#This has no other context then me drawing dumb stuff on demand

[thecrowslullaby]

I'm proposing an alternative end-card to the WTIT episode:

#Ts Roman #Ts virgil #Ts janus #Ts logan #Ts remus #character thomas #Roman sanders #Virgil sanders #Remus sanders #Logan sanders #Janus sanders #Suggestive #Gun #Kidnapping #Threats #Violance #Intrulogical #This has no other context then me drawing dumb stuff on demand

[reinvent-and-believe]

Hi :) Dialogue prompt 44, Eskel + Geralt?

Dialogue prompt 44 - “I still remember the way you taste”

Wow anon. You get me. You really get me.

Firstly, what a perfect prompt. Secondly, sorry it took me 2+ months to actually write it! And thirdly...I added Jaskier. I’m sorry, I know you didn’t ask for that, I can’t keep him away. Geralt/Eskel is still the primary focus here, but in the context of established Geraskier and with Jaskier still very much involved. This accidentally turned into something like 7.5K of Jaskier and Eskel soft-domming the hell out of Geralt. So, uh...enjoy?

CW: rough sex/soft feelings, undernegotiated kink, nonexplicit references to teenage sexuality, brief discussions of internalized homophobia

—

“Really should be playing for coin.” Geralt grins as he clears his cards after his second victory of the night and shuffles his Nilfgaardian deck.

Eskel curses under his breath.

The witchers sit in a pair of ancient wingback chairs with worn, faded upholstery that might have been crimson in a former life, drawn close to the hearth, a small end table between them holding their Gwent cards and pints of mead. Jaskier sits perched on the arm of Geralt’s chair, his legs draped casually across his lover’s lap as he brushes soft white hair through his long fingers, humming softly to himself.

“Wiping the floor with me like that is its own reward.” It’s a grumble, but a good-natured one. Most everything Eskel does is good-natured, from what Jaskier’s seen. He appreciates that about the witcher.

It’s a fairly usual night at Kaer Morhen.

Well, as usual as a night at Kaer Morhen can be. After years of only vague, grunted acknowledgements of wintering in the mountains, Jaskier had been shocked and delighted at Geralt’s unexpected invitation when beset by an early first frost traveling through Kaedwen. “Winter’ll come before you reach Oxenfurt,” he’d justified brusquely, mindlessly tracing circles into the warm skin of Jaskier’s back as they huddled together on the inn’s musty straw pallet, but when the bard kissed him softly and told him he’d be delighted to see his home, the deep wrinkles on his forehead relaxed into something open, peaceful. They arrived a few weeks later, just before the snow drifts made the mountain pass nigh unbreachable.

Just being in these cold halls, rich with history and joy and pain, feels akin to the unsettling mystery of watching someone observe a religious sacrament, something Jaskier can only view from the outside, can never truly understand. But after upwards of a month sequestered in the remote keep, they’ve established something of a routine. Vesemir retires to the library after dinner most evenings. Every four or five days, Lambert gets restless and disappears into the surrounding mountains to hunt for a few nights.

(The first time Jaskier had been mortified, sure that he’d driven him away. “It’s just Lambert,” Geralt reassured him. “Bastard’s not well socialized.”

“And you know it’s bad, coming from Geralt,” Eskel added, but there’s nothing but fondness in his genial smirk.)

So most nights it’s the three of them whiling away the hours before retiring to their chambers. Jaskier finds he doesn’t mind; while Geralt clearly cares a great deal for Vesemir and Lambert, it’s only when they’re alone with Eskel that Geralt’s guard seems to vanish entirely. They catch up on jobs they worked throughout the year, drink together, occasionally reference shared history, although always briefly. In his years of friendship with Geralt and the years of something more, Jaskier has always been the one to keep the conversation going, an unending prattle that Geralt rarely interrupts, but here, Jaskier finds himself listening more often than not, observing the quiet, unassuming intimacy between the two witchers. Here within the walls of Kaer Morhen, here in Eskel’s warmth, Geralt is loose and comfortable and safe in a way Jaskier has rarely seen him in over a decade spent together on the Path.

Jaskier smiles at Eskel, a little too brightly, perhaps, but he doesn’t mind. He’s far from drunk, but between Geralt’s arm wrapped around his waist, the easy comfort of Eskel’s presence, the roaring fire before them and the honey-sweet mead, he feels pleasantly warm all over. “Eskel,” he starts as the witchers draw for another round, “you’ve known Geralt longer than anyone else in the world. Well, Vesemir excepted, of course.”

He hums in affirmation. “S’pose so. What about it?”

“That being the case, I think it only fair that you indulge me in some dirt.”

Eskel looks at him blankly.

“Come on, dirt! You must have plenty, you’ve known each other for, what, at least five hundred years now?”

“At least.” Geralt snorts at Jaskier’s obnoxious shit-eating grin at the exaggeration and plays a third spy card in a row, easily blocking the punch Eskel aims at his arm.

“Come now, Eskel, please? I’m sure you must have loads of dirt you’ve just been dying to, well, to unload! Let’s unlock those memories, boys, and tell me the greatest Kaer Morhen scoop of the past century.”

Eskel’s smiling, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Not sure you really want those memories unlocked, bard,” he says gently.

Jaskier’s breath catches. The last thing he wants is to spoil the relaxed evening with whatever cruelties spark the haunted looks he’s caught a few times during his stay. “No, no, of course not those kinds of memories,” he amends. “None of the witchery sort. The fun things, silly things! Come on, it can be anything. Embarrassing stories, charming anecdotes, stupid pranks you pulled on each other, youthful indiscretions—wait, no, what did I say?”

Both witchers suddenly seem preternaturally focused on their Gwent cards.

A delighted grin slowly creeps onto Jaskier’s face. “Youthful indiscretions?” he repeats, noting how Geralt looks almost sheepish. “I was joking about that one but by all means, I love a good scandal! I simply must have all the details, the tawdrier the better.”

“No scandal,” Eskel answers easily. “There’s nothing…”

“Oh ho ho no, my friend, I’m afraid I’m a bit too well acquainted with Geralt’s non-expressions to let this pass quite so easily.” He’s practically bouncing with excitement in Geralt’s lap, which earns him a glare, but not a very heartfelt one. The most delicate shade of pink has taken up residence in the tips of Geralt’s ears, the apples of his cheeks. Jaskier kisses him lightly on the nose. “What youthful indiscretions, Geralt?”

Geralt rolls his eyes, but his lips quirk upward. “Nothing as obscene as you’re dreaming up,” he mutters drily. “Dumb kid stuff.”

“Just a little healthy competition in the training yard.” Eskel’s smiling, but he’s watching Geralt carefully. “Everybody loves an incentive.”

Jaskier leans in conspiratorially. “Incentive?”

Eskel shrugs, placing a commander’s horn to double his ranged combat cards. “You know, loser jerks the winner off, that sort of thing. ‘Course, you dose up a bunch of horny teenagers with a couple times the regular helping of hormones, and, well, things tend to...escalate?”

“Of course.” Jaskier shifts and inadvertently rubs against the line of Geralt’s cock, which seems to have taken a distinct interest in the conversation, no matter how disinterested its owner tries to look behind his cards. “So, to the victor goes the handjob, eh? A noble endeavor.” He squirms again, very advertently rolling his hips in just the right place this time. The heavy arm around Jaskier’s waist slips down to stroke casually at his thigh. He stops himself from preening at the unexpected rift in Geralt’s composure, but only barely. “Was this all the young men in your—class? Cohort? Uh, battalion? What do you call it?”

“Hands caught on with some of them,” Eskel acknowledges. His eyes, all blown-wide black pupils rimmed with thin rings of gold, track every minute movement of Geralt’s hand on the bard’s thick thigh, straining beneath deep indigo satin. “But a few of us progressed to mouths. Thighs.”

“I’m sure that was delightful,” Jaskier breathes. He threads his fingers into Geralt’s hair, tugging gently on a lock. “So you partook in these escapades, did you, darling?”

Eskel snorts. “Partook,” he parrots, eyes flickering teasingly to Geralt. “Like he wasn’t the one casually suggesting it every time we hit the training yard.”

“Oh please, do tell.” The fire crackles in the hearth before them. By all the gods, there’s nowhere Jaskier would rather be than here, caught in this sparking current between the two witchers.

“Geralt’s the best fighter.” There’s a hint of a growl in Eskel’s gentle voice Jaskier’s never noticed before, low and hot and dangerous. “Always been the best with a sword since the first time he held one. But once we started messing around, didn’t take long to notice I was winning more than usual. After a few weeks I was beating him just about every time we fought.”

“Gods,” Jaskier breathes.

Eskel licks his lips. “Don’t act surprised, bard,” he says softly. There’s a new, intoxicating heat in his gaze. “The whole castle’s heard you two. You seem pretty familiar with Geralt’s taste for cock.”

Geralt’s arm slips tight around Jaskier’s waist, pulling him harder into the ever-more insistent press against the bard’s arse. He palms brazenly at Jaskier’s cock, but his eyes don’t leave Eskel, his face collected, calm. “Still remember the way you taste.”

“Fuck, Geralt.” Eskel’s hand drifts to mirror Geralt’s, grinding roughly against his codpiece.

Jaskier plants a hand on the chair’s back, twisting around enough to pull Geralt into a heated, messy kiss. “Gods, you’re stunning, you know that?” he moans against his lips, tangling a demanding hand into that long white hair. “Gorgeous, shameless thing, throwing fights you were perfectly capable of winning just to get a good dicking, was that the way of it, love?”

Geralt’s eyes flicker closed, accompanied by an aborted, keening noise in his throat.

“Which was all fine, until Vesemir called him out for holding back in the middle of the training yard.” Some of the teasing quality drains from Eskel’s voice. “You know Geralt. Being berated in front of the whole school by your mentor for your piss poor performance is devastating anyway, but for Geralt?”

“I’d forgotten about that,” he admits quietly. “That was a shit day. Halfway through his lecture I swore off sex forever. Nothing kills the mood quite like Vesemir’s disappointed face.”

Jaskier kisses his temple. “Glad that didn’t last, love.”

“Didn’t last long at all,” Eskel chuckles. “Pretty sure you had my dick down your throat in the back of the stables twenty minutes later.”

Geralt’s wry grin serves as confirmation. “It’d been a rough day. Sometimes you need a little consolation.”

Jaskier looks between the two, looks at the soft smiles on both of their faces. The sheer eroticism that was all-consuming a moment ago lingers, shifting into a background pulse as this gentle, familiar openness emerges.

They love each other.

Jaskier feels an overwhelming rush of relief, suddenly, of gratitude, to know that even with all the cruelties Geralt has faced over the past century, he’s had this easy warmth to come home to nearly every winter.

But love isn’t something readily acknowledged, let alone expressed, for Geralt—if anyone knows that, it’s Jaskier. So he smiles disarmingly and goes to work.

“How right you are, Geralt!” he says brightly. “Everyone needs a consoling touch now and then. What about after you left training? Any consolation during chance encounters on the Path? Or when you returned for the winter, perhaps?”

Jaskier doesn’t miss the way Geralt stares at the floor, nor the hunger that flashes in Eskel’s eyes before he looks away, too. When he speaks, it’s measured again. “It didn’t continue past training.”

“What a shame. Well, during training, then, what about fucking?” he asks blithely.

Geralt’s the first to find his voice, a defensive grunt. “Wasn’t like that.”

Eskel leans back in his chair, folding his hands in his lap. “Well, it was, of course,” he says slowly. “A hand or a mouth in the dark you can write off as just getting your rocks off. You start talk about fucking…” He shrugs stiffly. “It starts to mean something. Starts to say something about you.” He’s quiet for a moment, staring into the fire. “You get told a lot of things when you’re a kid. Think we all understood pretty clearly how it’d be if anybody found out. So you start coming up with reasons why it’s not like that, why you’re not like that. To make it easier.”

Geralt hasn’t spoken, but he clings a little closer, leaning his head on Jaskier’s shoulder.

“Takes time to sort through it all,” Eskel muses. “I think most of the stuff they taught us, Vesemir and the others...most of it came from a good place. They wanted us to survive, and part of that means not making yourself any more of a target than you already are. Doesn’t mean it didn’t fuck us up even more, though.” He leans forward in his chair, elbows on his knees and eyes fixed on Geralt. “I’m proud of you, Wolf,” he murmurs, a little sad smile on his lips. “Never thought either of us’d get to have this.” He gestures briefly at Geralt and Jaskier entwined in the chair, a twinge of something that might be yearning flashing through his eyes before he looks away, taking a drink.

Geralt plants a small kiss on Jaskier’s shoulder, holds him a little tighter. He wants to comfort Eskel, the bard understands suddenly, showering Jaskier with all the tender physical assurances he doesn’t feel he can give Eskel. And Eskel, with his sweet, melancholy smiles, his gentle percipience, his quiet understanding...he deserves everything Geralt wants to give him and more.

“It seems to me,” Jaskier begins in a delicate singsong, “that we have some unfinished business here.”

“How do you figure?”

“I feel this competition has not been followed to its logical conclusion. Not reached its full potential. You’ve played for hands, mouths, thighs. It seems that the natural progression should be playing for arse next. Winner takes the loser, as it were.”

Silence.

