Fics & Giggles

The next few minutes were hazy — fuzzy in the best sort of way. Jester was smiling at him, tickling and teasing him to bits. She brought out so much in him that he hadn’t expected, and she had so many silly, wonderful ideas for expressing affection. In the midst of one, she squeezed at his hips a few times, getting a yelp for her efforts.

“I can’t believe how cute you are when you’re getting tickled Fjord! Your face is so cute! I have to draw it for you some time.” 

“NOHOHOHO!” Fjord cried through his cackles.

Jester’s grin widened as she got an idea. A few more quick squeezes to Fjord’s abdomen and she pushed up, hauling herself off of his hips and running over to her sketch book. 

Fjord took a few deep breaths, some broken up with lingering laughter, and stared at the ceiling as he happily accepted the short break. “Wh- what are you planning now?” He asked — sounding a little teasing and giddy, and a lot nervous.

Jester spun around, a smirk on her face as she wiggled her eyebrows at him. In her hand, she held up her sketching pencil. 

Fjord swallowed, watching her. His giggling started back up again. 

Jester perched atop him, eyes hungry. He felt his stomach twist with anticipation, excitement, and nerves. She took the pencil in her hand as though to start a lovely drawing, except that she had the pointy end up. 

Fjord shook his head. Jester nodded encouragingly, the hand not holding her pencil grabbed at the top of his underwear and pulled the waistband down a bit. She lightly drug the back of the pencil back and forth over his hip. Fjord gasped and burst into giggles. His legs kicked out on the bed behind Jester. 

“Ahaha no- nonono!” Fjord whined. 

“Yes yes yes!” Jester chirped in response. She drew figures and circles and whimsical patterns all over the lower section of his tummy, the front of his ribs and chest, his sides, and even up into his armpits and along his neck. 

Tracing the pencil along each rib on one side as she made her way back down to his sides, Jester started wiggling and pinching along the other side of his torso with her free hand. 

Fjord’s laughter grew louder as he wriggled side to side at her two fronted assault. His smile could cause bones to melt, but his laugh was like a cannonball of delight. It was the sort of gut-deep, boisterous sound that ricocheted off the walls of the ship like thunder - and it was impossible for Jester not to grin in the middle of the storm. 

Dropping her pencil, she made a sound of delight and started scribbling up his sides. Fjord wheezed and cackled, his eyes squeezed shut with tears in the corners of them. 

Fjord was already pretty far gone, but he still reacted viscerally to the sound of Jester sucking in a deep breath. “NO- NAHAHAHA NOOO NAHAHOT THAT!” He pleaded.

“Aww, are you too ticklish?” 

“STAHAHAHOP HAHA NO- JES DON’T DO IHIHIHIT!” Fjord wailed.

“Oh alright… I’ll just give you a couple raspberries. Let me know if it tickles too much, okay Fjord?” 

Her fingers continued to scribble and crawl their way from his hips to his armpits, which would have had him in plenty of hysterics on its own. Her lips, adding poison to the dagger, pressed down softly on the middle of his belly before she let out a loud, ticklish vibration against his abs. 

Fjord pretended to ignore the shriek that fell from his lips when she started, and each additional squealing wail that followed when she continued.

“NAHA- STAH- I CAN’T AHHH HAHA AHAHAA-” His thundering cackles quickly devolved into shouts and gasps between wails of desperate laughter. 

 It wasn’t until her nails began to scratch unbearably under both of his arms and she decided to blow her next raspberry on his side that Fjord cried out “SP-SPRINKLE!” between hoarse booms of laughter. 

Jester withdrew with a grin, sitting upright over him and taking in his exasperated, ravaged state. “Wow, you did really good Fjord! I was pretty mean..” She winked. 

Fjord felt a blush rise to his cheeks in spite of his already warm face. “Heh, thanks.”

“Okay.” Jester leaned in, peppering his cheeks with kisses as she untied the silks from his wrists, leaving the restraints hooked up to the bed. “Okay, okay! Me next!!”

Blissed out smile on his face, Fjord took his jelly arms and wrapped them around Jester’s wiggling form, pulling her in close for a cuddle. “You’re too good at that.” He mumbled as he pulled her in to be the little spoon, both of them still giggling. “I’m so tired now, I need to nap first.” He sighed dramatically, closing his eyes as his legs wrapped around Jester’s. 

He pretended to start snoring, exaggerated and loud, and Jester squealed adorably. Then, “sleep-walking” fingers began to trace ticklish paths around Jester’s ribs and sides, over to her stomach, down near her hips. 

“Ah ehehe Fjord!” Jester squeaked out as she giggled harder. 

A loud snoring sound, and then Fjord mumbled. “Fjord’s sleeping.”

“Nohohoho he’s nohot! Fjord’s tickling!”

Another fake snore. “No he’s not. He’s sleeping.” Jester felt him take a deep breath, chest rising to press further into her back. A long, exaggerated snore. “But when he wakes up. He’s really gonna get you.” 

“I’d love it if you’d stop taking what’s not yours.” He nods towards the sandwich. Leia regards it, then makes deep eye contact on her next bite. Han chuckles in something like disbelief, but he knows her. Knows how she likes to provoke. 

“Nice boys share their food.” She takes another bite.

“Well, I ain’t nice. Keep your thieving little hands to yourself.” Han considers wrapping up the sandwich, just to be petty, but he knows she hardly takes interest in his things unless she needs something. He could find something else to eat. 

“Or else what?” She plays with the crust of the bread. Eye contact. God, he loves this game of theirs. She leaves him breathless too often for his liking, though. As he flounders for a comeback, he hears a high-pitched noise from the other side of the room. 

Luke. Great. 

“What are you wearing?” Luke laughs incredulously. Han looks down at himself. He’d put on a fur vest today instead of his usual cargo one. It was something he’d snatched off some mook that’d tried to set him up with a dishonest deal. It’s old and it smells a little funny, but he likes it. It’s his now. 

“Wh—it’s a vest. It’s cold.” Han frowns. 

“You look like Chewie shed on you.” Luke leans his hip against the doorway as he settles in to mock. There’s a Wookiee outcry of indignation from the cockpit that goes unanswered.

“It’s a fashion statement.” Han adjusts his posture, gives them a new angle. Luke snorts. Han scowls.

“What exactly are you stating?” Leia rests her chin in her hands. She’s got a crumb on her cheek. He does not think about brushing it away. 

“You’re both terrible.” Han stomps off to change. 

“Right back atcha!” Leia calls after him. Her laughter is sweet, even at his expense. 

….

Run-ins with Empire patrols always put Han on a fine edge--he’s a well-oiled machine with Chewie at his back, but recent additions to the Falcon have proven…distracting. As he slams them into a hyperspace jump, the twins’ noise somehow drowns out the noise of the engine. Leia’s complaining that he took too many risks, Luke’s insisting he took too little, and Han’s half tempted to spin send the Falcon into a barrel roll just to hear a different sound.

Chewie won’t let him. The honorable bastard.

The moment they finish the jump, Han swivels out of his chair and goes…well, he’s not sure where he’s going, but he knows he needs to see and hear something besides Luke crunching angrily on crackers. 

Leia follows on Han’s heels, Luke follows on hers, and Han considers just ejecting himself from the airlock and being done with it. 

“If you want to die, be my guest, but don’t put us at risk for your ego.” Leia smacks his chest. Han can’t tell if he’s imagining the lingering touch of her fingers. 

“No, you’d miss me too much.” He fires back, pulling out of her grasp. He takes long strides, taking a petty sort of joy in hearing significantly shorter legs scramble after him. 

“Not a chance in hell,” Leia snarls, snatching the back of his vest. He whirls around. 

“Yes, you would, because things are boring without me. You like having me around.” He leans into her space. She stands her ground. 

“The fate of the galaxy is boring?” She conveniently ignores that last part. Han doesn’t miss it. 

“It is without me. Face it, princess. You’re attached.” He puts his hands on his hips. Leia’s face turns an interesting color.

“Ha! See? Attached!” Han points triumphantly. Leia smacks his hand away. 

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You didn’t need to. The truth’s all over your face.” He circles that pointer finger in her face. She smacks it hard enough to bruise this time. 

“The truth that I can’t stand you, more like. You’re arrogant, reckless, irresponsible—“

“And exactly your type.” Han grins. “You like having me around. Meanwhile, I’m cool, casual, and unattached.” Han clicks his tongue. Leia attempts to burn a hole through his forehead with her gaze. He worries for a moment that she might. 

