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sweetarethediscords · 1 year ago

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“Fool Me Once” - Part 3

Pairing: Kacchako, Bakugou Katsuki/Uraraka Ochako

CW: Cheating, Underage Drinking

<- Previous Part | From the Beginning

~~~~~~~

“Jeez, Bakugou,” Frog Face croaked. “You don’t look so good.”

Katsuki stabbed his chopsticks right through the heart of the egg yolk in his bowl and swirled its golden blood into his gohan.

“Are you sick or something?” Tsu added.

“Sick of fucking bullshit,” he grumbled under his breath, trying not to glare at Deku across the room.

He was sitting with Tenya and Shoto and Ochako like it was just another bright and shiny UA day.

Tsu was about to join them too judging by the extra chocolate anpan balanced on an extra cup of tea made with cinnamon and honey just how Ochako liked it.

Bitterly, Katsuki noted that Deku should be the one getting her breakfast. Especially if he liked her enough to keep dragging her along while going on museum dates with brainy blondes.

His breakfast turned tasteless in his mouth.

God how he wanted to think of anything else.

“His bad mood’s my fault I think Tsu,” Eijirou said, stepping between them, shielding Tsu from the miasma of rage slowly oozing off of Katsuki. “Tetsu crashed at my place last night and we might have gotten a little rowdy watching old Schwarzenegger movies.”

“Schwarzenegger?” she questioned.

“He’s this super manly Austrian bodybuilder turned American Actor turned American Governor.” Ei flexed his bicep. “You should see his guns. The man’s an inspiration!”

“How does being muscly qualify someone to be a politician?”

Ei shrugged. “Don’t know. America’s weird like that.”

“I guess.” Tsu walked off to join the rest of her happily ignorant crew.

Katsuki hoped Eijirou would follow suit and leave him to stew in his misery, but the redhead was not so easily shaken.

“Bro,” he said as he sat down, “I don’t want to tell you how to feel your feelings. But you gotta at least come up with some sort of excuse or else you’re gonna start raising suspicion.”

“Maybe I want to raise suspicion,” he snipped, stabbing at his breakfast. “Maybe if people were a little more suspicious around her, people would get away with window shopping girls like their trying to pick a new pair of stupidly priced, stupidly big sneakers to wear on their stupidly freckled feet.”

“Kats, we went over this. It’s not like—”

“I know what it’s not like.”

Katsuki grabbed some hot sauce and dumped it liberally over the rice. Maybe that would bring some taste back to it.

Eijirou sighed. “So what do you want to do?”

“It’s not about what I want to do. If it was about what I want to do, it’d already be done and I’d be arrested.”

“Then what can I do to help?”

Katsuki huffed a laugh. “Make numb nuts over there fucking choose a chick.”

Eijirou stroked his chin in thought. “I don’t think I can make him but I could probably hype up one of the girl’s a lot. Question is who?”

“Who what?” Mina asked.

The bubbly pink gossip also known as Eijirou’s girlfriend sat down beside the pair. Antennas and curls bouncing. Katsuki swore they gave her a super hearing quirk none of the knew about.

“Who Kats is going to be for Halloween!” Ei quickly lied. “He doesn’t have a costume yet.”

“Oooo!” Mina squealed excitedly. “He could be our Subotai!”

“You’re what?” Katsuki growled.

“Ei’s going as Conan the Barbarian, I’m going as Valeria. I’ve still got enough fabric to whip up one more toga for ya if you want to be out trusty archer,” she smiled.

“Yeah, bro! We’d have to find you a wig and stuff but I’d bet you’d look damn good in a handlebar mustache,” Ei added.

Katsuki shuddered at the thought, recalling the patchy handlebar ‘stache his dad had sported for way too long, insisting it would eventually grow into a beard.

“And want to scratch my face off all night? No fucking thank you,” he said. “I ain’t going to the party anyway.”

“What? Why?” Mina asked.

“Because why the fuck would I want to be surrounded by a bunch of drunk, screaming idiots all night?”

“Because you’d be drunk too?”

“Tch. And deal with feeling like fucking shit the next morning?” he washed the newly added heat of his breakfast down with his coffee. “No fucking thank you.”

Mina pouted and looked down at her breakfast forlorn. “Guess a certain brainiac will be disappointed then.”

His coffee soured.

Mina peered up at him and smiled, clearly misreading his pursed expression.

“Gotcha there. Bet you’re thinking twice about going now that you know Miss Shield will be there,” she mocked. “Denki told me all about y’all’s little study dates. So cute!”

“It wasn’t a date,” he grumbled. “I’m just helping her out with her apprenticeship project.”

“By flexing your muscles?” she tugged her earlobe playfully. “News travels fast around here.”

Not fast enough, Katsuki thought.

“Do you know who Mel’s going as for Halloween?” Ei asked

“No clue,” she said. “Which means she might be open to doing a couples costume with someone.”

Katsuki chugged the rest of his coffee and stood. “I’m going for a run.”

“Awww come on Kat! There’s no need to be bashful!” Mina called after him as he walked away.

He flipped her off and headed outside to clear his head with the crisp morning air.

🔍🔍🔍🔍🔍

He had managed to avoid direct contact with all three of them for most of the day, thank god.

Did it mean he had to be an absolute jerk all day to do it? Sure. But honestly it felt good to be a—

“Jerk,” Ochako smacked him in the back of the head, surprising him and jolting him to his feet.

“What the fuck?!”

Ochako released her quirk, letting herself down to the ground slowly. “I should be asking you the same thing! What the fuck crawled up your ass today?”

“Nothing crawled up my ass,” he snapped back. “And how the fuck did you find me anyway?”

Barely anybody knew about his spot in the woods. Only Ei.

Had he told Ochako? Was he setting this up as an excuse for him to tell her what Deku was up to?

“I followed you!”

Oh.

“You followed me? Why the fuck would you do that?”

“Because you’ve been acting like a jerk all day, avoiding me *and* Melissa, then next thing I know you’re randomly stomping off into the woods,” she threw her arms up in the air. “I was worried!”

“About me in the woods?!”

“About you in general! You only act this off and jerky when something’s really bothering you. So what’s up?”

Katsuki chewed the inside of his cheek.

“And don’t say ‘nothing’,” she added with a huff.

He couldn’t tell her outright.

But she would know if he lied.

“I think Melissa’s seeing someone else,” he said. Not a lie.

Ochako’s eyes widened, the angry furrow in her brow softening a bit.

“No,” she said so shocked and softly, he would’ve found it comforting any other time.

But now it felt like a twist of a knife.

“Oh no.” All the anger melted from her face. “You’re sure?”

Katsuki kept his eyes to the ground and tapped the toe of his shoe against it. “Pretty fucking sure.”

“Who is it? Someone from UA or—”

“Someone from her past, I think. So—”

“So you’re gonna win her back, right?”

He ran his hand down his face and sighed. “Cheeks I don’t—”

“If it’s someone from her past, then they’re probably from the US, right?” she said. “Which means they’re all the way over there and you’re here. Looking hot, making her laugh, being there for her… you can’t give up!”

“Look, it’s alright. I—”

“It’s not alright!” she insisted, stomping her foot for emphasis. “Bakugou Katsuki doesn’t give up! Not in the face of deadly villains and certainly not on winning the heart of a girl he likes!”

“Cheeks if she likes—”

“If she liked this rando so fucking much she’d just be with him instead of flirting with you,” she huffed.

Katsuki ground his teeth subconsciously, cutting into the side of his cheek and drawing a bit of blood.

Her footsteps crunched across the leaves towards him.

A pair of sparkling, kind, brown eyes blocked his view of the dying grass.

“What I’m saying is you still have a chance, Bakugou,” she smiled softly. “You’re here, they’re not. She won’t feel so lonely with you.”

“Tch. I don’t wanna be just a body to keep a bed warm.”

“You won’t be,” she said. “It might start like that, sure. But over time she’ll see how wonderful you are and fall in love with you slowly, then all at once.” She took his hands in hers and ran the soft pads of her thumbs over his knuckles. “But it won’t happen unless you try.”

The thought of winning Melissa back was far from his mind. He wanted to get even.

He wanted her to hurt just as much as he did, as much as Cheeks would if she ever found out.

Deku too. Fuck however innocent or love torn he was. The nerd had to choose.

He’d make him choose.

His churning thoughts had a new target to focus on, the sparks of a plan already starting to smolder in his mind.

Ochako smiled. “There you are.”

“What?”

“There’s that Dynamight determination,” Ochako cheered. “You want to win now, don’t ya?”

Katsuki smirked. “Yeah, Cheeks. I wanna win.”

🔍🔍🔍🔍🔍

There were a lot of ways to win, but the right way to win was what his mind couldn’t settle on.

Threatening Deku to choose head on wouldn’t work. After the war he’d unfortunately (in this case) developed a spine. Fucker wouldn’t willingly hurt someone but Katsuki wouldn’t be surprised if he kept dragging his feet just to spite him. Or worst would tell Ochako that he’d pressured him to choose. Or worst worst, end things with Ochako super messily because he would be scared shitless and respond stupidly.

Or he could end things with Melissa super messily. But something in his gut told him that wasn’t going to happen.

Deku was going to pick Melissa, he just needed the balls to do it without worrying about what their classmates might think.

He needed a challenge to do it.

He needed to feel like he was going to lose her. Which was easier said than done when Melissa was into him enough to ask him on a date.

Katsuki groaned as he flopped back on his mattress, finding himself at another obstacle.

His phone pinged, a welcome distraction before he saw that it was a message from Melissa.

A selfie even. Her with her glasses hung low on her nose, wearing a dark curly wig.

Think I should go brunette? 😉

Shouldn’t you ask Deku that? he considered texting back.

Was this part of her Halloween costume? Why would she—

At once, two voices echoed in his mind sparking inspiration.

The first belonging to a well meaning Alien Queen.

“…she might be open to doing a couples costume with someone…”

The second belonging to a pair of kind brown eyes and plump rosy cheeks.

“…she won’t feel so lonely with you…”

Katsuki rose from his bed and opened his dorm door just a crack, listening, quickly picking up Deku’s high, breathy laugh trickling down the hall.

Game night was tonight. Deku never missed a game night and was intense as hell the entire time.

God themselves could be texting him and he wouldn’t answer.

Katsuki’s phone pinged again, pulling him back towards his bed.

MS: What are you doing tonight?👀

Katsuki smiled wickedly.

She *was* lonely. Deku’s attention was elsewhere so she put her attention elsewhere.

Not a healthy coping mechanism by any means but one that could be exploited.

BK: Checking out this new cute brunette that just texted me.

BK: Still waiting to see her in that white wig and blue skimpy outfit though.

MS: 🤔🤔🤔 I’ll think about it. Would need to find a cunning linguist to sell the costume though.

Katsuki cracked his knuckles and leaned back on his pillows, readying himself for spiteful flirting.

BK: I think I know a cunning linguist 👅 but what about the brunette? What does she need?

MS: A brawny, brainy explorer to help save me from an evil mummy.

So she was going as that librarian from The Mummy.

BK: Well, I definitely think I can help you out of those wraps.

A picture followed, angled a little lower. The button up blouse she was wearing had opened up a bit, exposing her cleavage and the crimson lace of her bra.

MS: These wraps? But I worked so hard on my Halloween costume. 🥺

Katsuki closed his eyes and took a deep breath, calming himself, maintaining his focus. She was hot, no doubt about that.

He didn’t have the chance to give a witty response back before she texted:

What are you dressing up as?

Fuck.

He didn’t have an answer for that one.

He looked around his room for something, anything to claim was a costume that would be enticing enough for her.

A shirtless pic was the obvious choice, but saying “a washboard” was too much of a douche reply for her. And he wasn’t a fucking cosplayer pulling props out his ass.

His gaze fell on the pair of reading glasses resting on his nightstand. Ochako had dragged him out to get them after catching him squinting at their history textbook one study session.

She had picked out the style too, nerdy round shaped frames that she said looked good.

Really they made him look like a dork.

And Melissa liked dorks so…

He whipped off his shirt, threw on his glasses then posed with his signature scowl for a mirror selfie.

BK: The perfect blend of brains and brawn.

MS: 🥵🥵🥵

MS: Those glasses tho 🤔🤔🤔

BK: 🤔?

The fuck was that emoji for?

MS: Those glasses look familiar. More like a cunning linguist than just some brains and brawn.

Katsuki looked at himself in the mirror. They looked familiar? Did Deku fucking wear glasses too or some shit? Or…

He smiled wickedly.

BK: Dunno. Guess you’ll have to wait til the Halloween party to find out.

Katsuki didn’t give two shits what she texted back, he was too busy searching up the perfect picture and knocking on Eijirou’s door.

Mina answered, just as he expected.

“What’s up Bakubro?”

Katsuki shoved his phone towards his face. “This.”

“What?”

“You said you’d help me with my Halloween costume. I need you to make me a sexy version of this motherfucker.”

Mina knit her brow and took the phone from him. “Really? I didn’t even know you knew this movie.”

“I don’t, but Mel loves it.” He exchanged a knowing glance with Eijirou as he joined Mina at the door.

Ei raised a doubtful eyebrow. Katsuki smiled impishly for a moment before dropping back into a scowl as Mina looked up.

“Ohhhh. I’ve got an idea.”

She handed the phone back to him, a smug grin on her face. “What do you think about that? I’ve got enough fabric and some leftover festival face paint we can use for it.”

He nodded. “I think she’s gonna love it.”

🔍🔍🔍🔍🔍

Mina took his costume idea and fucking ran with it.

The other guys however.

“So run us through this plan of yours one more time,” Hanta said beside him, having made his way up next to him mid-run.

Shoto, Eijirou, Shoji, and Tetsu all fell in stride him, annoyingly crowding the track.

Katsuki rolled his eyes and snarled.

“How many times do I have to fucking go through this?” I’m making Deku choose.”

“By helping Melissa feel less lonely at the Halloween party?” Hanta clarified. “That’s the part we’re hung up on.”

“The party’s gonna be packed with people,” Shoto said. “Why would she be lonely?”

“And she’s got 2 guys competing for her heart,” Tetsu added. “That seems like a lot of attention coming her way.”

“I ain’t competing for anything of hers,” Katsuki snapped. “She’ll be lonely because Deku’s will be fucking busy saving face with Uraraka the whole night.”

“Saving face?” Ei asked.

“Everyone knows he’s supposed to be seeing Uraraka, right? It’d be weird if they didn’t spend the Halloween party hanging out together. Which means Melissa’s gotta watch them spend the whole party hanging out together.”

“She’ll be jealous,” Shoji noted.

“And drunk probably,” Katsuki added. “And surrounded by people she’s only sort of friends with. So when the guy she sends titty pics to whenever Deku’s busy walks in looking like her fantasy, I’m sure she’ll be giving me a lot of attention.”

“Thus making Deku jealous,” Shoji concluded.

“Exactly.” Katsuki turned to Hanta. “Now 3M if all of a sudden IcyHot started flirting with another guy in front of you what would you do?”

Shoto frowned. “I would never.”

“It’s a hypothetical, Peppermint, calm down.”

Hanta narrowed his eyes at Katsuki. “I wouldn’t let that happen.”

“You’d cause a scene, wouldn’t ya?” Katsuki snickered.

“Not a scene but,” he glanced towards Shoto, “I’d handle it.”

His boyfriend blushed and Katsuki groaned in disgust.

“Anyway. What is Deku gonna do then?”

“Handle it?” Shoto asked.

“Bingo.”

“But this all rides on Midoriya liking Melissa more that Uraraka,” Ei said. “And I’m not sure—”

“Ya don’t skip out on a date with the girl you like more to hang out with the girl you like less last minute,” he stated. “The moment he chose that museum date over pumpkin picking with Uraraka, who he likes more was clear. He just needs to fucking own up to it now.”

Their footfalls against the rubber track underscored their processing as they considered Katsuki’s argument.

“How can we help?” Shoji asked.

“Keep Melissa and Deku from talking one on one with each other tonight, and make sure Deku and Uraraka stay together in Melissa’s line of sight as much as you can,” Katsuki instructed. “I’ll handle the rest.”

“You’re sure this is a good idea?” Ei asked.

“You worked real hard to get over you and Midoriya’s past bullshit. I don’t want you throwing that away over something like this.”

“Tch. I’m doing this because I fucking know the idiot doesn’t even realize what he’s doing is messed up,” he replied. Either way it goes him and I will be fine. I’ll still be fucking pissed at him for it. But I ain’t gonna beat the shit out of him or something over it.”

“Good,” Ei sighed in relief. “Last thing we need is another Aizawa lecture because of that.”

~~~~~~~

Next Part ->

#kacchako #kacchako fanfic #angst #cheating #romance #friends to lovers #bakugou katsuki #bakugou #uraraka ochako #uraraka #bnha #third years #aged up characters #fool me once

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ddepressedbookworm · 3 years ago

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my face reveal hehe

am i gonna cnp the bee movie script here just so you have to wait and scroll to see my face? absolutely.

According to all known laws

of aviation,

there is no way a bee

should be able to fly.

Its wings are too small to get

its fat little body off the ground.

The bee, of course, flies anyway

because bees don't care

what humans think is impossible.

Yellow, black. Yellow, black.

Ooh, black and yellow!

Let's shake it up a little.

Barry! Breakfast is ready!

Ooming!

Hang on a second.

Hello?

- Barry?

- Adam?

- Oan you believe this is happening?

- I can't. I'll pick you up.

Looking sharp.

Use the stairs. Your father

paid good money for those.

Sorry. I'm excited.

Here's the graduate.

We're very proud of you, son.

A perfect report card, all B's.

Very proud.

Ma! I got a thing going here.

- You got lint on your fuzz.

- Ow! That's me!

- Wave to us! We'll be in row 118,000.

- Bye!

Barry, I told you,

stop flying in the house!

- Hey, Adam.

- Hey, Barry.

- Is that fuzz gel?

- A little. Special day, graduation.

Never thought I'd make it.

Three days grade school,

three days high school.

Those were awkward.

Three days college. I'm glad I took

a day and hitchhiked around the hive.

You did come back different.

- Hi, Barry.

- Artie, growing a mustache? Looks good.

- Hear about Frankie?

- Yeah.

- You going to the funeral?

- No, I'm not going.

Everybody knows,

sting someone, you die.

Don't waste it on a squirrel.

Such a hothead.

I guess he could have

just gotten out of the way.

I love this incorporating

an amusement park into our day.

That's why we don't need vacations.

Boy, quite a bit of pomp...

under the circumstances.

- Well, Adam, today we are men.

- We are!

- Bee-men.

- Amen!

Hallelujah!

Students, faculty, distinguished bees,

please welcome Dean Buzzwell.

Welcome, New Hive Oity

graduating class of...

...9:15.

That concludes our ceremonies.

And begins your career

at Honex Industries!

Will we pick ourjob today?

I heard it's just orientation.

Heads up! Here we go.

Keep your hands and antennas

inside the tram at all times.

- Wonder what it'll be like?

- A little scary.

Welcome to Honex,

a division of Honesco

and a part of the Hexagon Group.

This is it!

Wow.

We know that you, as a bee,

have worked your whole life

to get to the point where you

can work for your whole life.

Honey begins when our valiant Pollen

Jocks bring the nectar to the hive.

Our top-secret formula

is automatically color-corrected,

scent-adjusted and bubble-contoured

into this soothing sweet syrup

with its distinctive

golden glow you know as...

Honey!

- That girl was hot.

- She's my cousin!

- She is?

- Yes, we're all cousins.

- Right. You're right.

- At Honex, we constantly strive-

don’t do weird things with my face please :)

@revvs-trash @clarys-heosphoros @thatrandomfangirlll @iamwisdumb @depressed-barnes @thehornoftheunicorn @they-ca-llme-princess @church-of-burnt-romances @birachel @lemonphrogg @rambler-of-procrastination @damhalfblood @marvelandnothingelse @babysquirrelyou @simpingforpjo @oh-my-tatoes @onlypanickedqueerness @lixiesbabyhands @ileaurel @ashiyaana @1-800-pastelskies @tiredassbibliophile @simpingforreynarameriz @idiotacadamia @genken64

#my face #hehehe #i’m sensitive don’t say anything mean #i know i look weird shut up #anyway #shan rambles #shan hits 400?????#i hope i rememebred to tag all of you guys lol

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jangofctts · 4 years ago

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Are You in Or Out?