Jaskier wonders, briefly, if he’s made a mistake; but, he reasons, nothing ventured, nothing gained. He barrels on. “I think that the two of you want each other, quite a lot. Now, now, we’re being honest, Eskel just made that lovely speech, so save your protests, both of you. I think you want each other but you don’t know how to have that without the competition.” Jaskier gesticulates widely to emphasize his conclusion. “So compete.”

Eskel’s quiet for a moment, taking a deep breath as he meets Jaskier’s gaze. “Wouldn’t ask that of you,” he says finally. “The pair of you’s got a good thing here. I wouldn’t want to get in the way of that.”

“Oh, darling.” A surge of affection rushes through him as he takes in the Witcher’s concerned eyes, the hesitant posture, the look of astonishment at the endearment directed towards him. “I don’t think Geralt will love me any less for having loved you,” he says softly, leaning forward and placing a steady hand on Eskel’s forearm.

“We fuck other people,” Geralt adds helpfully.

Jaskier squawks in indignation, and Geralt’s mouth twitches in silent laughter. “Yes, Geralt, thank you for that ever so romantic assessment. So there you have it, Eskel! We fuck other people, no conflict there.”

Eskel’s looking back and forth between them, a small, slow smile breaking through. “It’s a little late for a sparring match,” he says. It’s not much of a protest.

Geralt shrugs casually. “Up for another game of Gwent?”

Golden eyes lock, a challenge. Eskel wets his lip and reaches for his cards.

Geralt gently steers Jaskier back onto the arm of the chair with a quick kiss to his shoulder, reaching to pull the forgotten box of his various decks into his lap. He packs his Nilfgaardians away carefully, muses over the cards, then reaches for the forest green deck.

And Jaskier may be no expert when it comes to the intricacies of Gwent strategy, but he’s watched Geralt play enough to know that Scoia’tael is his most neglected deck, the one he’s least likely to use in tournaments, the one he’s spent the least time building up.

Fuck.

From the way that Eskel’s gaze trains on Geralt’s big hands shuffling the sparse deck, a hungry, wrecked gleam reflecting in his golden eyes, he’s noticed, too.

It doesn’t take long, this Gwent game.

Geralt isn’t playing poorly, not really, he isn’t blatantly throwing the match, but the low-powered deck can’t compete with Eskel’s Northern Kingdoms and its unstoppable siege cards, its seemingly endless supply of spies. Even after Eskel passes the second round in a show of sportsmanship, there’s no real suspense.

Anticipation, on the other hand…

Jaskier drapes himself over Geralt languidly, tucking his chin over his lover’s shoulder to watch the game. “Geralt,” he coos, “it’s looking as though you may lose this one.”

“Hmm.”

“What a shame, I know you must be dreadfully disappointed by the prospect of taking his cock.” He’s staring shamelessly now, eyes running over Eskel’s sinewy arms, wide shoulders, broad chest, muscular thighs. “Gods, I bet he’s proportional, isn’t he. Big all over.” His breath is a warm tickle on Geralt’s ear before he begins lightly kissing the sensitive skin of his neck. “I bet he’s bigger than you, isn’t he, love?”

Geralt looks up from his cards, considering. “Girthier,” he concedes lightly.

“I can only imagine.” He sighs, musing with the tiniest of pouts. “You know, if you’d told me when we arrived at Kaer Morhen that one of us would wind up in bed with the gorgeous Eskel before winter’s end, I never would have dreamed you would be the one with that honor. Actually, I’d have put good coin on it being me.”

Eskel drops a scorch card in surprise that knocks out his own 24-point ballista.

“That counts.” Geralt shoves the card towards Eskel’s discard pile. “And you’d’ve lost your coin, bard. He never would have fucked you.” He shrugs off Jaskier’s offended whine. “Would’ve seen it as betraying me, even if you’d explained.” He’s studying Eskel carefully. “He felt guilty enough already, and all he’s done is look.”

Jaskier follows Geralt’s gaze, taking in the deep flush, the heavy breathing, the slightly abashed expression. “Have you been looking, dear Eskel?”

Eskel wets his scarred lip. “Looking respectfully,” he clarifies with the smallest of grins.

Jaskier laughs, delighted. He’s been uncharacteristically modest in his dress since arriving at Kaer Morhen, adjusting the biting chill of the drafty halls, but between the fire, the inferno of Geralt beneath him, and the strong rush of arousal, he’s plenty warm now. He slips his doublet off casually, dove gray shirt open halfway to his navel. “Look to your heart’s content, darling. Respectfully or otherwise.”

Eskel obeys, eyes raking over the bard’s flushed neck, the dark curls on his chest, the taut trousers doing little to disguise his erection. When he speaks, his voice is husky, grating. “If I win, will you be joining us?”

The breath catches in Jaskier’s throat.

He glances down at Geralt. They’ve always been welcome to take other lovers; it’s only practical, since they sometimes travel apart for months at a time and both have a few long-standing arrangements they’re loath to renounce. But they’ve never welcomed someone else into their bed, explored another lover together. Shared.

Geralt’s staring up at him, eyes questioning, hopeful.

Jaskier flits out of his embrace to situate himself easily in Eskel’s lap. “I thought you’d never ask.” He brushes a dark lock of hair out of the witcher’s eyes, tilts that strong, square jaw toward him with a single clever finger. “May I?” he asks, and when Eskel nods wordlessly he draws him into a soft kiss.

Eskel’s lips are slow and gentle, his kiss courteous, restrained in a way that threatens to break Jaskier’s heart. “Relax,” Jaskier whispers against him, “you’re not the first big scary witcher I’ve encountered.” He plants a teasing peck on the corner of his mouth before pulling away and shifting to take stock of the cards in Eskel’s hand. “So how is it looking? Oh.” He giggles helplessly, glancing across the table at his lover’s somewhat dazed expression. “Oh, Geralt, you are fucked.”

Their matching groans at his word choice are nothing short of intoxicating.

“Finish him off, darling,” Jaskier purrs, a hand drifting down Eskel’s sturdy chest. “Then we can play.”

--

Jaskier drags Eskel unabashedly into the bedroom, kicking off his boots as he goes in a practiced maneuver that might have otherwise proven disastrous. He tugs off Eskel’s padded jerkin, leaving him in a thin cream-colored shirt that Jaskier balls his fist in, pulling the witcher towards him in a breathless, giggling kiss.

Geralt trails slightly behind them, taking off his boots in silence. Jaskier can feel his eyes on the two of them as they part, not jealous, not upset, but unsure. Never one to shy away from tension in the bedroom, Jaskier reaches a hand toward his lover, beckoning him close, close enough to touch, and then he steps back to watch the moment unfold.

As if by instinct, Eskel moves to the side in an evasion of Geralt’s approach, where a sword would glance off him, had one been swung. Golden eyes lock as they circle automatically. It’s a dance. A witcher’s dance, dangerous and calculated, each move precise, graceful, deadly. It’s the most arousing thing Jaskier’s ever seen in his life.

And then Geralt shoves Eskel.

It’s just a light push to one shoulder, no real weight behind it, but the effect is instantaneous. Eskel pins him to the cold stone wall, the full weight of his body pressed into him, his hands trapping Geralt’s wrists tight. They’re both panting, hard, and when Eskel shoves his leg roughly between Geralt’s thighs, he’s met with Geralt rocking savagely against him.

“Like a bitch in heat, huh, Wolf?” Somehow, the words aren’t demeaning in the warm gravel of Eskel’s voice; instead, they’re fond, appreciative. Reverent.

Geralt bucks against him again, a cut-off, desperate growl from the back of his throat, and Eskel buries his face at the juncture of the neck and shoulder and bites the scarred flesh.

Geralt immediately goes limp and compliant against him, capitulation written into every line of his body. He stays that way as Eskel releases his bite, nipping lightly then nuzzling into the skin.

Jaskier lets out a shuddering breath at the sight of his lover so docile, so malleable. They’ve certainly explored such games before, power dynamics and what have you, and he’s known Geralt to drift into a gentle haze of submission on a handful of occasions when he felt particularly safe, but he’s never seen this immediate, intentional surrender. It’s breathtaking.

Eskel releases Geralt’s wrists, still kissing at his neck as he slides his hands down his sides. “Good,” he murmurs against skin, “being so good for me, Wolf. Don’t worry, gonna take care of you.” He tugs the black shirt from Geralt’s trousers, slips a big hand to stroke the bare skin at the small of his back. “Gonna fuck you so good. That what you want, sweetheart?”

“Fuck, Eskel.”

“Tell me.”

“Fuck.” His eyes flutter shut as Eskel’s hand moves to pull him forward by the curve of his arse, grinding their hips together roughly. “Want you to fuck me.”

“Mmm.” Eskel pulls the shirt over Geralt’s head and tosses it aside. “What about your boyfriend? What do you want from him?”

Geralt’s eyes shoot open, casting about frantically for a moment as though disoriented. “Jaskier?”

“I’m here, love,” he says, rushing to his side and pulling him into a soothing kiss. Geralt relaxes again in Eskel’s arms.

“You’re beautiful like this,” Jaskier continues, running his thumb reassuringly against Geralt’s cheekbone. “Do you want us to take you to bed, love? Let us work you over between the two of us, wring out every drop of pleasure we can?”

Eskel still supports Geralt’s weight, but he’s shifting, opening towards Jaskier, creating a space for him. Geralt pulls the bard in, kissing him desperately and tugging off his shirt, and Jaskier clings to them both.

He drinks in the sight of Eskel in the firelight, lips red and parted, eyes hooded beneath dark lashes. He cradles his smooth cheek with a gentle hand. “My, but you are just unreasonably handsome, aren’t you?”

Eskel freezes for a split second before flinching away from the touch, turning his scarred face to the safety of the shadows.

Before Jaskier can react, Geralt places a hand on the back of Eskel’s neck, drawing him in and massaging the flesh lightly. “He’s not mocking you.” His voice is soft and steady. “Or lying.”

After a moment, Eskel meets Geralt’s gaze, holds it silently for a moment before his shoulders relax, a rueful smile twitching on his lips. “Just got shit taste, huh.”

Geralt returns the grin. “He is with me.”

Jaskier splutters with indignation that’s only partially feigned. “Well, excuse you both, I happen to have exquisite taste, thank you very much!” He reaches out, his hand hovering over the scarred skin, a question in his eyes. Eskel takes a breath and turns his face into Jaskier’s touch.

He runs his fingers lightly over the hardened scar tissue, mapping the uneven terrain in caresses. Eskel’s eyes flutter shut. “I can’t speak for the rest of the world,” Jaskier murmurs. “I can’t imagine how cruelly men have treated you. But I do think you’re beautiful, Eskel, truly.” He pauses, glancing at Geralt. His gaze is fixed on the pale fingers and scarred flesh, concern writ large in his golden eyes. Jaskier wonders, not for the first time, how he ever thought his witcher inexpressive. “And I do believe Geralt thinks so, too.”

Geralt startles at the mention, but he leans in, resting his forehead against Eskel’s.

The intimacy of the position strikes Jaskier. Wasn’t like that, Geralt had immediately defended at the slightest implication that there was anything more than the occasional illicit orgasm between them. It’s not the first time he’s seen his dear witcher deny himself affection, connection, especially when it comes from another man, so he can’t help wondering how deep that denial may have run. “Geralt,” he asks softly, “have you and Eskel ever kissed?”

Geralt shakes his head, his eyes shut.

“I think you should.” It’s barely more than a whisper.

A moment of stillness stretches between them all, the two witchers looking at each other wordlessly. Eskel is the first to move. He carefully cradles Geralt’s face, eyes searching before he leans in, capturing his lips gently. It’s slow, hesitant, a meticulous exploration before Geralt moans against him, big hands threading through dark hair and pulling him in harder.

Jaskier moves deftly, slipping behind Eskel and threading his arms around the witcher as he plants reverent kisses down his neck, hands roaming luxuriantly across the hard body. Nimble fingers find the laces of Eskel’s trousers, untying them but making no immediate move to remove them, drawing the roughspun cotton of his shirt from the loosened pants so he can slip beneath to bare skin. He worships every inch of that broad torso with callused fingertips. Eskel is every bit as muscular as Geralt but built differently, thicker and wider and more pliable beneath Jaskier’s curious hands. An appealing layer of fat cushions his hard abdominals like a gambeson; strong, flexing pectorals have the give of flesh beneath his grasp. It’s an altogether delightful body, Jaskier thinks in warm contentment, belonging to an even more delightful man who Jaskier would be delighted to be absolutely railed by.

But that isn’t tonight’s objective; no, not with Geralt panting so beautifully, head thrown back against the stone wall as Eskel sucks a blood red mark on his collarbone. The finesse between them has vanished, replaced by the desperation of a century’s delay. Eskel paws at Geralt’s waist, nearly ripping the buttons from the fabric in his haste to get a hand down the front of the tight black pants, his other hand bracing him on the wall beside Geralt’s head.

Geralt is quick to return the favor, freeing Eskel’s cock from the codpiece, shoving the trousers roughly down his thighs, sinking to his knees.

Jaskier tries in vain to enjoy the sight from over Eskel’s shoulder, but the cream-colored shirt billows loosely enough around his body to veil Geralt. Yanking the offending garment off, Jaskier tucks his chin over the witcher’s shoulder and watches as his lover pumps Eskel’s cock in a pale hand, leaning in to lap greedily at the head before stretching his lips obscenely around the ruddy flesh.

