#but it's fine i can do it in pieces instead of making a singular long essay

[marinsawakening]

The part where Marin tries to wake the Wind Fish is probably my favourite part in the entirety of Link's Awakening for how effectively it plays into the overarching themes and message of the story, utilizing Marin's character.

Marin tries to wake the Wind Fish because she believes this might make her wish come true. This is not interpretation, this is text. Earlier in the game, Marin states directly: "They say the 'Balled of the Wind Fish' is a song of awakening. I wonder, if the Wind Fish wakes up, will he make my wish come true?"* We also know what she wished for because of this piece of dialogue during the beach scene: "If I was a sea gull, I would fly as far as I could! I would fly to far away places and sing for many people! ...If I wish to the Wind Fish, I wonder if my dream will come true..." Although Marin refuses to tell us what her wish to the Wind Fish was, this piece of dialogue also makes that abundantly clear. Marin believes that waking the Wind Fish will allow her to fly to many places and sing to many people, like a seagull.

And she is not wrong! If you get the secret ending (obtained by not dying during the game), you see a vision of Marin change into a seagull after the Wind Fish wakes. Marin's attempt at waking the Wind Fish and her repeated assertions that waking the Wind Fish might grant her wish is, in part, clever foreshadowing for this secret ending. This is clearly part of its function.

But another, arguably more important aspect of Marin's attempt to wake the Wind Fish is that it serves as a kind of dramatic irony for the player, regardless of whether they know about the secret ending or have even finished the game: at the point of the game where Marin tries to wake the Wind Fish, you, the player, have already had Koholint's Big Secret revealed to you. Marin, on the other hand, is entirely ignorant. We know that waking the Wind Fish would make Koholint vanish, but Marin doesn't.

An isolated, surface-level reading of the situation is as follows: Marin, in her naiveté, is attempting to accomplish something that would doom her. This reading is, to a certain degree, understandable: Koholint's transient nature, and its inevitable end, is certainly sad. We can wonder whether Marin, knowing the full extent of the consequences, would have still wanted to wake the Wind Fish. That was her home, after all, and while she would like to explore the great wide somewhere, she might have been less eager to if she understood that this is only possible if her home did not exist anymore.

But ultimately, this reading is shallow and does not engage with the explicit themes present all throughout Link's Awakening. While Koholint's inevitable end is sad, yes, it is also ultimately not a tragedy. The Nightmares in the world have the aim of controlling the dream and, to accomplish it, are prolonging it unnaturally. The only people who ever protest your quest to wake the Wind Fish are those same monsters, the obvious bad guys of the story. In the end, after the Wind Fish has woken up and Koholint has vanished, we leave on a shot of Link watching the Wind Fish fly off, smiling. It is the nature of dreams to end: all throughout the game, this is made abundantly clear, spelled out in the Wind Fish's final speech, and crucially: this is not a bad thing. The bad thing is forcibly prolonging a dream, clinging to it and refusing to move past it, as the Nightmares were doing.

Engaging with the game's themes, the cynical reading holds no water. Koholint's end is no doom; its doom would be existence in perpetuity, especially if ruled by the Nightmares, as would be inevitable (they are the ones keeping the Wind Fish asleep, after all). By attempting to wake the Wind Fish, Marin is not dooming herself. In addition to all of the above, again: there is an ending where she does have her wish come true, if the Wind Fish wakes. She was correct.

So what, then, is the purpose behind this scene? If not the dramatic irony of unwittingly working towards your own doom, what does it want us to take from it?

Marin is an interesting character on Koholint. While its other residents routinely and consistently fail to comprehend even the general idea of a world beyond this island (as shown by dialogue such as "Dude! You're asking me when we started to live on this island? What do you mean by 'when?' Whoa! The concept just makes my head hurt!" by the children in Mabe Village), Marin asks questions. She's restless, as evidenced by her frequent visits to the beach, her need to know about the world beyond Koholint, and, of course, her attempt to wake the Wind Fish. Why is Marin capable of these questions, whereas most of the other residents are at best unconcerned with the outside world or, at worst, incapable of even thinking about it?

It is up to interpretation, but I posit: for the same reason the Owl is. More or less, anyway.