Rated: Explicit

Word count: 11.5K yall I am SORRY

Warnings: good lord y'all here we GO-- smut, explicit language, violence and mentions of blood and gore, injuries, unprotected sex (don't be a dick, wrap that stick!), oral (m&f receiving), blindfolding, vaginal and anal fingering, vaginal and anal sex, double penetration, spit is used as lube but for the love of GOD doNT DO THAT, there are some dom vibes on Paz’s end

Summary: The job you’re on takes a turn for the worst--Paz comes to your rescue and you're brought to the Covert. There you meet Din Djarin. though during a good natured sparring session, you’re suddenly stuck between an age old rivalry that spirals out of hand. Hopefully an agreement can be met.

a/n: hey...how y’all doin....SO lemme explain you smthn. I said helmets must be OfF--giv me them LIPS BABEY so this is a slight AU in which mandos can see other mandos’ faces. ya get me? I also tHot that it would be nice and fun to set the timeline 5-6 years BEFORE the plot of the Mandalorian so we gots a younger din here. anyway, as always enjoy and I hope you like!!

Mistakes, mistakes, mistakes—

Some as little as burning your finger on the nozzle of a smoking blaster or tripping over your own shoelaces. Simple things. Mindless things.

Nothing that could ever compare to the catastrophic decision of picking up bounty hunting as a reliable source of income.

The little ones were easy—tax evaders and deserters of the Empire—most who’d yield and gladly follow without complaint just at the sight of your blaster pointed between their eyes. And the gag of it is—most of the time you never bothered to load the damn thing.

Reckless.

An invitation for disaster.

But skirting that precarious edge, one little slip up away from plunging head first into inevitable trouble is better than Bracca. Stars—anything is better than Bracca. There’s no glory in bounty hunting but there’s even less in ship scrapping. Abysmal pay in exchange for risking your life on rain slicked metal with only the Ibdis Maw to break your fall.

The guild you work for is considerate—scratch that. Greef Karga is considerate. Sure the flirting is a touch unbearable but it saves your ass in the long run. All easy money bounties set aside for you in exchange for a cheap drink, hollow laughs and sugar sweet smiles.

It’s enough credits to get by—more than plenty to rent a room and charter a ship.

But there’s only so many bounties to capture within the limits of the guild and oh so many people the empty blaster trick works on. And so the credits begin to thin; it gets too expensive to buy off a pilot and the debate over buying food or being able to pay for your room becomes more frequent than the scraprats that skitter inside the walls.

It’s suicide to snag a higher paying bounty because....well—these bounties shoot back.

Whatever.

Might as well die trying. Who knows, maybe you could score big time if you manage to pull this off.

Maybe.

-=-=-=-

You’re not sure who’s more surprised—Karga when you asked for the bounty or yourself when he actually gave it to you.

“Are you sure, kid? This could—“

“End in a fiery shitshow? Yeah—I figured that,” you sigh, swirling your drink with a little complimentary toothpick. “But I need the money.”

“Hah! You’ve got guts, girl.” He flashes you a smile and smooths down his mustache with his thumb and forefinger. “Tell you what. The last assignment was just taken but I’m sure if you run you could catch him. Work somethin’ out.”

Jumping from your seat, you throw on your coat and toss a couple credits onto the table to cover the drink. “What’s he look like?”

“Big fellow—Mandalorian. You’ll know when you see him.”

You shout your thanks over your shoulder and hightail outta there. The landing docks aren’t far, you can see them from here. It’s finding the guy that could pose a problem.

If he hasn’t already left, you bitterly think.

However, it seems the universe is on your side today. Karga was right. He is big. Stands out like a sore thumb against his ship that glitters dully in the overcast sky. Kinda like an oversized blueberry. A yellow and blue blueberry….not important—

“Hey! Hey, you!” You’re so close, just a couple yards away. You swear and hurry up your pace as he steps onto the loading ramp. “Big guy! Large...blue man?”

You trip over your own feet as he turns his head. Fuck—

No way are you gonna be able to bargain with this guy. Built like a fucking AT-AT and probably just as stubborn. After all, no one would ever be dumb enough to come between a Mandalorian and their quarry. You grimace, and suck in a breath—

Before a word even leaves your mouth he interrupts with a steady, unwavering;

“No.”

Your brows furrow. “I didn’t even say anything!”

“I know what you were going to ask,” he huffs, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “I work alone.”

Ok, then. You didn’t want to resort to begging, but you’re kinda running out of options here. You take a steadying breath and plant yourself at the bottom of the ramp. “C’mon man. Look—I’ll let you take seventy percent of the cut and I can—“

“You’ll let me?” He repeats, the staticky tone of his voice dropping into an edge more cutting than broken transparisteel. The metal platting on the ramp vibrates from the weight of his step to move closer; Stars it takes every fucking inch of willpower to hold your ground. “You’re lucky if I let you leave with your life. Get lost.”

Fuckfuckfuck—you should listen. You wanna fucking run for the hills and never look back in case he comes looking to purge your name from the kriffing galaxy. You clench your jaw and steel your nerves. Too bad—you’ve dug your heels so far into this empire of dirt and false bravado that your only way out is continuing to poke the sleeping bear until he snaps your spine or caves.

You have to crane your neck to glare into that dark strip of his vizor, seeing as he’s invited himself into your personal space. “No.”

“No?” He mocks, now toe to toe with your scuffed up boots.

Your teeth clench, a scalding flush burning through your cheeks and all the way down to your chest. He’s toying with you—finding amusement in your stubbornness and apparent lack of braincells for challenging him. “You don’t scare me.”

The man hums, a deep purr that rumbles through his entire ribcage as he raises his gloved hand. You curse yourself for flinching because surely he’s about to crush your skull like a fucking grape, but no. All he does is fix your rumbled collar then pat your cheek.

“I don’t need the extra baggage.”

“I’m not baggage,” you sneer, slapping his hand away. “I can handle myself.”

“With an empty blaster?” He points out, tipping his head to the side. “Your parlor tricks won’t do you any good on this job.”

“I’m a good shot!” You sputter, placing your hands over you hips and mustering up your best glare. “W-when I have ammo…”

“Right.”

Meeting Paz Vizsla, could have gone far better, to put it into the most simplest of words. Jagged and hard to settle into a routine around each other for the journey to Nar Shaddaa in a tiny, old, and cramped freighter ship. Most cycles you have to wedge yourself beside a cargo crate to sleep. In addition to that, how it’s able to break through the atmosphere let alone fly is beyond you—an entire mystery on its own.

At least you’re able to sit in the spare seat inside the cockpit—one of the only places available to stretch your legs. The only problem is that it’s also where Paz Vizsla likes to lurk (well, not lurk—it’s his ship and it’s where he can comfortably fit but—to each their own).

There’s a net of tension still woven between you—each interaction like tiptoeing over eggshells. Though, like all things, it becomes simpler. There’s not exactly any ongoing conversations—you don’t want to pry into a life you know nothing about—it’s not your business despite the cumulation of questions that linger in the back of your mind. You know when to take a hint—not every person is willing to indulge you about their livelihood, and surely not something as secretive and well guarded as the Mandalore.

Familiarity is what you want to call it. Comfortable with each other’s presence with small talk speckled in throughout the never-ending vastness of hyperspace. Compared to the infinite turmoil in your life, slippery footholds and uncertainty—Paz Vizsla is steady. In a way— predictable and safe in the confines of this ship.

You’d even go as far as to label him kind, a friend maybe—if you look past the grumpiness and rather poor taste in corny jokes. You know it’s stupid, no doubt stemming from the deep ache of loneliness that comes hand in hand with staking it out on your own in the galaxy; but you can’t help but wish that this could be a new normal. Not some once in a lifetime thing where you both part ways, fade into the recesses of memory and leave it at that.

If things go well—and rarely do they on a job—maybe you’d pluck up enough courage to ask him if you could stay. There’s no harm in it…right?

-=-=-=-

Well—the cynical part of you was right.

It did end up in a fiery shit show.

Turns out the stupid quarry you’d been tracking excelled in long range weaponry. A former marksman for the Empire to be exact. Guess that tidbit of information wasn’t pertinent. A need to know sorta thing, if you will.

You feel the molten bolt of plasma connect with your side before your ears pick up the sound of a weapon firing, like a crack of lighting in the empty alleyway. And before your body even connects with the duracrete, Paz is returning fire. A brilliant neon red against the hazy blur of shadowy buildings.

Kinda weird how knocking the back of your head hurts worse than the literal blaster wound burned into your side. Shock maybe. Or the heat from the plasma cauterized each veins and artery it tore through and ate away at flesh and nerves. Hm…

You’re sprawled in a wet pool of something—either your own blood or a puddle of stagnant gutter water and damn—you’re wearing your favorite shirt.

It doesn’t matter at this point…

You’re choking on your own air from the big ass hole blasted into your diaphragm, so to say things are looking grim is an understatement.

Nar Shaddaa isn’t your first choice to kick the can on, but hey—not everyone gets the luxury of dying on Naboo. And just as you’re ready to slip away into that sweet, sweet abyss, it seems your fellow armored friend has other plans.

The beskar is freezing against your cheek after he deadlifts you off the duracrete—you remember that plain as day. That and the hushed rumble of Paz’s voice insisting you save your dwindling supply of air instead of apologizing to him—or ordering you to stay alive for kriff’s sake. It’s impossible to argue with Paz—like trying to bite through durasteel, and while those beckoning tendrils of eternal slumber are mighty tempting, you cling to your life with all the strength you have left. After all, inconveniencing someone with a corpse is such a party foul to the highest degree.

The rest is muddled—like dredging up silt and clay in a murky river that just leaves you with a pounding headache between your eyes. It’s a terrible mess of pain and bouts of temporary consciousness, mistaken with fever dreams and yup—more pain. The only consistent is Paz—hovering nearby or settled beside you—through thick and thin as you heal.

There’s no solid reason your brain can conjure as to why he brought you to the Covert—it’d have been easier to just dump you at the nearest hospital and be done with it. You’re not his responsibility and you’re too afraid to ask what it means. Too many possibilities—too many answers you aren’t in the mood to face or untwist.

And so you leave it be, set aside for another time—which brings you to the present day…

You’re splayed over your little makeshift cot, feet propped up on a spare pillow as you scour through a cheesy Coruscanti gossip magazine. It’s years old—the only piece of entertainment you could find other than a weapon in the Covert. And seeing as a massive hole had been blasted through your ribcage, picking up the clever art of throwing vibroblades or shooting targets to pass the time was out of the question.

Even if you’d rather fall into a Sarlaac pit than stare at the wall for hours on end yet again—it hasn’t been all that bad. It’d taken weeks before you regained enough strength to sit up on your own, let alone walk—and walking is putting it lightly. It was more of a stiff legged shuffle better suited on a two hundred year old woman seconds from disintegrating into dust at the mere hint of a breeze.

Not to mention—your right lung was all but shredded. Ripped apart from the plasma bolt and miraculously reconstructed by a more than questionable bacta tank, hopeful thoughts and well wishes. To this very day you still sound like a broken air filter.

Eh.

Could be worse.

At least you aren’t dead.

Just another setback that adds on the growing pile of reasons why never to leave the Covert. Free food, free board and mild entertainment to top it off. Paz had stayed at your bedside for the most part while you recovered—stuck with babysitting your sorry ass until you regained a bit of mobility. The times Paz hadn’t been at your side to stave off the boredom, it was up to you to find your own fun.

Snooping is what Paz had labeled it—but you saw it more as an adventure. You met Din Djarin exploring (lost is what you actually were) in the dimly lit underbelly of Nevarro, after all. Yes, you may have scared the ever loving shit out of the poor guy and yes, he may have singed off your brows with a five foot jet of fucking fire—but hey. No one got hurt.

And you made a new friend. Sorta…Din is difficult to read, subtler in his soft spoken words and quiet demeanor. A bit like a skittish loth-cat at the start, but nowadays it’s not uncommon to find him lounging in the same space as you or hovering over your shoulder, awfully curious in whatever it is you choose to do. Like Paz, Din isn’t overly fond of sharing much information about himself but he never complains after you regale tales of your own vastly fascinating past. He seems interested enough—tilts his head a tick to the right when you speak to indicate that yes, he’s listening despite the unforgiving dark line of his visor.

There are others in the Covert too—some so elusive you have a hard time believing they exist. Shadows of what they once were before the rise of the Empire. And so, you count yourself lucky that you’d been introduced to two others—Aeris Fenn, a young man nearly as tall as a Wookie, and a woman named Ives Arrey; her armor a flashy green—damn near florescent in the light.

They’re nice enough company. Aeris is a chatterbox, his wit sharper than a blade but lacking in any forethought before he speaks. Ives is the far opposite—rolls each sentence in her mouth before she voices it, but in no way is she angelic. Maker—you’d bet your entire left asscheek she’s behind each bad decision and silly shenanigans Aeris sticks his nose into. He never learns—not after a harsh chiding or cuff around the helmet from Paz or the Armorer could dampen is childlike enthusiasm or steer him away from repeating the same mistake over and over.

Though if you read one more kriffing sentence of this garbage magazine you’re about to invite chaos himself to entertain you. Good thing too because just as you sit up to find the red armored Mandalorian—Paz rounds the corner and steps into your little broom closet that hardly passes for a room.

“Paz!” You greet, tossing the magazine over your shoulder. “Please tell me we’ll be doing something interesting or else I might start ripping my hair out. Or maybe commit a heinous crime—haven't decided yet.”

Paz grunts and shakes his head. “You’ll be doing neither. But today we’ll be sparing—hopefully that will curve your boredom.”

You scrunch up your face. “Sparring? Er, no thanks—I choose life.”

“You breathe funny since your injury,” he says, jabbing a finger between your ribs. “And all you’ve been doing lately is laying around.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you sneer, tucking your arms over your chest. “Didn’t realize I was supposed to be running laps with half a lung.”

“It’s like stretching a muscle, you need to gain your strength back.” He retorts. “This will be good for you.”

You groan and flop back into bed. “I don’t wanna. I was pretty much dead like three cycles ago—cut me some slack, man.”

There’s a brief silence as if he’s mulling over your words, but he’s stubborn. You crane your head to look at him as he says your name with a deep sigh attached to it.

“Truthfully, I’m surprised you’ve survived this long.” He says it quietly, fragile even, like he’s still expecting you to tip over and die on the spot. You very well might.

You huff. “Wow. Thanks, Paz.”

You feel his heavy stare through the helmet. “What happened to you that night was a mistake. It wasn’t preventable but the least I can do is teach you basic selfdefense.”

You gripe out your complaints but you know you’ve been beat—and well, a bit of your agreement is based on guilt.

Damn it.

-=-=-=-

It’s weird to see Paz without his heavy duty gear—like seeing him naked or a crab without a shell. The only piece he continues to wear is his helmet and padded gloves and under clothes, but it’s still weird. Strange enough that it shocks you tongue into remaining still instead of bitching about this.

He leads you to a wing of the Covert you’ve yet to discover and ushers you through the doorway. The floor is padded, a bit smaller than you expected and already occupied by none other than Aeris Fenn.

It’s a whole other kriffing shock to the head seeing him without the plates and layers of fabric and beskar too. The armor makes him bulkier—fuller and much more intimidating. Now, with only his black underclothes on, Aeris could be the spitting image of a sentient tree. Willowy limbs that stick out like branches as he stretches on the padded mat. He lazily swings his head around as you greet him, his face still covered by the black beskar painted with streaks of red.

“So you choose sparring over knife throwing?” Aeris snorts. “And to think I thought of you as a friend.”

“You think I chose to be here?” You say, grumpy and still upset at the choice of activity. Really, a brisk walk around the Covert would’ve been fine.

Aeris shrugs. “Ah, and I see you’ve roped in my favorite vod. Tch, he uses his fists instead of his words to teach. I wish you luck—you’ll need it.”

You open your mouth to retort but Paz beats you to it.

“Leave.”

“I’ve just arrived, actually,” Aeris scoffs, folding his torso over his other leg to stretch. “Perhaps you could reschedule. After all—our guest is quite free most days.”

Welp—you’re perfectly fine with that. Problem solved.

You spin on your heel and make a break for it but Paz snatches your wrist and pulls you back to his side. “Aeris.”

“Paz,” Aeris mocks, tipping his helmet to the side.

Paz exhales, a long, tired sound and grovels out another plea in clipped Mando’a. Aeris languidly stands and brushes off imaginary dust from the front of his pants. “Sorry, what was that? I don’t understand your accent.”

“Boy—“

“No, no, it’s alright.” Aeris sighs, waving his hand in a mopey display as if he were told that his birthday party were canceled for the fifth year in a row. “I’d have trouble speaking too if my enormously thick head were cooped up in that little bucket of yours all day.”

You wince.

In the time you’ve known Paz Vizsla, he’s never been one to launch into rash decisions fueled by anger—he lets it simmer and build like an oncoming storm over the ocean. Devastating once it reaches land.

Aeris bobs his head and inspects his black leather glove, picking at a loose thread on the inseam over the thumb. He clicks his tongue. “Or'dinii—you’re going to kill her.”

Your offended scoff is ignored as Paz steps forward; jutting his chin up to even out the few inches Aeris holds over the man. “You still haven’t learned to shut your mouth, boy.”

The tension surges and crackles like a volt of electricity through the air—unresolved and ready to ignite with the sparking embers of Paz’s growing irritation. It’s not a fight Aeris Fenn will win. He’s volatile and hotheaded—but his expertise is in long range weaponry. Precise, deadly and swift—not whatever this little pissing match is heading towards.

Aeris clicks his tongue as Paz digs a fist into the black fabric of his shirt. Paz yanks him forward, the metallic clink of their helmets colliding an unpleasant scrape that pierces your eardrums. Aeris snarls out sharpened words in Mando’a as his willowy fingers shoot up to curl beneath the lip of Paz’s helmet.

In the blink of an eye, Paz lifts Aeris up by his collar and launches him across the room like he weighs nothing more than a couple of down pillows. His helmet meets the wall with a resounding clank, chipping some of the red paint outlining the visor. Ouch.

Like a kicked dog, Aeris clambers to his feet, still dazed and swaying and for a fearful second you think he’ll retaliate. But with whatever braincells he happens to possess today—he instead spits out a venomous curse that even yourself would hesitate to repeat. He leaves without another word, bristling with rage.

Your flash Paz a questioning stare. “The hell was that about?”

Paz waves it away with an irritated grunt. “His heart is in the right place but he is young. Aeris doesn’t understand his place in the Covert yet and I doubt he will for years to come.”

You frown. “Poor guy…”

Paz mutters something under his breath. “Enough distractions. We’ve wasted enough time already.”

“Y’know…I think that’s enough excitement for today. I think I’ll be going now—“ Your last ditch attempt at weaseling out of this is quickly thwarted the moment you turn your back.

You wheeze as the heel of Paz’s palm shoves into your shoulder blade, the force of it sending you stumbling to the ground. “Paz—“

“Go on. Hit me,” he orders. You squeak, narrowly avoiding the well aimed kick that skims the top of your scalp.

You scramble to your feet, skirting out of range of the oncoming right hook. “So you attack me instead?”

“How do you expect to catch quarries who are bigger than you?” He presses. You hiss as the points of his knuckles dig into the meat of your shoulder.

You dance out of reach and rub your arm, a dull throb flaring up in the muscle. “I dunno—electrocute them?”

“Not if they take you by surprise.”

You screech as his knuckles skim your cheek. Adrenaline pierces you veins and you wildly throw a flaky punch that wouldn’t even impress a toddler. He catches your fist with ease, his entire hand dwarfing your clenched fingers. “You can do better than that.”

You snarl and struggle to rip your hand back. “I’m a scrapper. I don’t fight.”

“No,” he retorts. You fall onto your ass as he abruptly lets go of your hand. “You’re a bounty hunter.”

You roll your eyes. “Hardly—why can’t I just stay here?”