When he speaks, Eskel’s voice is a hoarse wreck. “Isn’t that a sight for sore eyes.” Geralt growls in the back of his throat and takes him further down. “Fuck, Wolf.”

Jaskier snakes a hand down Eskel’s hip to his groin. He circles the base of his cock in a sure grip, grasping the thick shaft and moving in concert with Geralt’s shallow bobbing. Eskel inhales shakily, reaching the hand not buried in white hair back to anchor himself onto Jaskier by the back of the neck, arching into the bard’s embrace.

Jaskier pulls him into a messy kiss. The careful restraint has evaporated into something rough, strong, unleashed. Jaskier loses himself in the kiss, the racing tattoo of his rushing blood making the groan from Eskel something he feels more than hears.

Geralt bats away the bard’s hand jacking Eskel, and when Jaskier glances down he sees Geralt sinking down the thick shaft until his nose is buried in the dark hair at the base.

Eskel rips away from Jaskier’s kiss, breath ragged. “So good at that, shit.” His head falls back on Jaskier’s shoulder, eyes closed. “Used to choke on me when you tried,” he grunts. “Remember? Almost got us caught with your coughing a couple times. But you weren’t ever satisfied unless you tried.”

Jaskier massages at his chest, relishing the little gasp as he rubs a nipple. “He’s had plenty of practice since then. Haven’t you, love? Love swallowing cock, don’t you?” Geralt’s hands grasp Eskel’s hips roughly. “He wants you to fuck his face,” Jaskier says, planting a kiss on Eskel’s temple. “You wouldn’t deny him, would you?”

“Fuck.” Eskel complies, releasing Jaskier to anchor both hands in Geralt’s hair. He pistons forward experimentally, shallow. Geralt tugs at his hips until he’s set a brutal pace, the muscles in his thick body straining as he fucks him with abandon until there’s nothing else, nothing but slapping flesh, labored breathing, and pleased, desperate, muffled moans.

Eskel pulls abruptly back, holding Geralt off him by the hair.  “Fuck, Geralt, enough. Don’t wanna come yet.”

“Want you to.” Geralt’s voice is a raw rasp, his eyes red-rimmed. He nuzzles at the juncture of his thigh and groin, sucking at the sensitive flesh between words. “Want you to come fucking my throat. Come again later.”

Eskel pushes him away firmly, discipling his voice into something deep, reproachful, but with a surprising touch of tenderness cutting the sting of his words. “Listen, little cockslut, I said not yet.”

Geralt whimpers, but he withdraws, sitting back on his heels and awaiting further instruction, eyes fixed on the other witcher.

Eskel steps back from both of them, shoving his trousers the rest of the way down and stepping out of them before he looks at Geralt. “Up, Wolf.”

Geralt scrambles to obey.

Eskel pulls him into a kiss, praises spilling out against his lips. “So good,” he says. “Pants off.”

Once Geralt’s naked Eskel pulls him close, hoisting him easily into his arms as strong thighs wrap around Eskel’s waist. Eskel kisses him, holding him effortlessly. It’s a rare thing, Geralt not being far and way the strongest in a room at any given time, and to see him so evenly matched, see him carried about and manhandled as though he weighs nothing at all, is quite an alarming, appealing experience.

“Wanna take you to bed.” Eskel nuzzles against Geralt’s neck, his words barely audible. “Wanna be inside you, Wolf.”

“You did win the game,” Geralt grunts.

Eskel’s brow is furrowed when he pulls back. “Fuck the game, Geralt, wanted this as long as I can remember. It’s not just a game.” He carefully smoothes the messy white locks away from his face. “Wasn’t ever just a game.”

Geralt nods slowly. He holds Eskel’s gaze as he tilts his head, closing the space between them to brush his lips again Eskel’s. “So take me to bed.”

And he does.

Eskel lays Geralt out with an expression of sheer reverence. He crawls between his legs, slotting their bodies together, taking them both in a firm grasp before he leans down to capture Geralt in a sensuous kiss.

Jaskier observes the writhing pair silently as he makes necessary preparations. He rids himself of his trousers and smallclothes. Folds the discarded clothes and sets them neatly on a chair. Retrieves the oil from the chest at the foot of the bed. Stalls.

Because they are beautiful together, their touches familiar yet entirely new. There’s an unmistakable sense of scale between them, a history that Jaskier is loath to disrupt, a tale spanning a century in which Jaskier is barely a footnote.

“Jaskier.”

They’re still entwined, all muscled, scarred limbs curving around each other like one flesh, but they’re both looking at him. Eskel’s face crinkles into a crooked smile. “It’s a big bed, bard. Plenty of room.”

And there is. So much room in Geralt’s outstretched arm, curling immediately around his lover as he slips in bed beside them. In Eskel’s astute gaze as he runs a hand down Jaskier’s back and squeezes his hip reassuringly, pulling him into a nigh unbearably sweet kiss. In the way the three of them move together, exploring, discovering, building a gentle rhythm all their own.

“Have you ever fingered him?” Jaskier asks, his words nearly lost in the velvet-soft skin he’s thoroughly lavishing.

Geralt’s breath catches, though whether it’s at the question or the warm mouth on his balls is anyone’s guess.

“No,” Eskel says, his hand carding through the bard’s hair. “Show me what he likes?”

Jaskier reemerges to kiss them lightly, first Geralt then Eskel. “I’d be delighted.” He sits up on his heels, pulling Geralt with him. “Up, love.” He turns to Eskel as Geralt turns over to settle wordlessly into place. “Hands and knees is best for opening him up. He tends to get overwhelmed otherwise, don’t you, darling?” He kisses Geralt’s scarred shoulder, petting his arms, his back, his sides, nodding with a bright grin when Eskel’s hands join his in their caresses. “You can open him up when he’s lying on his back, but only when he’s absolutely relaxed and he’s already gotten off once. Otherwise he’s self-conscious, can’t lose himself in the sensation.” Geralt is already—perhaps unconsciously—rocking his hips ever so gently back towards him. A wave of warmth spreads through Jaskier as he rubs at the small of his lover’s back. “Eager for us, aren’t you, Geralt?”

A breathless grunt is the only answer.

“It’s all right, love, we’re going to take care of you.” He uncorks the oil, leaning down to nip lightly at the swell of Geralt’s cheek as he pours some into his palm. Cold. He warms it in his hand, rubbing vigorously. Eskel’s eyes track each movement. Silent, the bard holds out his lubricated hand. Eskel hesitates for a second then swipes his fingers through the mess until they’re dripping, coated thoroughly.

“Touch him before you touch him there.” It’s a rush, hearing the professorial tone of his own voice, seeing the witcher scramble to follow his instructions. Using his dry hand, Eskel pets the expanse of skin, running his fingers indulgently through the pale hair on his thighs, his arse. “Good.” Jaskier’s voice resonates deep in his chest, a low, soothing murmur. “Acquaint him with your touch. Let him know where you’re headed. Then when you’re both ready…” He takes Eskel’s wet hand by the wrist and guides it. “Just a finger. Start up here, down, down and past, and then up again. Again. Circle his rim, give him some lovely pressure, get him nice and wet but not in, not yet, not until…” He laughs as Geralt cants his hips back toward them with a desperate moan. “There we are. Now you can press in, just a little—oh, you’re being so good for us, love, taking his finger so well. Thicker than mine, isn’t it? What a treat.”

It’s too much, too arousing and too heady and too intoxicating, seeing hefty sword-callused fingers prodding carefully at the flesh Jaskier had seen stretched around his cock only this morning. He reaches out, an oiled finger lightly stroking the taut rim before slipping in effortlessly alongside Eskel’s.

A keening sound almost like a sob is muffled as Geralt rests his forehead on the bed, a full-body shiver running through him.

Eskel pats at his thigh. “Your boyfriend’s back here trying to kill me, Wolf.” He shoots a look of wonder at Jaskier before he leans forward, kissing the slight dimple at the small of Geralt’s back. “Hadn’t even thought about how good you’d look speared on us both ‘til right now.”

Geralt shoves back against them hard, pants as he fucks himself back on their fingers until Eskel adds another. “Not tonight, though,” he growls. “Tonight that hole is mine.”

“Gods, Eskel.” Jaskier pulls him into a breathless kiss. “He’s perfect, isn’t he?” he murmurs against scarred lips. “The way he can’t help seeking out more. Fuck, but he’s going to look so stunning on your cock. How do you plan to take him? Like this, let him whine and cry and shove himself back on your prick as hard as he can? Or have him ride you, watch him desperately take his pleasure as he stuffs himself full of you? Or…”

“Fuck, Geralt, does he always talk this much?” Eskel’s other hand shoots to the base of his own cock, giving himself a few rough strokes.

“Always,” a muffled rumble confirms. “It’s hot.”

Jaskier beams.

He slips his finger nimbly from Geralt’s stretched hole, drizzling a little more oil where Eskel begins to tease a third before Jaskier reclines on the bed, lying his head on the pillow where Geralt’s buried his face. Gently, he tilts the witcher’s chin toward him, taking in the wrecked breaths, the serene, softened gaze. He runs a warm thumb over Geralt’s lips before following it with a tender kiss.

He runs a hand over the muscled abdomen, down the sharp angles of the juncture of his hips, the pale coarse hair at his groin. Geralt’s softened some in the excitement of penetration, as he’s wont to do. Jaskier cups that lovely, familiar cock, rubs against him with just the pressure he knows his lover needs to coax him gently back towards hardness.

A breathy, high-pitched whimper that barely sounds like it could come from the same throat as Geralt’s usual guttural utterances breaks through the hazy atmosphere. “He’s ready for you,” Jaskier murmurs softly, reaching to squeeze Eskel’s unoccupied hand.

Eskel drapes his body over Geralt’s, covering his back and shoulders with fiery kisses as he rocks against him soothingly, fingers still buried deep as they rut together. He turns his face toward Jaskier, a heady desperation in his eyes. “Can I take him on his back?” he begs. “Don’t want to...to overwhelm him. But…”

Jaskier plants a reassuring kiss on Eskel’s cheek.

Geralt whines piteously as fingers slip from him, but he follows the gentle hands guiding him onto his back.

“Love,” Jaskier whispers, soothing fingers massaging his scalp, “are you with us?”

Geralt takes a breath, as though opening his eyes to meet Jaskier’s takes tremendous energy. He nods.

“You’re doing so well, darling.”

Geralt leans into his hand at the praise, eyes fluttering shut again.

“Stay with me, Geralt. Do you need a break?”

“Need Eskel.”

Eskel, kneeling between his legs, surges forward to capture Geralt in a careful kiss, gripping his shaft as he lines himself up. “Oil?” he pants, and Jaskier slips a wet hand between the two bodies to coat the thick, twitching cock liberally. “I’ve got you, Wolf,” Eskel whispers, sinking slowly into the pulsing tight heat, Jaskier’s oiled fingers lingering, anointing the site of their union.

The electric energy swells, inundating them, sweeping them into its current. The rough, slow grind as the witchers find a rhythm. Meandering callused fingertips dancing across scarred skin. Oil and precome and sweat mingling as they slide together. The earthy, sharp smell of the fireplace meeting musk and heat and desperation. Goosebumps covering warm flesh against luxuriant soft furs.

Geralt comes with a harsh cry from nothing but the movement within him and the insistent rub of Eskel’s abdomen against his cock.

Eskel fucks him through the aftershocks gently, bringing himself to a stuttering halt as Geralt trembles beneath him. He pants against Geralt’s neck. “Fuck,” he swears, kisses messily at the sensitive skin, “so beautiful, Wolf, feel so good under me.”

Geralt lets out a long breath.

“Had enough?” Eskel whispers against him.

Blissed out, relaxed, all loose limbs and satisfaction written in every line of his body, Geralt grins, his eyes suddenly clear, kissing Eskel as he rolls his hips pointedly back onto his cock.

And with this second wind it’s different, Geralt’s haze melting into something far more vocal, more demanding. “More,” and “fuck, Eskel,” and “hard,” and “won’t break me, Eskel, fuck,” and movement and manhandling and Geralt back on his hands and knees, Eskel burying himself hard and fast and too much, it’s got to be too much, Jaskier’s sure of it until “don’t hold back, please, please I can take it.”

A hand reaches out to grab roughly at Jaskier’s hip, dragging him in place before Geralt, his back against the headboard. “Please,” Geralt moans, mouthing frantically at the base of his cock, his drawn-tight balls, “need you too.”

He threads his fingers through sweat-damp white locks as Geralt hungrily sucks him down. The harsh, accelerating thrusts from Eskel rip through Geralt, slamming him further onto Jaskier’s cock and it’s so much, the delicate arch of Geralt’s back, the loud slapping of skin against skin, the strange unifying sensation of the three of them melding into one, the tight fluttering of Geralt’s throat milking the head of his cock, the way Eskel’s whole body seems to convulse, the choked-off howl as he chases his climax, the way he shakes as he collapses forward onto Geralt...

The adoring light in those stunning amber eyes as Geralt looks up at Jaskier through thick lashes, the way his hand sneaks up to hold onto his lover’s as Jaskier’s breath hitches, coming with a cry as Geralt swallows around him.

