turn around, but you hear the sound of sandals clattering on wood as she dashes out of the hotel area. The second she is out of view, Komaeda grabs you by the shoulders and pins you up against the wall of the closet cottage (Souda’s? It really doesn't matter) breathing so heavily that you can see his shoulders shaking.

“I’m...I’m so sorry...I” He back pedals, letting his arms fall to the sides, “I don't know what came over me, I'm such garbage i-”

Fuck it, you think. Grabbing the front of his coat and tugging his lips up against yours. It takes him a moment to recognise what is even happening, but the second he does, his large hands grab tight on either side of your waist and he kisses you back in a fervor. You can feel him moan against your lips, and it’s too much for you. So you spin him around until he is the one with his back up against the wall, jamming your knee in between his legs and shoving one hand up under his shirt. His skin is smooth, you can feel his ribs under your fingers. He whimpers under your lips when your tongue enters his mouth, tangling with his, and one of his hands creeps down to the short hemline of your skirt, slipping his fingers up underneath. You hear him choke on a moan when he finds that your stockings are being held up by a garter-belt. 

“You’re killing me.” He hisses against your mouth. 

You lift up the knee between his legs and grind it against his crotch. He makes the cutest little noise, hips wriggling against the pressure of your knee until he is basically fucking himself on it. You moan at the sight of him, cheeks red, hair mussed, writhing against you desperately. 

“That’s a good boy.” You whisper in his ear, pressing a kiss to the side of his throat, “Does that feel nice?”

“Hng-I….I…” he throws his head backward until it collides with the wall, “What about..ahhAH...what about you?”

Watching him like this is getting you wet enough as it is, you smirk and suck gently on his pulse point, “What about me? I want to watch you cum, sweetheart. That’s what i want.”

His green eyes are blown wide when they meet yours, he swallows, “Out….outside?”

“Yeah, baby.” You press your knee up even harder and relish in the choked sound he makes, “Right here.” 

You aren't sure what it is about the maid costume that gives you this confidence, but you feel powerful. Watching Komaeda moan and drool as he grinds furiously against your stocking-clad knee is only making you feel sexier. 

The hand you have under his shirt sneaks upward even further, he squeaks when you rub one of his nipples between your thumb and forefinger, “You think you can cum for me, sweetheart?”

He nods furiously, hips quivering as you continue biting and sucking your way down his throat and over his shoulder. You can feel him growing more desperate, you can feel his pressing his throbbing cock harder and harder against the unyielding pressure of your knee. His mouth is hung open, drool is dripping down his chin and he is flushed all the way down to his chest. You moan just from the mere sight of him, your sex clenching with desire, but that would have to wait. You wanted to watch him come undone.

“I…I’m” he whines, writhing and panting against you, “I’m so close…”

“You’re going to cum?”

Komaeda makes a noise of affirmation, but it mostly just sounds like a moan. You grin and push your knee up even higher, leaning in to lick up the shell of his ear.

“Go on, then.” You whisper, “Cum for me, pretty boy,”

A moan rips through him. So loud that anyone nearby must have heard it. His hips quiver and shake against you, grinding and wriggling and then finally coming to a stop. He looks godlike, his hair fucked five ways to hell and his eyes glazed over with arousal. A shaky giggle escapes his mouth, and then he licks his lips. 

“Okay. Your turn”

You don't resist when he grabs you by the hand and pulls you to his cottage. Maybe Saionji actually helped you out for once, even if she didn't mean it. 

[jetaime-jespere]

Prompt #15

#15: Don’t Tempt Me

Smut.

A special thank you to @sweetsecretskeptinside for the inspo pic (and the 3:30 AM conversation that led to this little thing)

In 7.21, Emily says, No, I don't have a fear of owning stuff. Turn me loose in a shoe store, I'll prove that. So, we know she loves a good pair of shoes. Well, what would happen if Emily were in fact turned loose in a shoe store, only to come home to a curious Aaron?

Aaron is about three quarters of the way through a basketball game on TV when he hears the door open, announcing her arrival. “I’m back,” Emily calls through the narrow hallway, keys jingling from her wrist as she closes the door behind her. “Aaron? Where are you?”

He hears the thump of her shoes coming off, the soft swish of her jacket being hung up. He smiles, because even though it’s only been a few hours, he’s much happier now that she’s back. “In here,” he calls over the hum of the game as he finishes the last of the beer on the end table. “Watching the game.” Not that he actually cares too much - but there isn’t much else on at the moment, and it’s been just a little too quiet.

“Someone had a busy day,” Emily says in jest when she takes in the sight of him sprawled across the couch, while taking note of the spotless living room with appreciation. All the toys normally strewn about are cleaned up and tucked away, blankets neatly folded on the back of the couch. There’s a bag dangling from each of her slender wrists - two long white handles, brown and nondescript, with elegant white lettering across the side. Emily sets both down next to the couch, coming up next to him and looping her arms around his neck. “Hi,” she murmurs, kissing the sharp ridge of his jaw. “I’m sorry I’m so late getting back. Traffic outside McLean was awful.”

“That’s Northern Virginia at rush hour for you,” He quips, looking slightly amused, because she was supposed to be home almost an hour ago. “Did you have fun shopping at least?”

“Yeah,” she says casually, settling on the couch beside him, draping her legs over his lap. “It was crowded though. You’d think it was a holiday.”

“Get anything good?” Aaron massages her ankles, trying to appear interested in whatever she’d purchased. She’d gone out with JJ and Penelope a few hours before, giving him a few hours to run some desperately needed errands. There’s hardly any food in his fridge - they’ve been slammed with cases one right after the other for the last two weeks - and his place was in dire need of a cleaning. With Jack at a friend’s house for the afternoon it was perfect timing, but he’s expected back home at any time. There are dinner plans to figure out; Aaron promised his son the three of them would watch a movie, one that Jack gets to pick.

“You could say so,” Emily says coyly, reaching for the magazine in his hands. She flips through a few pages, even if her attention isn’t on it at all. Instead, Aaron feels her stare from across the couch, the subtle shift of the weight of her legs in his lap. The smile on her face and the lift of her eyebrows tells him she wants him to ask just what she got.

He relents, because her insistence has his interest piqued, and he wonders just what could be so fascinating about a standard day of shopping with JJ and Penelope. It’s something they do fairly often, sometimes coupled with drinks and dinner, or sometimes with brunch. Those trips usually end with her slightly tipsy, something he finds endearingly adorable. And while he still isn’t completely comfortable with the fact this his name most definitely comes up more than once, he looks past it now. “What did you get?”

“Some shoes.” Emily says casually, with a slight shrug. “I didn’t see much else.” But she’s reaching for the bags on the floor, the brown paper crinkling under her fingers. “Want to see? You think you can tear yourself away from the TV for a few minutes?”

There are two boxes in Emily’s lap. Both are brown, matching the bag, with the same logo embossed in the middle. Each box is wrapped with a red ribbon on the ends, and he frowns, thinking the whole presentation is a little … ostentatious.

But she’s already undoing the ribbons, popping the lids off the boxes. The first box contains a pair of high heels, black, with high sharp heels and an unnatural looking arch. They look ridiculously uncomfortable, yet something tells him she’d pull them off without question. The other pair are even less than practical - a pair of slingbacks with bows on the back, with even higher heels. They look like the kind of shoes that could break an ankle. And yet she’s watching him intently, gauging his reaction with an expression that he might label as pleased.

Where the hell would she ever wear those? His mind starts to wander with possibilities, and it dawns on him they’re not supposed to be practical. They’re fuck me shoes.  “Are they supposed to …” Aaron blinks with confusion as he studies the ridiculously impractical pairs of shoes, nestled in wrapping paper, both with red painted soles. “Are the bottoms supposed to be red?”

Emily laughs lightly, and Aaron can’t help but wonder if this is one of those things he’s just somehow supposed to magically know - not that he knows remotely anything about womens’ fashion. Haley’s taste in clothes had always been relatively practical, and given their line of work, he can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen Emily actually dressed up, much to his chagrin. “It’s the designer’s trademark, Aaron.”

He narrows his eyes with confusion. “Red soles?”

“Mmhm.”

“But no one sees the soles of your shoes,” he points out logically. “Besides, don’t you have a few other ones that look just like this?” He isn’t quite sure he sees the need for multiple pairs of black high heels that basically all look the same, even though the more he stares at the shoes, the more he can’t help but think about what she’d look like wearing these particular pairs.

“So? Emily looks very pleased with herself. “They’re an investment piece, Aaron. Christian Louboutin is timeless and classic.”

“Christian Lou - what?” He completely butchers the word Louboutin, struggling with the French pronunciation that seems to roll off her tongue so easily. Emily laughs softly, patiently pronouncing the word again, and then again. Something about hearing her speak French makes his mouth go dry, and he swallows thickly as she neatly wraps the shoes back up in the boxes.

Something else catches his eye - the pricetag - and he makes a conscious effort to keep his jaw firmly closed. “Emily,” he says evenly, even though he’s certain he’s seeing an extra zero he shouldn’t. “Tell me those shoes were not seven hundred dollars.” He pinches the bridge of his nose with disbelief, a slight shake of his head. “You bought two pairs.”

“Actually,” she says with an air of indifference. “The ones with the bows were seven hundred. The others were on sale for six.”

“Six hundred dollars for a pair of shoes?” He sounds incredulous, probably because he is. He’s no stranger to the fact that Emily was raised with an abundance of wealth and with that, probably comes some appreciation for the finer things. And not that he cares one bit about how she spends her money, but the thought just seems completely absurd to him.

“You know,” she begins slowly, batting her eyelashes with a mere shake of her head. “I’m sure you’d appreciate them more if you saw them on me.” And then her fingers drop to her shirt, beginning to undo the top button, then the next. “What do you think?”

It’s his turn to smirk, the slightest lick of his lips with his tongue as he meets her gaze with a look in his eyes that matches her own. “What are you  -”

“Daddy?” The excited voice coming from the foyer tears them out of the moment completely, and Emily practically bolts off the couch in surprise, as if they’ve been caught doing something they shouldn’t. Shit. She hurriedly buttons her shirt, taking a few precautionary steps away from Aaron out of habit. Jack is still hanging up his coat, chattering animatedly about his afternoon, running through a rather long list of potential movie options. Aaron gets up from the couch, pecking Emily on the cheek with a slightly apologetic look. “Next time?”

“Next time,” she agrees, practically purrs in his ear, pressing her body up against his. She stands on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, letting her teeth scrape against his earlobe as she disappears with the boxes in her hands, putting an extra sway in her hips along the way.

…

“Not here,” Aaron tells her for the third time, this time more firmly. They’re milking drinks at a roundtop table in the middle of an ALS Benefit a few days later. They’re there for Dave, like every year, and for some reason, he’s just not feeling it tonight. It’s warm in the room, he doesn’t feel like dancing, and not to mention, Emily has been goading him since they arrived.

“Come on,” Emily coaxes him with a wink from across the table, a glass of red wine in her hand. “You’re no fun, you know.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, our colleagues happen to be in or around the vicinity of this room.” Aaron takes a sip of his drink, this time downing most of the glass. The drinks are a little too strong, the music is a little too loud, and he’s already having trouble concentrating on anything, thanks to the fact that Emily has stayed within his line of sight almost all evening. It’s intentional, that much he knows. The rest of the team has dissipated, spread out amongst the crowd, mingling with the other guests. He knows they should probably do the same. After this drink, he tells himself.

“But I’m wearing the shoes.” It’s the way she says it, locking her eyes with his. But he already knows - he’d noticed as they walked into the hotel two hours before.

“Don’t tempt me,” he hisses just a little more forcefully, wishing he had a fresh drink to occupy his hands. “We’ve got another two hours at this thing.” He’s doing his damn best to keep his eyes forward instead of staring at her, but that’s getting harder. She’d decided on the black dress after a careful deliberation, showing him the various options she’d pulled from the depths of her closet. They’d barely made it out the door on time.

“There’s plenty of open rooms,” she tries again. “Nobody will notice we’re gone.” As if to prove her point, Emily tips her head in the direction of the band, where Strauss and Dave are all but tearing up the dance floor. “Look at them.”

Aaron nods, stifling a laugh in his fist. “Sometimes I still can’t believe they’re together.”

“It’s been going on for years,” Emily snickers. “Dave used to think he was subtle about it. He wasn’t. But good for him.” She tips her head back, exposing the side of her neck. Something inside of him snaps, his mind made up, because before he can stop himself, he’s wrapping his hand around her elbow, giving her a gentle shove through the crowd of people.

“Aaron, what are you -”

“Let’s go,” he growls in her ear, pressing a hand into the small of her back to lead her closer to the door. It’s risky at best and a bad idea at the worst, but what the hell? He thinks, leaning forward to get a trace of her perfume on the back of her neck.

Emily grins to herself, her eyes locked on the door just ahead of them, and she’s grateful for the dimmed lights in the ballroom - no one will even notice they’re gone. The hallway is hushed quiet compared to the booming of the music on the other side of the door, and they stare at each other for a brief moment. “Here,” he says, taking her hand. There are multiple closed doors that lead to empty conference rooms; Aaron leads her to the one at the far end of the hall.

“I thought I wasn’t supposed to tempt you.” Emily flutters her eyelashes, her fingers lingering on his face as she slips past him through the doors. This is a bad idea, they both think, not for the first time, and yet, neither of them are about to put an end to it.

“Too late.” Aaron closes the door and adds the lock for good measure, spinning on his heel to face her. Emily licks her lips, backs up until her back is against the wall, all but cornering herself as he nearly rips his own suit jacket off, throwing it against the table. He’s eying her almost ferally, staring at her legs and the damn shoes. His jaw is set in determination as he moves toward her. “I’m going to take you apart.”

Damn, Emily thinks, her eyes widening as Aaron gets a hand around her waist, pulling her into him. He bypasses her mouth entirely, going right for her neck. She gasps as his teeth drag over her skin, his hands impatient as he goes for the zipper at the back of her dress.

“Don’t rip it,” she breathes, arching her back as his fingers dance down her spine, pulling the little metal tab down to the small of her back. “It was expen-”

“Shhh.” He covers her lips with his own, smiling a little when she moans into his mouth,  her body bowing into his. Aaron gets his hands around her hips, walks them back and around until he can lean her against the large credenza in the corner, pulling the dress down over her shoulders. Her breath hitches as the cool air hits her skin; it pebbles as his hands slide around to work the clasp; it snaps free in one go.

“I’m impressed,” Emily drawls with a grin as it falls away.

“This isn’t my first rodeo, you know.” He leans her back even further, going with her as her back hits the top of the table. He takes one breast in his mouth, alternating the pressure of his mouth until she keens into the air, her hands pulling at the fabric of his expensive dress shirt. Emily gets a hand in his hair, urging him to keep going. He switches to the other breast, repeating the same pattern with his mouth. “You’re perfect,” he breathes, cupping his hands around her jaw when he stands straight to kiss her again. “So perfect.”

Emily smiles, already starting to work the buttons of his dress shirt. “There’s lipstick on this,” she murmurs, finding the imprints of her lips on the collar. “I guess we weren’t very subtle earlier.”

“I don’t care.” He gets the shirt off his shoulders, then lifts her up just enough to get the dress past her hips and over her head. She’s left in nothing but those damn shoes that make her legs look endless, and some impractical, lacy underwear that matches the bra that’s now discarded on the floor. He stands back to look at her, an equal mix of adoration and lust. It takes little effort to lift her up, setting her on the top of the credenza, coming to stand between her legs. He runs his hands over her thighs, down her calves, closing around her ankles, admiring her, smirking when he sees the shoes again. Emily rests on her elbows, watching as he kisses the insides of her knees, her stomach quivering with effort to remain semi-upright.

“The shoes,” he says as he props her legs on his shoulders, watching her for a few moments. “Stay on.”

All she can do is nod, her heart fluttering in her chest as he tugs on either side of the lace at her hips, dragging it down over her legs. On the pile it goes, and when she’s finally completely bare before him save for a ridiculously expensive pair of high heels, her legs bent around his shoulders, does she seemingly realize where they are, her eyes sparkling. “If anyone hears us,” Emily breathes, “I’m blaming you.”

“Then keep quiet,” he says with a wink, spreading her thighs even further open with his shoulders. He kisses each thigh, taking his time to build her up until Emily presses the spikes of her heels into his shoulders. He only smiles against her, one long, slow lick of his tongue follows a moment later. Emily whines as he drags her closer to his mouth.

“Hurry up,” she pants with anticipation, and as if on cue, he touches his lips to her clit just enough to make her back arch and her eyes fall shut. “Fuck,” she groans, tugging at his hair with both hands, and when his tongue becomes an insistent pulsing rhythm, Emily lets out a loud whimper, one that reverberates through the conference room. Aaron pushes her over once; she comes against his mouth hard, her legs shaking on his shoulders as the heels nearly pierce his skin. He rears back, encircling her ankles with gentle fingers, staring down at her.

“So much for keeping quiet, Sweetheart.” He’s taunting her, loosening his hold on one ankle as he pulls at his belt. Emily’ head rolls back against the table, biting her lip when his pants are added to the pile. He palms himself in his hand, lining himself up with her as Emily wraps her legs around his waist. Aaron smiles when he feels the spikes of her heels dig into his lower back; he kisses her in tandem with the initial thrust inside of her. Emily whimpers into his mouth, bringing a hand to grip his shoulder for leverage as he pushes all the way in one smooth press of his hips.

“Oh fuck,” she whines, and he runs a finger over her lips to remind her of volume. She’s making these little noises, clenching around him, tilting her hips forward to meet his shallow thrusts. “Harder.” She tightens her legs around his back, bringing him impossibly close, and he’s more than happy to appease her. And he does, driving into her deliberately and forcefully as she hums in pleasure around him. Her nails scrape down his back, he winds an arm around her waist to keep her steady as those damn shoes remind him of how tightly her legs are locked around his hips.