Although there’s nothing to see with that swatch of black covering his eyes, you can certainly feel the look he’s giving you. A deep sigh hisses through the vocoder. “You can stay here—“

A triumphant smile splits across your face—

“—but not without contributing where it’s due.”

You puff up your cheeks and let out a dismayed stream of air. “Booo—lame.”

He sighs again and helps you off the floor. “Even if you leave the Guild, what I’m teaching you is helpful.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you say. “I’ll give you a call after I use your invaluable skills to beat up some thug.”

Paz ignores your comment and turns on his heel. “Let’s go through it again. This time use your front two knuckles instead of your whole fist.”

As your eyes land over the stretch of tight fighting fabric over his back an idea pops into your head. It’s a petty move but getting a punch in is fruitless—like trying to beat up a brick wall. You don’t fancy a broken hand and your knuckles are already bruised and swollen to the point where it’s hard to bend them.

And so, without any forethought and with a running head start, you launch yourself onto him, your arms coiling around his neck. It does the job—takes him by surprise and makes him tip to the right.

Aha! Yes!

Your reign of victory is short lived, however—

He latches onto your forearms strung around his neck and yanks. And much in the same way he threw Aeris like a sack of potatoes—you’re no different. For a short stretch of time that feels kriffing endless; you soar through the air, your directional whereabouts violently ripped out beneath you and equally nauseating in the same breath.

Why you ever agreed to this—you don’t know.

Your shoulder blade connects with the mat first, leaving behind a dull sting as you roll and tumble with uncontrollable momentum. Oh, yeah—you’ll feel that in the morning.

Groaning, you thank the Maker that your body eventually settles into a miserable little pile of limbs and pain. But, it seems whatever higher power that lingers in the edges of the galaxy hasn’t decided to put you out of your misery just yet.

A bulky shadow blocks out the dim lighting overhead, and for a brief anxiety ridden moment you’re afraid it’s Paz. You roll onto your back with a pathetic groan, a beg for mercy on the tip of your tongue—but as your eyes flutter open they’re met with an entirely different man.

Din Djarin looms over you, his head cocked to the side as you blink in dumbfounded bewilderment. Ah, hell—

You swallow, a furious heat bitting at your cheeks. “Uh…fine weather we’re having…”

“We’re inside,” he states with a brief glance up to the ceiling.

You purse your lips. “Huh.”

With a pensive hum he offers his hand, you sigh and roll over, accepting his gloved hand. He hoists you up easily and adjusts your rumpled collar. “You ok?”

“Pfft, yeah,” you groan, rubbing your throbbing shoulder. “Never better.”

The low grumble of your name is a cross between disbelief and irritation. Din jerks his head, his attention zeroing in on Paz. “Are you trying to kill her?”

“She isn’t made of glass.”

“She is still recovering—“

Normally you’d intervene, but their bickering is tiring and it gives you the excuse to lie down. By the time one of them caves you’ve counted exactly one hundred and twelve weird ceiling stains. They should get that checked out.

“Very well,” Paz snarls, cutting through your wandering thoughts. “You teach her.”

Din scoffs, his shoulders drawn tight as he stomps over to your splayed out self. “Get up.”

“Geez, fine,” you grumble, not in the mood to test his patience further. “Since you asked so nicely.”

Later he’ll no doubt apologize but right now? He has to prove a point. Din cuts right to it, moves in close to place your clenched fists in the right stance and nudges at your feet until they’re a bit wider than hip distance.

“You have to get in close with a bigger opponent,” he says, stepping into your space until your fists are close enough to touch his chest. “We don’t have much range here—easier to break our guard too.”

“Right. And how would you suggest I do that?”

“You’re always beating me at cards.” Din says, tipping his head to the side. “You have a clever mind. Use it.”

“But I always cheat.” You point out, dropping your guard to swat at a stray hair.

He catches your wrists and returns them to where they ought to be. “Quick enough to get away with it.”

You make a noise of uncertainty but do as you're told. Din takes a couple steps back and with a rough order you begin.

He’s faster than Paz—bats at your guard in quick bursts and steps away when you attempt to hit back. It’s a dance almost—somehow elegant in its brutality of bruises and flashes of pain as you move around one another. Compared to Din, Paz is almost clumsy but unpredictable. Din—despite the rapidness of his attacks and evasiveness, becomes predictable.

He steps to to left—you follow. He rocks onto his toes to jab his fist forward and that’s where you find a break. Punching Din’s helmet won’t do you any good but catching the juncture of his shoulder with your elbow is completely feasible. Too bad that you’re not the only one with a clever mind.

Din uses the momentum of your attack to catapult you to the ground—his own body rolling with you in order to capture you in a headlock of sorts. This sucks. After this you’ll never be setting foot in this Maker forsaken room again.

Din tightens his elbow that’s looped around your throat as you squirm and flail, trapped against his chest. He grunts as your elbow digs into his ribs but holds steady and snakes his free arm across your front, pinning your limbs to your body in an unbreakable vice. All mobility is cut off as his knee pushes between your thighs, locking your leg out into an uncomfortable and frankly quite awkward angle.

Inhaling a shaky breath, you arch as the crown of his helmet skims along the curve of your throat; the bite of beskar frigid and startling against your flushed skin. You can see his visor out of the corner of your eye; glittering and dark like the polished obsidian on Black Spire and endless like the greedy maw of a black hole.

Your breath hitches as he shifts and curls his head closer to your ear. His voice rumbles low and deep through his chest and vibrates against the delicate cartilage. “Yield.”

However much your pride wrestles with the sensible part of your brain, it’s all for naught as you jerk your head in defeat.

In retrospect you should’ve said something—used your voice or made some kinda sound because suddenly Din’s forearm digs alarmingly hard into your windpipe. He read the stuttered jerk of your head as another pitiful act of defiance but no. Nope.

Here you are—asphyxiating.

Not exactly what you had in mind, being strangled by a Mandalorian and all—but a chokehold where you could very well die was not it.

Fuzzy darkness begins to shade the corners of your vision, lightheadedness and a curious warmth that prickles down your spine settling low in your belly. A raspy gasp manages to slip through your blocked off airway, and stars why does this feel good?

“Din—”

Paz’s sharp bark is distant above the ringing in your ears and it all stops.

You gulp in air that burns your throat like refined fire whiskey—hunched over the mat as a large palm rubs soothing circles over your upper back. You cough and roll over, sounding like a dying animal run over by a speeder then hit with a spiked club to polish it off.

You’re quickly herded into Paz’s arms and pulled into his lap. Still wheezing and attempting to recover lost oxygen, whatever Din is trying to say translates into an indiscernible hum against the ringing in your ears.

“I’m fine,” you mutter, though neither of them care to listen. Like bristling wolves, snapping at each other’s heels.

“Apologize to her,” there’s not so much as a centimeter of room to argue. “Now.”

It’s nice of Paz you suppose—defending your honor and what not, but you’re not a vengeful person. It was an honest mistake and you want to explain that so Din quits looking like a kicked puppy, yet the sudden touch over your ankle stops you. All the times Din has initiated contact it’d been a friendly pat to your shoulder or ruffling you hair, and while touching your ankle isn’t exactly scandalous it’s certainly an odd place to put your hand on.

Your fingers clutch Paz’s shirt as you eye the man lingering at the bottom of your feet, his gloved thumb unconsciously rubbing patterns into the exposed skin between your boot and your pant leg. “Cyare—I’m sorry.”

You blink and lick your lips. Interesting. “I-I don’t know what that word means.”

His hand inches higher, resting on the swell of your calf. “Sweetheart…darling…loved one—“

There’s a shift—a dark undercurrent that none of you should be dipping your toes into. There’s a million and one things to say or do to sever this at the root, but are you going to? Nah.

Din’s thumb now rests over your knee, goosebumps following in his wake. “Should I keep going?”

It too hot—stuffy with both of their heavy stares locked on your flushed face. You squirm and glance up at Paz who only offers an impassive stare. Great.

“I can make it up to you,” Din continues, his hand stationary—a warm weight even through the fabric of your pants. “If you let me.”

Your mouth feels drier than the desert on Jakku. This…nothing good could come out of what Din is hinting at. This is uncharted territory—launching yourself into the great unknown without any idea of what’ll fester and grow if you agree.

It’s not like it hasn’t crossed your mind—it’s just…it’s never been both of them at the same time. These men are short-tempered, an open flame to jet fuel with deeply seated ire woven into the very fabric of their beings. You’ve barely scratched the surface on the inner workings of their mutual hostility, but you’re bright enough to question if this will make it worse. Tinder and brittle twigs feeding and enabling the hungry flames of rivalry to spiral and consume with chaotic brilliance of a dying star—

But, oh—

Isn’t it worth taking the risk?

You suck in a grounding breath and slowly extend your leg that Din touches, gingerly skimming the toe of your shoe along the inseam of his inner thigh. “H-how would you…make it up to me?”

Din preens at your answer and shuffles closer, lifting your legs so that they rest in his lap. Devotion drips off his words like a fine liquor as he toys with the laces on your boots. “Anything—say it and it’s yours.”

Sparks of molten heat race down your spine and metastasize in your lower belly, spreading through each vein and artery like a some sort of invasive ivy. You spare a look up at Paz as he shifts.

“Go ahead, girl,” Paz assures. “Answer him.”

It’s an unspoken, buzzing sort of thing like the static air before a storm, crackling and surging with pent up energy. You all know the implications of what’s to come—but it’s your words, quiet and steady that irons that nail into your coffin.

“Take me like you mean it.”

The next few moments pass in a dizzying blur, a mess of anticipation as your shoes are yanked off, your pants following soon after and tossed into some unknown corner of the room. Paz helps you out of your shirt, a shiver wracking through your body from the chill, leaving you bare save for your underthings. Yet the warmth that seeps through his shirt and his hands that linger over your ribcage do a lovely job at making up for the cold.

Din shuffles closer and brings his fingers up to cup the side of your face, lowering his head to rest the crown of his helmet on your forehead. “Wanna touch you.”

Your breath hitches as Paz’s hands sweep up your torso, cupping and kneading your breasts. “Y-you already are touching me, Din."

Paz snorts as the rough leather of his gloves scrape over your skin and unhook your bindings. You hardly hear Din over your own whine as Paz rolls your hardened nipples between a forefinger and thumb.

“I want to feel you—without the gloves,” Din clarifies, fighting to keep your attention on him. “Will you let me?”

Maker that shouldn’t even be a question. You moan out your approval, delighted that both of them decide to slip off the padded fabric. Din touches your bare thigh the same moment Paz returns his hands to your tits and it’s exhilarating. The rasp of their bare palms against your flesh is addicting—something so foreign and warm compared to their usual armor and thick layered clothing.

You arch into Paz’s hand as it curls around the base of your throat, a tentative pressure but still heavy. “You’d let us do anything, wouldn’t you? Needy little thing.”

“Yes,” you croak, already debauched and falling apart at the seams. “Anything.”

You’re all too happy to fade away in the embrace of the larger man but the other participant is far from letting that slide. Din grabs your hand, guiding it towards the front of his trousers, the drawstrings already loose and easy to pull aside. He groans and twitches as your fingertips flirt along his navel, then curl over the waistband, tugging his pants the rest of the way down to pool around his knees.

You reach for the already impressive outline of his cock pressing against his boxers, but Paz cupping your cunt through your underwear just before you touch Din is distracting. You gasp and arch as Paz digs the heel of his palm against your clit, electrifying ecstasy zipping down your spine with each touch.

There’s a twinge of guilt after Din huffs and drags your limp wrist back to his cock, this time encouraging you to palm him by guiding your actions with his own hand until you lazily oblige. Din’s quiet grunts, gravely against the vocoder do nothing but throw more jet fuel to the fire inside your belly. The growing urge to actually touch him gnaws and corrodes the forefront of your brain. With a firm yank his boxers are quick to join his trousers and Maker—

Fuck—

Will he even fit?

Din is thick, rosy brown and flushed at the tip and beginning to curl towards his bellybutton. A bead of liquid shines at the tip, dribbling down the underside as he wraps his fist around the base of his length. He gives himself a languid stroke before he, once again, reminds your hand of what it’s supposed to be doing. Din is searing in your palm, molten and stiffening to hardened steel in your grip.

“You look so fuckin’ pretty like this,” Din hisses as his head rolls back onto his shoulders. “S-so pretty holding my cock.”

Your desperation tears at your insides, insatiable and Maker— you wanna taste him. You want to hear every little stuttered moan and feel each twitch of his hips as he claims your mouth as his own.

But before you’re able to ask Din if he’d be willing to fuck your throat, Paz grips your knee and slings your leg over his thigh, murmuring praise as he peels off your underwear. Paz’s hand snakes down to your pussy and runs two thick fingers through your already slick cunt, then delicately parts your folds.

It’s like a fucking bomb going off as his thumb grazes over your swollen clit. His forearm locks tight around your waist, keeping you in place as you arch and tremble. Paz is feather light and teasing, as he strokes over the little bundle of nerves in a painstakingly slow rhythm.

“Paz—“

He nudges your cheek with his helmet and chuckles. “You’re so sensitive, vaar’ika. Such lovely noises too.”

Paz trades in his light touches for using his two fingers instead. They form a relaxed ‘v’ shape, trapping your clit in between the digits as he massages in a steady up and down motion. You cry out, every nerve shocked and flooded with saccharine pleasure, shoving you so treacherously close to that precarious edge of release.

You have no fucking chance as a different set of fingers, leaner in length but just as bulky, carefully prod at your entrance. Din’s pointer finger slides into your cunt, quickly adding a second as your core clenches and stretches for him. The dual sensations over your clit and Din’s fingers steadily pumping and curling inside you send you hurling into that dazzling white-hot pleasure.

Throwing your head back, you cry out—a jumbled mess of their names or just nonsense— pleasure crackling out from your core and all the way down your legs. Your cunt tightens like a vice around Din’s digits, your legs twitching as your high dips into prickly overstimulation. You whine, and swat at Paz’s hand, Din pulling out his own fingers a moment later and wiping your wetness on the inside of your thigh.

Your head rests in the crook of Paz’s shoulder as your breath fans across the side of his helmet, fogging up the metal where the blue paint is chipped and scraped away. The shirt he wears smells a bit like sweat but the underlying scent of him is comforting—worn leather and something crisp, like fresh laundry. You don’t mean for the words to slip out—

You know better than that, but everything feels muddled and silly and, and, and—

“I wish I could kiss you.”

It’s like dousing ice cold water on a pile of smoldering coals. A silence, petrifying and like the inhale before jumping off a cliff and into a rocky sea, ensues. Stupid, stupid, stupid—

Paz shatters the fragile suspense with a rich laugh that burns away all the icy worry making itself a home in your ribcage. He moves his arm up, his fingers gripping your jaw to fix your gaze onto the other Mandalorian. “You want his mouth on you too?”

You whimper and nod, but it isn’t enough.

“Use your voice vaar’ika,” Paz hums, pressing the crown of his helmet against your cheek. “Tell us want you want.”

“I-fuck—” Paz’s fingertips sneak up your torso, rough callous catching deliciously on your skin. “I wan’t your mouth on me. B-both of you.”

Paz chuckles and releases his hold on your chin. “You’ll have to be blindfolded, sweet girl.”

Din scoffs, a harsh crackle through the vocoder. “Like she’d want to see your face anyway.”

“Please,” you mewl, turning your head to curl into Paz’s neck. It’s not ideal, but it’s a sacrifice you’re willing to make. “I don’t care. I need—“

“Patience, little one,” Paz purrs, rubbing up and down your bare sides in a soothing manner. All it does is stoke the flames. “You’ll get what you want.”

Paz shifts, reaching for your abandoned shirt and stars—

You can feel his cock, firmer then tempered durasteel and poking into your lower back. Oh, hell—these men are going to ruin you.

You’re nudged forward, your vision going dark once your shirt is securely tied around your head. The knot traps a few hairs that pull sharp against your scalp but the measly pain is worth it. Oh so worth it.

“Is it too tight?” You hear Din ask, concern lacing his gravely vocals.

You wave your hand in dismissal. “S’fine.”

“Cant see anything either, right?”

You squirm, your patience spreading thin. “Din, please.”

“Fine.” There’s no bite to his tone and under different circumstances you’d have more composure. Acknowledge that they’re putting their religion, their whole being into your hands—a fragile trust that could so easily be shattered.

Your ears pick up their subtle movements, their helmets landing onto the thin mat with soft thunks. With bated breath you wait for them to jump into action, seize every spare moment to taste your skin and breathe the same air. But—

“You need a haircut, vod.”

“And you need to shave.” Retorts Din with bitter indignation.

“It’s hardly even stubble.” He chortles. You giggle and twist away as he scrapes his prickly cheek up and down your neck. “Besides—she likes it.”

There’s another lull, and with the blindfold everything is amplified—the quick and quiet breathing of Din on your right and the slide of fabric against skin as Paz shifts. Your attention is captured by Din’s bare palm, warm and calloused like weathered leather left out in the afternoon sun. He caresses the outside of your thigh in smooth, longing strokes, enraptured by the softness of your skin. You whimper and let your leg fall open, exposing more of your thigh for his curious exploration.

The sudden touch on your cheek is jarring. You know Paz is there—it’s not an easy thing to forget the solid chest you’re leaning against but it’s hard to focus. Difficult to settle on one thought before it slips away like grains of sand between a clenched fist. Paz’s touch is heavier than Din’s, ambitious and greedy but…mindful. Even as his fingers spread along your jaw and drag you into a deep, mouthwatering kiss. It’s…stars—

There’s nothing that can describe this. No word that could ever hold a candle up to the way his lips, plush and soft, move against yours. His nose brushes against your cheek as he tilts his head and deepens the kiss, his warm tongue sliding against the seam of your bottom lip.

You whine and bury your hand into his hair as Paz groans, a low rumble in his throat. You wonder what color it is, but carding your fingers through the curls atop his head suffices for now.

Your curiosity is abruptly ended as Din’s hand snakes around your forearm. You’re forcibly yanked away, only to be met with another pair of lips. Din murmurs an apology at the sting of his teeth bumping into your upper lip, but the pain is hardly the first thing on your mind.

Din’s kiss is devouring—

Scalding and bright—the galaxy, a thousand suns, all there ever will be and all that ever was. The way his lips move against yours is a devastatingly sharp contrast to the steady, syrupy sweet kiss Paz offers. Desperate and eager to surround you in his own arms—steal away any lingering thought and replace it with him. Din Djarin—

You gasp as Din’s teeth nibble and pull on your bottom lip, only a moment before he surges closer, wrapping his hand around your jaw to hold it open as he licks deep into your mouth. Breaking for air, Din tangles his fingers into your hair at the base of your neck and yanks, baring the column of your throat. His travels down, the tender kisses morphing into teasing nips and lingering sucks that’ll turn into tender bruises in the morning.

Din hovers over your breasts, his heated breath and cooling saliva the catalyst to the goosebumps that rush over your skin. He lightly tugs on your nipple using his teeth, then plants a sweet kiss over your sternum.

“Can I taste you?” Din murmurs, his lips ghosting over your flesh. “Maker—wanna put my mouth on you.”

“Din—“ A different set of lips latching onto the juncture of your neck and hijacks your train of thought. Wipes your mind clean until Paz is the sole thing you can consciously focus on.

Paz laves his tongue over the shell of your ear and urges you to lean back against him once more. Your nose scrapes against his stubble as you tuck your head into the crook of his neck, his hips lazily rolling his hardened cock into your backside.

“Or…” Paz rumbles, capturing your hand and interlacing your fingers with his. You marvel at the sheer size of his palm—astounded still when he leads his and your hands to palm his cock. “I could give you this. Fuck your pretty little cunt until you’re screaming for me.”

It’s a punch to the gut. Why the fuck do you have to choose? You squirm as Din points his tongue over your nipple then sucks it into his mouth.

Working through the fog in your head, the answer is clearer than fucking crystal. Because who in their right mind would turn down a Mandalorian’s request to eat you out? Not you, that’s for sure. “Din—want your mouth.”

Din huffs in triumph and slips between your legs that part to accommodate his broad shoulders, leaving no patch of bare skin untouched and worshiped. You shiver as his tongue circles around your bellybutton then retreats. Din settles his head beside your knee and mouths a kiss there.