They topple gracelessly into a breathless tangle of limbs. Geralt groans piteously as Eskel unsheathes himself, leaving the bed swiftly, and Geralt hates feeling empty while he’s still coming down so Jaskier finds himself trailing long fingers to his messy hole, pushing the escaping come back into him, massaging and plugging him gently and running a soothing thumb over the stretched rim as they trade languid, exhausted kisses.

Eskel watches them from the beside with a look that might be wonder. “You two are a handful,” he chuckles softly. He climbs back onto the bed, wiping away drying spend from Geralt’s stomach with a warm, wet cloth that drags down, down between his legs, down to where Jaskier extracts himself one finger at a time, cleaning him with attentive care.

Geralt smiles up at Eskel lazily before pulling him down into a quick, filthy kiss, nipping at his lower lip. “You like us, though.”

“Hmm.” Eskel pulls away enough to grab a cup of water, tilting it to Geralt’s lips, careful not to spill. Then he offers it to the bard, reaching over to pet his hair with unexpected tenderness. “Thank you, Jaskier,” he says. “For sharing him with me tonight.”

“Should be me you’re thanking,” Geralt yawns, shifting around until he’s nestled comfortably on Jaskier’s chest, ear pressed soothingly above his heart. His eyes flutter shut as Jaskier traces aimless patterns on his warm skin. “Arse you were fucking happens to belong to me.”

Eskel snorts. “You sure about that?” He blocks the sleepy, playful swat aimed at him, taking the cup back from Jaskier and setting it carefully on the bedside table. He looks down at Geralt, already halfway to sleep on the bard’s chest, and rolls his eyes fondly. “That didn’t take long.”

“Well, in his defense, you did work him over pretty thoroughly,” Jaskier murmurs. He reaches out, tracing the muscles in Eskel’s scarred upper arm gently.

He leans into the touch, looking down for a moment. When he meets Jaskier’s gaze, his eyes are unspeakably bright. “Thank you. For tonight.” There’s a reverent rasp in his voice. “And for being good to him.”

Geralt’s breathing has evened out as Eskel slips out of bed, rifling through the discarded clothes.

“Bloody witchers, gods save me,” Jaskier sighs, flopping a dramatic hand to his forehead. “Geralt always used to try to slink off into the night after sex, too.” He catches Eskel’s gaze and extends a long hand towards him. “It’s a big bed, darling.”

They stare at each other in silence for a moment, something like awe blooming on Eskel’s exquisite, kind face as he nods, climbing back into the bed and molding his body carefully against Geralt’s back, a square hand finding Jaskier’s and squeezing.

And though it’s the dead of winter, Jaskier doubts Kaer Morhen’s ever felt quite so warm. He drifts into a peaceful sleep.

#the witcher fic #geraskel #geraskel fic #geralt x jaskier x eskel #geraskier #eskralt #sexy gwent #WHEW okay hope you enjoy! #my fic #asks

[evilmortys]

“Well, it’s great to have you back here in our chambers again. And by that, we of course mean that it’s literally the worst to have you back here in our chambers, C-136.” There’s a definite familiarity in the way Riq IV utters his indicative numerals that rings almost personal, but understandably, there’s little fondness behind his severe greeting. Jesus Christ, he thinks to himself sourly, this fucking Morty again. “You know how this goes, so let’s get right to it. State your name and dimension number for the record, turd.”

“Yeah, well, here’s somethin’ for the record: I’m not- I’m actually not too jazzed about it myself, y’know? Every time I get hauled here, I gotta- I gotta look you guys in the faces for like, an hour. And they’re really ugly ones.” Morty rebukes, arms folded over his chest defensively. His insides quiver like jelly. Deep down, he’s actually really not so good with this confrontation stuff, believe it or not. What Morty is? Still, he can’t half pretend to be unflinching when a situation calls for it. Nerves sufficiently steeled and outward appearance nothing short of done with this shit, he obliges the demand. “Mortimer Smith, Earth Dimension C-136. No additional numerals applicable.”

“Watch it.” Another council member snaps suddenly, already infuriated by the blatant lack of respect, and Morty’s gaze drifts to the secondary speaker. Hazel eyes rest upon the decrepit figure boredly, and he inwardly debates whether it’d be worth it to point out he doesn’t even know the name of any of these other assholes- that’s- that’s about how relevant their input is to him right now. Probably shouldn’t, he concedes grudgingly. Don’t bite the bullet when it comes to spitting snark, y’know? Employing restraint now leaves wiggle room to get away with saying more once this discussion inevitably goes to shit. He looks back to their spokesperson wordlessly, gaze expectant.

“Yes, Rick Prime, you’re absolutely right. He says what we’re all thinking! Now... let me see what you’ve gotten up to this time, C-136. While I’m reading the report over, why don’t you go ahead and tell me: who the fuck do you think you are? And why do you think you can get away with this shit? We’d all love to hear it.” Riq IV gathers up the loose-leaf before him and taps the papers against the imperial desk he sits behind, neatening the stack before beginning to look them over.

“I don’t think I’m anyone- anyone... look, I didn’t do anything wrong,” Morty protests defensively. “There’s nothing I’d even be getting away with! That’s- whatever’s written there, it won’t- it’ll all be a bunch of bullshit!”

“Really? Because let me tell you, this is all lining up very well with what we’ve come to expect of your character.” Riq IV heaves a world weary sigh, bracing himself for what’s to come (this particular turd, and the circumstance of his Rick being such a generous contributor, always makes everything so difficult), and passes the report along for the other council members to peruse. Can’t effectively threaten this one, really. But like hell he won’t try. “Here’s our working theory, turd. You believe that you’re special, and brave, or some shit, and- and you think that because your Rick happens to donate to us often that we have to tolerate this kind of shit from you and take it on the chin. That your actions here don’t have consequence. Am I in the ballpark, C-136?”

“Not even close!”

“Then do you want to tell us what the fuck happened?! Do you want to, oh, I don’t know--- clue the council in on why you saw fit to push a Rick to the ground, stamp repeatedly on his ballsack, and punch him in the face until... he- cried---? Jesus Christ, in- in hindsight- this geezer’s not reflecting on us well. How does this even happen? He got fucked up by a Morty? I mean, at that point, you pretty much deserve whatever happens, right? What the fuck was I even reading there, y’know?” 

Riq IV isn’t quite addressing C-136 come the end of that impassioned order for an explanation, and is instead glancing at the other members incredulously, brow knitted indignantly. The other four Ricks murmur heatedly in irritable agreement, though they’re keen to point out Mortys should never possess the balls to lash out at a Rick violently regardless. With a nod of his head, the spokesman looks down upon the yellow-shirted bastard beneath him, and snaps, “Whenever you’re ready, C-136. Take your time! I know you think this Citadel bows to your goddamn whims either way. Go ahead and phone a fucking friend- why not? You’re- you’re a little monster.”

“Oh, I’m ready, you stupid haircut having- you’re a- dumb ass motherfucker,” Morty spits vehemently, gritting his teeth, before catching himself. His gaze briefly averts, as if in wordless apology for his blunt outburst. He draws himself up slightly, gesticulating with his hands as he attempts to get across his reasoning. “Look, I know it sounds bad. It was bad! It was! I know. But that Rick, he- he was, he was pushing this Morty around, being such a dick, making fun of him, and- there was... he didn’t even have a reason! That Morty was mute, y’know? He’d- he’d had his tongue cut out, or- or maybe ripped out by some sorta alien... I don’t know. He was making this awful gurgling noise, he was frightened, and- what, was I just supposed t- to walk on by? Pretend I couldn’t see that happening?!”

“That’s exactly what you were supposed to do.” Riq IV says pointedly, as if affronted he has to clarify the obvious at all. “We can only assume that Morty was behaving in a way to make him deserve that, just as you should have assumed, turd. Besides, I’ll have you know that tongueless Mortys are in, uh- pretty high demand, for the more morally ambiguous Ricks. In fact, I’m pretty sure we offer services for a humane snip of the tongue. We do that, guys, right? ... Maybe it’s more of a black market thing? Yes. It’s- it’s just an adjustment that can be made to you little bastards, for a price, much like implanting chips into your spines and weaponizing you for efficiency. And let me tell you something: it’s one that I plan to recommend to your grandfather if you continue to push your luck. Our tolerance only goes so far, no matter how much of an asset Rick C-136 is to the development of our Citadel. We won’t exactly crumble without him.”

“Fuck you! Wh- what the fuck is WRONG with you?! Y- you wanna know something?! You wanna know what I think?! Don’t answer: I- I know you don’t, but fuck you, and listen up anyway! Every single one of you BASTARDS are DEFINITELY gonna die with each other’s dicks in your throat from how much you suck each other off! How can you sit up there, and say shit like that, and- and not hear how fucking awful you all sound?!” 

His gesturing hands have long since returned to his sides, and his arms are tensed where they rest- C-136 is acutely aware of the fact that he’s trembling, shaking with anger that has never felt more well founded. Despite himself, he curls his fingers and balls them into fists, as if- as if he could swing for those smug motherfuckers up there from all the way down here. Morty has to jut his chin just to regard them with all this fury, and there’s nothing to goddamn do with it- his breathing quivers from his lungs tensely, and there’s a challenging look crystal clear in his blazing eyes. Can’t do anything about it, the reminder bangs in his brain. The Guard Ricks posted all around don’t even motion to grip their guns tighter, because they fucking know it, and the council fucking knows it, and they know he’s painfully aware of it, too. 

Their broad, shit-eating grins say it all--- at least, they do, until Ricktiminus Sancheziminius sees fit to glance upward briefly by chance, and winds up visibly starting, and fixing his gaze on something else entirely. Somebody else. Somebody other than the spectacle of that notoriously difficult Morty having an outburst. Ricktiminus Sancheziminius nudges Riq IV sharply in the side, and upon gaining the other’s attention and irritable acknowledgement, indicates the new arrival to the spokesman. He soon sobers, flashing the figure at the entrance to their chambers a bemused look- and the others are quick to follow his lead. Morty’s brows knit, and he glances over his shoulder- heart sinking---no, outright dropping---deeply into his stomach the very instant he’s processed it. 

Fuck.

“Ah, your keeper’s here, C-136. Rick Sanchez, earth dimension C-136! We presume our message reached you in a timely manner... and yet, enough time has passed for your grandson to spit vulgarities at us for quite a while. I certainly hope we didn’t pull you away from anything important...” Riq IV smiles strangely, almost as if simpering. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and there is something deeply false to the curve of his mouth. Belching, he waves a careless hand, as if to dismiss his own backhanded, apologetic sentiment before the other can even respond to it. “... Though it begs the question of what could be more important than the Citadel. We both have this society’s best interests at heart, after all.”

“Yeah, y-eeeuurgh-eah, what-the-fuck-ever.” Rick replies, sweeping into the chambers and standing at Morty’s side, flashing him a deeply vexed look. He probably heard that whole last part, and out of context, it doesn’t really reflect well on the flicker of patience he's been trying to maintain all the while. “I was balls deep in the concept of time when you motherfuckers called me, so ex-cuse me if I’m not particularly chirpy about being called over this time around. He- he better have at least killed someone, is what I’m saying. I was getting action. Literally fucking with time. I- I don’t wanna fucking be here for anything less.”

Morty’s mouth falls open as he hastens to try and explain himself, ready to trip over his own spluttering words until Rick comes to understand that he was just trying to help- before he realizes, dully, that it won’t even matter. Huffing, the teenager simply looks askance, knowing full well Rick won’t take his side on this. Almost can’t take his side on this. Though it’s not like the other ever strives to have his back anyway. 

This train of thought is a bitter one, and it rattles through his head so loudly, all the biting reminders that he’s in a room full of people who don’t give a shit what he has to say in the slightest, that he briefly tunes out from the exchange between the council and his disapproving grandfather. Their words are little more than buzzing in his ears, but he doesn’t miss much. They’re just filling his companion in on what shit trick he’s pulled this visit. A sharp flick against the side of his head soon bumps him back to reality, and a deep scowl curls the sixteen year old’s lip as he rubs it, fighting the innate urge to bitch. Rick scoffs at him, before turning his attention back to the six alternates perched up there.

“See that? Not even listening. Look, this time last year, Morty was all over the Citadel, just like I am. Nobody’s saying anything about taking issue with this place. Nothing but support in the C-136 household. He’s just going through a little phase, in case you can’t tell. You ever had a sixteen year old Morty? Nightmare. Rebellion, he’s all- all stick it to the Ricks, y’know? He’s just being a c-eeeuurgh-ontrary little shit. Christ, the whole reason he’s here is to pick some crap up that I ordered- did you even fucking get around to grabbing that, Morty? Before you started swinging for Ricks?”

“Yeah. I got it.” Morty says shortly. “Laruxion ore.” 

He finds himself physically biting down on his tongue, as if to chastise it prematurely as it twitches to run away with him about what a nightmare even just grabbing Rick’s shit was, too. The shopkeeper glared down at him, and asked a few dozen hostile questions about what a Morty was doing picking up something so volatile, so potentially dangerous, for his Rick. If it were up to me, he’d declared, unwillingly bagging the package up all the same, you wouldn’t be running around with something like this. Taking it to your Rick or otherwise. Guy can’t pick up his own shit?