The Owl is perhaps the strangest part of the dream, not just more aware than the other residents, but more aware than you, as well. It acts as your guide, purposefully so; it references being 'instructed' to help you ("I was instructed to give you directions... Your next goal is north, in Goponga Swamp!!"). The reason for this becomes clear during the ending sequence, where the Owl reveals: "As part of the Wind Fish's spirit, I am the guardian of his dream world." The Owl has a much more direct connection to the Wind Fish than the other residents, which makes sense; as the dream world's guardian, it would have to be aware of its nature and its mechanics in a way none of the other residents would be.

'As part of the Wind Fish's spirit' is interesting; the most literal way to interpret this is the literal one, where the Owl is a part of the Wind Fish's spirit in a way most everyone else on the island isn't. This is supported by the mural you find in the ancient ruins that tells you Koholint's secret, which depicts the Owl immediately alongside the Wind Fish.

But it is important to note that all of Koholint is a part of the Wind Fish; its dream, if nothing else. While the Owl obviously has a different role and greater connection to the Wind Fish than the other residents, it is not unfair to assume Koholint's residents all reflect parts of the Wind Fish, as dreams often reflect parts of ourselves, as well.

The Wind Fish is being forced into a slumber for much longer than is natural by the Nightmares. Repeatedly, the Owl references the Wind Fish growing restless as you get closer and closer to waking it. Before entering the seventh dungeon, the Owl states, directly: "Go! The Wind Fish grows restless!" Upon exiting the seventh dungeon, you can find Marin on the bridge, after having attempted to wake the Wind Fish.

I say the reason Marin tried to wake the Wind Fish, as a matter of fact, the reason she wanted to leave Koholint at all, is a reflection of the Wind Fish's desires to do the same. Her role in the dream is to reflect the Wind Fish's restlessness; or perhaps, that's a fancy way of saying that this is one of her main thematic purposes in the game.

Marin is Koholint's personification. Not necessarily in-universe, but for the purposes of gameplay. It is harder for the average player to get attached to the whole of an island than it is to get attached to a singular girl, who is opinionated and likeable, with a strong personality and hopes and dreams. Without Marin, Koholint's inevitable fading would have much less emotional impact, as Marin shows us that Koholint's residents are people, and provides a microcosm of the island as a whole for us to get attached to. Marin is, effectively, Koholint's representative to the player.

As such, Marin mirrors Koholint in many ways: sweet but mischievous, a bit weird but lovingly so; her name is literally 'Marin', meaning 'marine' in at least French and probably Spanish (I don't speak Spanish and only a little bit of French) and it's one letter off in English as well. When Marin tells you not to forget her at the end of the game, this is connected to the Wind Fish's declaration at the very end, that Koholint will now only exist in memory. This demand to remember her not just meant to be taken literally; it's also meant to be taken as a declaration by the game to remember Koholint.

As such: Marin's restlessness are intended to be reflective of both Koholint and the Wind Fish. Her desire to leave the island and fly away is the Wind Fish's, and therefore, Koholint's, as Koholint is a part of the Wind Fish. The purpose of having Marin try to wake the Wind Fish is to signal to the player that the island wants to wake up; the island's representative made an attempt, and the Nightmares' monsters punished her for it. She needs you to help rescue her, like you need to rescue the island.

Having Marin attempt to wake the Wind Fish is one of the strongest moments of writing in Link's Awakening, showcasing the story's themes and overarching message in an interesting way that adds a lot of character to Marin as well and I'm very, very normal about it.

*All quoted dialogue in this post is taken from the Link's Awakening DX script on gamefaqs, which I would truly love to hyperlink in this sentence but Tumblr is refusing to let me, so it can be found here: https://gamefaqs.gamespot.com/gbc/197769-the-legend-of-zelda-links-awakening-dx/faqs/38914.

[littlereddream]

ok so that zombie apocalypse au with jason was absolutely insanely amazing. i love how you wrote the rationale behind staying with him. would you ever consider writing more on the time jason kisses reader the first time (the one after they’d been attacked by a horde? if not, totally fine! have a cool day

Thank you!! So glad you asked because I’ve been wanting to write more about this au lol

This fully escaped me and ended up being longer than the original. Included is the missing scene from Jason kissing the reader for the first time and (I know you didn’t ask for this but I can’t help myself) their second kiss.

Enjoy!

(The original)

Under Heavy Rot

Missing scenes

Zombie apocalypse au typical gore (though more than Under Heavy Rot), gn reader

It was like digging for iron and finding gold instead. The corner store, such a short walk away from Jason’s house, was like a piece of trapped, untapped history. Every shelf was untouched, fully stocked as if the employees had made it their very last duty to fill up the space with supplies.