You whine his name and buck your hips, heart beating wildly in your ears. The teasing is unbearable and, stars—if he doesn’t start now—

He nibbles on the inside of your thigh, laving his warm tongue over each mark he leaves behind, buffering the sting of his teeth. Din snake his hands under your ass, hooking your knees over his shoulders as he heaves your cunt closer to his mouth. Din’s thumbs part your soaking pussy, his breath hot fanning over your cunt. His tongue his scalding—like liquid velvet as he dips the tip of his tongue from the base of your slit all the way up to your clit.

Din sucks on the little bundle of nerves, rolling his tongue until you’re crying out, molten pleasure zipping through you. He grunts as your fingers tangle into his hair—fuck. Fuck, you need more.

Arching into his mouth, all thoughts are obliterated; nothing but the warmth of his tongue, and his lips, devouring you as if he were a man seconds from death and you’re his saving grace. That frenzied desperation lingers on the edges of his movements like he’s afraid you’ll fade into smoke—but you’re not going anywhere. Not even a million credits could convince you to push Din’s head away.

He sinks two fingers into your clenching hole and curls his fingers, stroking and curling his fingertips to make you sing. Zeros in on that little spot that causes the involuntary twitches of your leg and wrenches embarrassing, high pitched mewls that fill the room. You’re careening towards your high, the sensitivity of your last orgasm amping up the influx of pleasure.

“Shit—Din. Close—I’m so close,” you gasp, pulling his hair tight enough that you know it must hurt. He makes no sign that it does, just groans and buries his tongue into your dripping hole, licking alongside his fingers that shovel more of your wetness into his mouth.

Your release unfurls through your body like sticky molasses—smoldering embers that seep into each limb until they’re heavier than lead. Fuck—it’s so hard to think and at this rate your brain is as good as gone.

You pay only a fraction of attention to Din as he kisses his way back up your body and lands a final one over your lips. His thumb grazes over your chin, his gravelly words of praise cutting through some of that foggy haze, how good you were, how fucking delicious you tasted when you came on his tongue. You taste your own arousal on his mouth as he noses your cheek and captures your lips in another kiss.

“Are you done?” Paz asks dryly, much too barbed to be thrown your way. You groan when Paz jostles your limp body as he hoists you back into his lap.

“Just starting, actually,” Din quips. “Why don’t you hand her back over? I’ve got some more things I wanna try.”

Paz scoffs and secures a heavy arm around your middle. “Greed will get you nowhere.”

“Neither will your arrogance.”

“Shut up—both of you,” you interrupt. Your voice is raw and choppy but it does the job. “Just fuck me already.”

For now their little spat is sidelined—it’s not worth ripping off that bandage of a temporary truce. There’s a chaste moment of quiet, like they’re considering tearing into each other’s throats instead, but with a touch to Paz’s thigh the standoff fizzles out.

“We need to work on your manners,” Paz suggests, curling his large, calloused hand around your neck in a loose hold. “I believe it’s please fuck me.”

Maybe if you weren’t practically a pile of brainless goo, you’d argue. See how far you can push—though this time you fold. “Please fuck me. P-please—I need it.”

Seemingly satisfied with your answer; Paz wedges a hand between your bodies to grip his cock and run the tip through your folds, soaked from you own wetness and Din’s saliva. The head of his member nudges at your entrance, and wether it’s his size or the fact you can’t see anything—you panic.

Your hand shoots out, nails harpooning into the meat of his forearm. “W-wait—you’re too b-big.”

Paz freezes and moves you up his lap and presses a kiss over you hairline. “We can stop. Just say—“

“N-no, I’m fine,” you assure, planting an apologetic peck on his stubbled jaw. Stopping is the last thing you want to do—it was just…overwhelming. A sensory overload testing the very fringes of your being. “Go slow?”

You feel his head bob in compliance as he moves you back to where you’re hovering over his cock. You relax this time, not as many alarm bells clanging through your head as your cunt flutters around the fat tip and then that glorious, first thick inch. Paz’s thumb bumps over your throbbing clit, coaxing your pussy to take him further.

“Yeah, that’s it vaar’ika,” he grunts, his breath fanning over your neck in quick pants. “Taking my cock so fucking well. So nice and pretty.”

Your pussy flutters, fresh waves of arousal hot and burning.You nearly keel over when Paz starts shallowly rocking his hips, easing your body the rest of the way down his length until the back of your thighs touch his. Maker—how the hell is he all the way inside? You can feel him in your fucking guts—

“See?” Paz purrs. He sucks a bruise into the meat of your shoulder and pushes his palm against your lower stomach, making the fit even tighter. “Fits fucking perfect.”

The noise your cunt makes pulling out and the debauched moan that filters through his vocal chords is obscene. If anyone where to walk by, well—it’s certainly not training that’s going on, for the better lack of words.

Paz holds true to his word—keeps his pace limited to deep, languid thrusts that brush up against something that makes your whole body shake—like strumming a golden chord molded to a musician’s fingers. Fuck—he’s doing all the work too. Lifting you by the swell of your hips and pulling you down onto his cock with a rough buck of his hips.

Abruptly, he slows to a gentle rocking—quick to lock you in place as you thrash and roll your hips. “Paz—n-no. Keep going. You n-need to—“

Paz silences your please with a wet, open mouthed kiss. “Our friend looks lonely. Why don’t you use that pretty mouth and suck his cock?”

Din.

You hear the man curse in Mando’a, probably some stab at Paz—

But with a pat to your outer thigh, you don’t need any more prompting—you’d give up your left hand to get a chance to suck him off. With the help of Paz, you’re eased onto your hands and knees, shocks of white-hot pleasure zipping through your core at the change of angle. Like this Paz is seated deeper inside, stabbing into each spot that makes you sing.

Fuck—your arms are shaking—only able to hold yourself up for half a click and then you’re sinking face first into the floor, ass in the air as he fucks into you. Paz clicks his tongue and wraps his arm around your front, pulling you back up from your slumped position.

“I told you to suck his cock, girl. Not take a nap.” Paz accentuates his words with heavy, well measured thrusts—the kind of force you know will leave your whole lower half throbbing and sore in the aftermath.

You whine as Paz grabs a hold of your jaw, digging into the tender joints until your mouth falls open. “Good. Keep it like that.”

Paz’s hand falls away, replaced by a softer touch. The pads of Din’s fingers hook under your chin, guiding and tempting you nearer to what rests between his legs, hot and heavy and large.

You feel the tip of his cock, flushed and pulsing, rest on your bottom lip. You lap up the beads of sticky precum with kitten licks that morph into suckling the entire head. Din grunts out your name and tangles his hand into your hair as you tongue at the ridged frenulum. He never forces you to swallow down more of him—lets you cradle the first few inches in the wet warmth of your mouth and languidly roll the pad of your tongue around him.

You want to take him deeper, let Din fuck your throat raw, but your jaw already aches. Your lips are pulled tight around his shaft, drool dribbling down your chin and landing on the mat below. You’re not sure if you could take more of him without the danger of your teeth catching or dislocating your jaw. So you manage like this—hollowing out your cheeks and and using the momentum of Paz’s thrusts to pleasure Din.

It’s frustrating—it must be each time you let his cock slip out of your mouth to breathe or the fact Din isn’t able to fucking fit his cock into your mouth. Annoying that you aren’t able to think properly to help him out a bit ore when that said brain is being fucked straight outta you, put through the wringer and then body slammed onto duracrete.

Din cups your cheek, strokes over your skin with his thumb and maneuvers himself out of your mouth. You whine and lean into his palm, his touch addictive like smoldering coals in the dead of winter.

“You want me there instead of him?” Din purrs, using the tips of his index and middle fingers to tilt your chin and drag you into an open mouthed kiss. “Fuck you like you deserve.”

The profane imagery of Din between your legs instead makes you clench tight. It only takes a couple seconds and a few more feverish kisses before you’re nodding to his request. Paz mutters a swear, hesitates, and reluctantly pulls out, leaving your cunt empty and aching with need.

Din, however, is speedy—quick to hoard you to himself and yank your legs over his hips so that you’re draped on his lap. He jumps straight to the point, no fancy maneuver or drawn out teasing—just grabs the base of his cock, slides the flushed tip between your folds and sinks into your cunt. Even after your pussy had been stretched and molded around Paz’s length, you struggle to take Din’s entire cock into your aching center. It’s easier than Paz but, Maker—not by much.

You whine, harpooning your fingernails into his shoulder once he bottoms out. Din snarls a curse and latches his teeth onto the juncture between your neck and shoulder, prickly pain shooting directly to your belly. “Fucking tight. H-how—fuck.”

There’s no time to adjust before Din sets a pace, harsh and desperate—his hands digging into the flesh of your ass for better leverage. Each roll of his hips borders erratic, taking his pleasure without thought—intent on reaching his own end before it could be yanked out from under him. Din’s staggered exhales below your ear are interlaced with subdued moans that start low in his ribcage then dip into a higher, airy pitch. A delicate sound you’ll guard closer to your chest than any secret you possess for the rest of your life—precious and yours.

Din turns his head to steal a kiss. “You feel fuck—fucking good. Wanna feel you cum around me. S-squeezed so fucking hard around my fingers—“

You choke out a groan and feel your arousal begin to drip down your thighs—hear the thrusts of his cock into your cunt become shamefully wetter. Heat sizzles down each vertebrae in your spine, burning up each and every cell with the brilliance of a wildfire. Stars, this is gonna destroy you.

Din’s hand sneaks between your bodies and rubs tight, little circles over you swollen clit. There’s no build up to your orgasm—just a blinding surge of blistering warmth that knocks you off your feet and steals away all the air left in your lungs. Your nails dig into Din’s back as you shake and grapple for a foothold in your own consciousness—the steady warmth of his body a much needed anchor for the madness that threatens to drown you.

“Good girl,” Din praises, pace faltering from just how tight your pussy squeezes and flutters around his cock. “S-such a fucking good girl for me.”

Regaining some semblance of control, you realize he’s still fucking going—still rock solid and throbbing, fucking you through the aftershocks of your release. Your arousal turns sharp, like rough cotton over a fresh sunburn as it dips into overstimulation. It’s not unpleasant but Din has to slow his hips to a delicate roll for you to recover.

In the time it takes to inhale, a different calloused hand kneads into your lower back then smoothes up your spine. A second later you feel the scrape of Paz’s stubble prick along your exposed shoulder as his tongue drags along your sweat dampened skin—all the way up the curve of your neck and ending at the shell of your ear.

You’re not sure if it’s intentional, but as Paz crowds closer the tip of his cock pokes at your other hole. With a surprised mewl, you tense and shy away—but he follows, molds his chest against your back to sandwhich you in. The hand gripping your bicep jumps to your neck and pulls your head against his shoulder.

Two of Paz’s fingers dip down the curve of your ass and brush along the puckered skin—far less jarring this time. “Do you want to be fucked here too?”

Maker—

You’re gonna fucking explode.

Stuffed to the brim already, it’s hard to imagine Paz cramming himself in along with Din. A little red light blares in some corner of your mind but it’s quickly soothed as Paz plants soft kisses over your cheek and jaw. You trust him—there’s no reason to think he’ll hurt you or push you to the point of pain.

You catch his mouth with a kiss and rock your hips back. “Y-yeah, ok. I trust you.”

You feel his smile curl against your cheek. “Don’t worry vaar’ika—I’ll take care of you.”

Paz strokes your bottom lip with his thumb and kisses the crown of your hairline as you sink into him. With his ring and middle finger, he pushes past the seam of your lips. “Suck.”

You obey, sealing your lips around his two digits and coating them in your saliva. Paz pulls them out with a pop and moves them between your legs, and with the added wetness dripping from your cunt, the first finger is easy enough. The second and third have you gasping as he scissors them and stretches your tight hole wider. You claw your nails into Din’s shirt—and he’s no better—Din’s own hands are clamping around your hips, struggling to keep still and biting back moans each time your cunt constricts.

Your hips begins to meet the thrusts of Paz’s fingers as your body familiarizes the feel of him there. It’s a deep thrill that rushes up through your spinal cord—much different from anything you’ve felt before.

“You like this, don’t you?” Paz goads, chuckling when you whine as he extracts his fingers. “I think you’re ready to take my cock, yeah?”

You shudder and nod, your voice no more than a squeak as it pilfers out. Paz strokes the top of your head and tips you forward into Din’s eager arms as Paz slicks up his length in a mix of precum and your dripping arousal. He touches the swell of you ass in warning, lines himself up with your hole and wedges the tip of his cock inside of you.

Involuntary tears dampen your makeshift blindfold as Paz buries himself deeper, his rumbling tone urging you to relax—relax even though your mind is drowning in an ocean of arousal and swirling emotions you have no hope to pin down and analyze. It’s for the best—thankful as Paz bottoms out that it wrenches you back to a feasible reality you’re able to manage.

“Shit—I-I’m gonna die—“ You sob, writhing at just how full you are. But there’s nowhere to fucking go—

“Easy,” Din breathes, and you wonder if he’s said it to keep his own head on his shoulders. “Easy.”

Din’s gravelly rasp cuts through the fog in your head, and stars—you sound like you’re fucking dying. Your wheezy breaths and lightheadedness would certainly suggest that—but no…no, you’re fine. Better than fine.

A rush so acute and devastating launches up your spine as Din’s patience cracks. He experimentally rolls his hips and that’s the end of it. You’re swallowed up in that riptide you fought so hard to avoid—fuck. You won’t be the same after this. How can you?

You can feel them both, separated by a thin wall as they sprint towards their own highs. You’re never once left empty—Din reaches the end of you as Paz pulls out and while there’s not exactly any finesse involves it’s the best fucking thing you’ve felt in your entire life. There’s no bickering—no teasing and you’re struck with an idea that makes you clench tight around both of them. You wouldn’t mind if this was the way they decided to settle scores or finally see eye to eye.

This time you can’t discern your high—just a constant overflow of ecstasy and dazzling arousal like an imploding supernova. You cry their names—sob and shake in their hold with such fervor that Paz traps you tighter between them to keep you still.

“Fuck—you get so fucking tight,” Paz growls, blunt nails digging into your hips. “And so fucking wet.”

His fingers touch the inside of your thigh and stars—he’s right. “I get to fuck your cunt next time—see how much you’ll drip for me.”

Even if the blindfold were off—there’d be nothing to see but a white wash of nothing. Blinded by pleasure and bursting at the seems.

Jealous, Din steals your breath away with a kiss, licking and nipping at your swollen lips until you whine his name. His jagged pants fan across your chin—chapped lips and patchy facial hair tickling across your bottom lip as you breath the same air.

Din whispers your name like a prayer, his fingers clutching tight around your thighs as his pace starts to flounder to choppy jerks. “Shit. I-I’m close—“

Your fingers twist into his hair. “Yeah—ok baby. Let go.”

Din’s teeth sink into the base of your throat and cums. His seed coats your insides—hot and copious and fucking shit—if there’s a next time you want him to cum in your mouth.

You don’t get time to relish Din’s stuttered gasps of your name, laced with praise and a show of a tender and bleeding heart before Paz is gathering up your hair in a tight fist and jerking your head up. “You—you want me to cum too? Say it.”

Without a breath of hesitation you beg for it, cry and arch into him. It does the trick—

Paz is loud—shouts a thunderous roar and buries his cock deep into your hole. Din is still recovering from the aftershocks of his release when Paz pulls out after what seems like ages pumping you full. His cock no longer there to plug you up, his cum begins to dribble out and mix with the mess between your legs. Your legs shake and you wobble--crying out as Din slips out, your body dreadfully empty and aching.

You're lowered to the mat by Din and if you weren't still trying to formulate words, you'd thank them. Lips dart over your cheeks and hairline, and for once nothing needs to be said. It’s nice...the radiating warmth from their bodies and the simmering flush through you body is something you could get used to. But you’re no stranger to the shifting tides of the future.

You shrug it off.

Your eyes are heavy and with one of them stroking your hair and the other your thigh, you drift to sleep. Later—later all unspoken things and disastrous words can be dealt with tomorrow. You must be dreaming when it’s said--careless and bold, but the words nestle into your heart and sprouts with fear.

“You love her, don't you?”

translation:

vaar’ika--pipsqueak

or’dinni--dumbass idiot

vod--brother/comrade

tag list:

@bobafctts @djxrxn @teaofpeach @corrupt-fvcker @nelba @datmando @ben-is-a-hoe @dreams-like-clockwork @aerynwrites @auty-ren @huliabitch @anxiety-riddled-mando @phoenixhalliwell @trippedmetaldetector

#happy SINday :)#pls accept some mando schlong #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #paz vizla x reader #paz vizsla x reader #paz vizla #paz vizsla #din djarin #the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #star wars #sw #fanfic #my writing #reader insert

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5lazarus · 3 years ago

Text

So Much Lore! So Much Information!

Dorian has a wonderful conversation with the Skyhold Librarian about improvements to the library's filing system and the innovations coming out of Minrathous when Vivienne comes by and points out he's just talking to himself. He's been waxing rhapsodic about the Tevinter equivalent of the Dewey decimal system to a spirit--or maybe a demon.

So clearly they must investigate. The first time I played DAI, the Librarian didn't spawn! He was quite a surprise during my second playthrough--so I got to thinking, what if he were a spirit? And what sort of spirit would he be?

The song Dorian hears in the brothel, that Solas sings, is one of the most beautiful love songs I've ever heard-- "Lamma Bada Yatathanna," which was composed in Al-Andalus. Here's my favorite version. The other song he sings to himself as he paints is a poem by Tolkien. I like this arrangement! There's a background story in those songs, if you check out the lyrics. ;) Read on Archive of Our Own here.

Dorian’s having a wonderful conversation with the new librarian in the Skyhold library about proper filing systems, and he’s really starting to have faith in the Inquisition’s ability to pull together an organization actually organized to take on Corypheus and the Tevinter elite. He’s telling him about the latest innovation of folding actual waves of sound into crystals in Minrathous when Vivienne saunters by.

“Darling, shush,” she says as she goes. “We must have quiet in the library, and you’re scaring our guests, talking to yourself.”

Dorian reddens. “I am not monologuing!” he protests. “We’re having a conversation, aren’t we, er—“ He realizes he hasn’t actually asked for the librarian’s name, but he turns to him for back-up anyway. He’ll ignore the misstep, Dorian is so pretty, he can carry this away.

But there is no one there.

Vivienne says very calmly, “Did you think you were speaking to someone?”

Dorian says, “I’m not twelve, it wasn’t a demon. He was just right there!”

She says, “Oh, what do they teach you in Minrathous?”

“I know how to recognize a demon, Madame,” he snaps. “There was no demon. Just a librarian. He was telling me about how Skyhold originally used the old dwarven system of classification and how they were adapting that with the Orlesian système de dépôt to better accommodate all the many superfluous copies we have of Genitivi—“

“Then it was a pride demon,” Vivienne muses, “or envy. With the way it accumulates knowledge and drew you out…”

“Oh come now, Vivienne.” Dorian throws his head back and crosses his arms. He knows a demon when he sees it. While he’s never been particularly interested in blood magic, the magisterium does tend to throw corrupted spirits in his face. He has gotten very good at defining when their reality is importuned by creatures wanted to eat his flesh and ravage his soul. “He was a bit shorter than me, elf, with a long nose but kind-of bulbous at the end. Long hair, he didn’t quite know how to style it. Lank. But everyone here needs a wash. Wore blue enchanter’s robes edged with gold. It was quite garish, really. You’d think a pride demon would have better taste than that.”

Vivienne says, “The rebel mages no longer wear the outfits of the Circle. Haven’t you seen their military uniform? This wasn’t human, Dorian. When was the first time you saw it? There are children who come to this library, and with so few templars about, we cannot risk—“

Dorian puts up his hands. “But I’ve seen other people talking to him,” he protests.

Vivienne narrows her eyes. “That makes it more dangerous, darling. We must track it down to its source.”

He’s getting irritated now. The rotunda is full of mages. Someone would have noticed if a pride demon were running rampant through Skyhold, if not himself, then Fiona, or even Solas, who seems to specialize in weird relationships with spirits. Then he grins. Solas has his work station near the stairs, where he can see all that come and go.