“Aw, jeez. Well,” Morty had shot back, unable to help himself, “don’t you all think we’re too stupid to do anything smart anyway? Either you think Mortys are capable of falling the entire Citadel with this ore, and you won’t fork that shit over to me because of that, or you think we’re dumbass, i- incapable, um, y’know- sidekicks. In which case, there’s- there’s no harm in handing it over to me. Right? Just saying, y’know. Y- you guys should pick a lane. Aw, jeez.”

Suffice to say, Shopkeeper Rick was not impressed with his take on the matter, and all but threw the bag across the counter into Morty’s fumbling hands, before angrily shooing him off.

“Might as well have done it myself. Can’t even run an errand without getting stirred up in shit. Look, council,” Rick grouses, pinching the bridge of his nose in a show of utter annoyance, “Let’s just call this square. We all fucking paid for his shit trick today, right? I got blue balls, you had to, uh... rightfully bitch at him, waste your... precious time on a dumbass Morty. And he’s gonna get a fucking earful. I’d- I’d say it won’t happen again, but, Christ- is- was he even entirely in the wrong? If a Rick can get taken out by a Morty, he’s not exactly a valuable member of this society. The society I funnel a lot of fucking cash into on a monthly basis, might I add. G- g-eeeUURGH-etting pretty sick of the same old bitchfest about every toe my moron puts over the line when he’s here. Do you guys do this for every Morty that acts out? I’m just sp-eeEUURGH-itballing over here, but- I kind of thought I was donating to people that had slightly better shit to do than pull my Morty up for being a little- a little angsty, or whatever the fuck, right now.”

“... We do this for Mortys that repeatedly cause issues within our citadel. Which yours does to the point of notoriety, C-136. If you’d only rein in your Morty, this wouldn’t be an issue to begin with---”

“Oh, my God- shut the fuck up! Shut the fuck UP---”

“Morty, YOU shut the fuck up. Sorry for him, as usual. Are we done here?”

“... Of course. We, uh, we’d like to reiterate our gratitude for your contributions to maintaining the-”

“Yeah, yeah, leave me another f-eeEUrrrgh-ucking voicemail about it. Come on, Morty. Y- you’re gonna- I’m gonna fucking kill you when we’re outta here,” Rick chastises, and reaches out to grip his forearm and pull him along as he paces away from his six alternates, muttering darkly under his breath all the while. Visibly nettled by the threat, the sixteen year old bitches top note and makes several efforts to wrench his arm free- and easily manages it once they’re back in the sea of alternates that is the main hub of this hellhole as Rick reluctantly eases his hold.

“Don’t grab me! And- and y’know what, don’t bust my balls about this, either. Would it kill you to be on my side? Like, ever? Wh- why would I beat on anyone for no goddamn reason, Rick?!” Morty explodes, and his grandfather rakes a hand through his tufts of blue hair and glares.

“You know exactly why, Morty. Besides. I’m not exactly in the business of backing you up- not sure if you’ve noticed. Because you’re never actually in the right. You’re just taking everything to heart and poking your nose where it doesn’t belong, as usual. Got that?” 

There’s a certain bitterness behind his words. How the hell do you think it’s going to reflect on me if they know I’ve never been able to put a lid on your shit, Morty? Rick sets off walking, and for a moment, Morty hangs back- hesitating to follow, eyes narrowed fiercely at the other’s retreating back... before he groans, and hastens to scramble through the thick crowds and catch up, demanding an explanation all the while.

“Why do you even put up with their crap, Rick? I- I don’t get it. You’re throwing money at a bunch of dicks, t- to support something you don’t even- to support the fucking Shitadel?” Morty gesticulates wildly, hazel eyes narrowed and gaze intent as he regards his older relative, forearms raised and fingers splayed out in a demonstration of utter bewilderment. “I’m just trying to understand why- why the fuck you would do that! Y’know? Y- you don’t even like this fucking hellhole! The people who live here don’t even like it! I just, I- I don’t---”

Rick’s shoulders slump under this bout of badgering, and, if only to quieten the idiot down, he caves. Lowers his voice and mutters quietly, so as not to be listened in on by anyone around them. 

“You don’t g-eeURRGH-et it? Yeah, I heard you the first time. Look, M-Bomb, if I know those assholes---and I am those assholes---being, y’know, blatant about hating their fucking guts isn’t the way to go. If I say what I think, tell ‘em to suck my balls and shove their society up their ass, how- how exactly do you see that playing out for me?” 

Rick pauses, as if awaiting an answer. Bewildered, the teenager beside him blinks a tad owlishly, and at long last, opens his mouth in preparation to fumble for some sort of answer. The very moment he begins to speak out uncertainly, his grandfather purposefully presses on with his point, much to the boy’s visible aggravation.

“I’ll tell you how it’s gonna play out for me. I- I know it’s a little beyond your, uh, limited understanding, Morty. They’re gonna scout for a new paypig, come in the night, haul us outta home, take my portal gun, and make me a fucking janitor, Morty. Meanwhile your dumb ass is gonna- you’ll end up in that shitty Morty School, taking classes on how to bark great idea, grandpa, like- like some mindless little moron who can’t think for himself. They’d parade you around as an example of how well they break you little bastards down into yes-man sidekicks, since you’re such a stubborn piece of shit. And that’d be if y-eeEUrgh-ou’re lucky, by the way.”

“... Ha. Yeah, well, don’t- don’t talk like you wouldn’t like that. The last part, I mean.” He snorts, and a brief flicker of amusement brightens his companion’s resigned expression. Rolling his eyes, Rick rolls his shoulders into a shrug as they walk, moving through the sea of yellow-shirted teenagers and lab-coated fossils.

“Only if you don’t talk like you wouldn’t get a fucking kick out of seeing me scrub a toilet,” he snipes, and they exchange a glance. 

There’s a brief, strange moment wherein something shifts between them- all the unspoken anger, the seething temper, the typical wariness that clings to the air that hangs between them seems to all but ebb away. 

Morty cracks first. The corners of his mouth twitch upward slightly, a fit of snickers rises in his throat... and the second Rick clocks that he’s going to burst out laughing, he cracks up, too. They laugh, and they laugh, and just when it seems that they’re going to calm back down, they catch each other’s eye and lose it all over again. The other Ricks and Mortys waiting in line for a return portal to their dimension cast them strange looks as they all but giggle feebly beside each other, adamantly refusing to meet each other’s gaze in a fervent effort to recover, now; letting things lapse back into their norm. 

All good things eventually draw to a close, and sure enough, this temporary, shared moment of reciprocal sentiment is one of them. The teenager can’t help but push it, however. Let it last just a minute longer. I won’t hate you again, just for a fraction more time. Don’t hate me again, just for a bit longer. While Rick moves to procure his silvery flask from his pocket, amused grin easing in the corners as his expression becomes idly impatient once more, Morty inhales, picking at a loose thread on his sweater if only to busy himself with something, too.

“Hey, Rick?” His tentative broach at conversation is met with a grunt while the old man slugs back his potent alcohol supply. Casting his grandfather a tentative smile, he fidgets with his fingers. “... Thanks. And- sorry. I- I know you hate, y’know, this whole- paying off this shithole, so we don’t wind up here, and stuff. And seeing those motherfuckers, and their stupid haircuts, more than you have to.”

... The sentiment doesn’t quite have the effect he wanted. Rick doesn’t smile back, once he’s finished downing the last drops from his flask. His brow narrows as he shoves it back into the pocket of his lab coat, and he shakes his head dismissively, refusing to take the attempt to uphold their good mood at face value. Disdain creeps right back into his tone- that distaste and disapproval over Morty’s every choice today rearing it’s ugly head with a vengeance, it seems.

“Yeah. I do. So I guess you owe me b-eeUURGH-ig time, Morty.” 

He returns simply, and Morty’s heart sinks upon registering the snippy edge to Rick’s tone... before he soon finds himself frowning deeply, annoyed with himself for even trying; consumed with that aching anger once again. There’s a certain, undeniable comfort to be found in how familiar the feeling is. Losing the moment of enjoying one another’s companionship, of things being how they were some two years ago again, stings. Undoubtedly. But it’s better not to dwell on them. 

Part of him always wonders if it’s his fault they are the way they are. Keeping each other at arm’s length. Essentially communicating through picking fights over nothing, and bickering over absolute bullshit, with terribly occasional, painfully rare warm moments interspersed amidst all of their resentment. If he were only more wide-eyed and naive, Rick wouldn’t be like this with him. Right? Rick thinks that Morty doesn’t know precisely what his fucking problem is, but it doesn’t exactly take a genius to decipher why he’s so harsh with him most days. Read between the lines of his grandfather’s unspoken resentment. 

No. It takes a smart, capable Morty, unafraid to call him or anyone, really, on bullshit, and injustice. And he never wanted that. What sort of Rick fucking does? The entire point of a Morty is to stand beside you, go along with whatever you say despite their own rightful apprehensions, to freak out and struggle and be impressed, awed, and horrified by the shit you pull. They’re sidekicks, but they’re never supposed to be all that competent. That’s the role of the Rick, after all. C-136 was fearful and clueless when they adventured in his youth, sure. There was a time. But he outgrew it far too fast, picked up on things far too quickly, keen for approval he didn’t want to give purely because of how actually deserved it was. Jesus, even as a kid, he was perceptive. Intrusively so. Full of cutting observations--- with alarmingly poignant outbursts over how Rick conducted himself, dripping with disdain for his behaviour, being plentiful from the tender age of eight.

Rick speaks.

“... Quit pulling this shit.”

Morty snaps.

“Quit being shit, Rick.”

They fix one another with a long, lingering look. It feels like a game of chicken- daring the figure across from them to be the one to break the prolonged staredown they’re locked into... and in turn, out himself as the coward ultimately too afraid to face up to the other. It ends in a perfect draw; grandfather and grandson tear their gazes away at the same moment, scoffing over how stupid it was at all, deliberately shuffling to sit a few more inches apart from one another. 

Distance from it, the duo both decide sullenly. Never as different from one another as they like to insist, unbeknown to the two of them. All you can do. He can’t be told.

Rick and Morty, Earth Dimension C-136, await their assigned portal back home in silence; the balance restored in their uncaring world, and dynamic decidedly chilly once more.

#rick and morty #morty smith #rick sanchez #alex writes! #long post cw #HMMM. I DON'T. LIKE THIS. BUT I LIKE PARTS OF IT SO I'LL POST IT #please stamp on my head this literally SUCKS AND I ACTUALLY TRIED FJHDSJFHGDSHJG FUCKKK #I REFUSE TO NOT POST IT BECAUSE IT TOOK EMBARRASSINGLY LONG BUT. I WISH IT WAS BETTER. #i'll sleep and look at it again tomorrow and if it makes me cringe i'll slam that delete #c136!

[vyther16]

wip wednesday: murder turtle edition

more wen!wwx au, this time with that barely mentioned Qin Su portion from before. Idk what canon this takes place in. probably some unholy mishmash of novel and cql with emphasis on cql. if it’s unclear, murder turtle refers to the Xuanwu of Slaughter

for context of the au, wwx ended up kinda adopted? by the Burial Mounds after his parents died, and then Wen Ruohan’s wife found him and took him in. blah blah blah wrh evil blah blah blah demonic cultivation blah blah blah handwavey magic stuff. that’s why wwx is already a “demonic cultivator” during the murder turtle sequence

“What are we fighting?” Jin Zixuan asks, and Wei Wuxian would be proud of the character development the Jin Sect Heir has obviously gone through if the resentful energy in this cave weren’t so cloyingly thick.

He presses a hand to his forehead, then focuses his attention inward, to the steady thrum of his golden core.

“Wei Wuxian?” Wen Qing murmurs, coming to walk next to him. Wen Chao is prattling on to the other sects’ disciples. The resentful energy resolves itself into screaming.

“It’s loud,” Wei Wuxian says finally. It’s not as loud as Yiling was, as the Burial Mounds were, when he was smaller. The voices here aren’t calling for revenge. 

They’re just screaming.

Wei Wuxian is brought back to himself when he’s shoved down the side of a cliff. That’s inside of a cave. He wants to laugh at the irony, except the voices are louder down here.

He thinks about screaming himself, but then someone is pulling him to his feet.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says. “Are you alright?”

He nods. “Yeah, Lan Zhan,” he says, because he’s perfectly fine physically. The only thing the voices are doing is screaming. They aren’t actually hurting him.

Lan Zhan frowns, eyebrows drawing closer together, but before he can say anything, the rest of the guest disciples come down. 

--

“They’ve cut the ropes,” Jin Zixuan says, throwing the limp ropes back down. Some of the Yao disciples start bickering about their parents. Wei Wuxian wants to scream, because half the disciple here still won’t trust him, his core is sealed indefinitely, Wen Zhuliu took Suibian, and the resentful energy is still screaming at him.

“There is an exit,” Lan Zhan says, voice steady. Wei Wuxian turns to look at him, hissing when even the small movement pulls at the new brand on his chest.

When the other disciples look apprehensive, Lan Zhan turns towards the Xuanwu’s part of the cave. “There were maple leaves,” he clarifies, and Jiang Wanyin nods.

“Yes, there must be an opening. If someone can distract the Xuanwu, I can swim down and find it,” he offers. Lan Zhan hums an affirmative.

Wei Wuxian winces as they get closer to the Xuanwu. The energy is thrumming with resentment, focusing in on... “There’s something in the turtle,” he says suddenly, and Lan Zhan and the other sect heirs turn to stare at him.