It’s not all perfect, of course. All of the dairy products are well past their expiration date, leaving you to grab powdered milk instead. The power’s out, and likely has been since the very beginning of it all, so most of the refrigerated or frozen products are out of the question.

Still, candy bars and canned food are nothing to scoff at.

After confirming that you’ve busied yourself with shoving non perishables into your backpack, Jason goes off to secure the store’s outside.

It doesn’t take long to fill up your backpack, and you zip it shut before slinging it over your shoulders. At that point, you almost leave. You’ve done what you and Jason came to do, so what’s left?

Just exploring the chance that the store might have a bag of those chips you used to love. Jason’s not around to lecture you for taking unnecessary risks, so you make your way over to the back. You’ll take your chances.

Every little movement has the old tile creaking under your feet, until one step prompts a quiet splash. Your gaze flicks down to your shoe, finding a puddle of sticky, nearly black blood. It sticks to the bottom of your boot when you raise it, thick and gooey.

Your hand flies to your knife, drawing it out of its sheath. Walker blood. It’s too coagulated to be anything else, too dark to be from anything other than the dead. The puddle smears forward, creating a trail through the aisle before turning past your view into the next.

Slowly, weapon raised, you move forward to follow the bloody path. You hardly make it two steps until a shrill snarl is your only warning before a hand grabs your shoulder.

You whirl around, knife angled to slash, but the blade can only uselessly cut across the walker’s chest. There’s no reaction from it, entirely undeterred from your attempt. You step back, distancing yourself as best you can while trying to form a plan. It’s just one. You’ve taken down countless walkers before, why’s this any different?

Another groan, this time from right behind you. You look back and, fuck, there’s two, blocking the other end of the aisle. Okay. Sacrifices, sacrifices.

Turning back to the one, you grip your knife tight and rush forward at it’s feet, diving between it’s legs to get behind before twisting around to slash the back of it’s knees. The action costs you your knife, getting stuck in the flesh mid movement, but it’s fine. It’s enough to buy you time, let you find out where you’d gotten yourself.

To the very back, with three walkers gaining on you and a singular clear path to the exit the next aisle over. You don’t make it. They’re faster than you’d predicted, recovering too quickly for your plan to fall into any sort of action. Too close, too close.

The two steps back you do take have your shoulders pressing into a shelf, securing your fate.

Or not. You could’ve sworn that the walkers in front of you didn’t have those holes in their head two seconds ago. They fall, one by one until they’re nothing but piles of previously reanimated flesh in front of you.

Behind them? Jason, slowly lowering his gun to rush over to you. His brows are knitted together, frown tight on his face, and you can only stare at him as his hands come up to cup both sides of your jaw. He tilts your face in his hands, checking you for injuries.

Jason repeats your name quietly, mumbled like he needs it to breathe. Like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

“Did you get bit? Scratched? What happened? I thought…” he trails off.

“I’m okay, Jay. They didn’t hurt me. You got them,” you reassure, hands coming up to rest over his.

He’s close, enough for you to see the sweaty glow of his skin, the scuffs of dirt on his cheeks. You don’t think there’s ever been anyone so beautiful.

“You’re okay,” Jason repeats, like he doesn’t quite believe it himself.

You nod, sweeping your thumbs in little circles over the back of his hands. Jason doesn’t waste another second. You aren’t ready for it, you don’t think he was either. Between one second and the next, he has his lips pressed to yours.

It’s soft, sweet in a way you wouldn’t have expected from the same man who almost killed you during your first meeting. Though maybe you shouldn’t be surprised. He’s also the same man who changed the bandages on your wound as if you’re broken glass, bound to shatter entirely if he pressed a little too hard.

He holds your face in his hands like the world around you doesn’t exist. There aren’t dead walkers sprawled around your feet. You aren’t standing in a crappy, abandoned corner store. This isn’t about to end the second he pulls away.

But it does, and the second his lips leave yours, the real world falls back into place. You don’t think you’ve ever hated it more.

Jason breaks it abruptly, but doesn’t fully pull away. His forehead remains touching yours, eyes squeezed tight like he’s preparing himself to force his next words out.

“I’m sorry. It…you know. Adrenaline. It won’t happen again, promise.”