Jesus Christ. “Emily.” Each drive of his hips sends the table into the wall. “Come for me.” He gets a hand between them, swipes his thumb over her clit a few times and it’s all it takes to send her over again, the near scream in his ear. She clenches around him like a vice, her moans muffled by the seal of his mouth around hers. He kisses her through her second climax, his own coming quickly, and one final push of his hips and the rasp of her name on his lips. It takes more strength than he anticipated to keep himself upright, and his arms shake with effort as he cleans her up with a tissue from his pocket. Aaron helps her down, making sure her legs don’t give out beneath her in the unforgiving shoes, beginning the now arduous task of searching for their clothes. Even with the closed door they hear the boom of music, indicating the party is still going strong.

“We should make this a yearly thing,” Emily says with a wicked grin, tossing his jacket in his direction. “No one even missed us.”

He pretends to consider it, wondering if there’s any truth to her words. They’ve been gone awhile; certainly by now someone might be wondering. His jaw flexes as he watches her rearrange her bra, getting the dress over her head and past her hips. And as his eyes wander down her legs to the expensive shoes, the ones with the name he still can’t pronounce, he knows he’ll never be able to deny her. “Fine. But only if you wear those again.”

[carewyncromwell]

[Ficlet] Take a Chance on Me

...Hey, I said I might add onto the ficlet I did of how Carewyn joined the Slytherin Quidditch team for a game back in her third year! >>; This is based on Quidditch Season 1 Chapter 6, AKA the major plot turn before MC, Orion, Skye, and their house Quidditch team’s first match. (In this case, Slytherin VS Hufflepuff!)

For those of you who didn’t read the last ficlet and want to just jump into this one -- Carewyn (soon to be “Mama-Bear”) Cromwell is a third year Slytherin, with Orion, Skye, McNully, and Rath all being one year ahead of her. This will also be the only Quidditch match Carewyn plays until the tail end of her sixth year, which you can read about with this Quest of the Quidditch tag I made! Also as a note, since there is some art under the cut -- Orion, in my canon, doesn’t look the way he does in the game until his sixth year or so (namely, with his facial hair), hence why he looks a bit more boyish in how I drew him! (It is amazing how much younger Orion looks without the stubble!!) And yeah, even if Carewyn and Orion eventually become a couple post-Hogwarts, their relationship won’t really be explicitly romantic here, even if the strong platonic chemistry will definitely be there. 😊

Hope you enjoy! 💚

x~x~x~x

The Slytherin VS Hufflepuff Quidditch match was scheduled for the first weekend of November. With less than a week remaining, both houses were getting very excited -- Carewyn could tell her friend Penny Haywood was having trouble knowing whether to be more thrilled for her house team or for Carewyn.

“Well, there are a lot of people who don’t make the team on their first try!” Penny had said to Carewyn when she learned the news. “Gosh, Carewyn -- I know you’ll be flying up against my team, but...watching you play in a real Quidditch match will be even more fun than just watching one with you!”

Charlie and Andre were also thrilled. 

“I knew you could do it, Carey!” said Charlie, beaming from ear to ear. “C’mere!”

He looped an arm around her neck and squeezed her against his side in a hug. 

“Mm, I can’t say I knew, given Orion Amari’s reputation,” said Andre, though his face still broke into a grin, “but I’m glad that however odd he is, at least he can see raw talent when it’s placed in front of him! It’ll be so much more exciting to have you on the Pitch too, Cursebreaker.”

Though inwardly hating the nickname, Carewyn still gave them her best smile. “Thanks...”

~~~

The first couple of Slytherin team practices were largely based on teamwork exercises, so as to “strengthen the bond” between Carewyn and the rest of her teammates. She knew her fellow Chasers Orion and Skye already, of course, but Orion wanted to make sure she was likewise on good terms with their Beaters -- a pair of muscular seventh-years called King and Shacklebolt -- their very tall sixth-year Keeper Crockett, and their pretty seventh-year Seeker, Anika Lucky. 

If Carewyn’s petite height and lack of muscles weren’t noticeable before, it was comically apparent when she stood alongside the rest of the Slytherin team -- even Skye, the smallest of them, still towered a good ten inches over 4′9″ Carewyn. Fortunately, although most of the Slytherin team gave Carewyn a slightly confused side-eye when she first arrived for practice, they all reacted a little differently after Orion challenged the team to break his record of balancing on their brooms (2 hours, 52 minutes and 31.2 seconds, according to McNully), and Carewyn was the only one who kept up with Skye all the way up until the end. 

“And then there were two,” sighed Shacklebolt rather tiredly, when he finally had to give up and sit back down on his broom, massaging his leg. 

Crockett looked at Orion with something of a weak smile. “Come on, Orion...maybe we should call this off. We can’t exactly break the record for balancing on one leg together when most of us are sitting down...”

“Ah, but if one of us breaks the record, then we all break the record,” said Orion with a smile. 

Skye crossed her arms from her position balancing on her broom. “The one who breaks the record will get credit, though, right?”

“A victory for one is a victory for all,” Orion said mellowly, “and for that, we should celebrate on behalf of that one.”

Carewyn opened her eyes. She’d been keeping them closed and singing songs in her head, to try to help her ignore how much her leg was hurting and how much time was passing. When she glanced at Skye, she noticed a line of sweat appearing on her brow. 

“...How close are we to our goal, Orion?” asked Carewyn. 

“Only time will tell,” answered Orion.

Skye frowned sourly. “Right -- that was Carewyn’s question: tell us the time.”

“The moment is near,” said Orion with a twinkle in his eye, “but who’s counting?”

“MCNULLY!” Skye bellowed up at the stands in exasperation. “YOU’D BETTER BLOODY WELL BE COUNTING UP THERE, OR I SWEAR I’LL BEAT BOTH YOU AND ORION BLACK AND BLUE!”

The Beaters both sighed and shook their heads.

“Here he goes again,” muttered Shacklebolt.

“I think he’s gone even deeper into his own head since becoming Captain,” King agreed under her breath, sounding both rather tired and slightly amused. 

Carewyn turned to Orion, her almond-shaped blue eyes becoming a bit more serious. 

“Orion, a Niffler is able to chase gold so well because it can smell when it’s close,” she said in an oddly stern voice. “It’d probably be a lot easier for Skye and me to reach our goal if we also knew how close we were to it.”

The other Slytherins all blinked at the tiny third-year, taken aback by her assertiveness. Orion, however, only grinned. 

“Is not the journey a kind of treasure in itself, however?” he said. “After all...you and Skye have united so well in this endeavor, despite your apparent differences.”

“Yes,” granted Carewyn, her voice staying rather firm, “but if you want both of us -- and therefore all of us -- to break the record, then it stands to reason that both Skye and I should be of the same mind. And Skye and I would both like to know how close we are to bringing our team victory.”

“Right,” said Skye, a bit more impatiently. “So will you go ask McNully how much time is left already?”

Orion’s black eyes sparkled with mischief. “It’s so fascinating, how full of fire you both are, and yet how differently colored your flames are.”

He looked up at the stands. When he caught McNully’s eye, he threw up his fist into the air in silent celebration.

“That’s it?!” said Skye eagerly, sounding immensely relieved. “A new record? Finally!”

She immediately sat down -- Carewyn, however, did not, and she was glad of it, for sure enough, Orion turned back around with a grin and said, 

“McNully’s just informed me that we’re in the final countdown!”

The team all covered their faces with their hands. Skye’s mouth dropped open. 

“What?!” she yelped. “Are you kidding -- I wouldn’t have sat yet!”

“Why did you?” Orion teased good-naturedly. “I thought you wanted to be the last one standing.”

Skye looked like steam was coming out of her ears. Carewyn fixed Orion with a rather reproachful look. 

“Orion, that wasn’t nice!” the much smaller girl scolded him the way she sometimes did Jacob when she was little. “Skye really had her heart set on beating your record.”

Orion’s amusement actually dimmed slightly. After a moment, his expression turned a bit softer upon both Skye and Carewyn. 

“Fortunately she did beat it,” he said, gesturing to Carewyn still balancing on her broom, “through her student.”

Carewyn raised her eyebrow, looking from Orion to up at McNully in the commentary box. “So the record has been broken now?”

“Indeed,” said Orion with a proud smile, exchanging a nod with McNully. “McNully-confirmed. Congratulations, team -- we did it!”

The team all breathed a sigh of relief, except for Skye, who still looked sour. 

“Carewyn did it, this time,” she said begrudgingly. “Congratulations, Carewyn.”

Carewyn lowered herself back down onto her broom, averting her eyes and massaging her burning thigh. “Thanks.”

She was proud that she was able to prove herself, after it’d taken her three whole hours just to figure out how to even balance like that in the first place...even if she didn’t love the fact that Skye was clearly bitter about it. 

“I must admit, though, Carewyn, I’m a bit disappointed,” said Orion. “Not once in all that time did you share any of your meditation songs with us.”

The team, including Skye, once again turned to look at Carewyn, surprised. Carewyn flushed. 

“Well, you said I could do it whenever we meditate together, as in the two of us,” she said rather huffily, closing her eyes and putting up her nose. “I didn’t want to break anyone else’s concentration.”

“A kind thought,” said Orion. “But perhaps next time, we can see if it actually helps our team’s focus. We’ll need all the focus and teamwork possible, in our match against Hufflepuff.”

~~~

The Slytherin team soon found themselves very happy with Orion’s choice. Carewyn not only was a very talented Chaser with excellent speed and aim, but she also seemed to know just how to talk to Orion on his terms and keep him a bit more grounded. And when she did end up singing during their practices, it actually turned out to be kind of a fun way to pass the time too. The players who’d been born in magical families like Skye in particular found it interesting to hear Muggle songs they’d never been exposed to before. 

“If you're all alone, When the pretty birds have flown, Honey, I'm still free -- Take a chance on me! Gonna do my very best, And it ain't no lie -- If you put me to the test, If you let me try...”

Carewyn did notice, however, that their practices were being watched -- and not just by Murphy McNully, either. 

“It’s not abnormal for other teams to want to get a peek at new players before a match, so they can get information they can use while building their team strategies,” McNully told her. “Most opposing players try to be subtle about it, but Ulrich Dylan -- that’s Hufflepuff’s Captain -- is not. Ravenclaw’s whole team isn’t either...especially Erika Rath -- she always makes it a point to get a good look at any new opponents. And well, admittedly, there’s nothing banning them from coming to watch our practices, so I guess they don’t feel the need to hide it.”

Carewyn considered this. “...Maybe they see it as a way to intimidate us too -- you know, being so confident in letting us know that they see us, and that they’re judging us.”

Kind of like how I felt a bit intimidated by Orion, while he was watching me fall off my broom for three hours. 

McNully nodded. “Not a bad theory! Ravenclaw in particular has already won the Quidditch Cup two years in a row, so they definitely have some cause to be confident. Just with their current line-up, I’d say there’s a 38% chance they’ll win the Cup again.”

Considering that was well over 1/4, Carewyn didn’t like those odds. Seeing the frown on her face, McNully smiled. 

“Don’t worry, Carewyn -- we do have one ace up our sleeve, when it comes to strategy. Only Slytherin knows how to do the Thimblerig Shuffle properly, as of yet -- therefore if we use it, I’d say we stand a 87.3% chance of throwing Hufflepuff off their game.”

Carewyn smiled. “That’s great!”

“Glad you agree!” said McNully. He then rubbed the back of his neck a bit awkwardly. “There’s...just one thing: Orion would have to actually use it, in the match. And well, we both know Orion -- the odds of him using it don’t go above 43%...” His face then burst into a smile. “...buuuut I’d say if you put in a good word with him, he might be more willing to listen!”

Carewyn looked confused. “Why me? You’re Orion’s friend too, aren’t you?”

“Of course! But Orion and I are still very different people. We have trouble speaking the same language sometimes. Honestly, I’d say I only understand what he’s trying to say about 72% of the time,” McNully added under his breath. “But you and he already seem to have a good rapport -- I reckon you bringing up the Thimblerig Shuffle to Orion would improve his odds of using it by a good 10%!”

Carewyn still wasn’t entirely sure, but she gave McNully a reassuring nod. “Well, I’ll try, anyway.”

~~~

Carewyn asked Orion to meet her before practice. She wanted to make absolutely sure that none of the other team’s players would be listening in. When Orion saw her approach, he smiled broadly. 

“Greetings, Breaker of Records,” he said amusedly. 

Carewyn frowned. The nickname reminded her unpleasantly of Andre’s “Cursebreaker” moniker for her. 

“Hi, Orion...thanks for coming early.”

Orion seemed to notice the shift in her expression -- it made his eyes soften slightly, becoming a bit more serious.

“We’re members of the same Quidditch family now, Carewyn,” he said gently. “Therefore my time is our time...and we can always find time to find balance together.”

Carewyn smiled slightly, feeling a bit reassured. “...Well, it’s less about balance and more about...well, about the match against Hufflepuff.”

“I think those two things are very much entwined,” said Orion.

“In a way, yes...but well, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’ve had a lot of company in the stands, while we’re practicing. Like Hufflepuff’s Captain.”

Orion nodded. “I have seen him.”

“Well, McNully thinks he’s been stopping by to get a good look at me, and the rest of the team,” said Carewyn seriously. “That way he can use whatever information he can get about us in his team’s strategy. And...well, I know you don’t think strategical skills will determine our path...but it seems like we should use all of the strengths we have to our advantage, right?”

Orion crossed his legs around his broom so that he could actually take his hands off of it and cross his arms idly over his chest. 

“I agree,” he said quietly, but it seemed clear he was waiting for her to reach her conclusion, rather than being completely onboard. 

“Well,” Carewyn plowed on, “right now, we’re the only Quidditch team who knows how to do the Thimblerig Shuffle -- you know, the move McNully made up?”

Orion nodded slowly. “I remember. Quintessential McNully -- magical in its complexity, and complex in its magic.”

Carewyn gave a nod of her own. “It’s really a very clever move...it would definitely throw Hufflepuff off-balance, which could only help us out. And well, considering McNully’s your friend, I reckon it would mean a lot to him, if you considered using it.”

Orion raised his eyebrows rather coolly. “You clearly have been a very good friend to McNully already, speaking on his behalf. Though I don’t know if I appreciate him using the Slytherin team in a strategy to coax their Captain to his way of thinking.”

Carewyn felt her gaze slipping down to her broom, but she tried to hold her ground. “I really don’t think McNully was trying to pressure you, Orion. I think he just really wants us to win -- you to win. Planning things out is just how his mind works...and he is pretty good at it. I learned a lot about Quidditch from him.”

“You and McNully do both enjoy your plans and strategies,” said Orion. 

His face then spread into a wryer smile. 

“I, however, have a different strategy in mind -- the absence of strategy.” 

Carewyn wanted to be surprised, but she wasn’t. It still didn’t make the lump that settled into her stomach any less heavy. 

“...Then...you have no plan at all, for us to win?” she asked, a bit shakily. 

Orion’s black eyes twinkled. “Indeed. Let me show you.”

Within seconds, he’d easily leapt up onto his broom, so that he was balancing on it. Rather than before, though, he used both feet and actually surfed on the back of it, as if he were on a surfboard soaring through the air. Unlike a surfer on ocean waves, however, Orion was able to go completely upside down and around, balancing perfectly as if he and his broom were one and the same. 

Carewyn found herself unable to tear her eyes away. Orion did, in fact, look pretty damn cool. 

Her eyes were as wide as dinner plates as she followed his zigzagging moves around the Pitch -- and little by little, she found her lips spreading into an awed, open-mouthed smile. 

Her reaction made Orion grin. 

“Inspired Broom Surfing!” he called down to her. “That is its name, and that is what all shall call it.”

“Did you...did you invent this yourself?” asked Carewyn, disbelievingly. 

“It’s the product of inspiration, not invention,” said Orion. “I thought of it, and so I do it.”

He looped in several circles over Carewyn’s head with apparent ease.

“Surfing the skies distracts the competition. They, too, shall wish to surf like this...”

He weaved in a tight “S” shape that reminded Carewyn of a figure skater on ice. 

“...and yet, it also showcases one’s individual talent, and magnifies it! For most Quidditch players, even the best, never take the time to become one with their brooms -- but you can be an exception.”

Carewyn’s eyes and smile were very bright. ‘So you can psyche your opponent out, just with your confidence! And because you’ve got both hands open to hold the Quaffle, it’ll be harder for the opposing team to steal it too!’

“That’s...it’s brilliant, Orion!”

The praise definitely seemed to boost Orion’s ego. He flew completely upside down in a circle before coming to a stop beside Carewyn, grinning broadly. 

“Would you like to learn?” he asked.

Carewyn looked down at Orion’s Cleansweep and then down on her old rundown Shooting Star. 

“I definitely won’t be as good as you,” she said as offhandedly as she could. 

Orion’s black eyes sparkled. “We’ll see about that. Now come -- balance first.”

Carewyn followed his lead, balancing on her broom the way he did. 

“Forget technique,” he instructed, “forget form. Just be one with the broom.”

Carewyn started off slow, trying to weave. There were one or two points she felt like she was going to fall off, but she just managed to sweep her broom around enough to catch herself. Orion meanwhile swept around her in spirals to observe her. 

“Do not broom surf with intent. You should only ever do this when the feeling is right, not when logic dictates.”

Carewyn sped up a bit in her weaving, tilting her broom up so that she hovered a bit higher. She then tried to aim herself toward the hoops -- she charged ahead, and then looped back around in a “j” shape. Orion followed, shimmying around her. 

“Good,” said Orion. “Good -- let go -- ”

Carewyn urged her broom a little faster and Orion took off after her. Soon they were weaving around each other, Orion coming up and over her. Carewyn brought her arms up on either side of her to help her shift balance as if she was on roller skates, and she soon found herself laughing. This was fun!

“How...how am I doing?” she asked as she tried to catch her breath. 

Orion’s smile was broader than Carewyn had ever seen it, so much so that it made his black eyes squint slightly. “You look like you’ve been broom surfing like that your entire life, Carewyn Cromwell.”

They finally came to a halt in the middle of the pitch. Orion nimbly leapt back down onto his broom in a seated position again -- Carewyn took a bit more time to gradually lower herself back down. 

“Hufflepuff will not be able to take their eyes off you,” Orion said confidently. “And it’s while they are distracted that we will be able to rack up points.”

Carewyn adjusted her ponytail as best she could with one hand. 

“It really is brilliant, Orion,” she said kindly, “but...well, isn’t that a strategy in itself, that I’ll distract the Hufflepuffs, while you and Skye score points?”

“To some, perhaps,” said Orion. “But all of it will only be if the time and feelings are right. I don’t believe in planning things out too far ahead. None of us are Seers who can divine the future, so can we truly know whether any plans we make will fit in with how that future will take shape?”

“No,” granted Carewyn, “but that doesn’t mean you can’t make a plan and hope for the best anyhow. Or better yet, make a back-up plan, just in case things don’t go the way you want...”

Orion raised an eyebrow. “You and McNully believe Hufflepuff’s Captain came to watch our practices so as to make a strategy, correct? It stands to reason, then, that he’s channeling the Demiguise as best he can.”

“The Demiguise?” prompted Carewyn. 

“Trying to predict our own strategy in the upcoming match, through watching our interactions and team dynamics,” said Orion simply. “If, however, we go in with no strategy, there’ll be nothing for Hufflepuff to latch onto. That mystery works in our favor.” 

“But it also might make it harder for us to fly as one team,” Carewyn pointed out, trying to mirror Orion’s level tone but not quite succeeding due to her sincere concern. “I can Broom Surf now, Orion, but I can’t do it as well as you. Only you will likely ever be able to do it as well as you do...because no one could be exactly like you. And well...no one else sees the world quite like you do, either. It’s brilliant, really,” she added quickly. “It’s cool that you don’t act how people expect you to, or see the world like everyone else does. But...I don’t know, I guess it’d be a lot easier for the rest of the team to be on the same page as you, if you choose a book that you can read together. If that makes sense.”

Orion considered Carewyn for a moment, his unreadable black eyes trailing over her face.

“It does,” he said at last. 

He looked up at the stands. 

“It appears that our ‘guest’ has arrived,” he changed the subject dryly. 

Carewyn looked up. Sure enough, she saw the very tall, broad-chested Hufflepuff Quidditch Captain, Ulrich Dylan, confidently striding across the stands and plopping himself down. He rested his arms on the edge of the stands as he stared down at them. Carewyn’s eyes narrowed up at him. 

“As has the rest of our team,” added Orion a bit more pleasantly. 

Sure enough, the rest of the Slytherins -- Skye in front -- flew out onto the pitch to join them.

“Hey, Orion,” greeted Crockett brightly. “Hey, Carewyn. Looks like you’ve both got a...‘broom with a view?’ Eh? Get it?”

Carewyn couldn’t help but wince, even though she tried to smile. 

“Will you lay off with the puns?” said Skye, rolling her eyes exasperatedly. “You stretch farther with those than I do trying to reach the Quaffle...”

“But it’s part of what being Keeper is!” Crockett said playfully. “Everybody knows that...and you know I’m a Keeper! All the ladies say so.”

“All the ladies except us,” said Lucky, who’d covered her face with her hand. 

“And we have to be subjected to your jokes,” added King with a roll of her eyes. 

Skye shifted gears as she looked at Carewyn, offering her a determined look. “Ready for practice, Carewyn?”

Carewyn forced herself to look away from the Hufflepuff Captain in the stands, giving Skye a confident nod. “Mm-hmm.”

“The time has come for our time,” said Orion serenely. “Our first exercise will be helping each other through sabotaging each other. Our Beaters and Seeker will play as opposition to our Chasers and Keeper, so that we may practice saving and blocking goals.”

Carewyn looked at Orion with a teasing smirk. “Sounds like a plan.” 

Orion smiled very wryly at her in return. 