“What do you mean, in the turtle?” Jin Zixuan snaps, and wow, Wei Wuxian really underestimated the other boy. When he’s not being an arrogant peacock, he really is quite smart. He might even one day be worthy of Yanli-jie.

“There’s a-- a focal point for the resentful energy in its shell,” Wei Wuxian tries to explain, but it’s hard to think around the headache that has formed to explain something he just instinctively knows. “The spirits are-- they’re attached to it.” He drives more focus towards the point, and then all the voices scream in tandem, and Wei Wuxian’s hands go up to his ears as he stumbles back, hitting into other disciples, but he can’t find it in himself to care because it’s so loud. He might be screaming with them. He isn’t sure.

The Xuanwu rears up, roaring, and then something black shoots through the top of its shell and the turtle collapses into the water.

Wei Wuxian barely has time to register that before the world slips away from him. He hears Lan Zhan cry out his name and then he is aware of nothing more.

--

“What the hell did he just do?” Jiang Wanyin demands, and Lan Wangji finds he has no idea either. Jin Zixuan picks up one of the fallen torches and throws it at the water, but the Xuanwu doesn’t react.

“He killed it,” a Jin disciple says, her voice high and wavering. Wangji remembers her fighting in tandem with Jin Zixuan in the earlier skirmish.

“How?” A BalingOuyang disciple pushes to the front of the group. “He said resentful energy, then something about spirits?”

“His core was sealed. Was it demonic cultivation?” a Jiang disciple puts forth.

“Who cares how he did it; the thing’s dead!” a girl shouts. “Are we going to try to get out of here or stand around and prattle on like it’s a discussion conference!” She shoves her way to the front of the crowd, flanked on either side by older disciples from her sect. “Jiang Wanyin, you said you could swim down to find the opening the maple leaves came through?”

The Jiang Sect Heir looks properly cowed. “I’ll get on that, Qin-guniang,” he says, undoing his belt.

Once everyone is properly outside of the cave, Qin-guniang takes charge with relative ease. 

“Everyone form up by sect,” she calls, and her order is echoed by her disciples down the crowd. Wangji stays where he is holding Wei Ying, because he is the only Lan disciple here, and Wei Ying is the only Wen.

Jiang Wanyin and Jin Zixuan stand by Qin-guniang. She did not attend the lectures at Cloud Recesses; he does not know her name, even despite the fact she is obviously her sect’s heir. The Qin sect is very small; he cannot recall having learned anything about them aside from the fact that Jin Guangshan favours them.

“Now, Lanling is the closest great sect that is still standing; Yunmeng is a few days further, but more likely to accept all of us. Jin and Jin subsidiary sects can drop off at Lanling if they feel so inclined, but my sect is going to Yunmeng. They’re more likely to be amenable to retaliate against this blatant disrespect and violence from Qishan than Jin-zongzhu ever will be.” Qin-guniang folds her hands primly in front of her. 

“A’Su,” Jin Zixuan starts, but Qin-guniang makes a silencing motion with her hands.

“Don’t you A’Su me, Jin Zixuan, you know it’s true. Your father won’t step up until Wen Ruohan burns down Jinlintai like they did Cloud Recesses,” she snaps. Jin Zixuan looks properly chastised, but several Jin disciples look ready to start a brawl at the slight to their sect leader.

new game: count how many times I used the word scream or a variant in this snippet. 

i’m not really sure how wwx is already a demonic cultivator at this point in the story, but it’s got smth to do with the burial mounds taking him in as a child, bc i’m nixing the yin iron plot from cql. i think it’s dumb and pointless and i don’t want to deal with it. let wrh be evil without magic evil rocks. let xue yang be a street rat with no history. let wwx make an evil amulet from a magic sword that’s just a magic sword with no creepy nursery rhyme to go with it

(i’m keeping lan yi and her cave, just modified bc ancient lesbians and sacred ribbon ceremonies)

anyway, hope you enjoyed. next week will likely be hcs again, but for mdzs/cql ocs instead of jol/qyn characters. who knows. maybe it’ll be smth else.

#wip wednesday #wen!wwx au #wei wuxian #lan wangji #jin xizuan #qin su #jiang cheng #not breathe au guys sorry #i'm making progress of it though so #i guess i'll have to write this after breathe au won't i #oh well #enjoy!

[moralhymn]

honestly im curious after seeing it on your blog what is sort of the foundation of ignis/ardyn or the dynamic? I've never seen the ship before!

hi there hello you’ve opened up a WHOLE CAN OF WORMS HERE BECAUSE I LOVE THIS SHIP SO DAMN MUCH–

honestly i– i don’t remember how i started shipping it. for.. context, i will say that when i first dipped my toe into the 15 fandom, i actually started as a gladio rper. he was my favorite, with the combination of the anger issues and obvious intelligence that he had ( and lbr gladio does have some serious anger issues; he’s not a bad guy for it though! it just makes him more interesting to me as a character because how many times is something like that shown having consequences? you see it with gladio and how he grows and matures. i love it! ) and my twin from another mother was like “why aren’t you writing ardyn?” 

me and my unsuspecting ass: “i don’t know i guess i’m trying to veer away from villains here.”

she just laughed at me. a lot. because she knew. she knew what was coming. so i, in my dumb naivety, forge ahead in the game and then i met ardyn and it was all downhill from there. especially after altissia. so i kinda… acquired ardyn as a muse and boy i didn’t know what i was getting in for. i really, truly didn’t. he’s come to mean so much to me as a character because he’s so beautifully complex. i have a serious love for seeing dark side characters, especially if they started on the good side of things, and between his flamboyant mannerisms, his speech patterns ( WHICH I ABSOLUTELY LOATHE TRYING TO IMITATE IN RP BECAUSE I NEVER FEEL LIKE I GET CLOSE ENOUGH TO THEM ), and his choice of archaic wording, he was practically gift-wrapped for me.

and his parallels to both jesus and lucifer are both seriously big draws for me too.

so, anyways, about the ship! 

honestly, i couldn’t begin to tell you where it came from for me or where i started looking into it. it just sorta… happened! i think it also happened in large part because i am honestly dissatisfied with ignis’s popular ships of gladnis and ignoct, seeing him together with ardyn just drew me in. i mean, i can appreciate those two ships and more power to anyone who ships them! if it makes you happy, then go for it! but a lot of gladnis is written in ways that set my teeth on edge ( and i must reference one fic where gladio was calling ignis baby. i am fairly certain that ignis would stab you with a fork if you tried that. ) and as for ignoct… it’s probably the fact that it’s a gross misinterpretation of the warrior-retainer archetype relationship that they share, not to mention how maternal ignis is towards noctis. i can see and understand the basis for both ships but they lack a certain luster for me.

but boy, for some reason, ignis and ardyn just have this fascinating interaction with one another. i could go into over analysis here on every scene they share together but i won’t, lmfao. but there’s something interesting about the fact that ignis gets especially bitchy when talking to or about ardyn, to me. i mean, ignis can be pretty bitchy in general ( and before anyone tries to say he’s not, he really is. his dialogue in the japanese is legit him trying to sound like a tough guy and he just gets so bristly when talking about ardyn. ) but there’s like an uptick in it where ardyn’s concerned. now, some people might go “but wait doesn’t that mean he doesn’t like him?” and, yeah, i can see that. but when you ship a rarepair, you reach for what you can get and are satisfied with things. also, everyone interprets things differently! ignis seems… acutely interested in some way in ardyn but there’s also other subtle hints of their interactions, at least to me.

two of the biggest factors are sagefire and ignis being able to tell noctis who ardyn really is once he’s free of the crystal, including his history.

now, exactly where could ignis have learned this stuff? the answer is, of course, ardyn. ardyn, whose new dlc literally calls him the sage. ardyn, who would probably answer ignis’s demands because heaven knows gladio and prompto don’t go near him.

also the fact that prompto asks ignis if ardyn’s not his type and ignis doesn’t bother saying that, no, ardyn is not my type, kinda… raised my eyebrows more than a little. ( also, ignis not really contributing to talks about that kind of stuff? hm. interesting. )

so i honestly believe that ignis has met with ardyn, more than once, to learn both sagefire and ardyn’s history. i mean, the only person who could have reliably told ignis about it was him. sagefire is another thing that i’m working out in my head but, you know, ignis is definitely a man who’ll pursue knowledge in all its forms and ardyn, being ardyn, being this two thousand year old being who can show him so many different things, would probably lure him in like a moth to a flame. and given how i view ardyn, i know that he’d respect ignis for his own person. not as noctis’s caretaker. not as a man who was being groomed to be a general. not as part of the flock. but his own individual with his own wants and desires. and i think that’d suck ignis right on in, to be honest. now, i’m not saying that the bros don’t recognize ignis as his own person, far from it - but the way that they handle things just kinda shows that, as tight as they are, there’s misunderstandings between them. 

i just see ignis and ardyn having this super dazzling chemistry and interesting influence on one another as well. like, ardyn might sleep around, but if he finds someone who can stand as his equal, the way i see ignis being able to, then you’ve got his interest securely on you and that can be a powerful, frightening thing, to be honest. after all, it’d make one wonder what it is about them that would bring in the attention of a man who’s seen so much and done so many things in his life, right? but ardyn would see ignis for his intelligence, his skill, probably even finding his sharp tongue and wit charming too. and there’s the fact that he never seems to take any action against ignis either. i mean, even in altissia, he doesn’t really fight ignis; he just kinda makes a few cursory gestures but overall? ignis beat the snot out of him and ardyn just seemed to take it. i mean, yeah, there was probably the whole “oh you can’t really do anything to hurt me” deal, but this is ardyn we’re talking about here. ardyn, who messes with the other three something awful, after all.

but ignis? he literally stops him with a raised hand at the stronghold. he’s impressed by him putting on the ring ( and rather surprised ). he probably taught him the sagefire technique. and i will never shake the idea that it was ignis who got ardyn to talk about himself, his past, his relation to the lucis caelum bloodline, and so much more. 

i just honestly find their dynamic so fascinating to look at and to explore. i think that out of all four of the bros, ignis would be the one ardyn would go for anyways. prompto, he already knows how to handle. gladio? well, ardyn’s just going to irritate him. noctis? he hates the poor kid. but ignis? ignis would definitely make ardyn’s head turn so fast that it’s a wonder it doesn’t fly off his neck. so, yeah, i just think that out of all the people ignis could hook up with, ardyn would probably just lure him in so fast and so hard that it’s amazing to me. 

so i guess the foundation is, in the end, this whole… ( vague hand gestures. ) this whole deal of thinking that they’d just have this super magnetic interest in one another. i mean, yeah, even after altissia? yeah, even after altissia. it just? i don’t know. i think that in some ways ignis would lure ardyn in as well for how he’s both selfish and selfless at the same damn time. ardyn would crave that level of devotion for himself, since it was something he lost before he was cast out of history. to see it in ignis? oh, it’s just like icing on the cake. how can he resist that? he wouldn’t be able to.

i just have a lot of reasons and viewpoints for this ship and oh my god i rambled i will shut up now.

#ardenthymn #ask tag; #ardnis tag;

[vivalasthedas]

Joseph romance ending ramblings cause fuck it i’m bored 

I entirely see where the criticisms are coming from. The choice to make him seem closeted isn’t one without meaning and the writers should’ve thought about how it would come across, and they’re definitely not handling the push back well. At all. 

However. As the kid of parents who have both cheated, with a sister who has cheated with friends who condone cheating, his story makes a lot of sense and does work pretty well. He isn’t that unhappy. He’s fucking playing you. It’s an act, and from the dialog it’s one he’s used before. 

He wants to have his marriage and keep banging other people on the side so he does that incredibly cliche married man thing of ‘its not working out’ ‘im so unhappy’ but then they decide the hassle of divorce, the loss of reputation, the potential loss of money or access to kids etc. is just not worth it. They’re going to make it work. Give it the old college try. This is literally every piece of media where the main girl boinks a married man. It was set up in this exact same way. 

The unfortunate implications that the writers were fucking idiots to not think about or realize is that by having him be religious, by having his cheating only be with men, they set up a very clear and real and painful reality for a lot of closeted religious gay men who experience compulsory heterosexuality and increased cultural pressure to conform to it. A happy ending for a religious gay man is incredibly uncommon and they ignored this and decided to just keep following that trend. Which is bullshit. 

But Joseph isn’t meant as some incredibly unhappy closeted married man. He’s meant as a cheater who wants to keep the reputation and appearance of a het. marriage and kids and religious cornerstone stuff but also bang people on the side. He asks that of you, to be his side piece, and from the dialog he likely did the same to Robert. Strung along either as a dirty little secret or with the promise of he’ll leave her soon. 

And if it were truly a moment of weakness it would be once. It would be a moment. A single time accident it wouldn’t be a pattern of cheating and wanting to maintain long term extramarital affairs. 

And HOLY SHIT

can we cool it with the dumb shit of ‘if mary was a boy you’d hate her’ no. Stop. You don’t get to erase decades of heavy obvious fandom misogyny with wild accusations like that. If Mary were a dude the story would’ve made it much clearer that Joseph was a cheater not a deeply unhappy closeted religious man. It actually would’ve solved a number of the issues with the story. 