He says, “Let’s ask Solas if he’s seen him. If Solas hasn’t, then I’ll cede the point.”

Vivienne grimaces. She has made no secret of her disdain for the apostate hobo, both of his research methodology and his fashion. Dorian does so love to see them both get catty, so he grins and gestures in an Orlesian curtsey for Vivienne to lead the way down the stairs. She gathers her skirts and descends; he follows.

The lowest level of the rotunda smells of plaster, charcoal, and wet paint. Solas is painting again, moving rapidly to fill in the first layer of background details on his still-wet fresco. He is singing to himself as he moves, his brushstrokes keeping time. Dorian frowns. He recognizes the melody, but from where? Then he pulls at his mustache in his surprise as he remembers: one of the elvhen whores at his favorite brothel in Minrathous got all the boys singing it, it was a love song, an ancient one, that even the slaves still remembered. His gift of the night had translated it for him: “Oh, my destiny, my perplexity! No one can comfort me in my misery….” Then of course the man had taken hold of him and relieved him of said suffering, and it was a quite enjoyable night, even though the song as a come-on was a bit too obvious. Dorian pushes away the memory and wonders how Solas knows an old Tevinter elven song—but of course if confronted, Solas would merely shrug and say he heard it in the Fade, once.

At the end of the song the first level is finished. Solas takes his brushes and his palette and climbs down to the second level. He is humming as he goes.

Vivienne clears her throat. Solas sets down his paints.

“What do you need?” he asks. “This paint dries quickly.”

Dorian says, “Why Solas, I didn’t know you had such a lovely voice. Was that a love song I detected? I think I’ve heard it before—in Tevinter.” He does not add that he heard it in a brothel. Why ruin such a lovely memory?

Solas repeats, “This paint dries quickly, and if I delay much longer I will have to chip away the plaster and begin again. What do you need?”

Vivienne and Dorian exchange a glance. It is definitely a love song, but that is not relevant to their quest, and the paintings in the rotunda are quite impressively monumental. Josephine will be upset if they ruin it.

Vivienne, ever practical, cuts in, “Have you noticed a spirit upstairs, in the library?”

Solas says, “Do you mean the librarian? Yes. He has quite a wonder for filing systems. What about him, Vivienne? Have you drawn him into conversation and found him a demon of Envy?” Dorian, awkward, shifts—he’d spent at least an hour discussing the Minrathous Circle’s new filing system with him, and hadn’t even realized he wasn’t quite real. Solas catches the movement and smiles suddenly at him. “Do not worry, Dorian. He is a very old and precious spirit, and it is a compliment that he was drawn to you beyond your—finery.” He turns to Vivienne. “Well? Is there anything that you need?”

Vivienne says, “We cannot have a spirit roaming unconfined where there are children about. Even Cole demanded a binding. Surely you see the danger of leaving it unsupervised, particularly since we leave the mage children so…undisciplined.”

Solas’ face tightens as he forces away a sneer. Blandly he picks up a brush and dips it into the lead-white paint. He turns his back to Vivienne and says over his shoulder to Dorian, “I can see no harm in it.” Company dismissed, he turns and begins rapidly sketching out two large triangles, pointing down. He begins singing again, a more melancholy thing than the love song, and this time the words are comprehensible: “The road goes ever on and on….”

When they return upstairs Vivienne seethes, “He sees no harm in it because he’s lived his whole life half-mad in the woods, with spirits as his only companions, and due to the accidental of his birth he cannot comprehend the dangers of the Fade to most other mages.”

Dorian pauses. It isn’t an unfair assessment, but the White Divine’s Circles are so much more restrictive in the way they view spirits, and Vivienne, brought up in the proper devotion of the White Spire, is more restrictive than most. He’s worked with incorporeal assistants in Nevarra before, and back in Tevinter, Alexius had several bound to serve in the laboratories, and managed to keep them all from getting corrupted, too. A bit guiltily he thinks about Cole, who is sweet and infernally well-meaning. He doesn’t like the idea of a spirit like him bound up as a servant, but then he would break, wouldn’t he? Compassion is so fragile.

Then he realizes: that is the danger, isn’t it, that this spirit will break? Solas may see no harm in it, but Dorian didn’t even realize the Librarian wasn’t a man. What if the wrong person finds it?

He tells Vivienne, “I see what you mean. But let’s find out what it is, first. Now that we know that it is a spirit and that it’s…friendly, we can question it about its nature.”

Vivienne says, “You sound like you’ve been speaking to a pride demon—why do you think it will answer you truthfully?”

Dorian bows. “That’s why I have you, my dear.”

She smiles, and together they walk into the shelves. The Librarian is there, sitting primly on the cold stone floor. A little girl, an elf, is flipping through the pages of an illustrated edition of one of their many copies of Genitivi, speaking rapidly. Dorian recognizes her as the Inquisitor’s younger daughter—Mirthen? Meerden? It was something unbelievably solemn for a young girl, that’s all he remembers.

“So much lore!” the Librarian marvels. “So much information!”

“And then of course Auntie said that her cousin lied because why would we want them to know when they already call them false? Mamae says that holy things need to be kept silent. When she takes us to pray she keeps silent and only speaks if she thinks the gods want her to. But Auntie said more than that, it’s dangerous for it to be in books we don’t write because that’s setting it down and it’s like how the Fade shapes things, and we shape the Fade? The books take it away, because of the print. Have you ever seen print? Mamae’s a printer.”

This the girl says with pride. The spirit says, “What is—a printer?”

She claps her hands in delight. “Mamae said the dwarves from House Cadash invented it but it’s based off what the Shapers do to the Memories! Have you ever been to Orzammar? I’ve never been. My cousin says it’s true though, the memories are like print. You can take them out and everything. But you take lead and you pour it into a mould like a blacksmith, except you make letters instead of axes and jewelry or whatever, and then press it and you have a stamp! But if you make small ones for all the letters and move them quickly, you can make words and you just have to stamp the page. Put it together, take it apart. So it’s faster than illuminating a book but it’s uglier too, and Babae said it had less personality but Mamae—“

The Librarian says, “So much information!” Its eyes are sparkling. “Can you show me a book with print?”

The girl looks up at the shelves and then sees Dorian and Vivienne watching them. She colors. Very formally, in manners her mother must have drilled in her, she gets up and curtseys.

She mumbles, “Good day, Master Pavus, Madame de Fer.” She studies the floor; the Inquisitor’s children get very quiet around humans, Dorian’s noticed. He’s seen them chatter the ears off Varric, and they love Solas for his stories, who seems to appreciate a willing audience.

Dorian says, “Good day, Mirthen.”

Vivienne says, “Mirwen. Be a good girl and run along to Solas downstairs, won’t you darling? Stay there until he tells you otherwise.”

Mirwen frowns, but turns to the Librarian and says confidingly, “I’ll come back later. Stay here!”

The Librarian says, “I am always there for those who seek wonder.” The girl beams and scurries away, lugging the massive volume of Genitivi with her. It is a charming sight, Dorian must admit. She reminds him a bit of himself at that age, still so full of wonder and eager to share everything he learned with anyone who bothered to listen. Few bothered, of course, but then he learned to make himself a wonder to draw others to him, by his beauty, his wit, his disreputable charm.

Vivienne summons a ward and outlines a binding circle around the Librarian. It continues to sit there in its dowdy robes, but blinks curiously up at them.

Dorian says, “Well, aren’t you a curio. I thought you liked filing systems.”

The spirit says, “I do like filing systems! And I like print now, too.” He beams at them. “I never knew of books that were made of stamps before. So much new information! So much progress! It’s wonderful.”

Dorian sighs. He tells Vivienne, “Look at it, it’s harmless. It’s like a child.”

Vivienne says, “It likes filing systems. It’s dull.”

Dorian huffs. “Nothing I am interested in is dull. Filing systems—now, I grant you that Orlais is better organized than Ferelden or Nevarra, but there is no feeling better than taking a messy archive from some blood-addled magister and cleaning it up. The Minrathous system, unlike the White Spire, organizes by subject rather than mere chronological order, and then within the category organized by date of publication. So you don’t just end up with three shelves of Genitivi, and have to go through each book and hope you can find something about—I don’t know, lyrium memory crystals. In this case, I would simply go the bookcase dedicated to the study of lyrium, and head right to the bottom shelf, for the most recent publication, so I don’t have to wade through outdated work that’s long since been disproven. Or! If I do want to understand the whole study as a discipline, and see the development of the field, I can simply trace it in chronological order—“

The spirit is glowing, delighted. Vivienne herself is smiling. She says, “Darling, you need to go out more.”

“I do go out!” Dorian snaps. “I came out here! Into this miserable mountain backwater. Forgive me if I’m so titillated by the byproducts of civilization.”

Vivienne lifts a single eyebrow. “You could attend one of Lady Montilyet’s tea parties.”

Dorian says, “Do you attend her parties? Not just when she feats the aristocracy, but even when she’s wining and dining, I don’t know, tea merchants, and suchlike?”

Vivienne says, “Of course. I do delight in conversation and repartee. You might try it sometime.” Dorian laughs and mock-clutches his heart—that was a good one. “Even a tea merchant provides needed information for the effects of the Breach on agriculture across the continent. Half of the most interesting gatherings at the Court happen over tea, darling. One must keep up with the fields—who is buying all of what stock, how they are being delivered, how the merchants are devising new ways of it being served. And if there is a drought in the Nevarran tea mountains, then there is less tea for Orlais, and a new form of party must be devised.”

The spirit looks at Vivienne glittering in her finery. “You enjoy people,” it says. “The new games they devise. It fills you with wonder.”

Vivienne sighs. “Simpler than Cole,” she notes. “But more discrete, which perhaps makes it safer to leave alone. With supervision. Dorian, what do you think it is?”

Dorian says, “Wait, let’s ask it—who are you, O spirit of the Skyhold library, who likes everything from Brother Genitivi to print to filing systems to tea parties, apparently?”

The Librarian says, “You brought me here, so you already know.” The spirit smiles and suddenly Dorian sees it, the little girl running her fingers along the rows of indented print, himself breathing out a sigh of satisfaction at a whole shelf, properly organized, and Vivienne at the tea party, cup in hand, as her eyes sparkle over a piece of information that would be useful to a trader friend’s. He sees Josephine marveling over Solas’ frescoes. He sees Solas watching the Inquisitor, and then he hears the singing at that brothel that beautiful little night, the arm thrown around him, the companionship and the pleasure of it.

The spirit steps out of the binding and walks to the railing, craning its head to watch Solas paint below. “I am Wonder,” it says, almost an afterthought. “Don’t you know?”

#dragon age fanfiction #dragon age fanfic #da fic #da fanfic #dai #dorian pavus #vivienne #madame de fer #solas #solavellan #so much lore! so much information!#skyhold librarian #skyhold is its own character after all #spirits #dai background characters

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sohotthateveryonedied · 4 years ago

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I Trust Him

Summary: Unlike the others who are so eager to please that they practically beam when he gives them a hello, Jim hasn’t met this one face to face yet. As far as he knows, Hood is on the side of the heroes these days, but just barely. It’s been a confusing couple of years. There’s a duffle bag with eight heads stuffed into it that he just can’t sweep under the rug.

Read on AO3!

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Jim checks his watch. The signal has been on for ten minutes now, its trademark bat silhouette shining against the backdrop of Gotham’s smog and pollution like a holy beacon. He’s running late tonight. Jim pulls his jacket tighter around himself and it takes everything he has not to shiver as his breaths turn to mist in front of his mustache. If Batman got a paycheck, Jim would dock him a hundred bucks for making him wait in the cold like this. He should have brought a heavier jacket. “Need a smoke?” he hears, which just about gives him a goddamn heart attack. He wheels around, hand flying instinctively to his gun holster, only to find the Red Hood leaning against the door to the roof. And he thought the Bat was good at sneaking up on him. Hood’s holding out a pack of cigarettes.

Unlike the others who are so eager to please that they practically beam when he gives them a hello, Jim hasn’t met this one face to face yet. As far as he knows, Hood is on the side of the heroes these days, but just barely. It’s been a confusing couple of years. There’s a duffle bag with eight heads stuffed into it that he just can’t sweep under the rug. “No thanks,” he says after a moment, pulling his hand back from his firearm. “I’m trying to cut back.” Hood tucks the cigs into his jacket pocket. “Good choice. These things’ll kill you.” Then he snickers, like he’s sharing an inside joke with himself. “So where’s the fire?” Is...Is this it? Batman really sent the Red Hood ahead instead of meeting Gordon himself? Jim hopes he’s not mad at him; he’s been waiting three days to show Batman the pictures he took of his latest kitchen remodel. “Uh. There have been rumors of a robbery happening tonight at the Gotham Museum of Antiquities. A team job, at least four men. I don’t know what they’re looking for, but my intel is pretty sure the target is in the art exhibit.” Hood nods. “Gotcha. I’ll head over there.” Is it weird that Jim is so accustomed to the Bat vanishing on him that he doesn’t entirely know how to end a conversation? Not this kind, anyway. Jim rubs his hands together, trying to coax warmth back into the frozen appendages. “If you don’t mind me asking, where is he? Batman, I mean.” “Had a date. I was unlucky enough to be serving backup tonight.” “Batman dates?” “I know, right?” Another snicker. It’s so creepy hearing him laugh from inside the helmet, echoing faintly like a threat. “I keep telling the others how fucking weird it is but they just get all ‘it’s about time he settled down’ and ‘they’re both old so who cares’ and ‘so what if she’s a criminal, she makes good sangrias’. Fuckin’ kissups.” Jim doesn’t know what surprises him more: that the Batman and Catwoman rumors are true, or that Hood is friendly with the other bats. Since he first started showing up in Gotham, the Hood has always been a wild card. Only kills the worst of the worst, but in such brutal ways that he can’t be trusted not to escalate. And yet, he’s been spotted on multiple occasions giving food to the homeless kids in Crime Alley and escorting the working girls home at night. Then he goes and reveals that not only is he on friendly terms with Batman, but that he’s practically one of the family now? If Jim had a death sentence, he’d ask if Hood’s doing this all just to torment him. “So when’s the robbery supposed to go down?” Hood asks. “I’m a busy guy so I gotta arrange my manicure appointments accordingly.” Jim is pretty sure that’s a joke. Then again, who knows? Jim makes a point of never missing his monthly spa days. His cuticles are grateful for it. “Sometime between eleven and two. I already have some of my men watching the place, but these guys have nabbed priceless objects from right under security guards’ noses.” “Got it,” Hood says. “Do the bat thing. And for your sake, I promise to stick with rubber bullets this time.” Thank the lord. Jim isn’t in the mood for the extra paperwork any deaths would entail. Hood pushes off the door and heads for the edge of the rooftop, taking out a grapple gun. “Now get back inside, commish. You look fucking freezing.” Hood raises his arm to shoot off a line, but Jim stops him. “Wait. Can I ask...is it true?” “Is what true?” “That you’re him. The one he lost.” Hood turns to face him and crosses his arms. “Does it matter?” “To me? I like to think so. It near broke my heart when the kid stopped showing up.” Understatement. When Batman lost his second one, Jim didn’t see the big guy for weeks. The best he got were glimpses in newspaper articles, detailing the Bat’s new form of violence as if the world had personally wronged him. He’d truly gone off the deep end, and Jim knew in his gut that it wasn’t just vengeance for himself. Then, when Jim was sure there was nothing to be done, a new one showed up. The third kid. He wasn’t like his predecessor, who was the brightest firecracker Jim had ever met. He liked chocolate bars and doing cartwheels along the roof’s edge while the adults talked, chiming in with a quip every once in a while. Sometimes Jim would make a trip to the vending machine right before their meetings and buy the kid a Snickers bar, just to see him light up. Robin would repay him by sneaking into his office and planting a bag of Swedish Fish somewhere he knew he’d find it. It became a game for the two of them. “He died,” Hood says. Jim can’t see his face, but he imagines a scowl hiding beneath the helmet. Just like his mentor. “And now?” A shrug. “He got better.” Jim shoves his hands into his pockets. “Well, if you happen to see him, give him my best. I’ve missed him. He’s a good kid.” “Was a good kid, you mean. People change.” “Maybe. Maybe not. Whatever the case, he was always my favorite one.” Hood’s expression doesn’t change because...well, it’s a hood. But Jim likes to think that he’s smiling under there. “I should go.” Jim nods. “Good luck. And go easy on my guys, will you? It’s not easy getting them to trust a gun-wielding maniac. No offense.” This time when Hood snickers, it’s not as threatening as it was before. “None taken. But what about you? Do you trust a gun-wielding maniac?” Now there’s a complicated question. After a moment, Jim settles on, “I can’t say that I agree with everything you do. And as far as the GCPD is concerned, you’re on real thin ice.” Hood nods, like he expected that much. “But that kid who used to hide candy in my office? I trust him.” Red Hood raises his grapple again and gives a quick two-fingered salute. “Cool. See ya, Gordon.” And then he’s gone, leaping off into the shadows. Even though there’s no one left to see, Jim smiles and salutes back. “See you, kiddo.”

#batman #jim gordon #Commissioner Gordon #jason todd #red hood #robin #dc robin #batman and robin #dc comics #fanfiction #fanfic #batfamily #batfam #batfamily bingo

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mst3kproject · 4 years ago

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The River of the Giant Alligator

A bunch of Italians pretending they’re not Italian in a movie about a guy who chose the wrong place to build a hotel… it’s like Avalanche by way of Devil Fish, with an alligator. And racism. You can’t have a 70’s Italian jungle movie without the racism, and this one layers it on real thick. I think The River of the Giant Alligator has its MST3K bases covered.

Rich Asshole Joshua has opened Paradise House, a resort in the middle of the ‘virgin jungle’. He proudly tells visitors that not only has he left the surrounding ecosystem undamaged, but he’s helping the local people by giving them jobs and improving their standard of living. Naturally it’s not as simple as that. Trouble begins when Sheena, the model they brought for their advertising photographs (just for a dash of Killer Fish), vanishes overnight. Photographer Daniel and hotel manager Ally go to the locals looking for her, and are told that the River God has awakened and intends to drive the white people away by assuming the form of a giant crocodile and eating them all. Considering how mind-bogglingly stupid the tourists in this movie are, that should take all of twenty minutes.

The locals, who call themselves the Kuma, have a name for their River God but it’s pronounced five different ways and I won’t guess how to spell it. Because of the deep breathing sounds that presage its first appearance, I shall call the creature Darth Gator.

Let’s get the basics out of the way first. The whole movie is dubbed and the voice actors are bad. The Darth Gator prop is completely immobile but they mostly keep it in the dark or in really tight shots so we don’t notice… it’s only the occasional ill-advised wide shot where it’s obviously fake enough to be funny. There’s a spiky fence that exists mostly so that people can get impaled on it and a cloying little kid for no reason whatsoever. The ‘wildlife’ is a stock footage smorgasbord that includes orangutans and hippos on the same river. The worst effect in the film is a terrible miniature shot of the hotel on fire, which would have looked just fine if the people involved hadn’t forgotten that flames don’t scale.

So all that sucks, but is fairly harmless. Now let’s talk about the racism.

We’ll start with the movie’s treatment of its two ‘love stories’, and I use the floating commas because neither of them quite qualifies. Daniel and Ally are the main ‘couple’ of the movie. The camera lingers on each of them to show that he thinks she’s beautiful and she thinks he’s rugged, and they spend the whole movie hanging out on balconies and boats together and discussing whether the resort is good or bad for the local people… but they never get so much as a kiss. This is kind of nice, actually, because there’s very little time to stop and make out when you’re being chased by a large carnivorous reptile. It does, however, make for a hell of a contrast between them and the other ‘couple’ we see.

This is the model, Sheena, and her Kuma boyfriend. I am unclear on where this movie is set (the closest we get to a clue is Ally referring to the area as ‘the Orient’, which could honestly mean anything) but it’s perfectly clear that the reason they hired a black woman for their publicity photos is to make the place look ‘exotic’. There’s a weird moment when Joshua attempts to flirt with Sheena by telling her, “it occurs to me that Eve herself may have been black”, which… yes, that is how human evolution worked, what about it? All that aside, at the end of the day, Sheena runs off for a romantic evening with one of the tribesmen. We never see her talk to this guy or have any clue what made her pick him over any of the others. They just go fuck on a beach and then get eaten by an alligator.