~~~

Orion asked the rest of the team to stay after practice for a team meeting. The team waited around so long for the meeting, though, that they soon occupied themselves with idle conversation. Hufflepuff’s Quidditch Captain had left over fifteen minutes ago, and Carewyn was glad to see him gone.

Skye stretched her arms over her head and sighed tiredly. “Ugh...I’m going to give Orion a good smack for this. Asks us to stay after for a team meeting, and then completely forgets to start it...”

“You shouldn’t hit him,” said Carewyn reproachfully, her voice coming out a bit whiny despite her best efforts. 

“Ah, come on, Carewyn, I don’t mean it like that,” said Skye with a shake of her head. She smiled. “So anyway -- what did I miss before? What were you and Orion doing here so early?”

Carewyn took her hair out of its ponytail, looping the red scrunchie around her wrist so she could redo it. “Orion taught me how to do this Quidditch move he created -- it’s called Inspired Broom Surfing...”

Skye grinned. “Ah yeah, that thing! I reckon Orion sees it as a future signature move for him, as a player. Don’t know if I’d go that far, but hey, it’s a fun way to waste time.”

“I don’t think it wastes time,” said Carewyn, frowning slightly as she put down her now much tidier ponytail. “I think it’s rather brilliant, actually. If we’re going to beat Hufflepuff, I reckon us looking confident and fearless to the opposing team would be pretty helpful.”

“The only thing we need to defeat Hufflepuff is Parkin’s Pincer,” Skye said confidently. “They might expect it, but they can’t stop it.”

Carewyn frowned. “But...if they do expect it, then they could still make a strategy to counteract it, right?”

“Not when we do it perfectly,” said Skye. “And you and Orion both know how to do it perfectly -- I’ve made sure of that.”

Carewyn couldn’t help but disagree, but decided not to push the issue. Instead she sighed. 

“Well, I guess in the end, it’s really up to Orion -- he is team Captain. I guess I just wish he’d consider making more of a plan...I mean, I always feel better whenever I’m doing something difficult, when I know I’m prepared and I’ve planned ahead.”

I don’t think I would’ve been able to deal with the Ice Vault at all, if I hadn’t practiced Incendio with Bill first. And it felt good knowing that he and Ben were there to help me too, since they both knew the spell really well. 

Skye’s face became a bit more serious. “Yeah, that’s really not Orion’s style.”

She brought a hand onto the smaller girl’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. 

“Don’t worry your little red head about it, though,” she said with a smile. “Orion may be a weirdo, but he’s been known to make the right call, when it counts. You just focus on being a smashing Chaser, and let us more senior players worry about it. Nobody will be expecting the newest player to make any major decisions during the match anyway -- ”

“That’s it! That’s what we’ll do!”

Everyone gave a start. 

Orion, without anyone noticing, had settled himself overhead on his broom, sitting on it as if it were a swing. As he leapt back down to the ground, however, sweeping his broom out from under him with a flourish, he was grinning as excitedly as a kid at Christmas, his eyes on Skye and Carewyn.

“Orion?” said Carewyn, startled. “When did you -- ?”

“Is the meeting finally starting now?” asked Lucky. 

Orion brought his broom up onto his shoulders behind his head, still grinning broadly. “This is the team meeting. I simply stand back and observe my teammates interacting in an unstructured setting.”

Skye wrinkled her nose in revulsion. “Orion! Most people call that snooping!”

“I prefer the term ‘discovery,’” Orion said smoothly. “And sure enough, it put a spotlight on your idea...”

“My what?”

Orion turned to the rest of the team, his broad smile never shifting. 

“My teammates, we shall do the unexpected, to win our first House match. Hufflepuff, as well as everyone else, expects me to make the big decisions -- but instead, our newest player will.”

His black eyes and white smile were both gleaming with determination as he turned to Carewyn. 

“In this match, Carewyn Cromwell will call the shots.”

Everyone on the team was so taken aback that they all stared at Carewyn, and then Orion, and back. Carewyn herself had lost all of the color in her face.

W...what?

She couldn’t do anything except gawk at Orion in disbelief. She looked around at the rest of the team helplessly -- Skye looked almost more horrified than Carewyn, as well as angry. 

“What?! Orion, are you mad!?”

“Not in the least,” said Orion breezily. “I’m quite content with my decision.”

“Orion -- you can’t be -- ” started Shacklebolt.

But the Quidditch Captain had already turned around, his lips upturned in a rather proud smirk as he rested his arms over the broom on his shoulder.

“Our new leadership will not be discussed outside of the Changing Room,” he said levelly, “lest our opponents catch wind of it. And when next we fly and Ulrich Dylan’s eyes are on us, we will practice as we always have.”

He glanced over his shoulder at Carewyn, his black eyes twinkling. 

“You sang your commitment to us yourself, Carewyn. And now...we’ll take a chance on you.”

By the time Carewyn recollected herself enough to try to argue, Orion was already gone. 

[witcher-and-his-bard-archive]

Jaskier is good at nothing if not wanting people who will get him into trouble, so falling for Geralt was somewhat inevitable. But Eskel? That one he didn't see coming.

They've been at Kaer Morhen for a couple of weeks now and Jaskier has been drawn to Eskel from the start. He can't say why exactly, though he’'s come to notice how similar Eskel is to Geralt in a lot of ways. He's more open though; more willing to praise Jaskier for his voice and for his songs, and more likely to sit and chat and share details of his past adventures. Geralt never seems to mind, but he never seems to be present when Jaskier sits with Eskel in the evenings.

And that, Jaskier puts down to the weird sort of tension between the two Witchers. He watches them closely when they're together and he suspects one or both of them has realized, but neither says anything about it and neither has asked him to stop. Geralt keeps his emotions close to his chest, but when he's with Eskel, he seems freer. He smiles more, for a start, and there's something different about the pair of them. Something that Jaskier can't quite figure out, but it begs to be pushed over the edge and Jaskier wants to be the one to tip it.

The thought of having Geralt to himself is, he's starting to realize, a daydream destined to drive him to madness, but if Geralt can be happy with someone else who would Jaskier be to stand in the way? And if he lets his mind wander at night to the prospect of being pressed between two Witchers, that's his own business. And it's a damn good thing Witchers can't read minds.

So what Jaskier was hoping might be an interesting winter has turned into watching from afar and hoping Geralt isn't as actually emotionally stunted as he's proven to be with him. And some days it's too much. He wants too much, loves too hard, and seeing the pair of them together is more than he can deal with. Those nights, he tucks himself away in his room with a crackling fire and tries to think of anything but Geralt or Eskel.

And it would be alright if it was just Geralt because he's used to being pushed aside by Geralt, but Eskel has been nothing but kind to him. And he was hoping to be able to give him something back for once. If he's honest with himself, he's been thinking almost as much about Eskel since they arrived as he has about Geralt which is unexpected and, under the circumstances, more bitter than anything. Because he'd rather see Geralt happy than pursue his own desires - especially with someone like Eskel.

Then the weather takes a turn for the worse. They've all been expecting it, but Jaskier didn't realize how much time he'd spent outside until it wasn't an option anymore. And staying indoors means other ways of keeping themselves occupied and while Jaskier can think of many, many ways to pass the time, most of which involve having a willing partner and currently, he does not.

But being trapped inside means being in much closer quarters and spending a lot more time with Geralt and Eskel. He tells himself it's to figure out what they need to cross that imaginary line in the sand, but he genuinely likes being around them. And when Geralt is with both of them, his openness extends to Jaskier. So maybe he sticks a little closer to them than he feels he should, but given the option between being alone and finally having a proper connection with Geralt, there’s no contest.

There's a storm one night and they're sitting in the hall in front of the fire. Jaskier was playing for them, but his fingers have since gone numb with cold and drink and he's sitting quietly now, rubbing his hands together to heat them up. Geralt is recounting the story of a fleder they ran into in Aedirn when he stops suddenly. They've all been drinking, so Jaskier isn't surprised when Geralt's eyes linger on him before dropping to his hands.

"You're cold," he says simply and Jaskier barely has a chance to shrug before he's been hauled unexpectedly into Geralt's lap. Nose-to-nose, Jaskier can't seem to catch his breath and for once, Geralt seems to be the one who's perfectly comfortable with the situation.

And it's not as though this is something new for them, per se, but Geralt is never the one to initiate so much touching and certainly not while anyone else is around. Especially not someone else he's interested in. Jaskier can even remember one particular night in which he was shoved unceremoniously onto the floor because Yen was there. But even now, with his arms looped around Jaskier's waist, Geralt keeps talking quietly with Eskel. And Jaskier’s heart beats so loudly he’s sure it must be deafening for them.

Geralt and Eskel speak in hushed tones, soft and private, and all the while Geralt's fingers play with Jaskier's shirt, fiddling with the fabric until it's lifted enough for him to reach his skin. Jaskier nearly pulls away when he feels Geralt's fingers on his bare skin, but when he looks down at him, Geralt smiles back softly. And when he looks at Eskel, he looks nothing but comfortable, maybe even interested, watching them both as he lounges on his side.

When Geralt finally turns in for the night, Jaskier is almost expecting him to ask him to join him. Geralt walks with him to his room, and Eskel joins them, though he departs first, turning into his own room with a quick goodnight. At the bottom of the stairs, Geralt hesitates for a moment, then wishes Jaskier goodnight and leaves him to ascend alone. Despite the warmth of the fire and the wine, and the pleasant feeling in his chest, Jaskier struggles to sleep that night. And things only get more complicated.

If he thought the night by the fire was a one-time thing, he was dead wrong. After that, Geralt is much more affectionate and usually, wherever he is Jaskier is too. And Eskel always manages to find them, even if they've wandered out in the snow or down to the training yard - not that Jaskier minds at all. It never feels like an intrusion when Eskel finds them, and he can't quite put his finger on what it feels like, but it feels good so for the time being, he's happy with that.

But constantly being with Geralt and Eskel means dealing with the tension between them and some nights, when they're the last three down in the hall it's unbearable. More than once Jaskier has considered telling them to just fuck it out and get it over with; he even left them alone one night in the hopes that they would, but nothing ever came of it. And being with them every night does nothing to help him, either because, since that first night, Geralt has dropped a lot of his walls and touching is now a thing he's apparently, very much okay with. At least when it comes to Jaskier. Which Jaskier is struggling to deal with.

And Eskel is no better, constantly brushing his hands down Jaskier's arms or pressing a hand to his back when they're standing together. Jaskier always keeps an eye on Geralt, to see how he responds to it because Jaskier doesn't want to get in the middle of whatever they’ve got going on, but Geralt only ever seems pleased to see them together. Sometimes it almost feels like he's watching them, and even the most innocent touches make Jaskier's skin prickle knowing how closely Geralt is paying attention to them. And he's not the only one who notices.

Vesemir was the first, having interrupted one of their fireside conversations, but he doesn't seem to mind what anyone does in the keep so long as there's peace amongst them. And Coën keeps to himself most of the time, so if he cares - or realizes at all - he doesn't say anything about it. Lambert has been mostly okay with the whole thing, other than an errant scoff or eye roll here and there, but it's not until one night when everyone is together in the main hall that he starts to show his irritation.

They've been inside for over a month now and with no one else around, everyone is starting to get a little tetchy. Jaskier, especially, is missing the company of anyone other than a bunch of Witchers. And maybe it wouldn't even be so bad if Geralt and Eskel could figure their shit out because he's fairly certain they wouldn't be opposed to having an audience. And while he'd rather be included in any sort of encounter, watching those two would keep him plenty occupied for the rest of the winter. But they're stubborn or oblivious or something and Jaskier hasn't quite figured out how to make them realize it yet. And so he's irritable too, but Lambert takes it to another level and it's not even their fault, not really.

They're playing Gwent, or Geralt and Coën are; Jaskier is perched in Eskel's lap, watching from a few seats away and Lambert is on Geralt's other side. And Jaskier isn't even doing anything. He's had a drink or two, but he's not drunk by any means, but he can't keep his eyes off Geralt tonight for some reason. Maybe it’s the way he's got his hair down or maybe it's the solitude way up here in the mountains, but Jaskier can't think of anything but running his fingers through it. Maybe he'd give a little tug to see what kind of reaction he'd get from him. He thinks Geralt might like it.

He leans into Eskel's chest and dips his chin to whisper in his ear, noting the way Eskel's arm cinches a little tighter around his waist. He just wants to share his theory with Eskel, maybe give him a nudge in the right direction, but just as he moves, there's the scraping sound of chair legs against stone and Lambert rises to his feet.

"For fucks sakes," he bellows, "you have three rooms between you, pick one!"

He's gone before Jaskier can even think to reply. Coën and Geralt share a brief look before returning to their game, and Eskel just shrugs when Jaskier looks down at him.

Jaskier doesn't think much of it in the days that follow - Lambert is irritable at the best of times - and he just carries on as usual. Although even he will admit to being less and less subtle when it comes to Geralt and Eskel. Most of the time, he's trying to get one or the other to see what they're missing, but more and more often his efforts go unnoticed, their attention focused on him. And maybe he likes it. And maybe he doesn’t try quite as hard anymore to get them to stop. But it’s hardly his fault when it’s been months since he’s had any company and Geralt and Eskel won’t stop touching him.

But nothing ever really happens. Eskel allows himself a little more physicality, more often being the one to haul Jaskier into his lap, where Geralt is welcoming but still usually waits for Jaskier to make the first move. Neither does more than look at him and talk in hushed voices or, occasionally, let their hands slip to his thighs. And it's doing nothing to help the simmering lust under his skin.

It takes a few days before he reaches the point of too much and decides he needs to do something about it. Either he needs to get Geralt and Eskel together or he's going to break and fuck one of them himself and that's not going to make anyone happy in the long run. He doesn't like the idea of losing Geralt to anyone else, but Eskel is a much better choice than Yennefer ever was and so he resigns himself to it and goes off to find them.

Jaskier searches all over, even going as far as looking for them out on the balconies, but if Geralt and Eskel are still in the keep, they don't want to be found. He thinks briefly that maybe they figured things out on their own, though judging by the argument with Lambert that he overheard this morning, not likely. And speaking of Lambert-

"Hey!" he calls out, hurrying down the hall before Lambert can escape into one of the rooms. Sighing, Lambert stops and turns to him.

"Can I help?"

"I'm looking for Geralt and Eskel."

Lambert very pointedly rolls his eyes. "Of course you are."

"Just point me in the right direction, I'll keep them out of your way."

Lambert pauses, considers for a moment and turns around, waving for Jaskier to follow him. He does, traipsing after Lambert through the halls until they come to a large wooden door at the end of a hallway. Jaskier is suspicious, but he and Lambert want the same thing here, technically, so he's pretty sure he can trust him. If not, Geralt will certainly avenge him later.

He enters the room to find what appears to be a library, of sorts. Or maybe they use it for making potions, considering the tables lining the room. There's a large fireplace at one end and next to it, Eskel is seated in an armchair, slouched slightly and looking across the room to where Geralt is standing. Idiots, Jaskier thinks, but he doesn't have a chance to say as much before the door behind him shuts and a key turns in the lock.