But. If she were a dude there would be so many people absolutely in love with her, drawing their dadsona with her instead. Yaoi fan girls wanting to romance her instead or demanding an ot3 ending. 

The initial reaction to Mary was one rooted in clear and pervasive fandom sexism. Demonizing her to make him seem so much more sad and puppy dog until you realize that out of the two of them she’s probably the one who’s a lot more actually fucking ruined. 

And I’m seeing way too many mlm who are getting hyped and angry about the joseph thing repeating the same shit that fangirls did in the first few hours when it comes to their approach to mary. 

‘cheating isn’t just sex’ you’re right, it’s not. Personally I don’t think what Mary does constitutes cheating, she goes out and drinks and flirts and then returns alone and unhappy. Never acting on it. Just looking for validation she sure as shit ain’t getting at home. 

But Joseph? He fucks other people. And she knows about it. From dialog with her it seems it’s a common issue, so much so that she recognizes his type and his patterns. That’s cheating. And in no way does what she does compare. 

She is not an ‘innocent’ party in this, she could’ve done something, ended things, her coping mechanism is harmful and has led to an alcoholic parent. Which, from experience as the kid in a very similar situation, is fucking miserable. She seems like a pretty fucking neglectful parent but so does he honestly. We get that one good scene with him and his daughter but we also know he’d rather sit around and read about knot tying than stop his two young children vanishing into deep woods. And he’d rather keep them in an unhappy environment he created than deal with it. 

They’re both fucking miserable because of the shit he’s started and caused. She did not cause him to cheat, he made those decissions. 

They fucked up how they handled it by not making it much clearer that he is faking that shit. Even Robert warns you he’s fucking lying. And to some extent I get why they did that, to make it more believable. But that isn’t a decision you can remove from context of an sga man who is religious and married to a woman. It’s poorly handled and deserves a lot of criticism. 

But how about we stop trying to make it ‘even’ stop trying to make Mary into the villain here. They’ve both fucked up, but i kinda think the guy who has boinked people outside of his marriage multiple times but would rather keep his dysfunctional and unhappy family together because it’s easier and better for him, as a pillar of the community, to do so instead of letting things disolve and separate and move on, is probably a bit more to blame than the woman who saw her husband cheat on her time and time again and turned to alcohol because of it. 

And goddamn is this pretty difficult for me to write because i’m basically defending my mom here. And I hate her. As her kid I fucking hate her because she did the same thing, she turned to alcohol and drugs to deal with emotionally unfulfilling relationships and it destroyed us. But know who started that shit? The men. My dad and her partner. Who cheated on her. 

And I’ve seen my dad do the same shit Joseph does. He was in such a bad place, it hurt so much, mom just didn’t understand, new woman did etc. etc. 

It’s common justifications to cheating. Was the decision to have him be religious fucking stupid and cause a whole heap of unnecessary and avoidable drama because it ignored current political and cultural pressures? YES. VERY YES. Does that mean he’s not a scummy cheater who has caused irreparable damage to his family? NOPE. 

#this is so ranty and not focused at all #but i'm getting really tired of blatant sexism from mlm towards mary #acting like fandom and the culture the game is rooted in isn't sexist as shit #and im not sure i'd call it woobifying joseph but it sure reminds me a lot of the early days reaction to Hans from Frozen #kinda

[fireflysummers]

Mob Psycho 100 x Paranatural

Okay my dudes, I figure I may as well put these ideas down in one post since I don’t have time to draw them (or any more at least). They all stemmed from a convo a month or two ago between me and @happikattwuzheere concerning how Reigen is the Anti-Spender.

@7bluecats and @cocoa-bee I think you two were asking about this general stuff.

-cracks knuckles- 

Okay so. I have like. Several variations on the theme.

1. Total Crossover: The cast of paranatural meets the cast of MP100 (ignoring language barriers and geographical locations)

Or: The Fun AU where friendships and rivalries abound and there’s not much angst

Johnny immediately picks Mob out for a wimp and attempts to intimidate him...he is immediately stopped by (1) Ritsu, (2) Teru, (3) The Body Improvement Club

Dimple terrorizes PJ and attempts to arm wrestle Lefty

Suzy and Mezato meet. Even to those not physically present, there is an immediate chill as though some unholy partnership has been formed. (Alternatively they also compete for information because one girl is a master at bribery and blackmail, the other one literally started her own cult in her classmate’s image)

Reigen left hooks Spender for putting kids in the line of danger in order to satisfy his own ego (”You f*cked up some perfectly good children is what you did. Look at them. They’ve got anxiety!”)

Spender attempts to convince Mob (and the other Esper kids) to be his disciples. Shou laughs. Ritsu hates him more than he distrusts Reigen. Teru laughs and insults his choice of clothing. Mob is uncomfortable.

Salt Mid Student Council v Mayview Mid Student Council: an immovable object meets an unstoppable force

idk but Tome and Lisa look like they could be related all right?

The Esper kids in general get along with the Activity Club

Isaac and Ritsu have literally no patience for each other; Isaac and Teru have no patience for each other because Teru keeps insisting that he (and especially Mob) are probably stronger than Isaac

Isabel challenges them all to arm wrestles. To Shou’s horror, she wins them all.

Ed and Teru for some reason actually hit it off. Mostly because Teru is a movie buff like Ed and Ed is an invaluable source of creative ideas that Teru can actual implement in battle.

Shou (on Isaac): HAHA LOOK IT’S LIKE ME AND YOU FUSED TOGETHER TO MAKE ONE SUPER VOLATILE ANGST LORD

Max doesn’t really like Reigen, but he doesn’t immediately distrust him either because, despite being a con man, Reigen is by and large more honest than Spender

Max isn’t sure if he likes Mob, but he’s nice to him. He finds Teru obnoxious, but finds Ritsu tolerable in a way that Isaac isn’t. Mostly because Ritsu doesn’t demand things like loyalty and friendship right out. He gets along best with Shou, who is King at Wicked Stunts and Lighting Stuff on Fire.

Johnny is kind of terrified of Teru because Teru has expertise in dealing with delinquents and isn’t afraid to pull that card (even without the use of his psychic powers)

Hitball tourney between the two schools. Mob spends the entire time surrounded by the Body Improvement Club. People are reasonably intimidated. Despite that though the teams are pretty evenly matched.

BL makes the mistake of trying to connect into Mob’s mind. She disconnects that one REAL FAST.

Matsuo comes home with a new collection of mundane objects that are infused with spirits of all kinds

Mob accidentally pops the bubble surrounding Mayview and unleashes the apocalypse

2. Spender is Reigen

Spender is a legitimate psychic who runs the Spirits and Such Consultation.

He is a good bit less successful than Reigen because he is actually relatively bad with interpersonal relationships

Also his main goal is boosting his own ego, as opposed to Reigen who was kind of bored but mostly wanted to help people somehow

tbh I don’t think that Mob would have stuck around Spender like he did Reigen. Spender talks too much about himself, and as hard as he tries to be inspirational he lacks the sincerity and emotional depth that Reigen does to pull it off.

But assuming that Mob did stick around, I don’t think that Spender would be healthy to his maturity

Spender wouldn’t trust Mob to make decisions as a rational individual. He’d treat him like he was kind of dumb, just because Mob approaches thoughts very differently from most people. He’d maybe try to shelter him out of this weird protective instinct, but he wouldn’t really respect Mob as an intelligent individual (and he is, that smackdown with Touchirou shows that he not only thinksa bout stuff, he thinks deeply)

Spender would take Mob’s silence as approval. All the time. 

Spender would however be able to teach Mob how to channel his powers to an extent but his teaching would always be hampered by his own inferiority complex regarding Mob’s natural ability.

In the end, Mob would have more technical mastery of his psychic skills (despite that not being what he REALLY wants out of life anyways), and also likely be a lot more doubtful of his own decisions and less likely to take risks

This story would end with the Mogami arc, wherein Spender would think himself the True Hero as he does, and attempt to take on Mogami himself.  He dies.

3. Reigen is Spender

The least developed of the AUs, in which Reigen is an American middle school teacher

He still doesn’t have powers, beyond being able to see the spirits. He can’t use spectral energy or use weapons. 

Everybody thinks he can though

As in, BL thinks that he’s an incredibly powerful spectral because he keeps resisting her attempts to link with him mentally. In reality he doesn’t even know that that dream stuff exists, or is vaguely aware of it only.

He’s known for being a little bit scattered as a teacher, easily flustered and known to bullshit his way through stuff that he obviously doesn’t know

Despite that he’s well loved because at the end of the day, no matter how frustrated or tired he is, he legitimately gives the impression that he cares about his students.

He’s slightly better at handling Isaac than Spender is. For starters, he actually gives Isaac a degree of respect, answering him honestly where he can and giving him “I can’t tell you that right now, but I promise I’ll tell you when you’re no longer inhabited by a highly dangerous spirit monster okay?” where he can’t

Also he wouldn’t have fought Forge. I mean, he doesn’t have any powers anyways, and because holy shit that thing spits fire. If the kids were in danger he would have ditched so fast because the kids always come first.

Actually he probably would have called off the mission the minute that things started turning out more dangerous than projected

Zarei would probably still hate him though because he’s the type of guy who gets under her skin

Day is sneaky af and Reigen wouldn’t make the mistake of underestimating her like literally everybody else in the series right now

He’s legitimately worried about Max, who has clearly not moved on from mourning his mother. He’s a lot more attentive to this as a motivator in Max’s actions, and although he won’t ask about it directly he’s definitely checking for warning signs

He’s nearly gotten fired three times for physically threatening students (they deserved it but whatever)

Has been called a coward many, many times by almost every character in the series. Literally does not care because the people he cares about are still, by and large, alive

4. Max’s Mogami World

I don’t really remember the context of this one but it definitely started with discussing how differently Mogami’s world would have presented itself

There are a number of context clues implying that Max feels guilt over his mother’s death, so his isolation in the mind world is built around that

In this world, he still has a dad and a sister, but they both blame him for what happened to his mom. Not verbally, usually, but definitely in the coldness towards him and the way that look at him when they think he’s not looking

The move to Mayview isolates him completely, and he’s not brought into a circle of friends at his new school

Physical bullying doesn’t bother him nearly as much, because he knows how to fight back, but he takes to ditching school in an attempt to avoid his tormentors. This, in turn, causes a lot of the teachers to label him as a delinquent and start treating him more poorly

Minori (or the character equivalent in this world) finds out about Max’s mom somehow (via Suzy or somebody else snooping around), and uses that knowledge to emotionally bully Max into a corner

Max is the only one in the Paranatural cast that would have survived longer than a week in a Mogami world. Everybody else would have been too easy to pull apart.

Except maybe Ed. Mogami wouldn’t know what the heck to do with Ed. (Nobody does.)

I may have to add stuff later because I can’t remember what other stuff we talked about, but Katt and I did develop a fun new painful theory or two from this mess of stuff.

#mob psycho 100 #mp100 #paranatural #pnat

[hazbinextgeneration]

Allison Theory P3

(the image is not mine. Im just using it for context for my headcannon/theory. It and the characters belongs to @vivzportfolio​)

From left to right:

Allison: A young lady who is the first ‘Lost One’ to stumble down into Wonderland for a good while and Cheshire’s old friend. Allison was born and raised by a single grandmother and is now done with everything. She’s seen too much stuff to be surprised anymore. While she was able to escape the madness that usually consumes humans when they stay a long time, many wonder if it’s really any of Cheshire’s doing?

Many would describe her as her own type of crazy, as many of Wonderland’s residents don’t really understand the outside’s world’s way of thinking with Cheshire being a somewhat exception. She doesn’t eat the teacups or dunk her tea cakes in water before she eats them? Bizarre. And what’s wifi? Humans stare at a glass box all day? WHat’s the point? She tries many times to explain these things to them with Cheshire chuckling behind her but to no avail. Living in Wonderland has it’s perks though. No taxes or other annoying people. Almost no real danger. And she’s always preferred surrounding herself with magic. She sometimes does miss the human world and sometimes her and Cheshire would take trips there or a special place know as Safe Haven.

Allison used to have regular brown eyes to go along with her strawberry blonde hair. Being introduced to Wonderland’s madness filled magic as a child and then as an adult may have caused the red madness in her eyes. While not magical herself, she often carries a magical umbrella that when opened can fly her anywhere and can somewhat understand the laws of the strange land.

Cheshire C. At: The last living Cheshire cat, his anscestor’s were helpers of witches and created the stereotype of witches having cats as helpers. They were often tasked with helping the humans or ‘Lost Ones’ that stumble into wonderland back to the human world. 

Cheshire is a....interesting one to be sure. He often speaks in riddles or rymthes and acts like a crazy ringleader. As if the world is his own personal circus. He loves doing all the normal cat things like climbing trees and purring, you can often find him in trees. He LOVES to cause mischief and often chuckles at everyone’s reaction, but tones it down around Allison. His more chaotic magic includes flying, detaching his head and segments of his tail, going to and fro from the human world, teleporting others, summoning objects, and turning invisible. No one knows the full force of his magic, but he sometimes uses his cane as a wand. While egotistic and eccentric, he treats Allsion pretty fairly and often the two could be scene trolling around the local upside-down houses or sipping koolaid from teacups. Typical bff stuff. But deep down he’s pretty lonely and a bit paranoid about those in power. After the incident with his past, he’s not ready to let go of certain feelings yet.