“Really?” Luke crunches loudly. “I heard you telling Chewie that you like having us around. That you wouldn’t know what you’d do without us. Didn’t sound very cool and casual.” 

“I was drunk.” Han’s face burns. Leia snorts. Han scowls. 

“Drunk mind, sober thoughts.” Luke grins teasingly, waving a chip in his face. Han tries to snatch the bag, but Luke twirls effortlessly out of the way. Damn Jedi. 

“Sounds like you’re attached, laser brain.” Leia circles her finger in his face, and Han wonders if turning himself in to the Empire might be better for his ego.

…

Han’s not sure when his game with Leia stopped being a game and started being this, but he’s not complaining. He’s made out in worse storage rooms than the ones on the Falcon. They’d started with fetching a rations restock, devolved into bickering, and, well…their arguments usually end in violence or the threat of it, so Leia trying to climb him like a tree is a much-welcomed departure from form.

Normally Han’s great at keeping his emotions in a cold, dark little box where he never has to deal with them, but Leia looked so pretty yelling at him that he just…had to kiss her. He knew at that moment he’d die if he didn’t. It’s not the first time they’ve kissed and he hopes it won’t be the last, but each touch with Leia is like drifting closer to the beautiful terror of the sun. The best part, the overwhelming part, is that she wants him too. 

All of that would’ve been well and good, great even, if Luke hadn’t been standing in the doorway. 

Luke and Leia have some kind of stare-off that Han suspects involves their twinness--there’s lots of flustered, offended noises without words being uttered. Luke raises his eyebrow in a way that really seems to get to Leia, because she splutters, which she expressly does not do. 

“Don’t you start! I tolerate him!” She glares at Luke, her cheeks turning red. 

“Aww.” Han smirks. She elbows him in the ribs.

“With your mouth?” Luke’s near hysterical. 

“Among other things.” Han smirks wider. Luke’s face twists in sheer disgust. 

“Shut up,” Leia hisses, blushing and hitting him harder. He grins.

Luke levels a finger at Han, a habit he picked up from him in the first place, and then stalks off. 

“Chances he knifes me in my sleep?” 

“Lower than me doing it myself.” Leia swats his arm once more for good measure, but she’s still glowing, and Han thinks he might want to see that smile of hers for the rest of his life.

“I’ll take those odds.” 

The difference between Luke and his sister, in Han’s opinion, is that Luke’s noise goes inwards. Leia will scream at Han until she’s red in the face and then she’ll miraculously find more air. Luke gets quiet and vengeful, which is why Han starts to suspect foul play the third time he trips over thin air. 

Han really wants to fight back, but every time he opens his mouth, Leia’s lurking around some dark corner. 

On hour three of Luke’s temper tantrum, Han’s eye begins to twitch. He’s probably bruised every inch of his shins by now, he’s tired, and he thinks if he can close his eyes for an hour he might remember how to function. Just a sweet, Skywalkerless hour. 

Han drags his hand over his face as he walks off to his cabin. He finds Luke standing in the hall like an omen. He doesn’t move when Han approaches. The little furrow in his brow is probably meant to be intimidating, and maybe one day it will be, but Han can’t bring himself to care. 

The desire to lay down overcomes his rational thought, and he does to Luke what he often does to Leia: jams his hands under Luke’s arms and lifts him out of the way.

Except, unlike Leia, Luke doesn’t try to kick him. He lets out a giggle at a pitch Han didn’t know he was capable of. 

Han pauses, raising an eyebrow at the rapidly-reddening Jedi in his arms. He twitches his fingers. Luke chokes out a surprised laugh. 

Han’s suddenly not tired anymore. Funny, that. 

“Han, don’t you dare, c’mon--”

Han sets Luke down but doesn’t release him--he viciously wiggles his fingers where they’re trapped under Luke’s arms. He goes down like a sack of droid components, filling the Falcon with bright, bouncy laughter it so desperately needs. 

“You get a minute for every bruise, and my shins are looking mighty purple.” Han whistles lowly, pressing into the gaps between Luke’s ribs. Luke lets out a giggly hiccup and kicks his legs. 

“That’s not f-fair!” Luke clutches Han’s arms desperately. Han twitches his fingers and he curls up, shaking his head. Han distantly wonders when Luke last laughed like this. If he ever has. 

“Yeah? Tell me about it. Pick on someone your own size and maybe life will be fairer.” Han tries to keep his stare blank, but his mouth quirks up at the corners. Luke lets out an indignant gasp, but he quickly tumbles right back down into laughter.

“Let go,” Luke growls, his whole face scrunching around his smile. 

“Kid, I can’t let you go if you’ve got my hands.” Han gives a dramatic tug. He stops, raising his eyebrow expectantly. Luke pouts--pouts!--at him and lifts his arms at glacial pace. Han pulls away…

…and goes right for Luke’s exposed stomach. His shout of betrayal mixes beautifully with his laughter.

“Rookie mistake,” Leia tuts, snickering at Luke’s misfortune. Han jumps at her appearance--man, he should put a bell on these two--and Luke takes that as a signal to start wriggling away. Han reels him back in with a hearty laugh.

“Leia, fetch your--” Han cuts Luke off with a squeeze to the side before he can say anything embarrassing. 

“You gonna help, Your Worship? Or are you above getting your hands dirty?” Han casts a glance at Leia. 

“Never.” Leia smirks, kneeling beside Luke. They stare at each other for a long, tense while. Leia’s gaze drifts over him the same way she sifts through a plan for holes, until she stops at his knees. 

Luke’s eyes widen. Leia grins.

She latches on like a viper and Luke squeals, drumming his feet on the ground. He throws his head back and cackles himself into silence, flopping around uselessly. 

“Remind me to stay on your good side,” Han chuckles, a little nervous.

“You’re notoriously bad at it,” she smirks. Han swears he feels the ghost of her fingers on his own legs. He shudders.

Luke’s surrender is less of a cry and more of a wheeze, but they let him go quickly all the same. He tosses his arm over his glowing face with a great, heaving sigh.

“You alright over there?” Han chuckles, nudging Luke’s boot. He lifts his arm to glare.

“I hate you.”

“I know.” Han pats his ankle. Luke kicks him. Han squeezes his knee and he immediately blurts out a tired, giggly apology. 

“Stop being a little shit and trying to trip me up. It’s not gonna work. Too cool for that.” Han pats Luke’s stomach. 

Warm hands wrap around his waist and he leans back, scaring himself with how easily he fits into Leia’s arms. She hooks her chin over his shoulder.

“Are you ready?” She murmurs, brushing her fingers over the fabric of his shirt. 

“Ready for what?” His hand finds hers. He’s more than ready, if he’s reading this right. She’s rarely like this beyond closed doors, and it sends a thrill through him. Her lips brushing his ear drives him just a little crazy. He starts to stand, but she pulls him back down. 

“To be tripped up.” She smirks. He feels it. 

“Wh—“ 

Leia’s fingers dig in with deadly accuracy. Han crumples and his bravado goes with him. Loud, hearty laughter bursts from him as he slides to the floor, boneless in her arms.

“Aw, look at you cool guy.” Luke sidles up next to him with a shit eating grin. He tickles mockingly under Han’s chin and he, mortifyingly, giggles. Luke chases the sound, having way too much fun for Han’s liking. 

Han growls and tries to kick him. Leia’s fingers find his hips—cruel and unusual—and he’s toast. He resigns himself to die in her lap, which isn’t the overall worst way to go, and makes a mental note to write Luke out of his will. 

“Are you gonna glare at me over there all night?” Jim huffs and crosses his legs on the bed. He plays with his hair, still stringy from the shower. 

“I hate this.” Bones clenches and unclenches his fists to stave off the urge to pace. He tears down one of the paper hearts from the ceiling and crumples it instead. 

“Yes, you’ve told me. Repeatedly.” Jim sighs and leans forward, balancing his chin in his hands. “Honestly, Bones, I don’t bite. This isn’t much different than the Academy.”

“Uh-uh. We had bunks in the Academy.” 

“Bunks that we rarely slept apart in, usually. What’s up with you?” Jim drifts over, pretty eyes sloped with concern. The full brunt of the hotel’s fancy pine soap hits Bones. 

“Nothing.” Bones keeps his gaze on the floor. 

“If you hate sharing that much, I’ll try and swing a separate room for you. We can pretend we had a fight or something. I’m sorry.” Jim squeezes his bicep. Bones’s mouth sours at the apology. Jim isn’t apologizing for the room, he’s apologizing for his presence. Bones knows that tone of his and he despises it. 