Jason’s hands drop down to his sides, and now even the warmth from your kiss is gone. The real world is cold, and all you can do is shiver.

But if he wants to pretend it was a mistake, then you’ll let him. At this point, you doubt there’s much you wouldn’t do for him.

The realization hits you like a bucket of cold water. You really, really don’t want to leave him. Judging by everything that’s happened, he doesn’t want you to either.

There’s nothing for you to say, not that he gives you any time to speak. He’s already grabbing more canned food to shove into his own backpack.

“I think we have everything. We’re probably good to head back. Need anything else?” He asks.

You need him to kiss you again.

“No. Let’s go.”

With a curt nod from him, you leave the corner store, your favorite chips forgotten.

Two weeks later, you learn that Jason Todd is a liar. A no good, handsome, filthy little liar. And sure, maybe it’s you that gave him the perfect grounds to break his promise, but still. A liar.

It’s not like you’re not grateful. If Jason hadn’t gone back on his promise, then you wouldn’t be sandwiched between him and the kitchen counter.

You’d gotten tired of watching him look away anytime you caught him staring, of seeing how he’d never allow himself to touch you for more than a second when pulling you out of danger.

Your exhaustion, well paired with the event of him wearing his stupidly fitting leather jacket around you, was the perfect recipe for you to damn the consequences and just kiss him.

You’d started with so much confidence. You thought you understood what he kissed like, thought you’d be the one to overwhelm him when you grabbed him by the collars of his jacket.

“I really want to kiss you right now. Can I?” You’d whispered, like you’d disturb the air around you if you were just that little bit louder.

He’d nodded stupidly, eyes wide and lips parted in shock.

You’d overwhelm him, you’d thought.

You’ve never been so wrong.

Within seconds of your lips meeting his, Jason doesn’t waste another moment before backing you up into the counter. This Jason is different than the one from the corner store, who was so sweet and gentle. This Jason kisses like he’s trying to steal the air from inside your lungs, more starved than the dead outside.

Your brain feels blank, all confidence gone along with any memory of what to do while kissing somebody. He doesn’t even give you a second to think, broad hands squeezing your hips like you’d even try to move away. What the hell, what the hell.

Jason pulls away to give you a total of two seconds to breathe, then he’s back, bringing a hand up wrap around one of your wrists, still resting on his chest. What is he- oh. With his hand guiding one of your arms to wrap around his neck, you manage to have just enough brain capacity left to bring the other arm up too.

You aren’t sure how long you kiss. What you do know is that even after your lips part for the final time, the real world isn’t even close to coming back. Your brain’s too fuzzy, head resting against his chest while his arms wrap around your waist, slowly swaying the both of you to a melody that only he knows.

You know that if you look up now, you’ll see the wide smile that he hasn’t been able to force down since you’ve stopped kissing, despite his best efforts.

Leaving. Right. As if. As far as you were concerned, the only way either of you would ever leave is with the other following right behind.

And it’s perfect.

[officialcharactersimp]

Playdate

(Graduation Gift Part 6)

Summary: (can be found on my masterlist under series) Natasha invites Wanda over to see you. When you’re left alone with Wanda, she makes good on a deal she made with Nat. >:)

A/N: So like. Listen. I know. I know. It’s been 2 years. I wrote this piece like a year ago. And this is NOT DONE. It’s NOT GREAT. Y’all voted for the rough edges version. Maybe I’ll edit or polish it later on. Also. I was getting a little gratuitous with Wanda using too many petnames and so I’ve used A SINGULAR PRONOUN for the first time in this series’ history. If I find a way to change it later to remove it I will. It’s they, by the way.

WC: 2.9k (wtf??)

CW: 18+ only, minors dni; series is dark but this is only mildly dark; reader is being kept in Nat's basement but they're like. fine with it??; smut; mommy milkers make mommy milk; cgl themes; sharing partners; dubcon; Wanda uses her powers to manipulate reader; mean Wanda (but only a little, as a treat); Wanda calls reader mutt, pup, etc; threesome; oral (R receiving); Wanda uses magic sexually on reader; no proper ending, sorry

“Baby, mommy needs to talk to you,” Natasha says, muting the TV. You turn to look at her expectantly, face as angelic as ever. She smiles. “Good baby. Now, mommy wants to have a friend of hers over,” she says.