Cheshire resides in a giant tent in the middle of the Wonder Woods where he’ll perform and just go about his daily business. He has an incredible singing voice and talent for the art for performing, romance, comedy, tragedy, etc. He often draws a crowd. His most proud feature is his eyes

Deedee and Dumea Twiddle: (I don’t know they’re real names but because there’s 2 of them I headcannon they’re the equlivant of Twiddle dee and Dumb from Alice in Wonderland. Plus Dumea is Hebrew for silent so this will come in handy.) The troublesome conjoined twins works for Queen Heart’s court mostly as entertainers in her ring and as a call by friend of course, but basically a spy. The three get along pretty easily and often just as vain and rude as their queen. Despite that, both are very good singers and performers. Often using performances to gather info from the ones who come and watch them perform or too jump bask in the spotlight.

Deedee Twiddle: (the head with short dark pink hair) The more talkative of the two and just LOVES to gossip and spread rumors about others. Strangely very good at gathering information for her Queen’s subjects and will often talk for both of them. Often very vain like her Queen and will spend literally HOURS getting their outfits and makeup in line. Very protective of her Quuen and younger sister(by a minute) and will be the first to snap and get into heated arguments with others.

Dumea Twiddle: (the second head with whiteish hair) Dumea like her name says, is mostly silent most of the time. The only times she will talk is when performing with her sister, or in private and she barely talks in private as well. She usually communicates with facial expressions. Her sister can seem to know what she’s thinking all the time and can have arguments or full conversations with Dumea just making faces or nodding her head (think of Sven and Christoph from Frozen). While usually taking a step back and letting Deedee do the talking, she can be just as sudistic and rude with her snobby glares and scoffs.

Mad Hatter: As the name applies, a crazy little man who LOVES wearing his many hats and enjoys tea and tea parties. This little wackadoodle has a whole collection of hats, cards, teacups, teapots and things covered in polka dots around his home. Marsh Hare is always scolding him and trying to get him to organize the place but strangely enough he knows where everything is under the stuff including their pet mouse. You’ll often never see him without his favorite hat or polka dot suit. Just don’t touch the hat. SERIOUSLY. DO. NOT. TOUCH IT!

(In one pic Vivz drew the Mad Hatter and Marsh Hare hugging really cutely so I don’t know if they’re together or not so just bare with me on this next bit) Mad Hatter is often seen outside of the home he shares with the Marsh Hare having wild tea parties and is open to anybody coming and joining in. Anyone’s welcome! His personality is upbeat and very happy and energetic 24/7. He loves to make people smile and isn’t beyond physical affection like hugs. But if you join his party prepare to be sun A Very Happy Un-Birthday, see dancing teapots and edible cups, lots of tea, and maybe even another song or two. He’s very close with his roommate the Marsh Hare, the two go with each other hand n hand and often hare will be the one to calm Hatter down if he gets a little too wild for their guests. The two often share many hugs and physical affections like cuddles, so it makes others wonder if they’re just really close friends or secret lovers.

Fun Fact: His nose honks if you boop it and his favorite guests are Cheshire and Allison. Cheshire and him loves singing together and Allison is so interesting. Telling stories about humans that make no sense.

Marsh Hare: The comical companion of the eccentric Mad Hatter. Marsh Hare is very similar to the Mad Hatter but more calmer and can think a bit more down to earth. But the two get along very well with each other. The two share a house and a pet mouse together and try as he might, he always seems to be the one to try and somewhat organize the place. But his definition of organizing was to put his own clutter on his side of the house and move Hatter’s stuff in a pile of his own. He actually doesn’t like polka dots that much but all his clothes are made by Hatter so you’ll often see the two in matching outfits. 

While he is not the best singer, he’ll often join his friend is songs while singing offkey and downing Tea like crazy. Funny enough Marsh hates being referred to as a bunny or rabbit(or heaven forbid rodent) and will often go out of his way to correct others and insist on being called a hare.

Fortune Teller: The mysterious moth that resides in the mushroom fields. Not many know of him or his true intentions, but he’s a master of telling people major events of their futures using his crystal ball. While he can’t see into the future, he can see certain events or most likely moments to happen to someone in the future. Not that it’ll be any help to him anyhow, but it’s entertaining to say the least. He doesn’t get many visitors and when he does, he loves to spook them with fake chants and his creepy demeanor. 

Because of his appearance many mistake him for a female but he doesn’t mind and usually doesn’t correct them much. He has a bad smoking habit and often carry around his pipe and make it blow different colors, usually a dark pink or red color. Adds to his creepy demeanor. His most amusing visitors are the Queen and Allison. He likes to see the usually demanding Queen squirm in his presence as she lightly demands to know her future or things in the other Card kingdoms, he enjoys seeing the change in personality. And Allison is always such a sweet polite girl. But very strage. Exotic even.

Queen Heart: One of the Four rulers of Wonderland, the Queen of Hearts doesn’t have the best reputation because of what her family did and whatshe does, but she is much better compared to her ancestors. She doesn’t really behead anyone after her mother, but likes to threaten her subjects with the dungeon very much. The Queen can easily be described as vain, spoiled, cruel, and not an easy likable person. But really she’s paranoid about everything. She’s swore to never put herself through the past, so what’s the best way to go Once a month, the Queen puts on a performance of sorts staring her and her crew and invites the other rulers as a sort of peace offering when in reality it’s to check up on them to sense any threats. And to of course satisfy her lust for performance. She’s always been one for the center of attention.

She honestly does have a wonderful voice and runs her kingdom as her own personal stage with her as the ringleader. She believes she’s doing everyone a favor by being strict and making them follow her orders and in her own way ‘protecting’ them to make up for the blood at the hands of her family. As Queen she has hundreds of subjects to boss around and card guards as her subjects. Owns 1/4 of Wonderland as one of the 4 card rulers but the most wide known. 

Gets along best with the Twiddle sisters and maaaaayybeee the Fortune Teller. She really doesn’t like how he’s able to bring out certain emotions of hers and only goes when her paranoia allows. She absolutely Loathes Cheshire with his condenscending ways and stupid teases, but she wouldn’t hurt him. Not after the past. She....doesn’t know how to feel about the ‘Lost Ones’ personally hasn’t been one since Allison and she prefers to keep it that way. But you bet she was going to keep a very close eye on that girl.

[oliverjlgoulden-blog]

what a sight. what a sound. what a universal shudder. (Eve Fowler at Dundee Contemporary Arts)

[wrote this a while ago - the exhibition is no longer on display, but decided to upload my response anyway.]

Dundee Contemporary Arts is currently showing what a sight. What a sound. What a universal shudder by Eve Fowler – the first major exhibition of her work, an artist who has widely exhibited in the US for 20 odd years, this show engages with the artist’s work since 2010 that engages directly with Gertrude Stein’s texts. It opens with a pitch-black room showing a 16mm black and white film ‘with it which it as it if it is to be’portraying some of Fowler’s close friends from her L.A community. Mostly consisting of close-ups, the piece intimately documents processes of labour: the care and attention devoted to painting a canvass, sculpting, soldering, the hands of the artists and their movements often filling the screen. Occasionally, a glimpse of eye contact with the camera or with Fowler behind the camera, capturing (silently) moments of conversation, or periods of relaxation with a dog, or reading to a child. Quietly joyful and celebratory, the only sound is that of Fowler and friends reading a 1910 text by Stein, ‘Many Many Women’, which, to feel the rolling and hypnotic effect build incrementally, is best heard. An exerpt:

Each one is one. There are many. Some of them are loving. Some of them are completely loving. One of them is completely loving. This one is living in loving being existing in that one and loving is existing in that one, completely existing in that one. That one is loving and is completely existing in loving being completely existing in that one and in the one that one is loving and in that one who is the one loving that one. This one is one completely existing as loving is completely existing in that one and one other one.  

Characteristically repetitive, echoes are found in the second part of the exhibition, consisting mostly of prints of fragments of text – as is often the case with Stein’s writing, I found myself mouthing the phrase to myself to let what appears initially cold and hard resonate. In watching the film, I felt somewhat unexpectedly uplifted and swept along – ‘unexpectedly’ not due to context of my presuppositions of the show, but the fact that I rarely expect to ‘feel’ anything at a contemporary art gallery.

Somewhat assisted by the incantatory text, I think I felt buoyed up and inspired by a vision of labour that felt unforced and playful – how you feel when you’re creatively invested in something, I guess, when it doesn’t really feel like ‘work’. For me, these moments of emotional engagement are few and far between in contemporary art spaces, and, on this occasion, provide the main if not only impetus for this particular response. 

According to Chris Kraus, writing about art (or criticism in general) for writers of a particular generation was one of the only nonteaching means of securing a (admittedly meagre) living. Writing ordinarily gave art ‘a language that translates into value’ (Where Art Belongs, p. 54) – elucidating ideas and concepts, advertising the artist and gallery, making impenetrable visual objects more readily consumable by the general public. As Eileen Myles states  – ‘the old exchange has always been between poets writing about artists. And that was always contingent on the poet being interested in the artist’s production, and the marketplace bringing them together’. Kraus’ piece (on the Bernadette Corporation) came to mind on the train back to Edinburgh as I was considering what it was I found interesting about the show – I usually leave these situations feeling muddy and dumb, only later that determinable ‘thoughts’ and associations settle.

One effect of bringing text into the realm of visual art is to prod at certain long-held cultural stigmas regarding authenticity and value: the status of capital ‘p’ Poetry, especially venerated works by a high Modernist, as inviolable tracts (I’m sure there would be some tweedy purists bristling with indignation at the thought of it); a further tension lies in the conflation of poetry and advertising, one that seems to have reared its head at regular intervals throughout the twentieth century in a variety of forms (I’m thinking of Mallarme’s ‘Un Coup de Dice’, constructivist stuff, Ashbery, Linh Dinh – remember reading some article by Sam Riviere years ago – etc.).

There’s something to be said about received notions of authenticity, with poets still strangely viewed both as useless excrescence from the pool of hapless humanities graduates and as ethereal conduits of the soul and collective truth – advertising being inauthentic, debased, and so on. In addition to that, I think there’s something about the politics of attention that bears considering, our interaction with text and sensory stimuli in general, and the effect in turn on our social interactions with one another in a public body . ‘Writing, having found shelter in the printed book, where it was leading an independent existence, is ruthlessly dragged out into the street by advertisements and subjected to the brutal heteronomies of economic chaos’ (Walter Benjamin, ‘One-Way Street’, p. 66.)

Stein’s texts themselves, simply printed on the page, draw focus to the ‘wordiness’ of words, of words as objects rather than transparent vehicles for ideas and concepts. Drawing on the visual language of advertising only exacerbates this further: the kind of laid-back pop culture vibe associated with L.A comes across in the particular visual style Fowler uses for her prints and collages, bright striking contrasts and/or pastels, desirable aesthetic textual objects. But whilst making words object-like and pretty, desirable, the pieces simultaneously imbue the phrases and fragments with a kind of open, referential potential that the original source work, in its entirety on the page, perhaps doesn’t for most.

Alongside the gallery exhibition, across Dundee you will find posters amidst the usual billboard advertising of some of Fowler’s pieces. The exhibition publication includes a little treasure map that, while kind of fun, also felt like a not-so subtle way of the local council/gallery partnership ‘pushing’ primarily middle class visitors into the city more widely to spend their money. Which isn’t to say this wasn’t Fowler’s intention anyway – like her contribution to the Manifest Destiny Billboard Project in Texas in 2014, in which she similarly produced Stein-fragment pieces to be inserted into public space. As Fowler states, ‘I’m interest in the multiple reads a viewer could have seeing this text in public. I’m also interested in making something that is accessible to everyone, or at least a very broad audience. I see this language as queer, in both senses of the word, but I think it is open-ended and could be interpreted in various ways’.  The pieces themselves function pretty well as intended – advertising, to state the obvious, seeks to interrupt the usual routine of our movement through urban fabric, to capture our attention and draw it to a real or manufactured lack; Fowler’s posters and billboards ‘interrupt’, but as a kind of gift, without the coercive motive of commerce. I loved the uncanny effect of seeing snippets of Stein amidst the drudgery of commercial announcements, circus advertisements, etc – a kind of viral invasion of queer syntax into public space. Unfortunately, when paired with the exhibition advert, as a few are (and I guess understandably), that openness and referential potential disappears, becoming strictly denotative (come to the DCA!).

‘Before contemporary man gets to open a book, so dense a flurry of changeable, brightly coloured, clashing characters has settled on his eyes that the chances of his penetrating the ancient silence of the book have become slim. Locust swarms of lettering, already darkening the mind of the city dweller, become thicker and thicker with each successive year. Other requirements of business life lead father’. This stood out for me the first time I read it, and has become ever more true – a constant low-level anxiety regarding accommodation, income, etc etc, with a fundamental technological shift in how I consume and approach texts and information (how many times do I check my mail, the news, twitter, etc.). I find it more and more difficult to read for the sheer pleasure and experience, seek to extract something useful and fungible – both a social demand and a personal failure. Fowler’s pieces adopt and intervene into the textual fabric of everyday life, providing brief oases, moments for thought to clear itself of banalities and proliferate in unexpected and unprogrammatic directions. A welcome retreat.

#dundee #art #eve fowler #dca #art exhibition #gallery #scotland #walter benjamin