Both Geralt and Eskel perk up at that and Jaskier turns and pushes against the door to no avail.

"Figure your shit out or you'll be spending the rest of the winter in there," Lambert says and Jaskier doesn't need enhanced hearing to hear his footsteps fading away down the hallway. So much for his plan and so much for being avenged.

Eskel just huffs from across the room and Geralt returns to where he was leaning against a shelf. Presumably, this isn't the first time this has happened to them, and maybe for Witchers, being trapped in a room for weeks isn't a big deal. But for Jaskier, it's a hell of a long time to spend in one place, especially without any privacy.

It takes an hour for Jaskier's frustrations and restlessness to get the better of him. And it's not entirely his fault. Eskel is sitting there in the only chair in the whole place with his legs spread wide like an invitation and Jaskier is sorely tempted to take him up on the offer. And then it hits him; this is the perfect time to put his plan into motion, although plan might be a bit of a stretch.

He pushes himself off the wall he's leaning on, giving himself a moment to stretch before sauntering over to Eskel. If this works, everyone gets what they want, and by the way Eskel's eyes lift to follow him, he doesn't expect his advances to be turned down.

"You've taken the only seat," Jaskier says, lifting his hands to his hips, "and as a Witcher with heightened stamina, I don't think that's fair."

Eskel smirks, huffing a laugh as he spreads his arms and Jaskier takes the invitation for what it is. He presses between Eskel's thighs, slipping onto his lap and wrapping both arms around his neck. He spares a quick glance at Geralt, and there's nothing but calm resignation in his eyes so Jaskier settles himself against Eskel's chest.

Geralt has never come across as a particularly jealous person, so it doesn't exactly come as a surprise when he doesn't respond. But Jaskier is determined and there's a restless energy that thrums beneath his skin. Or maybe Geralt just doesn't care if he fucks Eskel because so far he's made no attempt to separate them. Eskel's hand slips up his side pressing under his doublet and rubbing his shirt against his skin. Jaskier hums and presses into the touch... and nothing happens.

He sits and fidgets and Eskel does absolutely nothing else, but his hands are still warm and heavy against Jaskier's side and the small bit of intimacy is affecting him more than it should. He sighs dramatically, pulling out of the touch and sliding off Eskel's lap to the floor.

"I'm bored," he complains, running his palms up Eskel's thighs. His eyes flick up to meet Eskel's just briefly before Eskel looks up above his head. Jaskier knows he's looking at Geralt, and when he gives no indication of hesitancy, Jaskier's heart thuds. Well, if he's really doing this, he's going to do it properly.

He slides his hands up to Eskel's hips, letting his fingers play over the ties of his trousers and Eskel shifts under him, pushing his hips forward. A wave of heat rolls up his back and Jaskier nearly fumbles with his laces as footsteps approach from behind. He doesn't dare turn around because he wasn't anticipating Geralt wanting to have any part in this and he can't quite reconcile that in his mind. He doesn't get performance anxiety, but something about having Geralt right there makes his breath catch.

Jaskier focuses on the task at hand, unlacing Eskel's trousers and rubbing his palm over the growing bulge beneath them. Eskel groans softly above him and Jaskier presses a little harder, revelling in the way Eskel's cock jumps under his hand. He wraps his fingers around him, stroking him through the fabric and as Eskel's cock swells, the head peeks out above his waistband enticingly. Jaskier stares at it peeking just far enough that he could guess the size of him and he wants to lean in and wrap his lips around it. He wants to take Eskel down as far as he can and lose himself in the taste of him and the stretch of his lips around his girth. Gods, it's been too long since he's been able to do this.

But he's putting on a show - for both of them - and letting himself get carried away so early won't do any good for anyone other than maybe Jaskier's sanity. So he moves cautiously, abandoning Eskel's cock to an unimpressed groan and rising up on his knees. He smiles up at Eskel, slipping his hands under the edge of his shirt and pushes it up his chest. Eskel pulls it up and over his head which is fine as far as Jaskier Is concerned because he's moved on.

He runs his tongue along Eskel's collarbone, pressing kisses along the ridge before reaching the center and slowly making his way downward. If he listens too hard, he can hear Geralt behind him in the creak of the floor beneath his feet and the steady breaths that don't quite reach his hair to ruffle it. So he hums not a tune, per se, just something to fill the silence between the soft moans that spill from Eskel's lips.

Jaskier slips back down to his hips, adjusting to sit back on his heels as he pulls Eskel's trousers away, revealing his swollen cock beneath them. He flicks his eyes up to Eskel's, taking in the lip trapped between his teeth and the way his nostrils flare and Jaskier smiles at him before dropping his eyes back down and wrapping his lips somewhat awkwardly around the head of Eskel's cock.

The shaky exhale of breath is encouragement enough - not that Jaskier needs any - but Eskel's hand slips into his hair, tugging unintentionally as Jaskier's mouth slips over him. Eskel is big, thick enough that he stretches Jaskier's lips around him. but he's got a lovely cock that Jaskier is happy to get as much of in his mouth as he can. Which, surprisingly, is a lot. He's out of practice, but he takes him almost all the way down, slipping a hand around the base of him before pulling back off.

He gets into a rhythm, working his tongue around him and pressing up into every touch as Eskel's finger grip more firmly in his hair. He'd forgotten what it feels like to have someone really get into it, the warm swell of pride and something like satisfaction in his chest knowing he's doing a good job. And something about the fact that he's a Witcher really gets to him, these men who are built to kill and Jaskier is able to take him apart with only his lips and his tongue.

His own cock aches, ignored, against the front of his trousers and when he shifts closer, it rubs against the silky fabric. Jaskier moans around the cock in his mouth, a stunted, choked-off sound, and a warm hand slides around the side of his neck, fingers running along the underside of his jaw.

Jaskier's eyes flutter shut and he hums softly, pressing up as Eskle's fingers dig into his scalp. He's getting close. Jaskier can feel it in the way his hips stutter, the way his moans become louder, less restrained and in the way his fingers tug at his hair, sending little jolts of pleasure through Jaskier's entire body. But he's not going to let himself get drawn into it all because this isn't about him right now. Because as much as he'd love to bring himself off with Eskel's cock in his mouth, he's supposed to be helping. But Geralt's hand slips lower, fingers sliding over his collarbone and down under the edge of his shirt and it's a lot harder to focus as calloused fingers brush over his nipples.

He whimpers, taking Eskel as deep as he can and holding him there. He slips his fingers into Eskel’s trousers, pressing back behind his balls and earnestly ignoring the way his own hips stutter Eskel squirms under him, muttering something but the blood rushing in Jaskier's ears is too loud to hear it. He bucks his hips, clenches his fingers tight in Jaskier's hair and as Jaskier pulls up to the head, winding his tongue around it, Eskel comes.

He curses and groans, thrusting hard between Jaskier's lips and Jaskier takes him as well as he can, wrapping a hand around him to keep him from thrusting too deep. And Geralt is right there, bringing his hand back up to cup his cheek, brush his fingers along his jaw, and when Eskel's hands slip from his hair, Geralt's replace them, brushing it out of his face and gently running along his scalp.

Jaskier pulls off Eskel's cock, his head foggy with lust and looks up at him. Eskel's head is dropped back over the back of the chair, his arms draped loosely over it, and Jaskier swells with pride. He dips down, running his tongue along the underside of Eskel's cock, drawing out a final moan and a full-body shudder, but he isn't granted much time to tease before he's hauled up to his feet. Geralt's nose presses against his temple, drawing back so his lips graze the shell of Jaskier's ear.

"You didn't come," he breathes and just hearing those words out of Geralt's mouth is almost enough to push him over the edge. He's about to say he doesn't need to, that it doesn't matter, but Geralt's hands are already on him.

Jaskier's shakier than expected and when he glances down at himself there's a damp spot on his trousers where his cock leaked through. Geralt's chest presses against his back, running his hands down to curl around Jaskier's hips and Jaskier lets out a shaky breath, his whole body shuddering without his permission. Geralt's fingers creep closer to his cock and Jaskier squirms against him, drops his head back onto his shoulder and bites his lip.

"Can I touch you?" Geralt asks and Jaskier just nods dumbly.

He can feel Eskel's eyes on him, despite his own being shut, and it makes him more comfortable as Geralt slips his doublet off and tosses it away. His fingers move down again, quickly and easily getting Jaskier's trousers undone and pushing them down his thighs. His cock bobs free and Jaskier should feel exposed like this, but when he opens his eyes, Eskel is watching him hungrily despite his own cock growing soft against his hip and Geralt's hands are eager where they slide back up to settle on his waist.

Geralt's lips press against the back of his neck and Jaskier whimpers. For years he's imagined feeling them against his own, how Geralt would kiss him, but it was never anything quite like this. Then again, this whole situation is something beyond even Jaskier's imaginings.

Geralt's mouth finds the corner of his neck and shoulder, moving urgently and brushing against his skin in a way that has Jaskier's eyes rolling back in his head. Then, in one swift motion, Jaskier is lifted off his feet and finds himself straddling Eskel's thighs, jostled slightly as Geralt presses between them from behind. His mouth finds Jaskier's neck again sucking at the most sensitive spot just under his jaw and Jaskier can't help the way he presses back against him.

Geralt's hands slide down his chest just as Eskel's slide over his hips to cup his ass. Warm fingers slip around his cock and Jaskier's breath catches as they dance up his length. His eyes drop shut and his hips roll forward on their own, pushing his cock through the warmth of Geralt's hand. Geralt's fingers wrap firmly around him, squeezing tight and stroking him slowly. It's exactly how he likes it and Jaskier has to bite down on his lip to keep from moaning out loud. He's jostled slightly and when he opens his eyes, Eskel is sitting up and facing him, reaching out to run the pad of his thumb along Jaskier's bottom lip.

"Don't," he whispers, "let us hear you." Eskel's other arm slips around his hip and he tugs him closer, tipping forward to kiss him.

There's a low growl from behind him and Geralt slips up close, fingers slipping from Jaskier's cock in favour of holding his hips. He presses himself against Jaskier's back and Jaskier can feel the press of his cock against his ass and the realization that Geralt likes this spreads like fire through his veins. He likes seeing Jaskier with Eskel and gods, if that's what he's into, Jaskier is happy to give it to him. But, he thinks as he reaches back to wrap his arms around Geralt's neck, he may have been off the mark with his earlier assumptions about the Witchers.

Jaskier groans as thick fingers wind around his cock again and Geralt's teeth find the back of his neck, lightly grazing his skin as his body shudders. He lets himself go limp, one arm around his waist and hands sliding up his chest, leaning against Geralt's body. Eskel draws away, leaning back in his seat, and Jaskier whines softly at the loss, but Geralt is right there to take his place, nipping lightly at Jaskier's lip before kissing him. And Jaskier's hips roll smoothly, matching the steady pace of Eskel's hand as he loses himself in the heat of Geralt's mouth against his own.

When his eyes open again, startled by the sharp twist of Eskel's wrist, he breaks from Geralt's mouth, rolling his head against him. Before him, Eskel is hard again, stroking himself with one hand as the other works over Jaskier's length.

Geralt shifts against him, pressing his cock against the cleft of Jaskier's ass. "Do you want him?" he breathes and Jaskier can barely manage a response with that low, husky voice right in his ear. Geralt's hips roll against him and Jaskier groans, shifting forward in Eskel's lap.

Eskel's hands pull away, much to Jaskier's displeasure, but he's close enough now that when he rocks forward, his cock slides against Eskel's. He uses the position to his advantage, leaning back to prop himself up on Eskel's knees as he slips a hand around them both. His grip is loose, unable to wrap all the way around, but Geralt's hand slips down against his own, encircling them both. Eskel's hips give a sharp jerk and Jaskier doesn't miss the heated look he casts up at Geralt.

In an instant, Geralt is hauled down, Eskel's fingers firm where they're tangled in the front of his shirt and Jaskier nearly forgets how to breathe. He's surprised to see how easily Geralt submits, melting into the kiss though his grip on their joined cocks never falters. Jaskier watches in awe as Eskel's hand slips up around Geralt's back, tugging his shirt out of his trousers and disappearing under it. He was right about one thing: watching Geralt and Eskel together would almost be enough to make up for his own lacking sex life. Not that he needs to worry about that anymore.

He drops his head back, the image of the two Witchers burned into his eyelids, and he rolls his hips steadily. His cock slips between the rough skin of Geralt's hand and the silky smooth of Eskel's cock, a duality that promises to have him shaking apart in minutes. Eskel, apparently, has other ideas.

The bottle he presses into Geralt's palm is small and clear and appears from apparently nowhere but makes no mistake as to where he's taking this. Geralt pulls away from Eskel's mouth long enough to look over at him, his eyes dark and full of anticipation. Something in Jaskier's chest swells and he leans up to kiss his lips, sitting back up in Eskel's lap.

Eskel gets his arm around him again, sliding his hand down his back and down into his trousers. His fingers slip further, pressing between Jaskier's cheeks and Jaskier rises up instinctively, leaning into Eskel as thick fingers slide over his hole. He doesn't linger, drawing back and cupping Jaskier’s face as he draws him in again. Geralt's hand slips from between them, and Jaskier pulls away too, sliding his hands over Eskel's shoulders.

He's vividly aware of every move Geralt makes as he pulls away from them and slips back into place behind Jaskier. He smooths his hands down his sides, pushing his trousers down further and out of the way. He can't get them all the way off without Jaskier moving and right now he's quite happy where he is. And Geralt doesn't seem to mind. He pulls the cork on the bottle and Jaskier settles, pressing his hips back encouragingly.

The first time Geralt presses a slick fingertip against him, Jaskier groans. His body shakes with anticipation, but Eskel holds him close and kisses his neck. Geralt is quick and precise in a way that speaks of years of experience and makes Jaskier's legs shake under him.

Jaskier's erection flags a little as Geralt slides a third finger into him, but Eskel is still rock hard against him, hips rocking just slightly as Jaskier squirms. Jaskier's focus jumps between Eskel's cock and Geralt's fingers, Geralt's lips against his neck, his own cock, filling again as Eskel gets hold of it.

Geralt adds a fourth finger and Jaskier holds his breath as he adjusts to the stretch of him. He drops his forehead to Eskel's shoulder and slowly rocks his hips back, fucking himself on Geralt's fingers. When he adjusts, he moves more quickly and Geralt's hand rises to press against his lower back, steadying him. But Jaskier wants more. Geralt's fingers fill him wholly, and they reach surprisingly far within him, but it's not enough right now.

Right now, Jaskier's half-naked and trapped between two increasingly horny Witchers and if one of them doesn't fuck him soon he feels like he might break apart from the inside out. It's been months since anyone touched him but himself he needs more. Even as Geralt thrusts into him again, Jaskier's thinking about his cock instead, thick and hard and pressing deep into him- He groans, huffing out a breathless "please", as he pushes his head against Eskel's shoulder.

Evidently, Geralt isn't as patient as he seems. As soon as his fingers withdraw, he hauls Jaskier to his feet, spinning him around so he can kiss him. His lips are soft but urgent and Geralt gets him out of his trousers without breaking the kiss, winding his arms around Jaskier's hips and pulling him into his body. And fuck, when Geralt's cock digs into his hip, his mind goes blank with lust, pressing back against him even as Geralt walks him backward. Then Eskel's hands find his hips, holding him steady as he presses his cock against him.

Jaskier sits back slowly, letting Eskel's hands guide him. His breath hitches as the blunt head of his cock presses against him and he curls his fingers in Geralt's hair, holding his gaze as he lowers himself onto Eskel's cock. Geralt dips to kiss him, wrapping one hand around his cock and stroking lightly as Jaskier settles.

Once he's comfortable, Geralt pulls away and Jaskier is disappointed until Eskel thrusts up into him, reclaiming his focus as his hands slip around to hold Jaskier's hips. Jaskier rolls his head back on Eskel's shoulder, breathing heavily against his neck and shifting his hips in time with Eskel's thrusts. This isn't how he foresaw his day going, especially not after being locked in the library, but he has no regrets.

Well, maybe one, but that can easily be remedied.

He glances up, meeting Geralt's eyes, and any regret fades as quickly as it came. Geralt is watching them with a heat like Jaskier's never seen in his eyes and when his gaze slips slower, Jaskier can see how hard he is in his trousers and it makes his own arousal soar. He could feel him against him, but seeing for himself is something entirely different and he doesn't think before reaching out and curling a hand in Geralt's shirt, he just wants to touch.

And Geralt allows him to haul him close, fitting himself between Eskel's legs and leaning low over him and Jaskier. He shifts his weight to prop himself up on one arm, sliding the other up Jaskier's thigh, his thumb brushing dangerously close to his cock as he slips up over Jaskier's hip. Jaskier takes it as a sign that he can reach out and touch, but just as his fingers slip under his shirt, Geralt's attention is diverted.

Eskel beats him to the punch, drawing Geralt close until their noses bump against each other. And Jaskier can't see the look on Eskel's face, but Geralt's eyes drop shut, his lips parting just so. Jaskier groans at the sight of him, missing the moment their lips meet but he hears the muffled sound of Geralt's moan as he reaches out for him.

He slips his fingers over the bulge in Geralt's trousers, tracing the line of his cock before slipping his fingers around it. His fingers won't quite fit around him and his trousers are still in the way and it's hard to keep still with Eskel thrusting up into him, but Jaskier does his best. He strokes Gerlt through the thick fabric, and every time he presses into it, Jaskier's cock twitches against his stomach. He lets his fingers drift, brushing over the buttons on Geralt's trousers, but Geralt pushes his hand away.

He pulls away from Eskel, turning his attention to Jaskier as he slips his knee between Eskel's thigh and the arm of the chair. For a brief second, Jaskier considers the strength of the chair and whether it will hold up under their combined weight, but Geralt's mouth presses against his own and the thought is gone. Geralt kisses him roughly, slipping his tongue between his lips and swallowing Jaskier's moans as he presses closer.