So… we have blonde, blue-eyed white people having a perfectly chaste, wait-for-marriage love affair in which they actually get to know each other… and black people who run off with a stranger and screw out in the open like animals. Holy shit. I want to say I hope this wasn’t something the film-makers actively thought about, but it might be worse if they didn’t. Naturally, this is also a version of the ‘people who have premarital sex must die’ trope from slasher movies, and the movie makes doubly sure we know this is Bad Behaviour by having Ally remark that the Kuma are forbidden from visiting ‘the Island of Love’ on the full moon.

The deaths of Sheena and Nameless Kuma Guy also begin a pattern that lasts almost the entire movie. Even though we’re told, repeatedly, that Darth Gator wants to drive the white people out of his jungle, for the vast majority of the running time it’s the brown people who are getting chomped. We’re told that twelve white missionaries came here years ago and Darth Gator ate all but one of them, who then became a crazy jungle man (not gonna lie, Father Jonathan was my favourite character and I wish we’d seen more of him). We see Sheena, her boyfriend, and the boyfriend’s brother get eaten alive. Furthermore, most of the white deaths in the movie are at the hands of the Kuma, who run in and kill the tourists with spears and fire arrows in the belief that they’re doing their god’s bidding, and much of this happens offscreen. Those hit by the arrows quickly fall into the water and vanish from sight. The only time the camera lingers on a white person dying is Joshua, who I guess they think deserved it. The impression one gets is that white death is a horror better implied than shown, while brown death is a spectacle. Again… holy shit.

The River of the Giant Alligator can’t seem to decide what we’re supposed to think about the Kuma people. Early in the film they’re portrayed as victims. These foreigners have invaded their land and built this giant hotel, and claimed to be helping them by giving them ‘work’. Ally notes that they’ll be able to live longer, healthier lives, but Daniel wonders if it’s worth it when they’ve basically become Joshua’s slaves. The movie leaves this question hanging there without exploring it any further. When Daniel and Ally come looking for information about the alligator attacks, the Kuma direct them to Father Jonathan, knowing they’re more likely to believe a white man, even one who’s obviously not quite all there. The movie really wants to be about the exploitation of indigenous peoples, treated as decorations and curiosities by white tourists.

The problem is, it wants to eat that cake, too. By the end of the story, the Kuma have devolved into stock savages. They attack the hotel and kill everybody, and kidnap Ally so they can tie her to a horizontal King Kong contraption as a sacrifice. The ending just makes it all the more confusing, as they turn up to discover that their god has been blown to bloody chunks after biting into a van full of explosives, and they cheer and they just leave. Is it really that easy to kill a god? Won’t a dead god demand vengeance anyway? Does this mean they actually like the white people after all, and were only angry because Darth Gator was eating them?

The ending also muddles the movie’s other point, about the nature of eco-tourism. One of the selling points of Paradise House is that it’s in the middle of virgin jungle. Joshua brags about how he’s left the surrounding ecosystem untouched – but then we cut straight to trees being cleared using dynamite, and later we see live piglets being thrown into the river to keep the crocodiles hanging around so people can gawk at them. You can’t build a hotel in the middle of a place and then call it ‘virgin jungle’. You’re the one who violated it!

The script is a little unclear on whether Darth Gator is a natural or supernatural threat. Ally and Daniel insist that it’s no mere alligator (I don’t think this movie knows the difference between crocodiles and alligators any better than I do) and Father Jonathan seems to believe it’s the Devil Himself, but it certainly dies like a flesh-and-blood creature. Whatever its nature, it’s clear enough that Darth Gator represents the jungle striking back at these intruders to drive them out. The Kuma literally say as much. So what are we to take from the fact that it dies at the end? Have we won the right to destroy the forest by killing its guardian? I don’t believe the people who make these movies think this stuff through.

I can tell that we’re supposed to hate the tourists, and we do, although not always for the reasons the movie wants us to. Minnow, the red-haired little girl who ‘only likes to play with boys’, tries so hard to be Adorable that you want to punt her across the room. Her mother leaves her to wander around the hotel alone, because Mummy’s got a smarmy mustached boyfriend to bang (even this relationship gets more attention than Sheena and Unnamed Kuma Guy, by the way… we are told that Mummy and Mustache have met before, and are here mostly to see each other rather than the jungle). Other notable annoyances include a lady who seems perfectly sane until she starts talking about the aliens, and a guy who loves to complain about Youth These Days and will seize any opportunity to do so.

I kinda wanna gripe about these obnoxious characters, but I don’t feel like I can. You may recall that I spent a month stuck on a cruise ship earlier this year. I can tell you definitively that these people do exist, and I hate them even more in real life.

Man, this could have been a fun monster movie. I’ve seen movies about man-eating crocodiles (or alligators… does it honestly matter that much?) that I really enjoyed. Primeval wasn’t even that bad – it was about how humans are more monstrous than anything nature can produce. Lake Placid had that immortal bit where Betty White says if I had a dick, this is where I’d tell you to suck it. The River of the Great Alligator is just boring bullshit and things that seem kinda racist on the surface but then you think about them a little longer and realize they’re incredibly racist. I went into this one hoping to like it, but it absolutely pissed on the last shreds of my optimism... like a lot of other things in 2020.

#mst3k #reviews #episodes that never were #the river of the great alligator #the great alligator #fuck this movie #fuck it so much #70s

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ahatintimestorybook · 4 years ago

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Coffee Shop AU- Going on a Snatcher Hunt

So as I was in the middle of working on another new story as well as the next chapter of my OtH! AU story. @doodledrawsthings surprises everyone with a new Coffee Shop AU that I fell in love with! So I had to create something for this AU, and ended up with coming up with three ideas for this AU.

Anyways Coffee Shop AU belongs to @doodledrawsthings

“Dad! Dad!” Harriet shouted coming home from school. Luka was in bed enjoying his day off, and not worrying have to go out somewhere, where he would get caught in the middle of transforming. Luka looked up from his book to see his little girl running to him and giving him a hug.

Luka chuckled and hugged his little girl back, “H-hey princess! How was school?” Luka asked.

“It was good, but I got some good news.” Harriet replied.

“What is it?”

“I’m going on my first camping trip!” Harriet cheered.

Luka got up from the bed and looked at his daughter in a mix of surprise and glee. “Camping, with who?” He asked.

“Me, Bonnie and Mu. She’s the one organizing it.” Harriet explained.

Luka gulped hearing Mu’s name. Since moving with his daughter, Mu and her mom Cookie were the first to welcome them into the neighborhood as well as give Luka a tour of the town. She even recommended him to work at the coffee shop right next to her place.

However, while Cookie was a nice lady her daughter Mu was a different case. For one, Mu enjoyed cryptology as well as hunting down his monster form. However, that wasn’t his main concern. Mu tends to be a bit rebellious and snarky getting into fights with kids who pick on her and Harriet, even older kids. Luka was worried Mu could be a bad influence on his daughter, but he couldn’t say it to Harriet as Mu is her best and first friend she ever made since they were on the run.

“Hattie, I know you and Mu are best friends, but you know how she can be with me, right?” Luka asked.

Harriet nodded knowing how her best friend’s goal is to find her father and prove he’s real. “I know, I know, but this is the first time I got to do a hang out with her and Bonnie.” Then Harriet put her hands together and started to beg. “Please dad. I may not get a chance like this if we have to move again.”

Luka sighed. His daughter was right. They moved so many times, and Harriet never got to have some quality time with friends, or even make friends. “Okay, you can go.” Luka said. Harriet smiled and hugged her dad tight.

“Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” She repeated. Harriet then jumped off the bed and ran to her room to grab her stuff she planned on bringing with her for camping. Once Harriet was fully packed she ran into the room to give her father a kiss before leaving to meet up with Mu and Bonnie.

Meanwhile, Mu and Bonnie just left the grocery store buying an abundant of junk food for them to chow down during their camping trip. “Do we really need all this stuff, Mu? Its just one night in the Subcon Woods.” Bonnie explained as she put the candies in her bag.

“You and Harriett never been camping before have you?” Mu asked. Bonnie shook her head. Mu sighed and went on to explain about the enjoyment of camping and why they need all this food. “However, this camping trip is going to be special!”

“Why?” Bonnie asked tilting her head.

Mu grabbed a piece of paper from her pocket and gave it to Bonnie. Bonnie unfolded the paper and gulped seeing it wasn’t only a camping trip, but also a hunt for the mysterious cryptid, Snatcher. Bonnie looked scared, she knew who the Snatcher was and Mu was planing to hunt him down.

“Its going to be fun! Just us in a dark, creepy forest waiting for a ghost monster to show up!” Mu beamed. “Can you imagine if we caught evidence of it! We’ll be rich, the first ever millionaire 9-year olds!” Mu exclaimed.

Harriet walked by when Mu shouted” millionaire 9-year olds” chuckling at the thought of it. She knew why, and while she did get nervous her father would be caught by Mu one day, the thought of her and her friends being millionaires made her laugh. “Sounds like your excited, Mu.” Harriet said.

Mu froze and blushed in embarrassment when her best friend came by ready for their camping trip. Mu chuckled rubbing the back of her head. “H-how much did you hear?” She asked.

“Everything.” Harriet replied, giving a smug smile. Mu’s face turned red from embarrassment, as Bow giggled as well.

Mu shook it off and grabbed her bag. “Well come on! We need to make it too the woods by nightfall! Us standing here means were wasting time.” Bonnie and Harriet nodded and followed their friend heading to the Subcon Woods for the night.

Bonnie got scared walking around the dark and spooky Subcon Woods. It was dark, creepy, and anything could come out and snatch them away. As they walked, Bonnie held on to Harriet’s arm for protection. “S-so how far are we going, Mu?” Bonnie asked.

Mu chuckled. “Oh were not near the campsite yet.” She replied. Bonnie gulped and held on to Harriet tighter.

“Don’t worry Bonnie, were a group as long as we stick together and not separate we’ll be fine.” Harriet comforted.

“I hope so.” Bonnie whispered as she kept following her friends. The three girls kept on walking as they passed through a log bridge, towards some bushes, into the middle part of the woods.

This part of the woods and dead burnt trees, a few tree stumps where the girls can sit, and a small fire pit. There was also a red hood similar to the one Mu wore hanging up like a flag waving at the wind. “Girls, welcome to my secret campsite, Camp Mu!” She beamed.

“Wow!” Bonnie and Harriet said at the same time. “This is where you camp?” Harriet asked.

“Oh yeah.” Mu replied as she unpacked her stuff including her tent. “Every Friday night I’m here looking for weird creatures, cryptids, and the Snatcher,” she started her explanation. Soon she grabbed a net from her bag, “set up a few traps and hope to catch them.” She explained.

“Wow! Do you think you’ll have a chance to catch it tonight?” Bonnie asked.

Mu nodded. “Yep! I plan on putting traps all around our campsite. Hopefully the Snatcher would fall into one of them.” She explained.

Harriet nervously chuckled. “Y-yeah! And what do we plan to do when we catch them?” She asked.

Mu chuckled. “Like I said Harriet, since you heard my speech. We’re going to be millionaires, leave Subcon for good and go on an adventure around the world!” She shouted.

Bonnie smiled and clapped her hands. She would love to travel around the world and see many sights that awaits them. Though she was more to the sights and adventure rather then going cryptid hunting.

“Oh yeah.” Harriet chuckled, rubbing the back of her head.

Later, the girls got everything set up for the night, and soon by sunset, which was blocked by so many trees that it looked like nightfall came early, the girls were roasting marshmallows by the fire to make s’mores. The girls were chatting, enjoying their junk food and s’mores and sharing a laugh.

An hour or two later, Bonnie started to get tired and retreated back to the tent to get some rest. This left Mu and Harriett to leave traps all over the woods for the Snatcher to stumble upon. Once all the traps were set, Harriett too retreated to the tent to get some rest as well, while Mu stayed up for a bit.

A while later, Harriett woke up to see Mu was still in awake and looked like she was writing something. Harriet got up from her sleeping bag carefully not to wake up Bonnie and slowly walked over to her friend.

“Mu?” Mu jumped giving a squeak, but sighed it was only Harriet who spoke to her.

“Don’t scare me like that again.” Mu threatened.

Harriet giggled. “Sorry. I mean its just us, Bonnie is asleep.” She explained. Harriet sat close to her friend and looked up at the stars. “Do you plan on staying up all night, till you find the Snatcher?”

Mu scoffed. “What do you think?” She asked. “Of course! If I fall asleep I’ll miss it!”

Harriet rolled her eyes. As much as she didn’t want to hunt for her own father, she didn’t like the fact Mu was going to be out here all alone. Heck, even if they do capture him at least she can try and explain to Mu everything that’s going on. “Think you need some company?” Harriet asked. “I’m willing to stay up till dawn with you.”

Mu thought for a bit and shrugged. “Ah what the heck.” Harriet smiled excited that she and Mu can get closer now. It was quiet, except for the crickets chirping as well as the pages of Mu’s book being turned. Harriet looked over Mu’s shoulder and saw the book she was reading.

The book looked like it was written and had drawings as well as pictures inside it. “Did you write this?” Harriet asked.

Mu nodded. “Yeah. I want to make a series of journals talking about cryptids, witches and wizards, and other kinds of magic paranormal stuff in Subcon.” Mu explained. “This here is my first book!” Mu closed her book and showed the cover with the glowing eyes of the Snatcher as well as a #1 painted on it.

“T-that’s awesome!” Harriet replied giving a small stutter seeing the Snatcher, her father’s eyes on the cover of her friend’s book.

Mu ignored her friend’s nervousness and smiled. “I know! One day I’ll publish my journals so the entire world can read everything about Subcon! I’ll be a famous writer!” She beamed. Harriet chuckled seeing Mu had her future planned.

“You’ll make an excellent writer.” Harriet said.

Mu smiled. “Thanks.” Mu looked at her journal and frowned. “Do you think writing about these conspiracies makes me a weirdo?” She asked.

Harriet raised an eyebrow. “No why do you ask that?” She asked back.

Mu sighed. “Just everyone thinks of me as some dub girl who wears a mustache, looks for creatures that may or may not exist, and goes all cartoony ways to find them.” She explained.

“Your not dumb!” Harriet comforted. “I think its cool your doing this. No one should insult you for doing what you like to do!”

Mu chuckled. “This is why I like you Harriet your just so nice, and positive. You help others feel better, even though you can get jumpy at times.” Mu replied.

“Well that’s just how I am. I want people too feel positive then a burden.” Harriet sighed.

Mu frowned she knew that Harriet’s father, Luka divorced his wife before moving here and from what Harriet told her it was a very messy divorce, so messy that she remembered Harriet was about to cry the more she talked about it.

She also hated the fact, Harriet’s own mother didn’t truly love her like her own mom. Mu knew mom’s had to be caring and kind, and well sweet as sugar, that’s what Mu’s mother explained to her.

Harriet knew what Mu was thinking about, but she had to bring up one question. “Mu.” Mu turned to look at her. “I know you have a mom, and since I told you about my mom. I just want to know where’s your dad?”

Mu froze. She never told anyone about her dad before. She sighed and looked down from her book. “I never met my dad.” Harriet’s head lifted up and turned to Mu. “He...died when I was just 2 years old.”

“M-Mu I’m so sorry.” Harriet whispered.

“I-Its fine. I was really young when he passed, so I don’t have any fond memories.” Mu reassured. She then sighed and looked down again. “But I do miss him, and wondered if he never went on that trip, he’ll still be alive and we can have a close father and daughter bond like you and your dad.” Mu explained.

Harriet sighed, she knew how that felt only with a mom. “I know how that feels. Wish I was like that with my mom.”

Mu put a hand on her best friend’s shoulder. “Hey, if you and your dad need any help just come talk to my mom. We’ll help as much as we can.” She explained.

Harriet gave a small smile and hugged her friend back. Mu smiled and hugged her friend back as well. That is...until a rustle coming from the bushes caused them to let go. Mu smiled widely knowing it could be the Snatcher.

“Harriet grab the camera!” Mu whispered. Harriet was in a mixture of stunned, scared and anxious. Is this the night her father gets caught and Mu finding out she’s been keeping the cryptid she long hunted for from her. “Harriet!” Mu called out again snapping her friend from her thoughts. Harriet nodded and handed her best friend the camera, which she snatched away.

Mu held the camera close as whatever was coming right in front of them was about to jump up. Harriet covered her eyes and hid behind Mu not wanting to see what will happen next. Just as the figured jumped out Mu took the shot.

“Got it!” Mu cheered. “Huh?” She asked confused. From the bushes wasn’t the Snatcher, but a fox.

Harriet opened her eyes and looked over Mu’s shoulder to see it was just a fox passing by. “Aww, what a cute little fox.” Harriet smiled. Mu sighed and sat down on the floor.

“Great! Wasted this time for nothing.” Mu sighed.

“Hey cheer up.” Harriet said putting her arm around her friend. “You’ll be able to find the Snatcher soon.”

Mu scoffed. “Yeah and I thought it would be tonight.” Just as she said that though, she heard someone getting caught in one of her traps. Mu chuckled and ran off towards her trap hoping to see if she had captured the Snatcher.

Harriet followed after her knowing she would have to explain everything if it was her father that did fall into the trap. Or, she could pretend that she didn’t know the Snatcher and could try to get her father to go along with it. Whatever, the case may be she may not keep this secret any longer.

“Sorry dad, but Mu needs to know.” Harriet whispered to herself. Harriet and Mu made it to the clearing and Mu was even more disappointed at who got caught in her trap this time. Harriet gasped at who got trapped, but was relieved at who it was.

Trapped in Mu’s trap was the Snatcher, or at least his human form, Luka Princeton, aka Harriet’s father. “Mr. Princeton?” Mu asked. “What are you doing out here?” She asked.

“Well, Harriet dropped something when she was about to leave and well I had to hand it to her.” He explained showing a golden necklace with an hourglass engraved on it. Harriet gasped and quickly grabbed the necklace from her father and put it on. “Glad I asked your mom where you were otherwise I’d be lost.”

“So I didn’t catch the Snatcher?” Mu asked.

Luka gulped, and shook his head. Mu sighed and cut down Luka from her trap as he landed in a hard thud. “Could you be more gentle with your traps?” Luka asked. Mu didn’t reply and just marched back to camp, mumbling how she never caught the Snatcher, but her best friend’s dad.

“Should I tell her she caught the Snatcher?” Harriet asked.

Luka shook his head. “Nope.” He replied.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So I have a headcanon with this AU on how time pieces with work. Instead of it being an hourglass it be a necklace, and I'll explain more of this headcanon later when I work on the next fanfic for this AU.

#doodledrawsthings #'Coffee Shop AU'#A Hat in Time Coffee Shop AU #Hat Kid #mustache girl #Bow Kid #Snatcher #The Snatcher #just three girls going camping

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argentdandelion · 4 years ago

Text

That One Sad Fic Where Noelle’s Dad Dies

“Noelle.” “Wha—? Kris, it’s 3:00 AM….” Noelle said, squinting at her bedazzled cell phone in the darkness. (Ever since it assassinated her actual clock, she had to adapt.) “Skip school today. Go to your dad.” “…what? Why?” “Choose a game,” Kris said, with all the concision and emotion of a very ticked-off grandma.

“Alright, Kris! I got it!” Noelle turned on a lamp and hurriedly scanned through the video game titles.

Mario Kart, Professor Layton, Grand Theft Auto…

Noelle smiled and pulled out a title. “Ah, the perfect one! Silent Hill!”

“And for the love of Dog, do not bring Cooking Mama. Sweet Angel, that will only make him die faster!”

“Oh. Right. Shouldn’t bring anything too relaxing.” Noelle put down Silent Hill and chose Dragon Blazers III.

Noelle’s ears perked up. “Did…you just say ‘die faster’?”

But Kris had abruptly hung up, like clothes in a closet.

—–

“Dad? Dad?” Noelle gently shook her father from his sleep. The lamp was on, beaming light onto his face.