“It’s fine. I’m just…not the best for these kinds of things.” Bones pinches the bridge of his nose. Guilt swirls and claws at the base of his stomach, making swipes at his throat to try and close it. 

“It’s just for a few days. You’ll never have to do another espionage mission again, scout’s honor.” Jim fumbles his way through the boy scout salute. 

“You were never a scout.” Bones huffs, but the promise soothes him some.

“Semantics.” Jim tries to crack his back a few times. “Want a drink?”

“Your back.” Bones furrows his brow. Jim makes a dismissive noise, scoping out the selection of whiskey and gin on the bar.

“Lay down.” Bones shoves Jim onto the bed with a eyeroll he doesn’t bother to hide. Jim squeaks as he hits the mattress and bounces higher than he expects—gravity’s just a little weird here and Bones can’t figure out how to work the in-room controls. 

He climbs up after Jim and settles heavily on his thighs. Jim grunts a little and Bones affectionately swats the back of his head. 

“M’fine. Really. I’ll go to the spa or something.” Jim hides his face, suspiciously shy, but Bones doesn’t press. Jim talks when he wants to.

“I’m not letting you waste money on that frilly shit. You want a free massage or not?” Bones gives his arms a fond squeeze. Jim nods, then deflates. 

“Where?” Bones reaches for the massage oil. He makes a face at the gaudy and suggestive label before pouring some into his hands. He rubs his palms together to warm it, breathing in the notes of lavender, sandalwood, and something else he can’t quite place. 

Jim makes a noncommittal noise into the mattress. Bones chuckles and smooths his hands up Jim’s back.

Massage therapy had been an optional Academy course but it had always been one that Bones enjoyed. It took a certain amount of trust in a stranger to allow them to know your body in that way. Bones wanted to be that stranger for people, he still does. 

And with Jim, well—what isn’t better with him? That’s comically, cosmically, the problem. Bones knows nearly every atom of Jim’s being, even the ones Jim hides from himself. That’s their deal. They are bonded halves, binary stars, and they care for one another. Even when they drive each other insane. 

“Pressure okay?” Bones hums, working into a stubborn knot near Jim’s shoulder. Jim moans and dissolves into the bed. 

“Quiet down. You’ll make people think we’re really getting a use out of this room.” Bones’s face grows painfully warm as Jim makes another terribly distracting noise. It dissolves into a chuckle. Bones squirrels the entire thing away into a private corner of his brain. 

“S’rry. Feels good,” Jim mumbles, pressing his face further into the mattress. Bones chuckles and continues his work. 

“Stop squirmin’,” Bones huffs, working his way up the back of Jim’s ribs. Jim wiggles around a bit but doesn’t say anything. 

“If I’m hurting you, you gotta say somethin’.” Bones leans down and murmurs, stilling his hands. Jim makes a string of noises, attempts to shake his head into the mattress, then settles on waving his hand around dismissively. 

“Whatever you say.” Bones snorts and smooths his palms over Jim’s warm, soft skin. He finds his lower back and starts over, working his way back up, then down, and up again. The rhythm of it takes them both.

“Doin’ ok?” Bones hums, leveraging his elbow into Jim’s lower back. 

“I’m in love with you,” Jim sighs, then groans, nothing more than a puddle of captain. Bones swallows the surge of emotion in his chest and concentrates on maintaining appropriate pressure of the elbow. 

“Sorry. For the next few days, I’m a taken man.” Bones skimming his fingers slowly up Jim’s back. Jim shivers and grabs fistfuls of the blankets. He traces patterns between mottled scars and freckles, a little lost. 

Jim twitches again, muffling something high-pitched into the mattress. It does, admittedly, take a minute for Bones’s brain to catch up, but once it does…

He slides his fingers ever-so-gently up Jim’s sides, over the back of his ribs, taking great care to wiggle against the ridges of his shoulderblades. Jim jumps, turning to admonish him, but Bones is back to the charade. He works his thumbs into Jim’s shoulders, then squeezes--just above the collarbone. 

“Well h-he’s a lucky guy--holy shit--”

Jim shrieks, high-pitched and frantic, and totters off into a flustered flurry of giggles. Bones has never in his life heard him make such a sound, not even when drunk. 

“What--”

“Bones--” Jim flips over and levels a threatening finger.

“--was that?” Bones smothers his laugh in his fist, but it bursts free when Jim’s face flushes adorably pink.

“You surprised me.” Jim crosses his arms and pulls a face. Bones raises an eyebrow. 

“I surprised--c’mere.” Bones starts tickling him in earnest now, nipping fingers chasing each sensitive spot he’s come to learn over the years. Jim dissolves in his hands, giggles quickly graduating to full-on laughter. 

“B-Bohohones!” Jim shoves lightly at his shoulders as he laughs, bright and bubbly. Bones uses the opportunity to slip his hands up to Jim’s collarbone again, giving another squeeze into the muscle just above. Jim flails, his knees slamming into Bones’s back--ow--and and descends promptly into a highly-entertaining octave of desperate laughter.

“How on earth are you this ticklish and alive?” Bones muses, skittering his fingers back to Jim’s stomach for something of a break. Eventually, he just pats Jim’s stomach and swings off of him. 

“I’m never letting you forget about this. Every time you’re being annoying I hope you think of my hand right here,” Bones grins, resting his hand on the spot. He tries not to read too much into the clear giddiness on Jim’s face. 

“Oh, you bastard,” Jim gasps, eyes positively sparkling. “I’m going to get you back for that.”

Yet, Jim does nothing but flop back against the bed. The extra high bounce shakes a few stray giggles loose. 

“I’m sure you will.” Bones pats Jim’s head. Jim shakes him off, grumbling under his breath. Bones snorts, squeezes Jim’s shoulder, and trods off towards the bathroom, ignoring the indignant screech behind him.

…

Bones wakes up warm, beautifully so. Jim’s arms wind around his torso and keep him close, strong and secure. Some soft and content part of him wants to lean back into it. He’ll never get tired of waking up like this. 

Bones turns slowly so he can see Jim’s face. He looks so different asleep. Younger, maybe. 

Bones allows himself another thirty minutes of drifting sleep, letting Jim’s gentle snores guide them into the late morning. The room chimes a soft tone around ten or so, warning them of their impending loss of breakfast privileges. He has half a mind to ignore it, but he doesn’t really know what they eat on this planet. Jim can be picky as hell when he puts his mind to it, and they’re both useless when they’re hangry. 

Bones starts breaking Jim’s hold, maneuvering him gently. The sleepy whining is par for the course, but the fingers worming into his sides? That’s certainly new.

“J-Jihim.” Bones clears his throat. “Let go, ya sleepy lug.”

Jim makes a soft noise and cuddles closer, decidedly not following instructions. Bones keeps tugging, but the more he pulls, the more Jim decides to tickle. Jim finds a spot on his stomach that makes Bones choke back a squeal, shaking both of them with unreleased laughter. 

“Damn pehest. Two can play at that game.” Bones huffs. He starts poking at his ribs, still gentle, as he wiggles closer to the edge of the bed. Jim smiles and starts chuckling, his hold loosening. Bones worms his torso out of the octopus grip and starts slowly untangling their legs. He gets about halfway there before Jim grabs his leg and starts reeling him back in. 

“Jim--”

Jim smirks and opens his eyes. Oh. Oh no. 

“Gotcha!” Jim cackles, pinching at Bones’s thigh with reckless abandon. Bones screeches, his voice cracking hopelessly. Jim flops on top of him and starts tickling wherever he can reach, taking extra care to revisit his stomach. 

“Y-You absolute—“

Thump. 

Bones’s back collides with the plush carpet, along with a few throw pillows. Jim catches himself at the last minute with a yelp.

“Are you okay?” Jim laughs and peers at him over the edge of the bed. He offers a hand to help Bones up. 

“I hate you.” Bones glares up at him. His lips twitch as he tries to resist the smile that’s already consumed him. He swats Jim’s offered hand away, then smacks him with a pillow for good measure. He goes to get ready for the day--someone has to be the adult here--but Jim grabs him by the waist and pulls him back into bed. 

“Mollymauk. Molly.” Caleb watches him warily. When claws don’t yet again touch down, he swallows and continues-- “What, ah, are you trying to accomplish here?” 

“I’m glad you asked. You see, I’m quite fond of you, Caleb.” Molly fiddles with one of his holster buckles. It catches the light of the inn lanterns in mesmerizing patterns far too grand for such dull brass. 