Eskel keeps a steady pace, but as Geralt shifts against them he slows and it doesn't take long for Jaskier to figure out why. Geralt's fingers press against his rim spreading oil over the skin and around Eskel's cock where it slips into him. Jaskier shuts his eyes, but when Geralt presses more firmly he can't help but wonder about taking both of them. He doesn't know if he'd be able to, but the thought of it has his cock leaking against his stomach and he's never been one to turn down a challenge.

He hauls Geralt close again, panting against his lips as he fumbles with the buttons on his trousers, desperate to get his hands on him. This time, Geralt lets him and when Jaskier's fingers dip into his trousers, wrapping around his length, he stills, moaning softly against his lips. Eskel mumbles something against his ear that he doesn't quite catch, but it sounds like encouragement and Jaskier wraps more firmly around Geralt's cock.

He pulls him out of his trousers, stroking him firmly as Geralt gets his other leg up on the chair. Eskel adjusts to make space and in the new position, Geralt's cock slips right up against Jaskier's and it's just a natural progression for Jaskier to pull him closer. He keeps one hand fisted in Geralt's shirt, rocking unsteadily against him and it's almost too much. His mouth goes slack as Geralt's hips roll fluidly against his own and Jaskier knows he won't last long like this. He doesn't have Witcher stamina and he'd be perfectly happy to let them continue afterward, but he doesn't want to come yet. He wants Geralt inside of him, and more than that, he wants to at least try to take them both. The idea of it makes him dizzy with lust and if he doesn't try, he knows he'll regret it.

He takes Geralt's cock in his hand again, guiding him down to where Eskel presses into him and pressing him against Eskel. There's a breathless "fuck" against his ear and Eskel's fingertips dig into the flesh of his hips. But Geralt looks up at him, presses his forehead against Jaskier's.

"Are you sure?" he breathes and Jaskier nods enthusiastically.

"Please."

Geralt gets his fingers slicked up again, stroking Eskel slowly before pressing one finger in alongside him. It's tight and Jaskier shuts his eyes, pulling away from Geralt to press his face into Eskel's neck. Geralt waits, letting him adjust before sliding a second finger in and then a third.

When he pulls out, Jaskier almost misses the stretch, but Geralt's cockhead presses against him, softer than his fingers though wider. Jaskier buries his face in Eskel's neck, trying to contain the pained noises that threaten to escape him because he's not used to having one Witcher cock inside him, never mind two. But Geralt is gentle and Eskel is patient, stroking his hair and tipping his head up to kiss him as Geralt presses in.

Jaskier can feel the way Geralt's cock twitches inside him, eager to get on with it, but he remains still to let him adjust. Jaskier focuses on every other place they touch, where Geralt's thigh is fitted under his own, where Eskel's chest heaves against his back, and he relaxes. The thought of having them both at once, of having two of the most beautiful men he's ever met at the same time, is enough to help him settle and Jaskier shifts between them, finding a comfortable position so he can better control their speed. Though he quickly finds that with Geralt and Eskel sandwiching him, he's very willing to give up what little control he has.

He leans back and Geralt follows him, bracing himself on the back of the chair as he rolls his hips more quickly. Eskel curses breathily against Jaskier's ear, mumbling incoherently as his hips jerk opposite to Geralt's. Jaskier can't imagine how it feels for them, squeezed tight and sliding against each other, but Eskel's moans tell him enough and Geralt presses his forehead into Jaskier's shoulder, lips parted and panting. And Jaskier has never felt so full, every inch of him filled and fucked.

His head spins, cloudy with lust and so overwhelmed by the waves of pleasure that roll over him that he can barely move. His limbs are loose where they wrap around his Witchers, one hand curled in Geralt's hair and the other slipped around the back of Eskel's neck. He presses his hips down and squeezes around them. Geralt growls, a loud rumbling sound that vibrates right to Jaskier's core and he turns his head, kissing him hard.

It's rough and sloppy because Jaskier is constantly jostled, but he relishes the feeling of having Geralt's mouth on his again. Eskel's hips jerk and he slides an arm around Geralt's back, using him as leverage to thrust up hard. Geralt draws back, tipping his head and Eskel catches his lips in a heated kiss.

Eskel's hips snap up hard and Jaskier melts against him, groaning at the way he presses into him. He's close, Jaskier can feel it in the way his thighs shake and the desperate little gasps and curses that spill from his lips. Jaskier tugs Geralt against him, clinging to him as Eskel comes, slamming into him and digging his fingers into Jaskier's hip, holding him down.

Eskel slips out and Geralt readjusts, pushing deeper into him with a grunt. As Eskel comes down, his fingers slip up into Jaskier's hair, running through the strands as he pants and catches his breath.

"How does he feel?" he asks and Geralt rolls his hips at exactly that moment, rendering him momentarily mute.

"Good," he huffs, "really good." He tips his head back to look at Geralt. "Ah- Geralt, I'm gonna-" Geralt cuts him off with a swift kiss, working his hips in quick sharp thrusts and driving Jaskier closer and closer to the edge.

Jaskier whines and tries to hold on, but Geralt's cock pushes into him, hitting that spot deep inside and it's all he can do not to break apart right there. When Eskel's hand slides around, wrapping around his cock and stroking him slowly, Jaskier comes, spilling all over himself and Eskel's fingers. Geralt only lasts another couple of minutes before he's grunting, burying himself deep and biting down on Jaskier's shoulder.

He slips from the chair almost immediately, dropping to the floor and leaning back against the table leg behind him, breathing hard. Jaskier slumps, the only thing keeping him from falling to the floor next to him is Eskel's arms around him, holding him up.

Jaskier watches him for a moment, the way his eyes fall shut and his chest heaves. But he can already feel exhaustion overtaking him and he settles against Eskel’s chest, pressing his face into his neck.

By the time Lambert returns for them, Jaskier is awake and dressed again, though Geralt and Eskel seem unbothered about their lack of presentation. Lambert casts a look between the three of them, rolls his eyes and sighs a dramatic finally before turning around, exiting the room, and slamming the door behind him.

It's a few hours before any of them sees Lambert again and dinner is a surprisingly quiet affair. Jaskier turns in earlier than the others, still thoroughly exhausted, and Eskel traipses after him, accepting Jaskier's invitation when he reaches his room. They fall happily into bed and Jaskier is asleep by the time Geralt joins them, but Geralt is there in the morning when he wakes, curled protectively around Jaskier's back.

They all head down to breakfast together and while Jaskier sees the way Lambert rolls his eyes at them, he makes the - probably wise - decision not to mention it, slipping into a seat across from him.

The day is uneventful. The boys train in the yard for the better part of the afternoon and while Jaskier joins him, he prefers to sit and watch. The sexual tension isn't quite so obvious with Lambert and Vesemir around to tone it down, but Jaskier still catches the odd glance between Geralt and Eskel that gets his heart racing.

He's certain they're a song just waiting to be written, though, given Geralt's aversion to being sung about, it might have to be for Jaskier’s ears only. Not that that has ever stopped him before. He scribbles down a few thoughts, noting the way the two Witchers move around each other, each carefully keeping track of his opponent. It has the makings of his most provocative ballad yet. A shame no one will ever hear it.

In the evening, they retire to the mess hall, just the three of them and Lambert. Geralt is complaining about no one wanting to play cards and Lambert is mocking him, grumbling away from his seat near the fire. Jaskier doesn't mind; he's spent enough years being pestered about learning Gwent that he just tunes it all out now, and sitting at the table with Geralt's chest against his back, he can find very little to complain about.

"I'll have to teach you to play," Geralt hums and Jaskier, warm and comfortable, finally agrees.

"But not now," Jaskier amends, shifting to get more comfortable. Across the room, Lambert rolls his eyes.

"He's just jealous," Eskel winks, crossing to stand next to Geralt. He leans down and whispers something in his ear, but whatever it is, Jaskier doesn't hear it. He does hear the little huff of a laugh that is Geralt's response, and the drawn-out groan from Lambert.

"Gods," Lambert grumbles, "I think I preferred things better before."

[jaekaicx]

Director's cut ask game: ⭐ for Push and Pull?

(decided to just say “fuck it” and do all of ch 1)

k so throughout the fic i wanted have this hazy vibe to it. like that fog over your mind whenever ur dreaming or youve just woken up, yk? also, that feeling of not rly knowing whats going on in a dream but also just going with whatevers happening.

looking back now i probably shouldve added a bit more indication whenever i was describing a flash rather than the dream, but i think it works how it is? either way its kinda late to change it so whatever

With a shaking hand, they reached out for Anne’s, but they hesitated. It only took a moment before he pulled back.

not much with this line, i just like it. hints to some lingering guilt and self loathing w marcy thinking he doesnt deserve annes help, even w something so small as picking him up.

then theres the bit with marcy second guessing themself and the description of dread, and honestly its just a bunch of self projection.

They had no clue where it all came from. It was as if they spoke the words right as they popped into their head.

something something this being a dreamworld thing so they dont really have a mental filter so he just speaks his mind

“Sort of. Only, I knew where the feeling was coming from, what caused it. Like, when Hop Pop betrayed me.”

ok, it probably wouldve made more sense to bring up sasha instead of hop pop, but i didnt want to detract from anne and marcys relationship by bringing up sasha. plus, hp and mars kind of work better as a comparison, since both of them tried to keep anne in amphibia because of what they thought was best, and in a sense put their own feelings before hers. of course hop pops intentions were a bit less selfish, but the comparison is still there.

The wind started to pick up, and the crashing of the waves grew louder. He flinched at the specs of sea water flying into their face.

The wind whipped at Anne’s hair and clothes as she glared down at him. The sky had grown darker with clouds, blocking out the sun.

Thunder boomed somewhere in the distance.

they were practically yelling over the waves and the wind.

just something im kinda proud of thinking of, ngl. i tried to parallel annes anger with the weather around them slowly worsening and a storm picking up. plus its kind of a build up to the huge wave at the end. it can also be taken as the sort of “paradise” beach thing falling apart, no longer shielding marcy from the terrible things that happened. not much else, just a minor detail im a bit proud of

A giant shadow fell over him.

this line was kinda subtle, but just thought id mention that this was supposed to be a reference to andrias towering over marcy in the episode. kinda unrelated, but i liked the imagery with those scenes with andrias looming over marcy as they tried so hard to justify their actions.

honestly i kinda struggled a bit trying to find the right words to end off anne’s whole outburst. i was kind of on a roll with everything she was tearing at marcy with, and i wasnt sure how to stop it. i did know that i wanted to bring back the stab, and i wanted the giant wave to come in, i just couldnt find a way to lead up to all of it exactly. hopefully it worked out in the end

and then the drowning and void sequence. idk i was just rly fond the idea of juxtaposing being drowned out by the roars of those you wronged and being lost in a silent void with nothing to hear but your own heart beating. i remember a youtube video i watched a couple years back where this guy tried to see how long he could last in a soundproof room, and he mentioned going kinda crazy in the silence. and then theres the ending, where i was kinda alluding to a sort of nightmare loop that marcy was going through.

i purposefully kept it vague on whether the nightmares were being fabricated by the night in order to manipulate marcy, or if they were the result of marcys own mind tormenting himself over everything that happened. im pretty sure this was before nightmar was confirmed in the trailer, so i wanted to keep it vague so that it would still hold up in canon if marcy didnt end up being possessed.

and uh yeah thats abt it.

(ask me to rant abt my fics)

[namunad]

.EVERYTHINGOES.

Summary: Hoseok keeps dying under water, no matter what he does he’s stuck in a loop.

Notes: While listening to Mono I've been inspired to write about this. To be honest I hope that this story helps someone out there, as much as Everythingoes healed me. I love you no matter who you are. Please if you ever need someone to talk to my Dms are open.

WARNINGS: Suicide, Death, Selfharm

The first time that hoseok died -or at least the first that he remembers- is in the ocean. The morning sun just setting on the sky, he rembers a serene feeling like time was floating with him on the water. He likes to think that he wasn't afraid or scared to go into the unknown, that killing himself wasn't as ugly or terrifying as it had been. He tries to escape the memories of the water burning his lungs, leaving him gasping for air that isn't there. The pain that blossomed through his chest and the realization that he lost his life are all things that he doesn't talk about. So when you ask Hoseok about the first time that he died he'll tell you about the saline perfume of the sea, the soft warmth of the sun, the calmness of the water.

Its maybe on his fourth death that he starts to remember his past life, to remember the hell that his life had been. Depression and anxiety are no joke, he rembers but doesn't suffer. Like watching an awfully sad movie about someone you dont know. Empathy long gone from his body, he understands that he just feels pity for his poor soul. Not sadness but mild disappointment. In what, he doesn't know. Maybe for the way things had gotten out of hand. Maybe in his friends for not noticing and helping him. Maybe in himself for deciding that suicide was the way to go.

The first time that rained and Hoseok was outside he cried because he tought that he wasn't safe anywhere, not even under the grumpy crying sky. They both shed tears that day, painfully so. When it stopped and he came to the conclusion that the soft drops falling on him were not going to harm him, he fell on his knees. Needless to say that they cried again as if they were in sync. Two soulless entities crying over their shared condition, so far from the security that religions offered. What does life offer when you dont have a soul?

Hoseok hates waters, after drinking so much salt he think that his insides are all dry. He sometimes fantasizes about crushing all of his organs with a fingertip, just for the fun of it. Moist sand crumbling with a gentle touch. He wonders if even then he will be alive, if death happens to the body or the soul.

The first time that he understood he wanted to die. Die forever. Hoseok gasps and then exhales a long breath, in the cold weather it puffs up as smoke from a chimney. He was sadly dead and disgustingly alive, lost in watever limbo he had created. He really tried to understand why it happened but as many suns disappeard in front of him he loses interest. A game of cat and mouse, running after something so little and so precious. Is it life or is it death?

Hoseok loves water, in the rain especially he enjoys life. The dampness of his clothes sticking on his skin, weighting more than what water and fabric should. He dances and sings in the rain because he is sure he will not die in that moment, that this kind of water is harmless. He likes to believe that the bad kind is lost in the salt, like his feelings and soul.

Soft as flowers touching skin, droplets fall from the sky, as red stats to color the fresh air he comes to the conclusion that he's gone mad. As if the last few years of death and life had been normal. Thousands of bright petals dance in the wind, coming and going in front of his eyes. He is positively gobsmacked when they touch his skin and melt, cold to the touch as if snow had laid on his skin. How can it snow when the sun is so bright? Was it always this bright? How can it be so cold and yet so warm to the eyes? An oxymoron.

The only detail that makes hoseok understand that he isn't dreaming are the pinkish droplets that stay on his arms and white shirt. Asleep and awake.

He thinks.

He had had less bizarre dreams in his mortal life. No dreams in his present, only memories. So many memories that he can only overanalize them, times when even chewing gum on the wrong side of the mouth can lead to an eventful evening. As red kept flashing in front of his eyes he sees a figure materialize.

It's you. He knows it upon settling his eyes on your evanescent shadow, the subtle drop of his heart tells him that. He falls deep inside himself, doesn't know how much it takes before he open his mouths. Even then, nothing comes out. As if he didn't know how to speak to you. The truth being that he didn't know what to say or how to say it. Gaping like a fish who wanted to jump high and fell on a hard slippery rock. Splashing and convulsing before falling back to water, but as he swims he doesn't think about how high he can jump. What does it take to die? So little, yet too much.

When he figures out how to move his tongue he still doesn't speak. The soft muscle seems relentless in his mouth, it keeps hitting his teeth trying to spit some words. But he resists. So much that his jaw starts to hurt with how tense he is. He is not afraid nor angry, just surprised. He had wished to have you so badly in the years that it had become is only thought. Through the pouring rain and the heavy water bubbling from his chest he loved you. He loves you. Lost and found. What is death if it isn't life? What begins needs to end.

As you approach Hoseok doesn't cry, but smiles. A soft invite, "come here" it says, "this place is safe".The smile you offer when your friends treat your house as theirs. Suddenly his whole body relaxes as if a wave had it him. He doesn't fall.

If love and hate are the same thing. To live is to love. To die is to love. He lived so he loved you, and now he knows he will love you forever.

He is grateful that he met you.

Soul.

[acefrogmonarch]

Headcanons

It’s very specific to my own story but if it inspires you in some way, then I’m glad it came in handy

Best friends Adrien and Mari

Diana hearing tales of Ladybug or Lady Luck. Her mother not telling her that she is Lady Luck.

Marinette not minding if she died in her sleep, Alya gets very worried. “It’s peaceful, no pain, no fear, just tranquility. This just makes Alya feel more guilty for not being there.

Damian really wants to test Mari, ever since that video and since she threatened him.

after getting to know Marinette better, Damian calls her beautiful and other compliments in Arabic. like my flower, and my radiant sun.

Marinette thinks its teasing until one day she sees the way how he says it and how soft he looks. She allows herself to fall deeper in love.

She and Adrien have revealed and tried to date but both ended up not making each other happy or content.

late hour talks about things, embarrassing stuff they share and confirming each other’s disappearance for peers. Gets very complicated once JL gets in to help. Year 3 they reveal. Year 6, it ends. Hawkmoth is gone.

everyone thinks they are dating, in reality, they’re just best friends and not even Alya knows how much they’ve shared

Mayura/Natalie is showing up less and less but always makes a great senti monster when it counts

Damian keeps his guards up around Marinette and her friends when they meet as civilians

Marinette is worried that it’s another guy asking to see her throat so before Damian even speaks she threatens him to keep shut about it unless he wants a beating.

it’s said that Damian was smitten by that point.

the same issue arises when she gets another injury after her throat is no longer red and raw. The new ones are on her ribs and chest.

its date night for them and a group of guys start asking to see her ‘battle scar’ and dramatically shows them.

Because they recognize her from the news. And you know assholes.

Or or. She tells off about how this isn’t some sideshow and no matter how ugly a scar it tells their trauma and story. both at the same time.

Alya, Jason, and dick were tailing them because it’s their second date and no one has any idea where their first one was.

(Raven helped Damian set up the first one.)

They record every moment.

sometimes when its bad Mari gets claustrophobic but is very subtle about her panic. she scratches one of her main arteries that run up and down on her neck, she does it subconsciously, once one side is hurting she moves onto the other one.

Damian caught her one time and she’s like what? she pulls away and the panic sets again and she’s resisting the urge to just scratch harder, so she settles for twiddling her thumbs.