Rudy blinked blearily into the intense light. “Oh dear…now I’m getting medical care from aliens.”

Noelle frowned. “Come on, Dad! You said it yourself, we’re deer monsters.”

Dimly, Rudy noticed the furniture setup was different from what he remembered. He glanced across the room: the flowers in the glass cover had been put on the small counter by the sink, leaving the angel doll dethroned and emanating an aura of rage. The Nontondo console, sitting on a bedside table, was hooked up to the hospital TV and trying to keep its relationship discreet.

Emblazoned on the TV screen were the words “Dragon Blazers III”. It was drawn in fire-coated letters, as if overcompensating for a lack of innate coolness.

Rudy yawned and looked outside. The sky was still dark. “Noelle, why are you waking me up in the middle of the night?”

“It’s not the middle of the night, Dad.” Noelle said sheepishly.

“Oh, good.”

“It’s 3:20 AM.”

Just then Rudy noticed the bags under his daughter’s eyes, her messy hair, and the few crumbs stuck to the fuzz of her lips.

“Noelle.”

“Yes, Dad?”

“Lick those lips of yours.”

Noelle stared at him awkwardly.

“You got crumbs stuck to your fuzzy lips, and I don’t think you’re going for a flavor saver.”

“Dad, a flavor savor is a soul patch, not a mustache!”

“We’re covered in fur. It’s kind of hard to tell the difference!”

Rudy laughed, before pausing thoughtfully. “Eh, it doesn’t matter much. It’s not realistic for society to expect women to constantly shave.”

“I mean, of course,” Noelle wrinkled her brow. “There’s no way anyone has the time for full body shampooing and hair removal.”

Noelle moved a tacky little chair closer to the bed (clearly intended for smaller visitors), and cringed at the squeak. Noelle smiled, and handed her father the other controller.

She yelped.“Oh! Darn! It’s a single-player game!”

“Ah, good. It’d be messy to be a player and also married.” Rudy winked.

“How’d you know it has a marriage option?” Noelle asked, befuddled. “….Never mind.”

Rudy slowly leaned over, looking at the item Noelle held. “You only got one controller? Oh, it’s fine. I can always watch. You’re much better than me at these games anyway.”

—-

“Gosh darn it, Shella.”

“Come on, Noelle! You can swear harder than that.”

Noelle blushed.

“This is the last time I’ll ever be able to see my little girl swear a blue streak.” Rudy said solemnly.

“It’s the wish of a dying man, Noelle. Now let it rip!”

“Fu–”

—-

Noelle painted the room blue as the ocean with the intensity and number of her swears…including two Rudy had never even heard before.

Noelle hunched over with an exhausted look, panting. Suddenly her cheeks bulged, and she spat out one little swear lingering in her throat.

Rudy sat in his bed, stunned at the depths of foulness to tumble out of the mouth of a sweet-natured teenage girl. “Wow, Nolle…

I am so proud of you.”

Noelle beamed, still flushed with the exhaustion of releasing sixteen years’ worth of repressed cussing. Noelle’s cheeks bulged again….only to erupt into laughter. Soon, Rudy, too, was laughing, and the room itself was filled with laughter (and swear residue).

Rudy’s ears flailed out, and with a bug-eyed look Rudy coughed out some dust.

Noelle stared at the dust smeared on her father’s hand. Rudy looked solemn. “Noelle, I think it’s time I told you the truth…”

“I’m part vacuum cleaner.”

—-

They had traveled deep into the dungeon in the bowels of the earth. Suddenly, the claustrophobic halls expanded into a greater room….

“A cutscene!”

Noelle perked her ears up and forward, leaning closer to the TV with a gamer’s hunch. She sat there for a few seconds, straining her ears, but the sound had been turned too low for that sweet, sweet cutscene music.

“Oh, darn. Wish I could hear the music.”

“Oh, Noelle, you can turn it up. The only other guy is the Warrior, and he’s delusional. Guy thinks he’s a NPC spouting foreshadowing for an incomplete game.”

Noelle adjusted the hospital TV’s buttons the old-fashioned way, as the remote was on paternity leave after irresponsibly siring tiny music players.

Atmospheric music ran through that quiet hospital room.

“You dense son of a submariner! Wither away!”

Smiles filled their vision as they enjoyed the scene together, as they witnessed the bizarre scene of characters innocently smiling while delivering scathing dialogue. Ill-advised ‘cultural translations’ for a tougher audience, Noelle thought. But I love it.

A room away, a patient quietly fumed and flailed his limbs, ranting again. Muffled as it was through the sounds of battle, and laughter, and conversation, none heard him. He shed a single manly tear through his costume.

—-

Swarms of Modiglettes tread towards them in the darkness.

Noelle tensed up with a little “eep”, and Rudy turned to his daughter’s terrified face. “What are you waitin’ for? Flare ‘em!”

Noelle shook off her fear…and decided to upgrade the spell to ZettaFlare, for good measure. The vastly over-levelled scale of the spell wrecked the swarm of Modiglettes…and the entire dungeon. The enemies soundly defeated (as well as most of the party), the scorched, half-dead remainder of the party weakly cheered.

"Creepy! Just like that angel doll!”

“Heh, you think so?” Rudy said with relief. “That thing’s a nightmarish abomination!” Rudy glanced toward that faceless angel doll on the counter top, still a little askew after all those hours beside the flowers. He felt it glaring at him judgmentally…as if wishing for his death.

Rudy noticed, just then, the petals falling from the wilting bouquet…onto that letter enclosed within.

"Kris…they’re a good kid.”

“Earlier, they told me to come visit you.” Noelle replied offhand.

Noelle had never seen her father’s brows rise higher. “Huh. That’s awfully out-of-character for them. I sure hope that isn’t a clue they know something we don’t.”

Noelle laughed nervously. “Yeah, I sure hope so! It’s….probably a sign of some turmoil or trauma that occurred off-screen. That totally happens in RPGs, so it’s not that weird.”

—-

As Noelle defeated foe after foe, progressing on her journey, she spoke less and less. The same went for her father. He reclined in his bed, his head heavy.

Noelle said nothing: not of her anxiety, not of her sadness, not of her ever-growing desire for soda and cheese chips.

“Dad? You haven’t said anything in a while. It’s getting kind of awkward. ‘Companionable silence’ is, uh…not something I’m very good at.”

“Oh, you don’t have to narrate everything,” her father said. “It’s not like you’re playing it for an Internet audience.”

“After all, video games can be…” Her father looked down before looking back at her. “an activity well-suited for urban hermits.”

—-

“THE END”, it said.

Noelle stared at the screen. “What happens next?” Noelle asked, her voice laden with tension.

“The credits screen, of course!” Rudy replied.

“No, no…I mean…what happens to the characters?” Noelle said, glancing towards the window. Her hands still clenched the controller.

“…Y’know…I like to think they all went home after beating the final boss, and had that long-awaited cake.”

“I don’t think they’ll ever get the cake,” Noelle said quietly, looking down. “They always thought they could, but then things happened no one could predict, and now they have to live a cake-free life.”

“You’re right. Come to think of it…a lot of games have cake you can’t get…” Rudy looked out into the distance, up towards the ceiling. “I suppose all they can hope for is finding joy in cupcakes, muffins and brownies. After all, it’s not like having a cake-free life stops them from finding happiness. There are a lot of caloric baked goods in the world.”

Noelle stared at her father, her eyes wet. “Are we…are we even talking about cake anymore?”

Rudy lifted an eyebrow. “It’s good advice, literal or not, and it’s straight from my supply of fatherly wisdom.”

Then, suddenly, there was a weight on Noelle’s hands, and Noelle’s eyes went wide open. Her father weakly squeezed Noelle’s hand, looking straight at her with a wan smile.

“Noelle, dear. Life stinks. But video games make life stink less. When I’m gone, game so much the WHO gives you a disorder.”

“I promise, Dad.”

Her father laid back on the bed, staring up towards the ceiling again.

“DAD OUT!” He shouted. His tongue stuck out and his eyes turned to X’s.

Tears bubbled in Noelle’s eyes. “His eyes turned to X’s…just like the video games…”

—-

It was a beautiful day outside. Birds were singing, flowers were blooming. On days like these, kids like Kris should be inside playing Nontondo games, but no, Kris had to go be all nice-like and visit someone whose dad had died.

Kris found Noelle standing by the window, light streaming past her silhouette in the early morning light. Kris stared at Noelle’s back in a way that definitely wasn’t creepy.

The two of them stood like two islands in a quiet ocean…but for the malfunctioning air conditioning system, which was quite terrible at imitating calming ocean waves.

Kris observed a massive snarl in Noelle’s hair. It was so big it looked like her hair had gotten pregnant. Dear sweet angel mother of Dog could she not have combed her hair a little before visiting her dying father at 3:30 AM?! Kris thought. But Kris kept quiet.

“Yo, Noelle, your hair is awful,” Kris said. Kris cringed, hurriedly adding: “Also, sorry ‘bout your dad. Obvious foreshadowed deaths are still super sad.”

Noelle spoke in a voice drained of tears, due to a quick surgery she had to improve tear evacuation in her face. Thankfully, Kris wasn’t looking at Noelle’s face.

“I suppose so,” Noelle said quietly. “But if it means I got to spend time with my dad, one last time…then it was worth it for my hair to look like it got goshdarn pregnant.”

Oh thank Dog we agree, Kris thought. Would have been awkward if I brought it up.

“I don’t know what I’m gonna do next,” Noelle said, almost to herself. “Life’s…never going to go back to normal, with my dad being all corpsey.”

Kris looked at the bed. It felt empty. “It’s kind of ambiguous whether he’s a corpse or dust.”

“You don’t know…maybe we scheduled a cremation service ahead of time, ‘cause he was on his way out anyway.”

The room was quiet again, but for the annoying creak of the malfunctioning air conditioning. It sounded like a wooden ship breaking apart in a storm-tossed…No, no. Make for a more subtle metaphor, Kris told their own brain.

The moment carried on, stretching out like a lazy morning. In that unhurried moment, where a person could simply be alive, Kris lost track of time. It didn’t matter: it was either 9:27 AM or croissant o’clock.

What did Noelle see, in one of the best views in all of Hometown? The houses below? The woods beyond? Undyne arresting Snowdrake for streaking?

“Thank you, Kris,” Noelle said quietly. “Thank you for somehow knowing roughly when my dad was going to die, despite having zero medical knowledge.”

Noelle’s ears floated up. A few seconds passed. Noelle turned around, exposing her hideously enlarged tear ducts.

“OH MY DOG KRIS DO YOU HAVE TIME TRAVEL POWERS?!”

But Kris had long since bounced the joint.

—-

Everyone knew it was coming. The foreshadowing was very obvious.

Kris stood stiffly in the doorway, a sense of unease building in their various body parts.

At first, the room seemed unoccupied. Then, Kris caught a soft, high-pitched noise. Kris caught Noelle sobbing, her face concealed under a waterfall of hair. (Much like a waterfall was wet, it was also wet. But with tears.) A thought occurred to Kris, unbidden, that her hair was beautiful: long, and blond, and finely combed, and increasingly stained with tears and snot. Her arms wrapped her arms around her body.

Kris did a double-take.

“Noelle…why are you brandishing a disembodied pair of your own arms?”

Noelle coughed out her sobs and swallowed.

“These are my sorrow arms, Kris….I grow them whenever I am enduring the crushing pain of existence.”

Kris’s blank face somehow looked hesitant.

“I doubt that. I’ve never grown any sorrow arms.”

“…oh. I’m sorry, Kris,” Noelle said, a little subdued. “Growing a second pair of arms under overwhelming sorrow must be a monster-only thing.”

“I only wish…I could have played Dragon Blazers III with him.”

Kris paused, tilting their head just a fraction of an inch. “How long would it take to finish Dragon Blazers III?” It was a mundane inquiry, very similar to “Do you have croissants?” in how mundane it was.

Noelle sniffed. In a brittle voice, like a piece of plastic (the brittle kind), she said: “It’s pretty big. About eight hours, I-I think.”

“If you could finish the game with your father, would you?”

“I’d do anything for it.”

“Would you give me hair-care tips?”

“…what?”

“’Cause I couldn’t help but notice how beautiful your hair was, despite the fact it’s increasingly stained with tears and snot.”

“Kris, I am mourning my dead dad. Please read the room before asking for hair care tips.” Noelle’s arms tightened around herself. “But, yes…theoretically, I would provide hair care tips.”

“Despite that unwanted tone of voice, I’m gonna be the better person and rewind time so you can play a video game with your dad, all good Samaritan-like.” Kris said.

“…what? Rewind time?”

—-

“Yo. Red SOUL.” Kris said blankly, sashaying towards a SOUL in a birdcage.

“I need you all up inside me.” Kris said, as seductively as a teenager of unclear age could while still being legal. Kris opened up the cage and their SOUL eagerly jumped into their chest cavity.

“PSYCHE!” Kris exclaimed. “I knew you’d automatically rewind time, sucka! And I’m gonna make Noelle slightly less sad!”

#Deltarune #Kris Dreemurr #Noelle Holiday #Rudy Holiday #Kris (Deltarune)#Fanfiction #Parental Death #Death #Comedy

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captainchrisfics · 5 years ago

Text

Why Not?

About: Loosely inspired by Taylor Swift’s “Wildest Dreams,” in which Chris Evans and the first-person pov narrator try to escape L.A. in search of some ocean air, planning to spend the night snuggling up on a secluded beach somewhere. At a crossroads in their lives, when there are so many choices regarding their careers and their future as a family, tensions rise as the couple suspects they may want different things after all.

Word Count: 5,855

Requested By: Anon! Thanks for giving me a chance to write this. I hope you don’t mind I changed the point of contention a bit from the original work, but I had this conflict somewhere in me instead and found that the song was a perfect foundation for it. Totally not an excuse to use one of these hot new beach gifs. x

“Let’s get out of this city,” Chris shouted suddenly, fast footsteps pounding down the hallway. Soon he was standing between me and the television with a hand on his hip as he dropped a packed duffle bag onto the coffee table with a clatter.

Chris looked tired, worn in a way only a day of stressful work with the press made him. His hair was messy, like his anxious fingers had been raking through it and tugging at the long strands with nothing else to let out the nervous energy. I knew he’d had a rough day by the way he stormed into our L.A. apartment late and locked himself in our bedroom since he didn’t want to talk about it, but this crisis was surprising even me.

“Oh?” I asked with a playful smile, liking this spontaneous outburst of his. Usually Chris was rather disciplined, strict with his schedule because he had to be. Thousands if not millions of other people’s dollars usually rode on it. But he did have the occasional break in routine, more often than not when the flashing bulbs of Tinseltown became a little too blinding.

“I want to drive out of here, out of the crowds you know? I mean,” Chris shook his head in exasperation before throwing his hands into the air. “It’s not normal, this place- God, this place isn’t normal. The grass is all AstroTurf and the water tastes weird. There aren’t even any stars in the sky!” He gestured wildly to the ceiling as he looked up. As if he was disappointed not to see the Milky Way swirling above our living room, his shoulders sagged as his arms fell back down and he looked at me dejectedly.

“That’s because they’re all in Malibu, babe,” I joked, earning a sarcastic laugh from my husband as he rolled his tired eyes. “Where do you want to go anyway?” I asked more seriously, genuinely entertaining the idea. I sat up from my lounging position on the couch to give him my full attention.

Chris smirked like the devil, sure he had me hooked. “The ocean,” he said and, before I could make a snide comment about how he’s able to see it from our backyard, he continued. “A beach without anybody else.”

I leaned back onto the couch, stretching my legs until my toes pressed against the other side’s arm. “Please, leave me and my DiCaprio movie at peace then.” I pointed to the screen behind him, where Rose was just about to ask Jack to draw her like one of his French girls.

Chris peeked over his shoulder before turning back to me, his upper lip curled underneath his beard’s mustache as he smiled. “Don’t be a smartass. You know you don’t count. Now come on,” he insisted, walking around the table in only a few of his long strides and extending his hand to me. I looked between his palm and his gaze, biting my lip before flicking the tv off and taking his in mine. Chris not only hoisted me off the couch but pulled me into his chest while peppering the top of my head with kisses.

“I’m not ready, though,” I said, wriggling out of his grip and holding my arms out as if he hadn’t seen me yet. I’d done rounds of auditions that day and I hadn’t bothered to change out of my nice dress, one with a floating fabric I saved for readings since my agent called it “age-appropriate,” let alone take off any of my makeup or unpin my hair. It was so exhausting, trying to keep up with Hollywood’s standard of idealized young women as I aged out of many roles, that I just collapsed on the couch when I came home. It seemed the longer I sat in the waiting rooms, the younger, prettier the girls who joined me on the couches were. The more roles I was rejected for.

My protest didn’t dampen Chris’s grin, I don’t think anything could’ve rained on his parade. “I packed your things. The tent is still in your trunk. Dodger’s got tons of sitters I can text on the way. And you don’t have a good enough reason as to why we can’t drive until this godforsaken place is nothing more than a twinkle in the rear-view mirror,” he said without his eye-pinching smile ever wavering once. Chris must’ve recognized the hesitation in my eyes as he gave it a last-ditch effort with, “We won’t be able to just pick up and leave for the weekend forever.”

I squeezed his hand a little harder, a meager but earnest smile creeping onto my face. “Guess you’re right,” I admitted, trying to feign absent-mindedness. I pressed a quick kiss to his lips, leaving behind a ghost of the cherry red color I wore on mine. Then I crept around him toward the front door. I grabbed the keys to my convertible, which housed our camping supplies from our last we-can’t-survive-in-this-city-for-another-second trip. Now that I thought about it, they were becoming more often than not. “Race you!” I shouted as I tried to push that thought and its implications out of my mind. Instead, I took off running out the door as Chris’s shouts about foul play and heavy footsteps trailed behind me.

The drive, however, offered too much time to think. Over the quiet hum of the engine and Chris’s low voice whispering along to the oldies on the radio as I drove, the wind whistling filling my ears as I sped down the curving roads carved into the side of the coast, I was left with little more than my own thoughts and Chris’s fingers tapping along to Elton John’s beat on my thigh. I realized this was the third weekend in a row Chris and I needed some sort of escape. Even before this last month, we jetted off to the Cape even though it was freezing or hopped in the car to drive until the lung-coating smog turned to salty ocean air or climbed mountains so high we could barely see the skyscrapers below. I was suffocating. I never thought I was trying to escape something until I realized how fast I was going, as if I desperately wanted nothing more than to put that city behind me.

Once we arrived at our usual spot, there were only a few hours of sunlight to prepare for the night. It was a small cove a bit of a hike from the beach’s parking, but it was private. The perfect place to set up camp without being bothered. Chris started propping up the tent while I got cracking on the portable grill and some hotdogs that would be inevitably undercooked for dinner. Neither of us minded too much, having become accustomed to worse food on our travels.

While we sat together in the tent, picking apart granola bars and waiting for the sun to start setting, I found myself playing with my wedding ring. Turning it around my finger, mulling over my thoughts. For better or for worse, we’d promised we’d be there for each other for as long as we could, but that was a hell of a lot different than asking him to give up this life he’d worked so hard to build. With a stiff resoluteness, I decided I couldn’t ask Chris to leave. I’d pick him and his happiness over and over and over again.

“Hey,” he said softly, placing a hand on my knee tentatively, like he was casting a line and praying I’d take the bait so he could reel me back into reality. “Look, the sky’s turning already. Why don’t we take a walk?” Chris prompted as he stood, tugging me along with him. I glanced out the tent’s entrance to see the sun was barely even grazing the water’s edge and the sky was still daylight blue, but I guess he thought a change in scenery might ease the creases in between my furrowed brow and at the corners of my frowning mouth.

We didn’t get far, only to where the last of the waves spluttered into foamy white bubbles along the sand as the water dragged away. It was cold between my toes and the whipping wind didn’t help, but Chris pulled me into his side to block some of the breeze. He was always hot, with skin like a radiator that was warm to the touch. I fit against his shirtless chest so perfectly since Chris was so much taller, curling up to his side like a cat hiding under the heater. He tugged the elastic out of my hair with a goofy smile, claiming he liked watching it whip around in the wind, but I managed to subdue the strands by tucking them behind my ears.