“Oh.” Caleb’s face grows warm. “I am…fond of you as well.” 

“Hm, thank you. I would hope so. Otherwise, this whole thing would be quite awkward.” Molly’s laugh is rich and boisterous. Caleb turns the tones of it over in his mind. 

“When you said you wanted, ah, companionship for the evening, I’d thought you meant--”

“Sex?” Molly’s tail sways behind him. “Is that what you’d like?”

“Did you…have something else in mind?” Caleb winces at his own indelicacy. Molly looks touched--no, maybe fond? It shouldn’t baffle him so much, he knows, but the visual proof is…unbalancing. 

“With you? Ideas beyond number.” Molly’s piercing gaze pins Caleb further still to the bed. He’s beautiful in an elusive sense. When Caleb gazes upon Molly, he gets the distinct sense that somehow he’s going to disappear, as if someone so breathtaking could only exist in tricks of the mind. 

Caleb’s face heats to a point of concern. Molly chuckles, low as the lamplight. 

“I digress.” Molly leans close enough for their noses to touch. “I’d like to conduct an experiment, Caleb. Involving you.”

“Oh?” Caleb cannot for the life of him keep his eyes away from the softness of Molly’s lips. 

“Yes, if you’d let me.” Molly’s hand finds his, both scarred in different ways. It’s one of the few times that feeling heat in the palm of his hand has been welcome. 

“Do what you will.” Caleb nods. 

“That’s the spirit.” Molly beams and pulls Caleb’s hand up his body, skirting along his thigh and the soft silk of his shirt, until finally their hands, as one, rest on his sternum. The warmth of Molly’s skin is a kiss that blooms. 

“You feel that?” Molly hums, and it resonates through Caleb’s fingertips. He’d always thought Molly was a bit thin, but the way breath moves through him…it reminds Caleb of Nott’s brief and consuming obsession with blowing into glass bottles like flutes. There’s a pitch to Molly’s resonance—not one he’s equipped to understand, but there nonetheless. 

“They say you can hear a soul best through laughter or through tears. I prefer the former.” Molly gestures flippantly, brushing his thumb over the back of Caleb’s hand. As he speaks, Caleb can feel the rise and fall of his breath, the resonance of his voice--as if Molly’s entire being has been shaped to carry sound to the very tip of his horns. The jewelry hanging from his ears and horns jingles of its own accord, like a windchime. 

He’s the loveliest windchime I’ve ever seen, Caleb thinks, a bit hysterical. 

“I want to hear what your soul sounds like, Caleb.” 

It’s so intimate and innocent that Caleb finds his breath utterly lost. He blinks up at Molly and tries to counteract the sudden and reeling incoherence of his mind. 

“Not the most resounding enthusiasm, but I understand.” Molly stands and brushes himself off. The aloofness of his tone is betrayed by the way he can’t seem to quite look at Caleb. It must be so easy for him to escape this way. Mollymauk, ever-balancing on a tightrope, with the most convincing lack of fear of falling.

“Wait!” Caleb grabs Molly’s wrist before he can slip away. Gently, he tugs him back down. Molly’s eyes shine alluringly in the dim. 

“I was…caught off guard. No one has ever expressed an interest of this kind to me before.” Caleb slides his hands up Molly’s thighs. He gives a comforting squeeze, at least what he hopes is comforting, and Molly twitches with a quiet laugh. 

“Shame.” Molly’s gaze roves over Caleb appreciatively, but not with the hunger he expects. It’s constructive. Encompassing. Warm. Caleb basks in it, even as Molly grows uncharacteristically quiet. He takes one of his claws between his teeth as his stare grows distant. 

“What is rattling through that brain of yours, hm?” Caleb knits his brow. Molly sits up a bit, stretching their intimate bubble. Caleb clenches his fist and concentrates on not keening after him. 

“How thoroughly I’m about to ruin the mood,” Molly mutters, likely not meaning for Caleb to hear. Caleb furrows his brow, but before he can speak, Molly kneads curiously into his stomach. 

A chuckle bubbles from a deep, unknowable place in Caleb, somewhere nestled just beyond the darkness clinging listlessly to his soul. Then another, then another, until his whole body is racked with quiet sounds he tries to smother. Claws trip maddeningly upwards to his ribs and Caleb cracks into snickers that overwhelm him with force. He slams his arms back down towards his sides and curls as much as physically possible. 

“Scheiße, Molly--”

“Do you want me to stop?” Molly stills, stiff and unnatural. He reminds Caleb of a wild hare, all of his muscles coiled and ready to flee--except for his tail, of course, which lashes in nonsensical patterns as if it has a life of its own. 

He’s nervous, Caleb realizes. How endearing. 

“Did I say ‘silvervine’?” Caleb huffs, still battling the wobbly smile on his face. Molly’s eyes widen.

“No, I suppose you didn’t.” Molly chuckles, shaking his head. Before Caleb can think to steel his defenses, Molly drags his claws down every inch of his captive torso that he can reach. Caleb jackknifes with the kind of giggles that fizzle in his lungs before they leave. It’s a maddening type of touch and he kind of wants more, but Molly continues in his steadfast teasing.

“You’re going to be the death of me, Caleb Widogast,” Molly murmurs, leaning down to kiss him sweetly. Caleb laughs into Molly’s mouth, soft as he imagined, and allows himself to fall slowly apart. 

…

Caleb’s love, it turns out, is born from the same place as his laughter. Both have become easy to coax into the light with time. Like weeds breaking free of cobblestone streets, love has gripped the hopeful parts of him and refused to let go. Love has made him all the things he feared it would--weak, compromised, and clouded--and he wouldn’t trade it for anything, mortal or otherwise.

“Liebling, I have research to complete.” Caleb pauses at the bookshelf, letting Molly coil his arms around him. Molly’s face finds its usual place between his shoulder blades for a moment before his hands slide a bit…lower. 

“Conveniently, so do I. My thesis is on the kinds of noises you’ll make when you’re overworked and I have time.” Molly’s breath curls hot against his ear. There’s a sweet center to the devilish lilt of his tone, though, and it makes Caleb smile. 

“I’d love to hear you defend this thesis of yours, hm?” He turns to face Molly and the full force of his pout. 

“You have utterly killed the mood,” Molly grumbles, but his tail is busy curling in content little loops. Caleb hums noncommittally and kisses him again, far more occupied about the way Molly’s cheeks squish between his hands when he smiles. 

“If you can be patient, perhaps I’ll make it up to you.” Caleb shifts his grip to hold Molly’s chin, brushing his thumb across his bottom lip. He likes the spark of excited desire that flashes through Molly’s eyes. 

“Promise?” 

“However you’d like.” Caleb kisses him once more, more to sate himself than anything. Molly throws himself upon the nearest divan with expedience. As he settles in among the cushions, Caleb thumbs through the nearby shelves and starts a stack of relevant texts on one of the worktables. 

The first hour rolls by without much event and by the second, Caleb is focused enough to ignore Molly’s dramatic sighs. By hour three, Caleb’s read what he needed. Some for research, some for pleasure, but he’s taken in enough to make his mind buzz.  

Molly’s arms wind around his waist and Caleb jumps, then settles.

“One of these days, I’ll put a bell on you.” Caleb reshelves a few tomes with a reverent hand. 

“Caleb, you must know by now that patience is not my strongest suit.” Molly presses his face between Caleb’s shoulderblades again. Caleb shivers from the very tips of his toes and bites back a chuckle. Molly tends to grow needy when he’s ignored, they both know this, but the varying levels of petulance always make things entertaining. 

“I am aware.” Caleb continues reshelving, a little faster now. Molly nuzzles into Caleb’s back again and, oh, he’s purring. That would be exceptionally sweet if Molly’s body didn’t carry the resonance like a tuning fork, right to the tips of his horns where they’re pressed into Caleb’s spine, making it tickle terribly. Caleb bites his lip and forces back the tide of laughter building in his shuddering chest. 

“Come now, darling. Are you still so sensitive? I can feel you trying not to laugh.” Molly drapes his arms over Caleb’s shoulders and speaks into his spine, languid but calculated. It’s a nonsensical question but Molly himself is nonsensical, just as much a trickster as the shadowed being to whom Jester accredits her mischief. 

“M-Mohohlly.” Caleb shivers, snickers jumping free in short and bright bursts. Caleb can hear Molly’s grin without needing to see it, but it doesn’t prepare him for the bundle of tiefling suddenly clambering atop his back. Molly should know better than this, really--Caleb has gotten stronger, but he is not strong. 