Mari has ADHD, it’s mellowed a lot since childhood. Insomnia plays in on that and she hates not moving, its hero instinct and her nature.

tt

Nino’s the kind to go with the flow kind but he sees this rift that Lila makes and just disappears

Alya always notices so she goes finds him

Now it’s a test to see if she doesn’t do it one day that he knows shes changed

Nino doesn’t know what to do he has to be adult about it, he tells Alya but is rejected, saying that “he just always go with the flow and sometimes he has to go with his flow

so he takes a break on Alya and says he’s going to further his career before Alya can even figure out who she is.

and Alya is just really confused because she knows who she is and is mad at Nino. Nino never felt more relieved when they finally got back together after the whole Incident ™.

Risk (the bat fam find out the hard way to never ask Mari to a game)

Bruce and Tim went head to head with Mari and almost won (After they were scared to death)

Tim was with some of Mari’s friends and it was game night, they were naive then. Tim started listing off board games and Nino tries to stop him before he says the name "ris-”

Max starts to panic, “He got to s, HE GOT TO S!!” they try to calm him down.

Mari knocks on the door once and they turn to look and It’s her and they are freaking the fuck out.

Damian says one moment they were together and then disappeared in the next.

They were on the other side of the city, it was a 40-minute drive out.

Alfred doesn’t know how she came in, neither does bruce. The cameras caught nothing; no glitches, no loops she was just found their one moment.

Nooroo is passed to Lila but they capture the peacock and its cure, but Emilie not so much. Gabrial calls his apprentice to be Natalie.

Mari asks if Lila had something to do with this.

Dami witness Maris worst and best, as both her and ladybug, vice versa

She does come to terms about how one is not without the other, she learns this from Damian “I am an Al Ghul, a Wayne and a Robin, but goddamnit Mari I’m mother fucking Damian first.”

its the first time he’s yelled at her, she takes it to heart, she was smitten

they court for the longest fucking time. Its 4 years after they unofficial court and he proposes in the middle of a fight they are both smitten for each other.

once the Adrien crush is gone she gives him all his premade presents and makes the chest her fabric chest.

D: “MARINETTE DUPAIN-CHENG WE LIVE IN A MANSION WHY ARE YOU EATING CEREAL OUT OF A PLASTIC TABLEWARE”

M: “YOU ATE CEREAL WITH A FORK BEFORE AND YOU DON’T SEE ME COMPLAINING”

Tim is the only one to point out what happened to the bowls, Alfred no longer questions it.

Running to where Marinette is, he exposed her. “I KNOW WHAT YOU DID TO THE BOWLS MARI”

Mari slurps up cereal out of plastic tableware for a long time they lock eyes. Very quietly she whispers. “Tikki” “Spots on.” And yeets outta the window.

She calls Damian later after a couple of hours. “Is it okay to come home.” Damian is cackling. “I don’t know what you did to make Tim mad but I love it.”

“At the expense of Tim, I’ll take it.” It’s the first time he’s ever remotely said the L-word.

Tim: Did you just give me your leftover food? Jason: “Yeah” T: What am I? Your second-hand bitch? J: no you’re my main bitch T: Wait then that means you have other bitches J: what you think I’m a one hoe pimp?

Mini Ladd Memes

T: “You wanna see my penis.” crouched like a gremlin and moving towards. Marinette IMMEDIATELY turning to Tim. “SVEBE!” Damian looking at the two in disgust. “Disgusting”

The two look in shock and can’t stop laughing because they have no idea if he actually knows what they're talking about but neither answers him when he asks why they laugh now.

Bruce has caught Tim and Mari going “MMMMMMMMM” and T posing to each other. Mari goes red and super embarrassed about it, Tim never lets her forget. Its called “coming out to dad” between the two.

Nino doesn’t want to touch this and he won’t.

“Leave my eight-foot-tall son alone,” Marinette says this as Tim is perched on the bat computer. They chuckle and try to get through the bit but can’t stop laughing.

“robin an actual robin, go my vegan birdy.” Drunk Mari at some point. like shes 18 and can drink

Other stuff

(shared on the maribat discord) Sometimes when Marinette picks something up, something behind her away falls onto the floor. “Mom, it happened again.” It’s the same object but somewhere else. Picks up her pencil and a random pencil rolls down to her feet.

At one point Tim dared Marinette to pick someone up from the Bat fam. Before she even attempts to pick up Damian, she asked everyone to gather. Once that was done, she let out a big “Sorry!” and picks up Damian.

Tim ate shit, the rest of batfam have no clue what happened

Tikki says its the balance from her luck from being Ladybug. She later notices that she’s not as clumsy as before, Damian says it's her confidence showing and they share a moment

Damian to Marinette at some point. “Stop taking pictures of my food Mari”

[inikavulpixelreviews]

Let’s Talk About Pokemon - Galarian Mr. Mime and Mr. Rime

Galarian Mr. Mime:

I've said it before that I've kinda had a change of heart toward Mr. Mime, mostly thanks to Pokemon recently embracing the fact that it's just some freaky clown thing that also happens to be a wild animal. Especially with its appearance in Detective Pikachu. I don't LOVE it, but I like it well enough this time around. I do however wonder if Detective Pikachu helped in the creation of a Galarian Mr. Mime in the first place, since it's been a pretty understated Pokemon up until the trailers to that movie.

Galarian Mr. Mime though takes an interesting twist by electing to be an Ice/Psychic type, and putting its hat up on its miming career and deciding to instead take up tap dancing. And the whole idea is... eh. I can see where some of the logical through-line is coming through, but some of the execution could be better.

The Ice type comes in by having its “shoes” be frozen on the bottom, giving it the sound of tapdancing when it, well, dances. That much itself is a clever way to get in the tap-dancing theme. It's also easy to make parallels between the tap dancing and Irish clog dancing. I do like how it has a funny little ice “tie”. Its hands are also much less pronounced, instead now having “mittens”.

Everything else just feels a little off to me. The hair just doesn't feel as naturally rendered and it looks super weird. Its nose/stache also looks really weird to me. I guess the “earmuff” sideburns are fine.

It doesn't help that its idle animation looks really stiff. Its other animations are fine enough, but its idle in particular feels too much like they tried to cram an elaborate action into a single second-long loop. I do in general say that most new Pokemon have stepped up in animation quality, but Mr. Mime feel still feels like it's held onto the same awkwardness as the animations of the models introduced back in X and Y.

But I will give credit where it's due, it is probably the regional variant that changes up the original Pokemon's physiology the most so far. Kantonian Mr. Mime definitely has more emphasis on the upper half of its body with large dodge balls for shoulders and a big honkin noggin. Galarian Mimey goes in reverse, with more emphasis on its lower half with longer, more outstretched legs and bigger feet, while compared to its regular variant, it has considerably smaller arms, shoulders and head. The two even smile differently, but both have an uncanny clown stare. I may not be ENTIRELY on board with the execution but I do like the attempt being made here.

Personal Score: 6.5/10

866: Mr. Rime

Thankfully Mr. Rime brings it back around into good stuff. It's a shame Mr. Mime has joined the club with its fellow Gen 1 single-stage budies, Magmar and Electabuzz so late that it's gotten roped into this Regional Evolution thing to where it's no longer its original type. Curiously enough though, it's now Jynx's type of all things. I guess that may be indirectly ruling out the possiblity of Jynx getting its own evolution, at least not one that would also by Ice/Psychic, huh?

Anyway, while the hair still doesn't look that great to me, Mr. Rime steps up its game for everything else. Its face overall is quite amusing, with a classic bowler hat and 'stache. It's also developed the tap dancing theme to include a little cane made out of ice, which is cute.

It's also been classified as a “Comedian Pokemon”. When taking the way it “dresses” into account, it's all a pretty unsubtle reference to British comedian Charlie Chaplin. Who also tap-danced quite a bit for his routines. Mr. Rime in general is much better animated than its predecessor too. A much better idle dancing animation, as well as some really fun walk and run cycles that I wish I could find decent gifs of but no dice, sadly.

Speaking of animations, another interesting tidbit about Mr. Rime's animations is that its face doesn't emote much beyond eye blinks. But there IS an odd pattern on its stomach, made up of a huge button in the middle and two, what look like yellow coat buttons on the side. But in actuality, this belly pattern actually emotes a lot more than its actual face does! The buttons blink and what looks like a white undershirt is actually the only visible mouth on this thing. We could very well have another Wobbuffet situation on our hands where a Pokemon's face is actually a fake face, hiding its REAL face! Though it definitely is harder to tell which face is real on Mr. Rime here, since its “fake”, er, upper face does still emote here and there. But what does that have to do with the theme of comedy?

I'm sure we're all familiar with ventriloquism, right? A routine that most commonly sees use as a form of comedy where a person can use a trick where they can talk with their mouths closed to make it look like the puppet in their hand is actually the one talking. Sounds solid to say that Mr. Rime's design could be taking inspirations from ventriloquism when taking its dual-faced-ness into account. Funny then, that the word “ventriloquism” translated from Latin means “to speak from the stomach”! Ventriloquism, as you could probably guess by now, saw its earliest uses as entertainment in Britain.

What a cool way to do a ventriloquist dummy Pokemon! It's so subtle about it I didn't connect the dots until I was in the middle of writing this very review, and I’ve yet to see anyone else make this connection either. That only makes Mr. Rime even cooler!

The design itself is definitely quite pleasing. Again, a nicely downplayed color scheme with some nice bright yellows and a big red “belly button” to pop just enough while adding some humor to the design. It does definitely look like it fits right in with the exact same style of evolving something as Electabuzz into Electavire and Magmar into Magmortar. Just bumping up a base design to look a little bit more “mature.” If you were to take away the Ice motif, it definitely could fit right in with Gen 4's squad of Legacy Evos.

The one problem here is that it is a pretty far departure from Mr. Mime, so I could understand if any Mr. Mime stans that were holding out for it getting an evolution one day might be a bit disappointed that it's become not much of a mime.

Personal Score: 9/10

Heck it, I was gonna give it an 8 but sure. The ventriloquist part of its design is underratedly clever.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

#8yrsago David Byrne's How Music Works

Former Talking Heads frontman and all-round happy mutant David Byrne has written several good books, but his latest, How Music Works, is unquestionably the best of the very good bunch, possibly the book he was born to write. I could made good case for calling this How Art Works or even How Everything Works.

Though there is plenty of autobiographical material How Music Works that will delight avid fans (like me) -- inside dope on the creative, commercial and personal pressures that led to each of Byrne's projects -- this isn't merely the story of how Byrne made it, or what he does to turn out such great and varied art. Rather, this is an insightful, thorough, and convincing account of the way that creativity, culture, biology and economics interact to prefigure, constrain and uplift art. It's a compelling story about the way that art comes out of technology, and as such, it's widely applicable beyond music.

Byrne lived through an important transition in the music industry: having gotten his start in the analog recording world, he skilfully managed a transition to an artist in the digital era (though not always a digital artist). As such, he has real gut-feel for the things that technology gives to artists and the things that technology takes away. He's like the kids who got their Apple ][+s in 1979, and keenly remember the time before computers were available to kids at all, the time when they were the exclusive domain of obsessive geeks, and the point at which they became widely exciting, and finally, ubiquitous -- a breadth of experience that offers visceral perspective.

There were so many times in this book when I felt like Byrne's observations extended beyond music and dance and into other forms of digital creativity. For example, when Byrne recounted his first experiments with cellular automata exercise for dance choreography, from his collaboration with Noemie Lafrance:

1. Improvise moving to the music and come up with an eight-count phrase (in dance, a phrase is a short series of moves that can be repeated).

2. When you find a phrase you like, loop (repeat) it.

3. When you see someone else with a stronger phrase, copy it.

4. When everyone is doing the same phrase, the exercise is over.

It was like watching evolution on fast-forward, or an emergent lifeform coming into being. At first the room was chaos, writhing bodies everywhere. At first the room was chaos, writhing bodies everywhere. Then one could see that folks had chosen their phrases, and almost immediately one could see a pocket of dancers who had all adopted the same phrase. The copying had already begun, albeit in just one area. This pocket of copying began to expand, to go viral, while yet another one now emerged on the other side of the room. One clump grew faster than the other, and within four minutes the whole room was filled with dancers moving in perfect unison. Unbelievable! It only took four minutes for this evolutionary process to kick in, and for the "strongest" (unfortunate word, maybe) to dominate.

I remembered the first time I programmed an evolutionary algorithm and watched its complexity emerging from simple rules, and the catch in my throat as I realized that I was watching something like life being built up from simple, inert rules.

The book is shot through with historical examples and arguments about the nature of music, from Plato up to contemporary neuroscience, and here, too, many of the discussions are microcosms for contemporary technical/philosophical debates. There's a passage about how music is felt and experienced that contains the phrase, "music isn't merely absorbed above the neck," which is spookily similar to the debates about replicating human consciousness in computers, and the idea that our identity doesn't reside exclusively above the brainstem.

The same is true of Byrne's account of how music has not "progressed" from a "primitive" state -- rather, it adapted itself to different technological realities. Big cathedrals demand music that accommodates a lot of reverb; village campfire music has completely different needs. Reading this, I was excited by the parallels to discussions of whether we live in an era of technological "progress" or merely technological "change" -- is there a pinnacle we're climbing, or simply a bunch of stuff followed by a bunch of other stuff? Our overwhelming narrative of progress feels like hubris to me, at least a lot of the time. Some things are "better" (more energy efficient, more space-efficient, faster, more effective), but there are plenty of things that are held up as "better" that, to me, are simply different. Often very good, but in no way a higher rung on some notional ladder toward perfection.

When Byrne's history comes to the rise of popular recorded music, he describes a familiar dilemma: recording artists were asked to produce music that could work when performed live and when listened to in the listener's private playback environment -- not so different from the problems faced by games developers today who struggle to make games that will work on a wide variety of screens. In a later section, he describes the solution that was arrived at in the 1970s, a solution that reminds me a lot of the current world of content management systems like WordPress and Blogger, which attempt to separate "meaning" from "form" for text, storing them separately and combining them with little code-libraries called "decorators":

[Deconstruct and isolate] sums up the philosophy of a lot of music recording back in the late seventies. The goal was to get as pristine a sound as possible... Studios were often padded with sound-absorbent materials so that there was almost no reverberation. The sonic character of the space was sucked out, because it wasn't considered to be part of the music. Without this ambiance, it was explained, the sound would be more malleable after the recording had been made. Dead, characterless sound was held up as the ideal, and often still is. In this philosophy, the naturally occurring echo and reverb that normally added a little warmth to performances would be removed and then added back in when the recording was being mixed...

Recording a performance with a band and singer all playing together at the same time in the same room was by this time becoming a rarity. An incredible array of options opened up as a result, but some organic interplay between the musicians disappeared, and the sound of music changed. Some musicians who played well in live situations couldn't adapt to the fashion for each player to be isolated. They couldn't hear their bandmates and, as a result, often didn't play very well.

Changing the technology used in art changes the art, for good and ill. Blog-writing has a lot going for it -- spontaneity, velocity, vernacular informality, but often lacks the reflective distance that longer-form works bring. Byrne has similar observations about music and software:

What you hear [in contemporary music] is the shift in music structure that computer-aided composition has encouraged. Though software is promoted as being an unbiased toold that helps us do anything we want, all software has inherent biases that make working one way easier than another. With the Microsoft presentation software PowerPoint, for example, you have to simplify your presentations so much that the subtle nuances in the subject being discussed often get edited out. These nuances are not forbidden, they're not blocked, but including them tends to make for a less successful presentation. Likewise, that which is easy to bullet-point and simply visualize works better. That doesn't mean it actually is better; it means working is certain ways is simply easier than working in others...

An obvious example is quantizing. Since the mid-nineties, most popular music recorded on computers has had tempos and rhythms that have been quantized. That means that the tempo never varies, not even a little bit, the the rhythmic parts tend toward metronomic perfection. In the past, the tempo of recordings would always vary slightly, imperceptibly speeding up or maybe slowing down a little, or a drum fill might hesitate in order to signal the beginning of a new section. You'd feel a slight push and pull, a tug and then a release, as ensembles of whatever type responded to one another and lurched, ever so slightly, ahead of and behind an imaginary metronomic beat. No more. Now almost all pop recordings are played to a strict tempo, which makes these compositions fit more easily into the confines of editing and recording software. An eight-bar section recorded on a "grid" of this type is exactly twice as long as a four-bar section, and every eight-bar section is always exactly the same length. This makes for a nice visual array on the computer screen, and facilitates easy editing, arranging, and repairing as well. Music has come to accommodate software, and I have to admit a lot has been gained as a result.

Byrne is well aware of the parallels between music technology and other kinds of technology. No history of the recording business would be complete without a note about the format wars fought between Edison and his competitors like RCA, who made incompatible, anti-competitive playback formats. Byrne explicitly links this to modern format-wars, citing MS Office, Kindles, iPads and Pro Tools. (His final word on the format wars rings true for other media as well: "Throughout the history of recorded music, we have tended to value convenience over quality every time. Edison cylinders didn't really sound as good as live performers, but you could carry them around and play them whenever you wanted.")

Likewise, debates over technological change (pooh-poohing the "triviality" of social media or the ephemeral character of blogs) are played out in Byrne's history of music panics, which start in ancient Greece, and play out in situations like the disco wars, which prefigured the modern fight over sampling:

The most threatening thing to rockers in the era of disco was that the music was gay, black and "manufactured" on machines, made out of bits of other peoples' recordings.

Like mixtapes. I'd argue that other than race and sex, [the fact that disco was "manufactured" on machines, made out of bits of other peoples' recordings] was the most threatening aspect. To rock purists, this new music messed with the idea of authorship. If music was now accepted as a kind of property, then this hodgepodge version that disregarded ownership and seemed to belong to and originate with so many people (and machines) called into question a whole social and economic framework.

But as Byrne reminds us, new technology can liberate new art forms. Digital formats and distribution have given us music that is only a few bars long, and compositions that are intended to play for 1,000 years. The MP3 shows us that 3.5 minutes isn't an "ideal" length for a song (merely the ideal length for a song that's meant to be sold on a 45RPM single), just as YouTube showed us that there are plenty of video stories that want to be two minutes long, rather than shoehorned into 22 minute sitcoms, 48 minute dramas, or 90 minute feature films.