“Upstairs?” you ask, confused. She’s had people over to the house for meetings before—why is she asking you?

“No baby, downstairs, in here,” she says, opening her arms for you to come sit on her lap. You do so, searching for comfort as the idea causes unease. “Oh, baby, it’s okay, don’t worry. She’s very nice.”

“But…” you fiddle with the hem of her shirt for a moment before bringing your thumb to your mouth and looking down.

“She already knows about you, baby,” she practically reads your mind. “She’s the one that helped mommy start making milk for you,” she hums.

“Someone knows?” you’re surprised and… something else you can’t quite put your finger on.

“Yes, baby. My best friend Wanda. We work together and she helps make it so I can stay home with you,” she taps the end of your nose, earning a small smile. “You know mommy doesn’t want to keep you down here all alone and locked up forever, don’t you?” she asks. It’s only half-true, but you nod anyways. “This is how we start, okay?” you nod again.

—

“Baby, I’m here with Wanda!” you hear Natasha’s voice as the lock clicks and the door opens. You get up on your knees at the end of the bed and wait for her with your arms up.

“Mommy!” you greet her with a happy exclamation. She chuckles and goes to help you out of the bed, but you cling to her instead, hiding your face from the brunette standing near.

“Aww, feeling a bit shy, are we?” Wanda’s voice is kind enough as she reaches out, patting your back gently. You flinch a little and Natasha instantly hushes you, rubbing your back where Wanda had touched you to soothe you.

“We’re just a little nervous,” Natasha says for you. “It’s been a long time since you’ve seen anybody but mommy, huh?” she asks. You nod against her.

She carries you over to the couch and sits with you on her lap, Wanda sitting on the other end. Natasha turns your head to face her and you examine your guest with your eyes, deep in thought. You notice she’s holding a stuffed animal in your favorite color. She sees your eyes land on it and smiles warmly.

“Hi there,” she says. “Your mommy said this was your favorite color,” you nod to confirm. “I thought it might be nice for you to hold,” she holds it out to you and you look to Natasha, who nods, before taking it. You pull it close, finally unwrapping yourself a little from Natasha.

“That’s so precious!” Natasha says, looking at the toy in your hands. “What do we say, baby?”

“Thank you,” you say shyly, unable to meet her eye. She smiles anyways.

“I’m glad you like it,” she says. “You gonna give it a name?”

“He’s gonna be called Dots,” you say, running your hand over the bumpy dotted texture of the toy’s fur.

“Dots. That’s a good name,” she says. You smile a little. “I know you’ve been down here for awhile with just you and mommy, right?” she asks. You nod. “What do you like to do together?”

“Um… I like it when we watch cartoons or play with my toys together,” you say slowly. “Mommy makes the best voices for my toys,” you smile. “And I like bath time, too, or when mommy lets me do her makeup. We do all sorts of stuff,” you tell her, smiling at Natasha, who brushes some hair out of your face.

“That sounds awesome, little one,” Wanda says. The petname sounds nice from her lips, making you smile bashfully.

The conversation drifts slowly to the two of them talking about work, occasionally making jokes to include you. You eventually grow comfortable enough to uncurl from your tiny ball on Natasha’s lap to sitting on her normally, playing with Dots and half-listening.

“You okay, Natty?” Wanda asks, and you look to your mommy to see her shifting a little.

“Yeah, don’t worry. Looks like we’re just a little late for milkies time,” she looks at you. “Feeling hungry, little baby?” she asks. You nod; you’ve been ignoring it in the hopes that Wanda would leave before it got unbearable. “Come on then,” she unbuttons her shirt some and unclips her bra on one side.

“But mommy—“ you glance at Wanda.

“It’s okay, baby. Don’t you trust mommy?” she asks. You nod slowly and let her guide you into position, your legs ending up on Wanda’s lap, who gently rubs her thumb on your shin. You squirm a little.

“Behave, baby. Don’t you want mommy’s milkies?” she asks. You nod, cheeks flushed. “Then be good,” she says firmly, guiding your head to her chest. You latch on a little less eagerly than usual, trying to ignore Wanda’s presence and touch. It’s easier with Natasha running her fingers through your hair, humming softly, but not so much as you feel Wanda’s eyes on the two of you like a hawk.

You’re inevitably slipping down into your uninhibited littlespace by the time you switch to her other side, grunting gently when the milk doesn’t flow at first and grabbing onto Natasha. She chuckles and hushes you, adjusting herself to help you in your efforts.