“You’ve kept me waiting all this time and you have nothing to say for yourself?” Molly unleashes a flurry of kisses behind Caleb’s ear and the dam falls before he has a chance to defend it. Breathy, frantic giggles flow from Caleb with a fervor, spinning around the two of them in the warm, empty library. 

“Well, that’s not a very good defense. We’ll have to work on that,” Molly grins, speaking directly into Caleb’s neck. Caleb squeals and doubles over, landing somewhere between Zemnian and Common as he tries to shake Molly loose. Molly laughs and tickles his stomach, sending Caleb snapping upright with a dangerous sway. 

“Tongue-tied already?” Molly leans back a dangerous amount, forcing Caleb to back up towards the divan to avoid a nasty fall. They collapse on it in a tangled heap of shouts and curses. Caleb immediately grabs Molly’s hip in his hand and starts murmuring an incantation. He can feel the gentle sparks of magic beginning to take effect--and Molly can too, if the sudden hitch in his breath is anything to go by. 

“Ah-ah, none of that. You casters never play fair.” Molly worms his fingers up, up, until he can fiddle with the ribs supporting Caleb’s beloved book holsters. The magic, along with Caleb, dissolves into sparks and high-pitched bouts of noise. Caleb writhes and shrieks, his hair flying loose of its ponytail and into disarray. Molly rubs his knuckles between the grooves of his ribs and Caleb arches with a shout. Molly laughs and starts tickling at the back of his ribs. 

They roll around like unruly kittens, kicking cushions every which way as if it were a sport. Molly still lands on top of him, breathless and vibrating with joy. He chirps something that sounds suspiciously like ‘squishy wizards’ before tickling up under Caleb’s arms, taking ample time to try and wiggle beneath the straps of the holsters. 

Caleb grabs at Molly’s thighs to brace himself, and Molly snorts. It’s a quiet sound, cushioned by soft laughter, but it’s there and it’s beautiful. Caleb knows Molly’s ticklish, of course--ample time with Jester has taught him what to expect of tieflings--but he’s never heard him make such an adorable noise before. 

“Mollymauk,” Caleb says, a little breathless, but he’s grinning wider than he ever thought possible. Molly’s nervous grin is delectable. 

“Surely we can talk about this--”

“I think you’ve talked enough, don’t you?” Caleb pulls Molly close by the ankle and starts kneading at his inner thigh. Molly wails, thrashing so hard that his top half slides off the divan and onto the floor. A slapdash mix of giggles, snorts, and wild cackles burst out of him, enough for Caleb to coo at him and bury his stubble into the stretched plane of Molly’s stomach. 

Molly muffles a blood-curdling shriek into a wayward cushion. Caleb laughs and tickles harder. 

“I have a thesis on the kinds of noises you’ll make--”

“You gonna sit out here all day?” Cara’s eyes rest heavy on the side of his face. 

“Just keeping an eye on things.” His gaze dips towards the treeline. It’s clear. The only heat signatures there are creatures returning to their natural home. Everything is fine. It has been. But he knows that never lasts. 

“You’ve been keeping an eye on things for a few days. You’ve earned a break.” She claps him on the shoulder once, brief and firm. 

A loud shriek startles them and they both tense with the instinct to rise, but they both know the voices of the village children by now. A pack of them chase each other around a few specific huts--their homes, probably--making blaster noises and shouts that carry on the wind. They watch the grimness of war become a thing of innocence in their hands. 

“Were you ever like that?” Cara points. 

“Like what?” He follows her finger, then squints back at her. “A child?”

She chuckles at him, but her smile stays earnest. 

“Yeah. Did you ever get to be a child?” She tilts her head a bit. Din’s breath catches. They’d talked about personal matters before, but never like this. Their routine was showing their hand, constantly reassuring each other that their mutual interest in saving the galaxy was still mutual. It was always a transaction, never…interest. Is she baiting him in some way? Possibly trying to leech some sort of future blackmail material? Cara lacks that kind of tact from what he can tell, but one can never be too careful. Which opens up more questions still, each unfolding upon and into each other in endless fractals. One question in particular peers up at him beneath the layers, utterly unsettling. 

Why do you care?

“Everyone’s a child at some point. That’s the order of things.” He drops his gaze to the ground. Thinking too much will cost him. He knows that. 

“Now we both know that’s not true, Mando.” She shifts her weight on the bench and it brings them closer together. Something solemn rests its hands on both of their shoulders, seeping into the collective lifetimes of scars and battered muscle between them. He knows that he’s feeding it, this thing, and it turns his gut with unease. 

“Din,” he says quickly, before he can stop himself. He can hear Cara’s confusion without needing to see it. 

“My name. It’s Din.”

“It suits you.” She bumps their shoulders together. He looks at her and allows a smile. 

Another shriek, shriller this time, sends them both jumping to their feet. One of the village boys had been pounced on by the other children, sending a knot of screeching limbs rolling down the hillside. Panic leaps into Din’s throat. He starts making his way towards the edge of the ridge. 

“Din, it’s okay . It’s just--they’re playing. It’s fine.” Cara grabs his shoulder. He lets her lead him back to the bench but his eyes never leave the children. A young boy collapses under the weight of his friends and shouts, piercing through the air. Din flinches. Laughter bursts up from their chaotic little pile but the shrillness still raises his hackles. 

“They’re tickling each other, I think. Explains the screaming. Not sure how much more of that I can take, though.” Cara chuckles and looks to Din as if he’d be in on whatever she’s saying. He stares blankly at her. 

She extends her hands to him, as if asking for something. He doesn’t do what she wants, mostly because he can’t for the life of him grasp what she wants. She takes his wrists and pulls his hands towards her. She peels off his gloves, minding the beskar as if it were glass, and cradles his hands in her own for a moment. Looking up at him apprehensively, she trails her calloused fingertips over his palms, his fingers, even down to his pulse point on his wrist. It’s…soothing in a way, but he senses from the wrinkle between her brow that he’s not doing this right, somehow. 

“I…don’t have much feeling in my hands anymore.” He furrows his brow. Cara makes a pitying noise that he decidedly doesn’t like. He resists the urge to immediately pull his gloves back on. Obviously he didn’t respond the way she wanted. 

“Shame.” She shrugs. That solemn thing between them starts to turn the shade of melancholy. They have enough of that between them, Din thinks. He stares down at the rough canvas of his hands, then hers. 

“What is it supposed to feel like?” He mimics what she did, tracing his fingers over his own palms. It’s different in a way he can’t quite categorize. Cara blinks with something like disbelief and awe--he really wishes people would stop looking at him that way. 

“Alright, well. Don’t kill me, okay?” A hint of an impish smile creeps onto her face. She scoots slightly closer on the bench. 

“Why would I--” 

Din chokes on a high-pitched noise not unlike the ones ringing down from the hillside. Cara’s fingers gently ripple into the divots between the plates of beskar, finding seams of muscle in his sides that make his brain collapse into a heap of sparks. 

“What…is this?” He trembles but doesn’t move, just tries to process the sheer volume of stimuli racing through him all at once. Snickers escape without his permission and he hunches over to try and keep his every atom from spilling out into her hands. 

“Wow. You are super ticklish.” Cara laughs. Her fingers keep a rhythmic pace. 

“Say the word and I’ll stop.” Something concerned crosses her face before she can hide it from him. He wants to tell her it’s okay, or reassure her somehow that this is…a lot but okay--at least for now--but all he can do is rattle in place as if he’s about to launch into orbit. 

Her fingers migrate towards his stomach and his resolve cracks along with his voice. He giggles fervently past bitten lips and collapses into her hands. It’s not lightning, he knows lightning well, but this feeling moves like it. His body seems eager to disseminate it and lessen the impact, but unlike lightning, the electric bursts under his skin have no means of escape. Her hands are on his stomach but he feels the laughter in his veins. 

“C-Cara!” He grabs her wrists for something to hold onto. She swoops her fingers under his arms, tripping up his ribs like a ladder. He flails and nearly takes both of them off the bench. It’s worse, so much worse, and he fights the building urge to flee or mitigate the feeling somehow. It’s not harming him. It doesn’t remotely feel like it. He…trusts her. 

Until she gets under his arms and he cackles, that is. 

“Oh wow. Bad spot, huh?” She giggles with him, a sound he could never truly picture her making. Then again, he could never picture an existence like hers before this either. Certainly never like this. But here he was, soft where he swore he’d never be, melting in the hands of a shocktrooper no longer covered in blood. 