And Byrne's own journey has led him to be skeptical of the all-rights-reserved model, from rules over photography and video in his shows:

The thing we were supposed to be fighting against was actually something we should be encouraging. They were getting the word out, and it wasn't costing me anything. I began to announce at the beginning of the shows that photography was welcome, but I suggested to please only post shots and videos where we look good.

To a very good account of the power relationships reflected in ascribing authorship (and ownership, and copyright) to melody, but not to rhythms and grooves and textures, though these are just as important to the music's aesthetic effect.

Byrne doesn't focus exclusively on recording, distribution and playback technology. He is also a keen theorist of the musical implications of architecture, and presents a case-study of the legendary CBGB's and its layout, showing how these led to its center in the 1970s New York music scene that gave us the Ramones, Talking Heads, Television, and many other varied acts. Here, Byrne channels Jane Jacobs in a section that is nothing short of brilliant in its analysis of how small changes (sometimes on the scale of inches) make all the difference to the kind of art that takes place in a building.

There's a long section on the mechanics of the recording business as it stands today, with some speculation about where its headed, and included in this is a fabulous and weird section on some of Byrne's own creative process. Here he describes how he collaborated with Brian Eno on Everything That Happens Will Happen Today:

The unwritten rule in remote collaborations is, for me, "Leave the other person's stuff alone as much as you possibly can." You work with what you're given, and don't try to imagine it as something other than what it is. Accepting that half the creative decision-making has already been done has the effect of bypassing a lot of endless branching -- not to mention waffling and worrying.

And here's a mind-bending look into his lyrics-writing method:

...I begin by improvising a melody over the music. I do this by singing nonsense syllables, but with weirdly inappropriate passion, given that I'm not saying anything. Once I have a wordless melody and a vocal arrangement my my collaborators (if there are any) and I like, I'll begin to transcribe that gibberish as if it were real words.

I'll listen carefully to the meaningless vowels and consonants on the recording, and I'll try to understand what that guy (me), emoting so forcefully by inscrutably, is actually saying. It's like a forensic exercise. I'll follow the sound of the nonsense syllables as closely as possible. If a melodic phrase of gibberish ends on a high ooh sound, then I'll transcribe that, and in selecting the actual words, I'll try to try to choose one that ends in that syllable, or as close to it as I can get. So the transcription process often ends up with a page of real words, still fairly random, that sounds just like the gibberish.

I do that because the difference between an ooh and an aah, and a "b" and a "th" sound is, I assume, integral to the emotion that the story wants to express. I want to stay true to that unconscious, inarticulate intention. Admittedly, that content has no narrative, or might make no literal sense yet, but it's in there -- I can hear it. I can feel it. My job at this stage is to find words that acknowledge and adhere to the sonic and emotional qualities rather than to ignore and possibly destroy them.

Part of what makes words work in a song is how they sound to the ear and feel on the tongue. If they feel right physiologically, if the tongue of the singer and the mirror neurons of the listener resonate with the delicious appropriateness of the words coming out, then that will inevitably trump literal sense, although literal sense doesn't hurt.

Naturally, this leads into a great discussion of the neuroscience of music itself -- why our brains like certain sounds and rhythms.

How Music Works gave me insight into parts of my life as diverse as my email style to how I write fiction to how I parent my daughter (it was a relief to read Byrne's discussion of how parenting changed him as an artist). I've been a David Byrne fan since I was 13 and I got a copy of Stop Making Sense. He's never disappointed me, but with How Music Works, Byrne has blown through my expectations, producing a book that I'll be thinking of and referring to for years to come.

Byrne's touring the book now, and as his tour intersects with my own book tours, I'll be interviewing him live on stage in Toronto on September 19th, at the Harbourfront International Festival of Authors.

How Music Works

https://boingboing.net/2012/09/12/david-byrnes-how-music-w.html

[joanofsnarrrk]

Fic: as iron sharpens iron - Chapter 2 (Burn Notice) - 9k+ words

SUMMARY: Somewhere along the way, at one point or another, Madeline tells them, “You need to stick together.”

And that, more or less, is what they do.

Nearly a year and a half later, here’s chapter two! I’m blaming a lethal combination of a global pandemic and grad school.

Here’s Part One. Also: both chapters can be found on AO3.

——————

He knows it's coming. Has known since the very beginning.

(You left, Michael. You had a choice to make, and you made it.)

He knows all the reasons they can't be together—has them memorized, front and back, reverse alphabetical order, ascending and descending order of importance. Hell, he could even recite them in English, Russian, and Farsi if asked. He used to mentally run them on a loop all the time, but that's—it's not enough anymore. Because the truth of the matter is that he has wavered on the subject with an alarming amount of frequency over the last year with her here in Miami, further demonstrating—in his mind—that his judgment has become too clouded to be objective anymore.

(I'll always care about you, Michael. I'll still help you with your thing, and you'll still help me with mine, but we can't be together.)

It doesn't change the fact that, no matter how prepared he is, no matter how many times he's been briefed on all the terrible consequences they could incur as a direct result of their...liaison, it's difficult to hear her say it out loud.

It doesn't truly become painful until the sound of her words echoes off the empty walls of the loft, and without so much as a glance back, she walks out the door.

—

"Fi, what do you think of these?"

She turns and takes in the floral print blouse and matching hoop earrings (with little, plastic flamingoes on them) Madeline is holding up. They're hideous.

"They're, uh—" She goes back to scanning the department store for visible security threats. There's a particularly suspicious character seated over by the food court in the adjoining mall. "—they're really something."

She tracks the food court guy until a woman and small child approach him, and the three head off toward the New York & Company at the south end of the mall. Satisfied, she glances back, then does a double-take at the deeply unamused look on Madeline's face.

"What?"

"Fiona," she says dryly, stashing the blouse and earrings onto the circular rack beside them, "I'm not an idiot. I know you're only here because Michael asked you to babysit me."

Fi looks down at her nails and swallows. "Well, I think his exact phrasing was 'protect her'..."

"You say 'tomato,' I say 'condescending eldest son.'"

Fi peruses through the clearance rack, nose wrinkling at all the tacky prints. "Michael's helping Sam protect a client—some ex-convict turned dedicated family man—from some bad men in Little Havana. He just—" She shrugs. "—wanted to keep you safe. He cares about you."

Madeline snorts at that. "Yeah? Well, he's got a funny way of showing it."

Fi somehow manages to keep her thoughts on that particular subject to herself. She comes across the tackiest shirt of all. "What about this one?"

It's a t-shirt with Hot Mama emblazoned across the front. Even by both of their style standards, it's awful.

Madeline doesn't even bat an eye. "Only," she says, pulling a shirt of her own off the rack, "if you agree to get this one."

More subtle, but no less awful, hers reads Trouble. They exchange matching grins as they swap shirts.

"You know, Fiona, honey," Madeline begins uncertainly, avoiding Fi's gaze as she holds up her shirt to make sure it's the right size, "Michael's been mum about this whole break up, but I'm sure it...well, I'm sure it hasn't been easy—"

"We were never together," she automatically corrects, ignoring the way her heart twists painfully at the denial.

Madeline's expression turns suspicious, but she keeps her opinions to herself. "Of course. I just mean, if you can't come to poker games, or come visit as frequently because seeing him is too difficult, I...I understand."

It's such a thoughtful sentiment, and one that fills her with an alarming amount of anguish, that Fi feels the need to correct her immediately. Just the idea that Madeline thinks she doesn't want to be her friend anymore because of her son's emotional incompetence is...is...

"Absolutely not." Her voice squeaks out an octave or two higher than normal, but she plays it off like she doesn't even notice. "That's a preposterous idea, Madeline, and I'll hear none of it. Now, go try that on."

The small smile that Madeline flashes her on the way to the changing room is both grateful and doting in equal measure.

—

Even in Afghanistan, the early morning brings some kind of reprieve from the heat, but Miami is its own kind of animal. Sure, it's marginally less humid, but as Michael's sneakers pound against the dirt running trail and his lungs (heavy and unmistakably saturated with the moisture in the air) swell in his chest, he forgets what an absolute hell hole this place is—an insult, probably, to Hell since it can't possibly be this humid there.

(Home sweet home.)

"Mikey—h-hold up!"

Sam's voice barely registers with him as he presses forward, ignoring each coinciding jolt that shoots up his legs and makes his teeth rattle. He deliberately tunes out the internal voice that reminds him thirteen miles was a hell of a lot easier back in his Army Ranger days, at the age of 23, than it is at the age of 41. Still...Langley never had this view—sun cresting over the ocean, streaks of muted pink and orange stretched across the early morning sky.

(Langley also didn't have frozen bank accounts and deleted job histories, that same internal voice reminds him, which...fair).

They bypass a park bench, which Michael figures is as good a spot as any to take a break, just as he gets a side cramp. Apparently, his own body has a truly wicked sense of humor. He presses his palm to just below his rib cage as he watches Sam collapse onto the other end of the bench, legs sprawled.

"Aw, c'mon, Sam," Michael says to him in between labored breaths. He attempts a smile but winces when he gets another sticker. "Don't tell me you've gone soft in retirement. I thought SEALs were supposed to have better stamina than this."

Sam's own breathing is erratic as his chest rises and falls unevenly. He wipes an arm across his forehead. "Uh, for the record: If we were in water right now, we wouldn't even be having this conversation."

"Why?" Michael looks up from the ground, hands planted on his knees. "Because you would have drowned?"

Sam's responding look says everything a rude, single-fingered gesture could. "Oh-ho! That's real funny, Mike." He lets his head rest on the back of the bench a moment, eyes jammed shut, trying to regain a steady pace of breathing again. "I'll let it slide, though, 'cause I know you're all messed up about this break up with Fiona—"

"We were never together."

"That's just the denial, brother. Veronica says it's the second stage of the grieving process, and—"

Michael lets his head fall, chin to chest, and holds out his hand. "If I buy breakfast, can we please drop this?"

Sam takes his proffered hand and uses the leverage to spring from the bench. "Throw in lunch, and I'll forget I ever met the broad."

Despite himself, Michael grins at that. When they finally make it back to the Charger—drenched and completely exhausted—Sam beats his personal best time by about a second and a half, which he claims—in addition to both meals—is worth at least two drinks of his choosing.

"It's certainly worth at least a drink and a half," Michael ultimately decides, and Sam's responding laughter is contagious.

—

The instructor is too...peppy for this early in the day. At least, that's what Maddie thinks.

All she says, however, cigarette hanging limply from the corner of her mouth is: "I hate her."

Sam rolls his eyes, careful not to lose his grip on the pool noodle she's balancing on as she does half-assed flutter kicks. The other ladies in the aquaerobics class keep covertly (and some not so covertly) shooting them dirty looks. He manages to keep them at bay with a few disarming smiles. Apparently, Sammy's still got charm to spare.

Of course, it probably helps that he's easily the youngest one in attendance, but when your best buddy asks you to keep an eye on his Ma, what can you do?

All he says to her, however, is, "Now, now, Maddie. My shrink from back in the service would say you're projecting."

"Projecting?"

"Mm-hmm. It means you're not really mad at the instructor, you're just upset because—"

"I know what it means, Sam. I'm not an idiot."

"—Fiona and Mike broke up."

"Fiona said they were never together."

Sam snorts. "Yeah, Mike said the same thing."

"Oh, please," she spits out with enough force that her cigarette drops from her mouth into the pool. "They were 'never together' in the same way you date 'age-appropriate women'."

"Hey, now," he bristles, sounding almost hurt.

Maddie doesn't apologize, but her tone doesn't carry the same kind of bite when she adds: "I suppose that's why Michael put you in charge of surveillance this morning? So the two of them don't have to spend more time together?"

He relinquishes the pool noodle to her when the instructor holds her own noodle above her head. Maddie mirrors the movement. "Or, maybe I just like scoping out all the eligible broads in Miami-Dade County who are raking in those sweet social security checks."

She barks a singular, "Ha!" over her shoulders, which of course earns them a few more disgusted looks.

Up front, the instructor begins doing some kind of modified jumping jacks. Her teeth gleam as she smiles widely and says, "Okay, ladies! Let's move with porpoise and try to have some dol-fun with this one!"

The two of them exchange looks. "I hate her," Sam finally decides, frowning.

Maddie turns back around, a self-satisfied smirk on her face. "Now who's projecting?"

—

She could flag down someone at the Cuban café down the block, but—ugh, no. Horrible idea. Untrained civilians would be more trouble than help. The cops? Not unless she wants Michael and Sam to get pinched—and as tempting as the latter may be...There!

Fi makes a hasty approach to the EMT station just down the block. This was supposed to be a two-man job (of which she had no part, thank-you-very-much) until her pedicure was interrupted by a call from Michael, who practically begged her for reinforcements. So even before her gels have a chance to set, she finds herself in Hialeah trying to find a suitable enough commotion to allow Michael and Sam the chance to escape from...well, whatever it is they've got themselves involved with.

He owes me big time, she thinks sourly before hiking her dress up just the tiniest bit and fanning air into her eyes to make them water before she makes her entrance.

"E-Excuse me? Somebody! Can-Can anybody help me?" she cries, really turning up the dramatics—truly, if anyone should be teaching an acting master class, it should be her.

There are a couple of ambulances and a group of EMTs playing cards. Or, at least they were playing cards before they all turn to look at the hysterical woman standing in their station.

One of the men—a genuine look of sincerity and concern on his face—approaches her. "What seems to be the trouble, ma'am?"

"It's my father," she tells him, voice cracking. "He's feeble, and—and the dementia? It's only getting worse. He was supposed to meet me at the jai alai court on seventh, but he never showed." She brings her hand to her mouth as if suddenly overcome with emotion rather than trying not to break at the thought of Sam being described this way. "I think—I think it might be gang-related?!"

The man places a comforting hand on her shoulder, which normally would be a bit forward, but Fi's having trouble getting upset over the whole ordeal—especially when that hand belongs to someone with such a cute face.

A very cute face.

"Don't worry, ma'am," he reassures her earnestly—it's only further endearing, "we'll send someone out to make sure he returns home safely."

He gestures behind him to two of the men playing cards, who immediately stand to attention. With his back turned, Fi quickly shoots out a text to let Michael know the cavalry's on its way. The sound of the ambulance's siren as it turns out of the garage startles her, and just as she slips her mobile back in her hip bag, the man redirects his attention back to her.

"Oh, thank you!" she gushes, making a show of dabbing at her eyes. "Thank you, Mr....?"

"Uh, Campbell. Just—Campbell."

"Thank you, Campbell. I'm—" She hesitates, only slightly, with every intention of offering up a fake name (Millicent, maybe?). But it's like she said: he's very cute. "—I'm Fiona."

Eventually, he asks for her number, blushing and backtracking at her raised eyebrows as he explains they want to make sure they have a point of contact in case Bryce and Jeff (the two guys in the ambulance) find her father.

They never do, obviously. But Fi does receive a text from an unknown number later that night inviting her to stop by the garage any time tomorrow.

...for an update on her father, of course.

(He doesn't actually ask her out until the following week, and by that point, she updates the contact listing in her phone from Cute EMT to Just Campbell).

—

Their question doesn't make sense. Especially because they're at Carlito's, and their brunch order hasn't even arrived yet.

"I like Campbell," Michael says, his smile not really all there. "He's...great."

Sam and Barry exchange glances, as if they somehow know something he doesn't. Michael hates it. He flags down the waitress for another mimosa—maybe two?

The whole thing's an ambush, all things considered.

—

"You said what?" Fi practically shrieks.

A few women on the yoga mats in front of them turn around to glare at the interruption. She offers up a hasty apology.

Sam, who is finally dressed appropriately in a baggy t-shirt and athletic shorts, looks duly chastised. Whether from her outburst or the fact that he can't seem to maintain his balance for boat pose, she's uncertain. "I told her that I've traveled all over the world, seen a lot of women, and that..." He hesitates when he catches her glaring. "...that she's one in a million?"

Fi lets out an exasperated yelp. "How did you possibly make it through SEAL training when you are clearly suffering from such advanced levels of brain damage?" she hisses, careful to keep her volume in check.

Sam falls back against his yoga mat gracelessly as they mimic the instructor's transition into corpse pose. "Hey!"

An older woman on the other side of Sam looks at him, disappointed. "Veronica has every right to be upset," she says. "You tell her she's something special and then can't even honor her with a response when she proposes?"

Sam tries to catch his breath, arms splayed at his side. He glares at her. "Uh, no offense, but you're not exactly a relationship expert here. You've only been with Anthony, what? Two weeks?"

"No, Donna's right," Fi assures him, closing her eyes to hopefully re-establish some form of equilibrium.

Another girl, Natalie—with bangs and a University of Miami t-shirt—chimes in from behind them. "Sam, my guy. It's completely understandable that you would have some reservations, or whatever, given everything that went down with Amanda. But you can't just, like, project all of your emotional baggage onto Veronica. It's not fair to her."

Sam looks between the three of them as they transition into bound angle pose. His hips creak painfully in the process. "Okay, let's assume that some—"

"—all—" Fi corrects.

"—Fine, let's assume all of that is true. What do you guys think I should do?"

"Have you called her since?" Donna wants to know.

Sam looks uncomfortable—and not just because his body hasn't moved like this since before the Soviet Union dissolved. "Well, no, not exactly, but—"

"Sam!"

This time, Fi doesn't bother watching her volume. She stands abruptly, slinging her yoga mat over her shoulder, and grabs Sam by his ear. His protests combined with her antics are enough to disturb the whole class. The instructor scowls at them both.

"Don't worry, we're leaving," she calls out, dragging a sniveling Sam behind her. He barely protests when she informs him they're driving over to Veronica's, so he can explain to her in person why he's an emotionally stunted idiot man child (her words).

—

"Now, you can hit me all you want," Sam growls at him, breathing wild and uneven, "but I'm gonna stand here 'til you get your head back in the game."

All Michael can see is red (although, some of that may be courtesy of Sam, who apparently still packs a hell of a right hook) as his options for saving the sick boy, Jack, vanish right in front of him. To him, it's just tactical reevaluation: Rachel is no longer an option, so the next logical step is Carla, who has the cash they need. But to Sam, it's apparently a breach of conscience.