“Nothing lasts forever, you know. The way you’re feeling, it’ll pass,” I said quietly, partly hoping he wouldn’t hear me over the crashing waves and seagull squaks. I wasn’t sure if it was more for Chris’s sake or mine, but it felt like a rationalization even as the words left me lips. Of course Chris would get over these weekend-long sprints away, he just wanted a small break from the hectic celebrity life. I couldn’t blame him for craving an escape from all the paparazzi cameras, wanting for once to be able to leave the house in pajamas without worrying about getting recognized and looking your worst. It was all for work he loved, though. Ultimately that would overcome his frustration and, when it didn’t, we’d be here.

But I knew, deep down, I needed to hear those words out loud just as badly, even if they were coming from me. My yearning to leave the L.A. lifestyle behind, to find something that fulfilled me in the same way acting used to before it became little more than an age-shame game. To ask Chris to pack a few suitcases a lot bigger than his duffel bag and join me. It would pass, it had to.

Unaware of the tornado my thought-spirals were sucking me into, Chris’s arm fell from my shoulder as his hand reached for mine. “I want us to,” he said with a firm purpose. “Last forever, I mean.” He played with my fingers, running the tips of his over the length of mine before finally intertwining them.

I paused, too busy with my mind to adjust to Chris’s calm declaration of familiar love. “What a relief,” I laughed through the unease in my shaky breath, wagging my diamond-clad ring finger in his face.

We hadn’t been married for long. The ink was barely dry on our license, even calling each other husband and wife still felt a little funny on the tongue, but it meant our promises were still fresh. We’d known each other forever though, having lived in the same complex when we first moved to the city fresh out of high school, and we dated for years before he put this ring on my finger. If I had any insecurities when it came to our relationship, he would’ve known about them a long time ago, but Chris still looked past my hand, right into my eyes and through to my soul with nothing more than one eyebrow hanging slightly lower than the other.

“Are you having any, uh, doubts?” My eyes snapped to Chris, the worry lacing his voice as fresh as the preemptive hurt. He avoided my stare, instead watching the seashell he kicked back into the ocean. “About us?” Chris added like an afterthought, as if I could’ve thought he meant anything else with the dejected way he tore his hand from mine to shove it deep into his pocket.

“Why would you say that?” I spit out the words like poison. I didn’t realize I stomped my foot like a toddler throwing a tantrum until I felt the water’s splash. It was the very last thing to cross my mind, even amidst thinking about our drastically different wants right now, so it must be on his.

“Only because you said it like that,” Chris defended indignantly, crossing strong arms over his chest. He shot me one hard look, steely eyes looking ablaze with the setting sky’s reflection, before reverting his gaze back to the ground. “And you’ve been... I don’t know. You’ve been distant,” he concluded, rushing the words out of his mouth while he still had the courage to confront me. Chris shrugged, trying to pass himself off as blasé about it, but I could tell by the way he clenched his jaw tight that he was trying to bottle it up.

“Baby, the only thing I want is for us to be happy,” I asserted, choosing my words carefully. It was the truth, evident enough in my voice to quell any of his suspicions. More than I wanted to get away from L.A. and all of its pressures, I wanted to be with Chris. “Old and grey,” I continued with a wistful smile, “holding hands in creaky rocking chairs on a wrap-around porch somewhere in Massachusetts wouldn’t hurt either.”

It was quiet while Chris thought it over. Too quiet, in fact. I imagined it’s what it felt like to be on the other side of the moon, the dark one where there wasn’t any sound and anyone who could hear you if there was any was hundreds of thousands of miles away. So I stretched to reach a hand to his shoulder, only for Chris to shrug me off as he sucked a breath in between his gritted teeth.

Chris started walking along the foamy wet line drawn by crashing waves as they pulled out to meet the rest of the sea. I stood there, watching him walk away, feeling utterly useless. As I debated whether or not to follow the indents his feet left in the sand, Chris peeked over his shoulder. Seeing me still planted where he left me, he jerked his head forward, encouraging me to chase after him. We walked silently, the only sounds being rolling water, the squishiness of our feet hitting wet sand, and seagulls chirping overhead. After a moment, I couldn’t stand it.

“I just...” I released a defeated sigh, sputtering like a deflating balloon as I tried to find the words to explain myself. “I want you to remember this, though. You know how work’s been. Chris, I want you to remember me like this... not the way Hollywood makes me feel,” I divulged, hands wringing in the fabric of my billowing dress just searching for something to hold onto.

“Darling,” he said, admonished. Chris turned to face me, placing one firm hand on each of my shoulders as he dipped to be at my eye-level, imploring me to believe him. “That’s what this is about? You do know I’ll still love you even when you’re not. I mean, I can’t wait to grow old with you. Comparing our crow’s feet and arguing over whose hair is grayer.”

I met his eyes, their sincerity coupled with my desperate need to believe him, made me feel enveloped in his love. I cracked a smile, feeling awfully silly for even questioning it in the first place, as I joked, “Oh, I can already guarantee it’ll be mine with all the stress you and your antics put me through.”

Chris smiled too, although his was crooked and haphazard in a lazy sort of way, lips upturning with tired relief. “Just wait until it’s me and three or four mini Evans’s running around. We’ll be in for it then,” he said, eyebrows raising as he begged me to believe him, a smug smirk playing on his rosy lips.

Chris turned back to the ocean, tugging me to his chest with a new comfort. I thought I could last for a little longer in L.A. if it meant I still got to be held like this, his mountainy musk nearly drowning out the salty smell of the water. “Three or four?” I asked incredulously, wrapping my arms around his waist. Of course I thought about having kids with him before, but never that many. Although now that he said it...

He bumped my hip with his. “Mhm...” Chris hummed as he laid his chin on top of my head. He didn’t take his eyes off the horizon, where the sun was sinking below the water and turning the sky a brilliant kaleidoscope of colors as warm as the feeling in my chest, as he said, “A conservative guess, if you ask me. In rapid succession, too.” Chris laughed hard, but I had a feeling he was only partly joking. Suddenly, he sobered up. “I’m looking forward to starting a family with you, darling.”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure you won’t be the only one I’m calling baby for much longer. Enjoy it while you can,” I teased with wriggling eyebrows, leaning impossible deeper into his shoulder and slipping a hand in the back pocket of Chris’s jeans.

“You know what I’m really going to enjoy right now?” Chris asked, a rascal’s grin growing from ear to ear. Before I could even ask, one of his arms hooked around my knees while the other supported my back as he lifted me close to his chest. Carrying me bridal-style despite my squirming and shrieking giggles, he darted further into the cold water until he decided to drop me. Even submerged, I could hear Chris cackling. When I broke the water’s surface, I pushed down on his doubled-over shoulders suddenly with all the force I could muster, sending Chris tumbling head-first into the sea.

He stood up quickly, shaking his head like a wet dog before pushing his hair back and wading toward me. “So that’s how we’re playing this, huh?” he said in a low voice, looking at me in a way that made me feel all too much like he was a lion stalking its prey. Looking around for a way out, I realized I was the exposed gazelle. When Chris lunged, he missed, but I was drenched by his splash anyway.

Soon we left the water, not wanting to be caught with anything lurking under the surface at dusk. Somehow, even in the dim moonlight, Chris’s wet torso managed to twinkle and I was tempted to make my very own constellations out of the water dripping down the curve of his back. I hung back, watching as he pushed the long dark strands of hair matted from the ocean out of his face, the silhouette of his flexing bicep and the rippling muscles of his back driving me mad.

By the time I reached the tent, Chris had already traded his soaked shorts for checkered pajama bottoms. I turned to face the wall, as to avoid Chris’s wandering eyes and the inevitable, burning blush they’d ignite in my cheeks. I don’t know why, the clingy fabric of my wet dress left little to the imagination and my body wasn’t anything he’d have to dream up in the first place, but I tried to maintain an inkling of modesty as I kneeled so my head wouldn’t hit the ceiling, slowly peeling the dress away until I was left in nothing more than my underwear.

It was dark, with just the faint glow of a lantern filling the tent with an orange hue and exaggerated shadows. I saw Chris’s hand reaching for me, spindly shadow fingers projected onto the wall in front of me before he made contact, his warm palm pressing into the curve of my hip as he held me.

Chris’s chest melded with my back as he moved closer, our hearts pounding hard enough we could feel each other’s being somehow in sync. Our bent legs rested between one another, bringing us as near to each other as we could be. He gathered my hair in one hand, moving it all out of his way as he rested his scratchy beard on my shoulder’s bare skin, nuzzling into the crook of my neck. He placed gentle kisses along the exposed skin, trailing up my collarbone. I reached around, tangling my hand into the long hair at the nape of his neck as I urged him to continue. My neck craned, trying to give him more surface area to suck on while I released breathy, fluttering gasps that elicited a deep moan from the very bottom of his throat.

Chris reached my ear, nibbling on the sensitive skin. Instinctively, my head moved toward his until our noses were brushing. Every breath was borrowed. “It’s not good for you to stay in wet clothes, you know,” he growled instead of kissing me as I anticipated. Instead, he went back to marking me neck, always such a tease. His hand on my hip reached across my stomach, dragging his fingernails across my cold skin until he held me, pressing my impossibly closer toward his torso. His fingers didn’t make themselves at home, choosing instead to travel up the other side of my torso’s curve until he reached my chest. Over my wet bra, Chris kneaded my breast, already tender from the cold. His warmth was a welcome contrast.

“Wouldn’t want you catching a cold, darling.” Chris’s lips left my neck suddenly, leaving me feeling a rush of the night’s frigid air in the wake of his absence. My hand fell to his chest, the back of it landing just over his heart as my fingers curled with anticipation. I felt him pressing against the back of my thigh, hard through the thin fabric of his pants. It continued to fall until I found the hem of his pants. My fingers hooked below the flannel, beginning to tug it down the subtle curve of Chris’s hip. Then his teeth grazed my shoulder as he gripped my bra’s strap, tugging until it slipped. My breath hitched in my throat as his hand traveled up my spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake, and I froze.

He started to unclasp my bra as my lips, trembling like there was an earthquake, spit out a word I wasn’t even anticipating. “Stop,” I whispered earnestly before I even registered that I’d thought the word. My hand dropped to my bare thigh, tightening into a fist with frustration at myself.

If Chris wasn’t so attentive, he may have mistaken it for a lustful sigh. But in a second, with no questions asked, he untangled himself from my body and sat back on his heels so there was a foot or so of space between us. It wasn’t much, but considering the size of our small tent, it was all the room I could have to breathe.

I sighed, snapping my bra strap back into place with my thumb. “I just-“ I tried to say, only for my voice to betray me and break. “Damnit, I’m really sorry.” I buried my face in my hands, too afraid of the hurt Chris’s eyes would inevitably hold.

“No, no, darling,” his measured voice reassured me, just barely above a whisper. His hands wrapped loosely around my wrists, tugging me out of my hiding spot. Despite my trepidation, Chris’s whole being only held concern. Between his low shoulders and soft eyes, all he had was repentance. “You don’t have anything to apologize for. I’m sorry I didn’t realize you weren’t feeling-“

“Don’t you start saying sorry then either, Evans,” I responded with a sudden insistent flare. “It wasn’t anything you did. God, it never is.” I reached for Chris’s hands, where they sat wringing in his lap, and enveloped them in my own. “I-I don’t know... I’ve just got too much on my mind to enjoy this... To enjoy how great you make me feel, baby,” I disclosed, looking at him longingly through my eyelashes. In all honesty, I did want to make the most of our alone-time together. To make Chris feel that bliss he came here craving, to allow him to return the favor, but I couldn’t pull myself out of my own head enough.

“You don’t have to explain yourself. No worries there, Evans,” he responded with a giddy grin, still not used to calling me by his last name. He tucked some of my hair behind my ear so I couldn’t hide my blush. It was infectious, coupled with his kind words, I couldn’t stop from breaking out into a smile myself. “Why don’t we go look for some shooting stars then? I think NASA tweeted something about Jupiter and Saturn lining up with the moon this week.” Chris stood as tall as he could, though it wasn’t much more than a painful-looking crouch. He extended a hand to me, a peace offering I accepted with open arms. Or, rather, by taking his hand and allowing him to lead me back toward the sand.

“Oh, babe,” I giggled, a mischievous smirk of my own making its home on my lips. I stumbled a little, having difficulty finding my footing in the sand when I could hardly see in front of my face. “You know I love it when you talk nerdy to me.” Chris laughed while shook his head at the sky as he searched it, deciding this spot was nice until he thought the view would be better another couple side-steps to the left.

Finally he dropped, making a quiet thud against the sand as he dragged me down with him by our joined hands. Chris intertwined our fingers before nodding with satisfaction and laying down. He stretched his other arm, resting his head on his bicep as he jutted his chin out to the spot next to him.

As I snuggled into the soft sand, Chris pointed up to the sky with a lazily extended finger. “You see the Big Dipper?” he asked, a childlike amazement evident in his voice. I said I did, although I was too busy being overwhelmed by all the other dazzling lights twinkling in the sky as well. Feeling awfully small and insignificant in an inexplicably liberating sort of way. I curled up close to Chris, trying to catch every bit of his body heat I could.

“It’s actually called Ursa Major, Latin for the Great Bear,” he continued. Instead of staring at the sky, I turned to Chris. I watched his blue eyes light up, although I wasn’t sure if it was the moon’s bright reflection or a burning passion inside of him. “The Greeks had a story for it, tons of them actually. But I like the version where this nymph named Callisto swore a vow of celibacy to Artemis, although Zeus had a bit of a thing for her,” Chris turned to me with wagging eyebrows.

“They end up having this son…” he trailed off, turning back to the sky as his face tightened with concentration. “Sorry, I can’t remember his name now. Anyway, Zeus’s wife, Hera, gets super pissed and turns the poor nymph into a bear. She spends years like that until, one day, her son happens to find her.” Chris squeezed my hand, his eyes flickering between watching me in their corners to staring at the constellation again. “It’s not the happiest family reunion though. He’s a hunter now so, without knowing the bear he’s afraid might attack him is really his mom, he goes to kill her.”

Chris pulled our laced-together hands to his lips, pressing gentle kisses to my knuckles as he tried to prolong my suspense. “Zeus takes pity on them, but if you ask me, he was trying to make up for being the dick that got them in this situation. Ease a guilty conscience, if gods even have those,” he paused to scoff. “He ends up carrying Callisto and her son to the heavens and turns them both into constellations so they couldn’t be hurt anymore,” Chris finished, his voice growing quieter until he reached the end, barely above a whisper.

“Is the moral supposed to be that kids ruin everything?” I said sorely, offering a bitter laugh to try to pass it off as a joke, but Chris could tell my heart wasn’t in it. In fact, I’d been thinking the opposite all night. A lot longer than that, actually, now that I think about it. Too nervous to see the confirmation I suspected may be in his eyes, I kept mine glued to the sky. Feeling an awful lot of the vulnerability I imagined Callisto may have, if only in a fraction.

“Nope,” he said, popping the word on his lips. “I just think it’s comforting to know that we won’t be able to fuck up that badly. I mean, as far as I know, neither of us are deities so, unless you’ve got some secret jealous ex with that potion from Brave, we’ll be alright parents. Sure, we’ve got crazy lives, but I don’t think we’ll suddenly wake up tomorrow with all the answers, so I don’t see why we’re still waiting.” His voice was as level and laid-back as if he was talking about the weather, not actually starting a family someday soon.

My neck nearly snapped with its velocity when I turned to Chris, flabbergasted in every sense of the word. Of course I knew he wanted kids, I don’t think there’s a person that’s ever watched a minute of a Chris Evans interview who didn’t. But we were always too busy working. Too focused on each other. Too far from a good school district. Too not-living-the-lives-we-want-to-lately.

“That is what you’ve been thinking about, right? Kids?” Chris asked, his whole face contorting with confusion, screwing up as he thought he did. “I figured, you’ve been worrying about getting older a lot lately. Plus, it seems like you’re tired of the whole L.A. lifestyle, lord knows I am, and like you’re ready to do something else career-wise. So I thought… I don’t know. Honestly, I wouldn’t blame you if-” he rambled, trying to put words to his thoughts in an attempt to make me understand them as well.

“Chris,” I said. It came out more sternly than I intended. “What do you want?”

He flipped over to his side so we were facing each other completely now. “Well, of course, I want you to be happy-”

“No, Chris. What do you want?” I repeated, unrelenting. Our eyes bore into each other, playing the world’s worst staring game with a poignant intensity. Chris’s eyes narrowed, his thick lashes nearly brushing his cheeks, until he lost.

“Honestly?” he said, liberating a heavy sigh from his lungs. I turned on my side to face him completely, curling up against his ribs which nearly rattled with every one of his stalling, shaky breaths. “I want kids,” Chris admitted in a breath. “If you aren’t ready yet, if I misunderstood whatever you’ve been going through lately, I’m really sorry, but I’m ready to settle down a little more. Move out of the city, find a nice home in some suburb with a yard for Dodge and a few empty bedrooms to fill.” Chris spoke with longing for a life we weren’t quite living, not dissimilar to the one that’d been plaguing my thoughts ever since I figured out the words for it. Although he was hesitant at first, once he started rolling, Chris couldn’t help confessing this residential life he’d planned down to the picket fence.

“Do you- Chris, don’t fuck with me like this. Do you really mean that?” I asked, utterly unable to hide my desperation. More than anything, I wanted that picket fenced front yard and a dozen little feet pitter-pattering down the hall. All I needed was for Chris to want it, too.

“Absolutely,” he said with confidence and a slow nod to boot. “I mean, we’re both tired of L.A. anyway, right? We aren’t getting any younger. I figure, why not, you know? I’d rather raise our kids where they can see the stars and walk down the street without getting papped. What do you think?” Chris inquired, chewing on his bottom lip anxiously. He’d gone out on a limb, hoping I’d be there to catch him when he fell.

I couldn’t stop the tears brimming in my eyes at just the thought of packing school lunches. Shutting the fridge, littered with finger-paintings of our family and tacky magnets we’d collect on every vacation, before handing a bag to each little kid. Kissing the tops of their heads as they rushed out the door, ready to board the big yellow school bus waiting out front.

“If that’s not what you want, that’s okay,” Chris rushed. His eyebrows dipped, heavy with concern that tugged down on the corners of his lips as well. “Really, it’s okay. No pressure. Please don’t cry about it.” Chris reached an arm around me, pulling me close to his chest to comfort me until my quiet cries erupted into laughter. “Wait, wh-what?” he stuttered.

“You meatball,” I teased, trying to catch my breath. “God, you don’t know how badly I’ve been wanting to hear you say that. Would it be wild if I told you I think that’s exactly what I want, too?” I laughed again, relishing in every bit of the relief.

“Not at all, darling,” Chris reassured me quickly. “I think it sounds like a dream, waking up with one arm around you and our baby snuggled in the other.” His eyes turned glossy, like he was remembering something that hadn’t even happened yet.

“In that case,” I said with a smirk that grew into a devilish grin. I placed my palm on Chris’s chest and pushed him back, flat against the sand, as I rolled over to straddle his waist. His eyebrows shot up in surprise as an incredulous laugh left his rosy lips. I flipped my hair to one side, biting my bottom lip with an excited suspense, as I looked down at Chris, balancing myself with a hand on his stomach. I swear I could feel his diaphragm halt as he forgot to breathe. “Why don’t we get started?”

Chris’s hands found their place on either side of my hips. His eyes watched his finger as it slipped under my underwear’s waistband, tracing the horizontal line dangerously low on my skin. As his gaze rose slowly, trying to soak up every last drop of this moment. “Are you proposing we make a baby right here, right now?” Chris asked when his eyes met mine, a soft smile carving crow’s feet next to his blue eyes.

“Well, in your very own words,” I purred, laying my chest to his so our faces were only inches from each other. I ran my fingers through his dark hair, trying to engrave the way he was looking at me now into my memory, as if I was the moon and the stars and the whole, entire sky. His grip tightened on my hips with anticipation as I leaned in to press a longing kiss to his lips, only a tease of what was to come. “Why not?”

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