Cara does this thing with her fingers, like she’s fiddling with a stuck button for landing gear, and Din snorts. His entire body buckles and he clasps his hands over his helmet. As if it’ll help muffle him. 

“Did you just snort?” She presses in again and his head collides with her shoulder. He wheezes and it crackles into the air. More snorts filter out of him and his laughter bounces unexpectedly, responding to Cara’s hands like a fine-tuned weapon in the hands of a master. 

“Your ‘tough and mysterious’ act is going to work on me anymore. Just so you’re aware. I respect you, but this…your laugh is so cute, it’s sickening. I mean--” She pauses when Din flails again, sending her grabbing onto his thigh just to keep them both upright. He squeals and his leg twitches violently. She makes a noise of interest that makes his face burn beneath the helmet. 

“Can you stop laughing? I’m tryin’ to talk to you. Rude.” She squeezes his thigh again but this time she doesn’t stop. Din squeals again, much louder, and he collapses into the bench. A wave of desperate, garbled noises escape him before his laughter takes full flight. He shakes with the force of it. 

“I-I’m trying!” He wails. She helps him sit up with a laugh somehow more tickled than his.  

“Oh my god--Din, I’m kidding. It’s okay.” She grips his shoulders and shakes him a little. He nods a little dumbly, trying to remember what it felt like to have control of his limbs. 

“You still with us in there?” She taps his helmet. He swats her hand away.

“I think so. That was…something.” He nods. He finds that his smile won’t leave. It’s…nice. Cara pats his shoulder. He leans into it. 

“It’s not always so much. Sometimes it’s nice.” Cara hums thoughtfully, then gestures to her neck. “Can I show you? Here?” 

He regards her for a while, then nods. 

“Gently. Careful.” He warns, holding her wrists loosely. 

“I’m always careful,” Cara smirks. It would be terrifying if he didn’t already trust her so deeply. She tips his helmet up slowly, slowly, so much so that he almost wants to chide her for treating him so fragile. The low hums of the internal fan click and lose speed as warm air curls against the underside of his chin. His breath hitches when she lifts the helmet a little more, but it sinks lower again as she balances it against her knuckles. With her free hand, she curls her fingers beneath his chin with the lightest of touches. 

He dissolves into giggles easier than breathing, which does not come easy with Cara’s blunt fingernails dance against the scruff on the slope of his neck. Even as he scrunches to trap her fingers, the hand holding his helmet slightly aloft works to bolster the flow of breathy, muffled laughter seeping from the gap in the helmet. 

The sounds of war seem far away with the dragonflies fluttering in his chest. For the first time, Din allows it to remain that way.

Essek relied on a lifetime of maintaining a completely neutral expression at all times to keep from staring bewildered at the screeching puddle of tiefling that was the current focus of the loose circle of friends. Mollymauk, sprawled out flat on his back underneath Jester, was writhing and wriggling as the young woman mercilessly drilled her claws into her victim’s sides. A lavender tail lashed wildly, the only part of Mollymauk in that moment that still had a full range of motion. 

From beside the pair, Caleb cleared his throat.

“That is time, Jester. Let my boyfriend breathe, please.”

Instantly, the blue tiefling sprung off of Mollymauk, though not without groaning theatrically and turning to the human, her own tail wavering behind her in a way that reminded Essek of Frumpkin before the cat pounced on someone. 

“Caaay-leb, come ooon , that wasn’t two minutes!” 

“Ja, it was exactly two minutes, just like it always is.”

“You’re just whiney because you can never make Molly safeword out, Jes,” Fjord pointed out from his spot across the floor. Jester let out a frustrated noise as she crawled back over to her unoccupied spot in the circle next to her own boyfriend. 

“I totally have before, I just want to do it again!” 

“Try harder next time, darling,” Mollymauk said, voice coming out a little wheezy as he sat back up and grinned over at their host for the evening. 

- - -

Essek was, admittedly, getting better at keeping up with the Mighty Nein. With all of them being so genuine and good all the time (and the somewhat inconvenient, very large crush he was harboring on Caleb and Mollymauk), it was hard to resist the siren call of their unspoken offers of friendship and connection. The longer Essek spent around the collective chaos of the Nein, the easier it was to just shrug and go with whatever happened, regardless of how preposterous Essek found it. 

When Caleb had offhandedly invited him to attend the monthly Jester-mandated party/sleepover (a tradition that long predated Essek’s own knowledge of the group), he had accepted without even thinking about it. His nerves over being in such close, extended proximity to Mollymauk and Caleb were easy enough to tamp down, he hadn’t even gotten close to having a proper panic attack over it. He hadn’t even flinched when Jester’s mutt of a dog nearly knocked him on his ass when he cleared the doorway of her and Fjord’s apartment. 

When Jester had lowered the music and excitedly announced it was time for Spin the Bottle, Essek had taken pause, eyes darting to where Caleb and Mollymauk began untangling themselves to get up from the small overstuffed sofa, laughing and whispering to one another between quick kisses. All the same, after a half-second of hesitation, he took a seat on the floor next to Yasha, who was providing rather aggressive scritches to Nugget while Beau not-so-subtly fed the dog little bits of pepperoni, and resolutely ignored the hammering of his heart.

Jester’s version of Spin the Bottle had, apparently, been a tradition for almost as long as they’d been having these gatherings. At least, that’s what Essek had gleaned from Beau’s exaggerated complaints about how unnecessary having the rules explained again was. Jester’s eyes had met Essek’s from across the circle, alight with mischief, before she continued: either say the safeword—“licorice,” for some reason—or last the full two minutes. Before Essek could ask what, in particular, might necessitate a safeword for a kissing game, Jester had leaned forward to grab the bottle in the middle of their circle.

Honestly, Essek should have been less surprised then he was when Jester’s hearty spin of the empty spirits bottle resulted in the young woman tackling Mollymauk and unleashing a rather brutal tickle attack. One of the first things Essek had accepted as “Nein-normal” was the group’s extremely comfortable relationship with tickling. Caleb had tried to fill in the gaps as much as he could—it had, of course, started with the tieflings (“Look, of all the stereotypes, this one’s probably the sweetest and most accurate,” Molly had said) and had spread from there. It was to be expected, if one spent even five minutes with some configuration of their friend group, that some sort of tickling would occur. 

Essek had seen Fjord tweak Jester’s sides as he passed her by; had seen Yasha loop her arms around Molly’s waist and hold him still while Veth unleashed revenge for whatever antics the tattooed tiefling had gotten up to; had seen the soft, sweet, surprisingly gentle tickling that Jester was fond of showering on Caleb. Essek had witnessed quite a lot. 

He’d never participated, though.

- - -

 “Careful, you know she’ll take that seriously,” Beau said, rubbing Nugget’s head roughly enough for Essek to realize she was probably wiping off excess pizza oil on the dog. 

“I’m hoping for it,” Molly shot back, already half-crawling closer to the middle of the circle. With practiced ease, he sent the bottle into rapid circles, watching intently as they began to slow. Essek glanced at Caleb out of habit—it was he who Essek had gravitated toward first, and then whenever he felt out of his depth around the rest of the Nein—and felt his heart stutter against his chest as crystal blue eyes met his own. A small, comforting smile graced Caleb’s lips, the one that always made Essek feel a bit like there were several tiny birds swooping around in his stomach, before the group around them gave a collective, nearly comedic gasp. Essek watched Caleb’s brow furrow slightly, his eyes dropping down to look at the center of the circle before darting back to Essek’s face. His expression was… strangely unreadable. 

Finally looking away from Caleb, Essek felt another swoop in his gut as he took in the scene before him: the others staring at him, Molly’s grin turning nearly feral, and the empty bottle’s neck pointing squarely at him. 

It felt a bit like time had paused, without the sharp ozone of recently-cast dunamis. 

“Ah, Mollymauk—”

Caleb’s voice was soft, his expression still impossible for Essek to parse, as he curled a hand over one of Molly’s shoulders. His boyfriend turned to face him instantly, and Essek felt quietly relieved that the two’s attention was off of him, if only temporarily. 

“Essek’s new to this, ja? So be—” Caleb paused, seemingly searching for the right word. 

“Gentle?” Yasha offered quietly from beside Essek, and if his mouth wasn’t suddenly so dry, he thought he might thank the woman. 

“Of course, darling,” Molly replied seemingly to the both of them, his voice much sweeter than Essek had anticipated. The tiefling turned, and Essek tried to calm the rapid beating of his heart as Molly crawled the rest of the way across their circle of friends. On his knees, Mollymauk was practically towering over Essek’s seated form. Essek expected that same devious grin from earlier to still be settled on his face, but was surprised again to see a much friendlier, kinder smile curling at his lips. 