It's been so long since Michael took his conscience into consideration—seared and mangled beyond repair, as it is. But Sam, apparently, views it not only as something worth saving but as something capable of being saved.

So he retreats, equal parts livid and grateful toward the guy blocking his front door.

A good friend supports you, both tactically and personally, he thinks, but an even better friend knows when to draw the line.

—

"You're lucky I like you so much," Fi says through a barely concealed yawn as they walk into Milam's. "Otherwise, you would never find me up this early on a Sunday."

Campbell smiles and pulls her into his side. "Good thing I'm so convincing then."

She has every intention of keeping up her pouting act and drawing the whole thing out a little while longer, but when she looks up at him and sees how...happy he looks, she finds it difficult to stay annoyed at him. Especially because she finally has the chance to wear the romper she snagged from the outlet mall two weeks ago for a fraction of its original cost.

(Michael would have complained about heading out to Dolphin Mall on a weekend, but Campbell was more than game. He even offered to drive—)

She cuts off that thought and instead focuses on how warm his fingers feel through the thin material of her romper. "And charming," she adds without really meaning to, but as soon as she sees his smile widen, she's glad she does. "However, I believe there were promises made regarding a homemade breakfast of some kind?"

She wiggles out of his grasp to pull a hastily made grocery list out of her pocket (half-off and pockets? Be still, her heart!). She hesitates a moment when she sees two of the cashiers looking intently in their direction (it's always the same girls who stare at her every time she's in here). They go back to busying themselves with the registers as soon as they see her looking their way.

"An egg white omelet with spinach?" Campbell suggests, then after a moment of doubt, he adds, "Right?"

It's adorable—as is everything he does. She nods in reassurance, and his shoulders sink in relief.

"Now," she says, redirecting the conversation to the task at hand, "produce is on the other side of the store, but the eggs are lumped in with poultry here, so if we hit up this side first, then make a straight shot through to—"

Campbell releases her and instead clasps one of her hands in his. "We have nowhere else to be today. Why don't we go up and down the aisles and pick up anything else we might need?"

She hesitates. Tactically, his plan is an absolute disaster—why would you divert from the objective for non-essential food items? But, a small voice reminds her, not everyone is as tactically minded as him.

Campbell frowns as her smile presumably falters, but she shakes her head like an Etch-A-Sketch and hooks her arm in his. She makes a big show of sighing and rolling her eyes as she relents. "Fine, but you owe me a yogurt now."

He plants a kiss on her head. "Blueberry, right?"

She spends the rest of the day pointedly ignoring the voice that won't stop reminding her he's not Michael.

—

Crouched behind their registers, Olivia turns to Maricruz. "Oh, my God—that's the supermodel wife slash girlfriend!"

"The one with the yogurt guy?"

She nods. "Yeah, but that's definitely not him."

Covertly, the two peer over their registers to get a better look. Not long after, Supermodel Wife Slash Girlfriend looks in their direction, and they quickly disappear again.

"Uh, excuse me, but who the heck is generically handsome white dude?" Maricruz demands, sounding almost offended.

Olivia's shoulders sink. "Do you think she's cheating on him? Poor yogurt guy."

"I mean, it could be her brother?"

"Yeah, right. He had his arm wrapped around her waist. That's, like, Boyfriend 101."

Maricruz puts her foot down. Metaphorically. "No. No way. I—"

"Excuse me." An elderly woman peers over Maricruz's conveyor belt, her mouth pressed into a hard line. "Could I please get some assistance?"

The two girls pop up from their crouched positions and brush themselves off. Maricruz offers the woman a conciliatory smile. "So sorry, ma'am. I'm happy to help you out."

After Maricruz rings up her order—a tube of Sensodyne and a bag of Werther's Originals—the elderly woman walks off in a huff. They both wave after her, wide smiles plastered on with professional ease, until Maricruz turns back to Olivia.

"No, look. I have a cousin who runs a kind of sketch auto body shop in Little Haiti, and he says yogurt guy was in just last week buying a new windshield, and supermodel wife slash girlfriend was with him."

Olivia looks somewhat impressed. "You looped your cousin into this?"

"...Yes. I'm not proud of it," Maricruz laments. "According to Diego, yogurt guy is in there a lot, always showing up with his car busted up. One time, Diego swears he saw bullet holes on the side, hand to God."

Olivia takes this in with some difficulty. "But he...he owns so many polo shirts! I just—what does that guy do?"

Maricruz crosses her fingers, nodding in Supermodel Wife Slash Girlfriend's direction. "Hopefully, not her. My money is still on super hot sister."

—

"Now, did Shawn deliver, or did he deliver?"

Michael turns just in time to see the giddy smile stretch across Sam's face as he makes his return to their seats, his arms delicately balancing chili cheese fries and plastic cups of beer. Before Sam can reclaim his seat between them, Fi makes a grab for the fries, while Michael takes one of the proffered beers. When Sam settles in, he tries to snag one of Fi's fries, but she slaps his hand away.

"Fifty-yard line, third row back," Michael recalls, unable to help the grin from spreading on his own face. "I've gotta admit—these seats are real nice, Sam."

Of the three of them, he's the only one in an orange polo shirt. The other two are decked out, head to toe, in Dolphins' colors—including jerseys (Sam, of course, in an old Marino one) and in Fi's case, an orange bandana. She even has eye black under each eye.

"Nice?" Sam demands with a hearty laugh. "Mikey, these seats are more than nice. They're phenomenal. I can practically see the whites of Ricky Williams' eyes!"

Fi sighs dramatically. "Get back to me when we're talking about real football," she says, popping a fry into her mouth.

"Real football?" Sam gestures toward the whole field. "This is as real and American as apple pie, lady."

She rolls her eyes. "Michael, can you please inform Sam that I am not an American?"

"Mikey, can you please inform Fiona that I didn't serve in the Navy for over a decade to listen to the good name of American football be besmirched?"

"Kids, kids," Michael says dryly. "Let's try not to kill each other before half time even begins."

Arms crossed, Sam and Fi glare at each other. "Fine," they spit out simultaneously.

Michael smiles from behind his sunglasses as an announcement filters in through the speaker system that they're clearing the field to honor a group of local World War II veterans. Sam springs up from his chair just as a steady stream of other people migrate toward the restrooms and concession stands.

"Those beers shot right through me," he informs them just as Fi makes a point of dramatically shuddering. "I'm gonna try to beat the lines."

As soon as he leaves, Michael is acutely aware that he and Fi are alone together for the first time since...well, a while. Without Sam as a buffer between them, she seems much closer than before. Which is...inconvenient because she said they can't be together, and she's still—well, the whole thing is still—a lot.

And...maybe she called Campbell before the start of the game, and Michael realized he hadn't been able to make her smile or laugh like that in a long time.

"I never got a chance to thank you, Michael."

He looks up at the sound of Fi's voice, but when he turns to her, she has her feet propped up on the seat below her, gaze straight ahead. He copies her stance, settles into the cheap plastic seat. "Thank me for what?"

"For taking this job and putting Felix away for good. He was a monster. Corey and Tanya deserved more than living their lives in constant fear."

Michael has a brief flash to his father, but he reflexively pushes that back. Instead, he watches as a group of elderly veterans make their way onto the field. "Well, you said you felt strongly about it."

"I did," she says, then quickly corrects, "I do. Tanya is just a kid, and when I—"

Abruptly, she cuts herself off, and it takes everything in him to keep his gaze straightforward. Fi could never stomach his pity, and he has a feeling now would be no different. There's something there, but he won't press her. Instead, he tries a different tactic. "You did good work, Fi. They were lucky to have someone who lets her emotions run the show on their side."

He feels eyes on him, and instinctually, when he turns to look at her, she's looking right back, an appreciative smile on her face. He looks away just as she makes the decision to climb over and into the seat next to him. She plucks a fry from Sam's abandoned pile and settles in before saying, "Sam will simply lose it when I tell him I submitted his name as one of these elderly veterans."

It's enough for both of them to share matching grins and clink plastic cups as the concept of colleagues who are just friends seems more attenable.

(In the spirit of colleagues who are just friends, he may need to tell Sam to stop calling Campbell "Soup" behind his back.)

—

Even from his spot behind the police line, Michael can feel the stifling heat blazing from the explosion site. He's not actually breathing in any of the smoke or the smell of charred plastic, but he may as well be, the way his chest constricts, the way bile comes up and burns his throat on its way back down.

He spends the next few hours scouring what seems like every freeway, every back road, and every alley that make up Miami-Dade County looking for her. He mentally compiles every safehouse, every evacuation measure, every weapons stockpile she has littered throughout the city. All the while he tries calling her ("This is Fi. Leave a message.") again ("This is Fi. Leave a message.") and again ("This is Fi. Leave a message.") and again ("This is Fi. Leave a message."). It's only when the rain turns into a torrential downpour, reducing his visibility to practically nonexistent, that he's forced to make the retreat back to the loft. The click that accompanies the closed door carries with it a finality that Michael refuses to—can't—accept.

But then her voice somehow filtrates through his waning adrenaline and utter exhaustion ("You have got to get a landline in here."), and suddenly, he can't focus on anything other than remembering how to breathe.

There's no Campbell, there's no job, there's no sleazy, retired ex-SEAL making not-so-subtle comments, or a well-meaning-but-intrusive mother demanding to know how he ever let a girl like her go—

There's just them.

And suddenly his chest constricts, and he's drowning for another reason entirely when she sinks into his embrace—warm, and solid, and alive.

—

Sam keeps asking, keeps pressing, keeps...being Sam about the whole thing, but she is quite adamant on the subject.

She doesn't want to talk about it.

"Are you sure?" he tries again, breathing heavy. They're outside the loft, where the Charger usually is, sparring (Michael's off with—other Sam). She can't recall who had the idea first, but she's dismayed it took this long to figure out that hitting Sam is...well, it's phenomenally cathartic.

"Because it seems like—" He ducks, narrowly avoiding being kicked in the head. When he comes back up again, he fixes her with an indignant glare. "—it kind of seems like you might wanna talk about it."

"There's nothin' to talk about." Fi's next punch lands squarely on the beat-up couch cushion he's using as a strike shield. If her native accent slips through the haze of her own outrage, then so be it.

"Nothing at all?" This time her foot connects with the cushion, but he holds his ground. For an octogenarian (she assumes, anyway), he's still surprisingly spry. "You're telling me," he continues, as she blocks his counter, "that you have absolutely nothing to say about the fact that Mike—our Mike—was once engaged?"

Fi lets out an enraged shriek before she lands a roundhouse kick that makes Sam lose his footing and stagger backward. While he recovers, Fi paces—hands on her hips, breathing erratic, head and chest pounding in tandem.

"Of course, I do!" she cries, coming to an abrupt halt. "Do you know what he said to me? What he told me that first night we were in Miami?" When Sam shakes his head, she tells him: "He said—" She swallows past the lump in her throat with some difficulty. "—He said I was the 'closest he ever got.' And then this—this Sam woman just shows up, out of the blue, and she's just like him—"

Sam stands fully and looks at her with not quite empathy—he's not nearly evolved enough to pull that one off if she's being honest (and she almost always is)—but with pity. It's positively grotesque.

"Fi..." he trails off, his expression totally lost.

She can't tell if it's said out of genuine concern, or out of embarrassment by her outrageous emotional display, and he's just too much of a gentleman to address it forthright—but either way, she decides, she has spent far too much time wallowing to be of much use to anyone. (The fact that she just compared Sam to a gentleman is merely further evidence of her fraught emotional state, as far as she's concerned).

"Sam, I'm fine." She wipes her hair out of her eyes and brings her fists back up to fighting stance. "Like I said," she reminds him, "I don't want to talk about it."

Sam takes a moment to determine if she really is fine, but she doesn't budge. Satisfied, he clears his throat and holds the couch cushion back up. "Fine by me, sister. But this time," he advises her with an annoyingly smug smirk, "try leaning your whole body into it. Your last kick was pretty weak."

Later, after Fi leaves and Sam drives over to the clinic in Coconut Grove to tell his medical buddy about the whole ordeal, Sam's buddy takes one look at his x-rays and tells him he has three cracked ribs.

—

I left her because you don't marry someone when you love somebody else.

Madeline can't see Fiona's expression from her place in Michael's bed (pretending to be asleep limits her line of sight), but she can't help the small smile that blooms on her own face at her son's admission.

She hasn't known Fi long, but she has come to think of her as...family. Like the daughter she never had (the one she miscarried all those years ago). Sometimes she thinks about it—about what would happen if her fool son would start prioritizing the people he cared about over his job and what that would look like. How he would finally decide whether Fiona was officially his girlfriend or not, and how she would finally have the big family get-togethers during the holidays with all of them (her sons, and Fiona and Sam) like she always wanted, and maybe—eventually, somewhere down the line—how she might even get grandchildren out of the deal. She snuggles down into Michael's god-awful mattress, hopeful.

Her son certainly picked the right girl, but so help her, if he thinks Fiona—coming from an Irish Catholic family like that—would ever be caught dead proposing instead of him, then he clearly inherited all of his common sense from Frank, who was—at his best—a complete idiot.

[polarishq]

Meet GWENDOLINE CALDWELL. They are SIXTY-EIGHT years old and hail from HUNTSVILLE, AL. Gwen embodies the constellation, ANGENETAR. They use she/her pronouns and are currently employed as a FRONT DESK WORKER at the AMPHIRITE INN. Their faceclaim is NATHALIE EMMANUEL.

Angenetar reminds me of pair of blue denim overalls, freshly painted nails ruined soon after by a pickup game of kickball, winding down at night with a video game, doing all the voices in a bedtime story, feeling the energy of you but not you, regular family dinners, a stolen glance accompanied by a shy smile. .

BIOGRAPHY

There’s a world out there in which Gwen is happy. Where she comes home each day to a wife in an oversized Red Sox t-shirt, their daughter swinging on a play set in their back yard, living out a childhood where she doesn’t yet know that she’s going to go on to do great things, and a dog. There’s a world in which their small family gets swept up in the beautiful chaos of the Giordanos, where Gwen helps the family patriarch grill and pretends, for bursts at a time, like he’s her own father. There’s a world in which Gwen lives a quaint life, which was never what she thought she wanted, but is something that she’ll crave for the rest of her life.

(Gwen is merely a visitor in that timeline, a branch from the moment their daughter was kidnapped, a what could have been had she just been there at the right time, but as luck would have it…)

Growing up in the south during the Civil Rights Era, Gwen was quick to develop thick skin; her parents worked hard to provide her a good life and she fought hard for their rights when she was old enough to do so. She has always felt tethered to places she cannot see, but was unaware it had anything to do with being a witch; as Gwen saw it, her life was average for what she was born into, lucky to be blessed with a loving family and wanting nothing more than to make a good life for herself.

When her magic manifested when she was in her 20s, Angenetar appearing soon after just above her knee, it was a shock; although there were certainly incidents she couldn’t explain, her inclination–dimension-hopping–was too advance for her to do accidentally, and everything else had been so subtle. So when she’d been invited to Polaris, an invitation that came solely because of her sponsorship, it threw her for a loop.

Although a whirlwind, she worked hard at Polaris. Gwen’s particular inclination took a great deal of special training and research, but as a naturally curious person, she was fascinated by it. The issue was, as tough of a person as she grew to be, trying to access the energy of your alter-dimensional self was mentally and physically exhausting, and she had barely succeeded yet.

So, naturally, the first time she got stuck in an alternate dimension, it took her several years to find her way back home. Coming back was an adjustment; finding out both of her parents had passed of old age, finding out she’d missed out on several years of her own life–it was enough to make her afraid to try again, so for years Gwen rooted herself in the theory of her inclination, hoping to understand her abilities but afraid to put them into practice.

Her reluctance only became stronger when she met Christie. As the two dated, fell in love, married, and adopted their daughter, Gwen had no desire to lose any time with them. She focused all of her energy on her family, and through that, she was content. When their daughter was kidnapped and her marriage fell apart, Gwen’s whole life flipped on her head. She searched, of course she searched, but her specialties didn’t lend well to try and find a needle in the haystack.

The idea to call upon her resonance in an alternate timeline as a means to find her came from an outside source, but as soon as Gwen heard it, it took root in her brain. At first, she was resistant–she was needed here, she had to find her daughter–but, when it felt like all hope was lost, Gwen felt it worth trying to find answers in other worlds. With nothing left to lose, she dimension hopped once more.

If anyone asks, she’ll claim she was stuck; and although the hop itself had taken too much out of her, she’d grown exponentially in the time since she’d last traveled–not so much that it didn’t exhaust her, but enough that she likely could have come back. But in this dimension, she was happy. She had her family. And although Gwen found no answers, she became addicted to the draw of the timeline, and kept pushing back her inevitable return.

When she could no longer continue the excuse, almost two full years later, Gwen finally returned to her own world. She’s been struggling with coming back to the reality that their daughter had still not been found, coupled with the guilt that she’d let herself leave for such a long time. She’s told few people what she’s been up to, frankly, and has once again settled in Polaris Village. She’s taken up a position at a newly opened inn, avoiding her ex, and trying to re-root herself in her own reality.

INCLINATION

Angenetar has one of the more rare magical gifts, but one that can have serious mental, physical, and emotional effects on the witch/caster. Angenetar has the ability to call upon the resonance, or magical energy, of themselves in alternate dimensions or timelines. However, the grand scheme and usage of this power does take a toll on the user. Angenetar may be currently exploring the idea of other dimensions, and some Angenetar do have the ability to dimension-hop, but their magic is the sort that comes with a price.

CONNECTIONS

Filling the role of Christine Giordano’s Ex.

Sibling: I’d love if they were close, although perhaps less so now that she’s been gone for quite some time and has been overall preoccupied with her own shit. Either way, the specifics of this are totally open!

Best Friend: They’re a mutual shoulder for one another, a constant support system no matter how much time they spend apart. Gwen would do anything for this person and vice versa.

Tension: Gwen isn’t quite over her ex (she might be had she not just spent the past couple of years living in a fantasy dimension, but here we are) and is overall just kind of fucked up from her whole… y’know, kidnapped daughter scenario. But this person has caught her eye and is likely the first (real) person who’s had her attention in years, so there’s this… nervous, flirty, hesitant feeling between them.

Penned by Ashley ★