It was the same smile Molly wore when he and Caleb got lost in discussing complex arcane theory, or when Essek admitted to not understanding some turn of phrase someone had thrown out. 

The flock of birds in his gut doubled. 

“Remember the rules, dear?”

When had Molly gotten so close? Essek licked his lips, eyes glued to the two sets of claws hovering mere inches from his torso. 

“Ah, say ‘licorice’ to tap out…”

“Or last the full two minutes that Caleb counts out,” Molly finished for him, leaning ever so much closer into Essek’s space. 

“Right. Yes. Two minutes.” 

The last time he’d been tickled he’d been a child, Verin pouncing on him after declaring he was being a stick in the mud and unleashing an attack that had left Essek in blubbering hysterics. 

“Ready?” The question seems mocking, but the look in Molly’s eyes is shockingly genuine and Essek didn’t know if he wanted to run or to kiss him. 

“As, um, as I’ll ever be, I suppose.”

The air in the room was still and silent, even Nugget stopping his tail whacking down on the carpet as everyone seemingly held their breath. 

Essek squeezed his eyes shut tightly, bracing for kneading fingers as Molly descended even further. Nervous energy danced like lightning down Essek’s back. 

Then there were two light claw tips, slowly skating down from the tops of Essek’s ribs on either side, and he felt his breath hitch without permission. The light, pinpoint sensations felt a little like pure electricity shooting into his nerves and he started gasping out giggles without even realizing it. It didn’t even tickle that badly—between the anticipation and the fact that it was Mollymauk doing it, Essek felt a bit like he was going insane from the lightest touches. 

He didn’t say anything, though, much less “licorice.” Molly was being so gentle. He could last through this for two minutes. 

Then, the claws reached his hips, and suddenly they were moving much faster and in circles and Essek couldn’t have ever hoped to stifle the surprised laughter that punched out of him. His eyes flew open at the shock of sensation, and the look on Molly’s face made his stomach do a backflip. The tiefling’s eyes glimmered with delight and the kind of affection Essek had only ever seen directed at a certain human wizard. Impossibly, the tickling felt ten times as intense. 

Molly kept valiantly on at Essek’s hips, alternating between skittering spirals and random patterns that Essek couldn’t make sense of. While the majority of his conscious thought consisted of white noise, a tiny section of his mind quietly pondered how different this would be if the rest of the Nein weren’t there—if it was just him and Molly and Caleb sprawled out on the ridiculously opulent bed he knew the two had in their apartment. Maybe there wouldn’t be a countdown at all, just Essek getting slowly driven to pleasant delirium by the two men who had captured his attention and his heart. 

How in the name of the Luxon had it not been two minutes yet?

A sudden third spot of ticklish sensation lit Essek’s nerves like a string of firecrackers. He didn’t even have to open his eyes (though he severely doubted he would even be capable of that at the moment) to know that a lavender tail’s spade tip was dragging ever-so-lightly back and forth cross Essek’s right inner thigh. That, combined with the attack still concentrated on his hips, nearly had him screaming. 

Just as it felt like he might pass out from lack of air, someone spoke up from elsewhere in the circle. 

“Scheiße, that was two minutes and, er, roughly forty-five seconds, sorry, sorry.”

Instantly, Molly let up, his tickling ending so abruptly that Essek almost felt dizzy. Phantom tingles of sensation raced across his skin and his laughter dropped into breathless giggles once more. If not for the near lifetime of practice in self-restraint, he would have let out an aggrieved whine and a soft plea for more. A delightful haze of dazed happiness had descended without Essek even noticing . 

“Wow, Essek, that was like, super impressive for your first time playing!”

Jester’s chirping voice popped the joyful bubble encasing Essek’s mind in an instant, and instinctual chilled terror shot down his spine at the reminder that the rest of the Nein had seen that entire ordeal play out in front of them. He sat bolt upright, vision hazy and unseeing. 

“Ah, ex—” Essek started, a shivering ghost of a laugh rudely interrupting. “Excuse me, I, hah, need to, uh—”

Without even finishing his sentence, Essek stood and hurried from the crowded living room. A chorus of voices sounded behind him, but he didn’t stop. The apartment’s tiny guest bathroom offered a safe place for him to sink to the ground and press his face into his hands, breath slowing even as his heart thrummed rapidly in his chest. 

Even with embarrassment and mild panic coursing through him, Essek’s mind could only conjure the image of Caleb and Mollymauk looming over him with warmth and mischief and affection in their eyes. 

The board is old and pretty beaten up—Sam picked it up in Mississippi somewhere and brought it back with a few other vintage games. Dean and Charlie are perched like goblins around the board, surrounded by the foil corpses of snacks they’d demolished while refusing to adjourn for a real meal. 

“Ah shit.” Dean furrows his brow and hikes his knee to his chest. 

“What?” Charlie narrows her eyes. Dean holds a finger up and mutters to himself, studying the card with grave attention. He looks at the board, then back at the card, counts on his fingers, and frowns.

“Ah. Shit.” Dean sighs, taking his thumb between his teeth. Charlie pinches his arm. 

“What does it say?” She hisses. He yelps and scowls at her. 

“‘Make general repairs on all your property. For each house pay $25. For each hotel pay $100’. Buncha bullshit.” 

Finally, a light at the end of the tunnel. Freedom. 

“Yes! Holy shit!” Charlie shrieks with joy, threading her fingers through her hair. “You only have, what? Like fifty bucks? Dude, you’re toast!”

Dean makes a thoughtful noise as he eyes the board, then his sparse money pile. He’d taken great delight in rubbing his wealth of houses and hotels in Charlie’s face. It was finally time for penance, for vindication--

Dean leans over, plucks the pile of fifties from the money tray, and counts out everything he owes. 

“No! Dean, that’s cheating!” Charlie squawks, swiping at him. He leans out of her grasp and continues counting. 

“No, it’s strategy. I’m the banker and now I’m borrowing a little somethin’.” Dean tips his head back into Cas’s lap. Cas huffs and leans down, pressing his book flat to his chest so he can kiss Dean sweetly. He squeezes Dean’s shoulder fondly before returning to his reading. 

“See? I’m even paying my taxes.” Dean grins, the sparkle in his eye not entirely from being a cheating bastard. 

“Cas,” Charlie whines, gesturing wildly at Dean. Cas’s eyebrow twitches minutely but he doesn’t look up from his book. 

“I am no longer on duty as your banker, Charlie. I’m not at fault if the bank is robbed.” He licks his thumb and turns the page, barely concealing his amused smile behind the worn cover. 

Charlie eyes the small metal cat pinched between her fingers and silently asks it if murder is okay. It does not answer. 

“Dean.” Charlie inhales sharply. “You cannot steal from the bank. It’s the bank. Not your pockets.”

“I’m not stealing. I’m borrowing…forever. Look, Red, if you throw in the towel we can both call it quits.” Dean stretches out a kink in his back and leans against the couch. 

“Sam!” Charlie yells. “Can I kill your brother?”

“Go nuts!” Sam’s reply floats upon distant laughter. 

Charlie considers the board with a twitching eye. Even with Dean’s cheating, they’re pretty evenly matched. They could go for another three hours or so in circles like this. With Dean cheating, she’ll be forced to cheat just to keep up with him. They’ll wither away here on the floor of the bunker l, and centuries later scientists will uncover their skeletons and the dust of the Monopoly board—

“Cas, we need a tiebreaker. Something fair.” Charlie crosses her arms and ignores Dean’s dramatic groans. 

“The first person to bring me a fresh cup of tea wins. Prepared to my specifications.” Cas hums, turning another page. Dean lights up, of course he does. He and Cas know each other inside and out.

Ew. 

“What are your specifications?” 

“A challenge should be worthy of its undertakers, Charlie. I have full faith that your intuition will guide you.” Cas shifts on the couch and dog-ears the page, humming at something he reads.  Charlie’s eyes snap to the empty mug sitting on the end table near Cas. There’s a small purple tag hanging out of the mug—chamomile. Bingo. 

“We’ll have to wait for the water to boil—“

There’s a distant click-click-woosh that Charlie knows to be the stove, then the brief piercing whistle of the kettle. 

“You’d better hurry. The water is already cooling.” Cas eyes them both over his book, then settles back into the couch. Silence falls thick over the room. 

Dean and Charlie lock eyes. 

With a yell, Charlie flings herself to her feet and starts running. She can hear Dean stomping behind her. She swerves a corner and keeps running, silently grateful that she never got up to put on socks. 

“Oh no you don’t! C’mere!” Two strong arms encircle Charlie’s waist and hoist her off the ground. She screeches in protest but Dean’s already dropping her—gently, what a sap—and taking off ahead of her. 

“You dick!” She swipes at the back of his t-shirt and misses. Dean spins by her and stumbles into the kitchen just seconds before she can. He flings open the cabinet and starts reaching for the spice shelf, but she can’t see what exactly he’s grabbing—

With her best battle cry, Charlie launches herself at Dean and clambers onto his back. 

“Wh—hey! Get off!” Dean starts prying her ankles off of him. She grips tighter and does the first thing she can think of: poking the hell out of him. The irritation seems to work in her favor when Dean sways close enough to the cabinets for her to make a swipe at the honey, but she catches him in the ribs and he yelps. 

Oh, yeah. Duh. 

Charlie cackles triumphantly and starts tickling his ribs properly. Dean’s knees buckle a bit but he keeps them both steady, swiping at Charlie’s hands like a madman. 

“This is cheating!” Dean grits out, trying valiantly to block her access to his ribs. She can feel him shaking with laughter already and tries to chase it. Dean slams his arms to his sides and Charlie doesn’t falter--she fits her fingers into the back of his ribs. The dam of his laughter shatters and giggles flow free, then full laughter--the kind that lights him from the inside out and seeps into Charlie too. 

“It’s not cheating, it’s strategy! What does Cas like in his tea? Talk!” Charlie squeezes his sides with vengeance. Dean alternates between clutching the counter and flailing wildly. She clings to him every way he bends and finds free skin to pinch and poke at. 

“Charlie!” 

“Talk!” She yells, burrowing her fingers into Dean’s stomach. Dean fully collapses and they both go down, but Charlie wastes no time launching herself back at him. Dean catches her--unfortunate for him, because she jams her hands right back under his arms. He screeches out an incoherent string of syllables and arches hard into the kitchen floor. 

“Just tell me and this is all over,” Charlie singsongs, wrenching one of her hands free to skitter along his now-pink neck. Dean scrunches and falls smoothly into giggles, each one tumbling over the next like rain pouring free to dance with the wind. 

“Bite me!” He twists and bucks her off, clutching his sides as he sucks in breath. Dean’s head turns towards her, unnaturally slow, and an evil grin spreads across his face. Charlie scrambles back. 

“Waitwait, Dean! H-Hold on!” She holds her hands out in surrender but he’s already reeling her in by the ankle. She kicks at him and he grabs her other leg with a grunt. 

“Cheaters pay the price!” Dean wiggles threatening fingers just over her knee. She squeals and tries to fling herself to freedom, but his grip is unshakeable. He scribbles over every inch of her legs and gives the worst evil laugh she’s ever heard, but it makes her laugh, then she can’t stop laughing. Dean coos at her and squeezes vigorously at her thigh. 

“You’re the one who chea—oh nohoho!” 

…

“Sam,” Cas calls, pulling a blanket over his lap. Sam peeks around the corner, hair damp and 

stringy from the shower. 

“Would you mind grabbing my tea from the kitchen?” Cas gestures in that direction. Sam tracks the movement, then absorbs the minefield of game pieces on the floor. 

“Dean robbed the bank, didn’t he?” Sam chuckles and shakes his head. 

“Mhm. My tea is unfortunately serving his penance.” Cas flips a page and gives Sam an amused smile. 

“Gotcha.” Sam chuckles and winces at a loud shriek from the kitchen. “Want anything in it?”

“Just a drop of honey, please. Thank you.” 

“Sure.” Sam squeezes his shoulder and trods off towards the kitchen. A moment of disconcerting quiet passes before Sam’s squeal ricochets off the walls, mingling with distant yells and demands for Cas’s tea order. 

Registration Window

[Image ID - A pie chart representing participant opinion regarding the registration window for the 2k22 Squealing Santa gift exchange: 58 felt the registration window from October 15th to November 5th was a fair duration, 1 felt the registration window was too long, 1 felt the registration was too early.]

Early Projection for 2k23 Event - Maintain Registration Window

Registration Wishlist

[Image ID - A pie chart representing participant opinion regarding the registration wishlist for the 2k22 Squealing Santa gift exchange: 46 felt the wishlist of up to three pairings for up to five fandoms was a fair variety, 7 felt the wishlist of up to five fandoms was fair but there were too few pairings, 3 felt the wishlist of up to three pairings was fair but there were too few fandoms, and 3 felt the wishlist of up to three pairings for up to five fandoms was too limiting and should both be greater.]

Early Projection for 2k23 Event - Maintain OR Update to 5 Pairings, 5 Fandoms, & 5 Prompts

Event Duration

[Image ID - A pie chart representing participant opinion regarding the event duration for the 2k22 Squealing Santa gift exchange: 54 felt the duration from November 15th through December 31st was a fair length, 2 felt the event duration was too long, and 4 felt the event duration was too short.]

Early Projection for 2k23 Event - Maintain Event Duration

Proposal - Split Registration

For future events, splitting the registration into two parts. The first would essentially function as originally created and maintain the event registration window, with the removal of the "fandoms you'd be willing to create for" query. Once the initial registration has closed, a second survey with a significantly shorter deadline (3-4 days or so) be sent to participants to select from all the requested fandoms they feel comfortable creating for. Both parts would be required to complete registration for the event. This change would dramatically improve and streamline both event organization and community fandom metrics.

[Image ID - A pie chart representing participant opinion regarding the 2-part Event Registration proposal for the 2k23 Squealing Santa gift exchange: 56 are in favor or split registration and 4 are against split registration.]

Early Projection for 2k23 Event - Enact Split Registration

Specific Community Feedback

Ensuring second window isn't too short - perhaps closer to 5-7 days?

Proposal - Fic Requirements

Since the duration of the event has extended since it's inception, and majority of participants already well exceed the minimum word limit, we should update what the minimum requirements are.  This change would help ensure a more balanced exchange in effort between participants. 

[Image ID - A pie chart representing 55 writer participants' opinion regarding the increased word count proposal for the 2k23 Squealing Santa gift exchange: 28 felt a 500 word minimum is fair, 14 felt a 250 word minimum is fair, 10 felt a 750 word count is fair, and 3 felt a 1000 word minimum is fair.]

Early Projection for 2k23 Event - Increase minimum requirements to 500 words

Proposal - Art Requirements

As 2k22 was the first year for artist participation we wanted to check in with our artists on whether they feel this was a fair and comparable minimum to the fic requirements for future events.

[Image ID - A pie chart representing 22 artist participants' opinion regarding the art requirements for the 2k23 Squealing Santa gift exchange: 15 felt the 2k22 art requirements were a fair and comparable minimum requirement to fics**, 4 felt art needs more nuanced requirements depending on the engaged medium, and 3 felt the 2k22 art requirements would be fair if fic minimum limits were increased.

** Of the 15 that felt the 2k22 art requirements were fair and comparable, 5 were also writers who voted in favor of raising the word counts. We feel for this reason that a more accurate dateset would reveal the following: 10 felt the 2k22 art requirements were a fair and comparable minimum requirement to fics, 4 felt art needs more nuanced requirements depending on the engaged medium, and 8 felt the 2k22 art requirements would be fair if fic minimum limits were increased.]

Early Projection for 2k23 Event - Partner with community artist to create more nuanced guidelines that are comparable to the increased word limit

Proposal - Accountability Measures

Currently, there is a good faith agreement of requirements between host and participants. We are advocating for the adoption of accountability measures as seen in larger exchange events, such as Big Bangs. These could include, though are not guaranteed or limited to:

Clearer participation terms and conditions for both writers and artists to be agreed upon during registration. 

Penalties for failing to fulfill agreed upon terms and conditions. (Ex: offense warning(s), probational participation, barring from the next year's event, ban from all future events)

Utilizing additional platforms outside Tumblr, such as Discord, for more direct communication and community building.

Increasing the number of moderators for the event.

The change would grant significantly more structure to our event as the amount of participants continues to grow.

[Image ID - A pie chart representing participants opinion regarding the accountability proposal for the 2k23 Squealing Santa gift exchange: 57 are in favor of accountability measures and 3 are against adopting accountability measures.]

Early Projection for 2k23 Event - Enact Accountability Measures

Specific Community Feedback

Discord - Channels for event announcements, general chat, beta reading and art critique, separated by minors and adults to keep everyone safe and comfy.