“Easy now,” she soothes.

“How precious,” Wanda coos gently, reaching over to brush your hair out of the way so she can see you better. You can’t flinch without letting go of Natasha’s chest, so you let it happen. She takes the liberty and strokes the back of her finger down your cheek softly.

“Isn’t my baby just the sweetest thing?” Natasha brags, “Come closer, Wans, it’s alright. A lot tamer with your mommy’s milk in you, hm?” Natasha speaks the last part to you as she pats the cushion next to her for Wanda to sit. They both move you as needed for her to get closer, your butt now in the virtual stranger’s lap and her arm resting on your stomach. You whine and look up at Natasha, about to pull away to protest.

“It’s okay, baby, you’re doing a good job,” Natasha holds you fast against her with a gentle hand and even gentler praises. “You trust me, and I trust Wanda. You’re okay. Just drink your milkies,” she placates you easily. You settle back into an edgy comfort and let yourself be held, trying to stay in your big headspace and failing miserably.

“That’s a good baby,” Natasha says as she both sees and feels the resistance leave you. When you finally pull off, she smiles at the little dribble on your chin and wipes it with her thumb before pressing it into your mouth. “Mommy’s got you,” she assures you as your eyes half-close, sucking on her thumb automatically. She coos softly at you.

“Such a good baby,” Wanda muses as she looks on.

“That’s right,” Natasha says proudly, making you blush a little. “See little one, Wanda’s not so scary, is she?” she asks you sweetly. You nod a little bit, earning a satisfied hum. “That’s my baby.”

“My mommy,” you say around her thumb, reaching up to touch her face. Her heart melts at the gesture and she leans down to kiss your forehead.

The tender moment is interrupted as Natasha’s phone rings. She pulls it out of her pocket, looks at it a moment, and then sighs deeply.

“I have to take this,” she says with reluctance. “Go to Wanda, baby,” Natasha pushes you fully into her friend’s lap despite your whimpering protests. Wanda’s arms wrap around you easily and hold you to her as you wiggle, reaching for your mommy to no avail.

“I’ll be as quick as I can, baby,” Natasha assures you, tilting your chin up and kissing you before going upstairs. You look at Wanda with wide eyes in silence for a moment.

“It’s alright, don’t worry,” Wanda speaks first. “Your mommy will be back soon, and she’s only upstairs at any rate.”

You keep staring at her mutely.

“This must be pretty new and scary, huh? And I can tell you’re feeling pretty little, too. But don’t worry, I’ve got you,” she says, voice warm and soothing. “Do you want to watch some cartoons? I know you like that,” she suggests. You nod. “Okay, cartoons it is,” she reaches for the remote and turns on the TV.

You ease considerably with the cartoons on, sucking on your thumb and cuddling Dots close. Wanda holds you and watches passively, wondering what’s taken Nat away so suddenly. She’s so excited to finally be meeting you, too, but trying not to scare you off with her eagerness.

“Want mommy,” you mumble after awhile. It’s rare for Natasha to leave you when you’re in your littlespace, and you are very much disliking it.

“I know, little one. I’m sure she’ll be back just as quick as she can. It won’t be long now,” Wanda assures you once again. She pulls out her own phone to shoot Natasha a text. It has been awhile…

Only about a bit more now. How’s my little baby? she responds.

Missing you, but mostly okay. We’re watching cartoons. I don’t know how long it’ll last though… Wanda informs her

What we talked about before is still on the table. Wanda glances up at you, oblivious, then looks down again.

Are you sure it won’t mess everything up? I haven’t made much headway in the trust department…

It’ll be fine, Wans. My dumb little baby can’t resist feeling good. Natasha’s words make Wanda go red and she shoots another glance at you. Luckily, you’ve still yet to notice.

Alright then. See you soon.

Wanda puts her phone away and turns her attention back to you. You’re babbling to Dots and pointing to the TV, as if trying to explain it to him. It’s absolutely adorable. Wanda watches sneakily, not wanting to interrupt and ruin the moment of pure innocence and cuteness.

“Right mommy—“ when you turn and remember it’s Wanda, not your mommy, who’s holding you, your bottom lip begins to tremble.

“Oh, no no no, baby, it’s okay, don’t cry little one,” Wanda rushes to soothe you, holding you closer and rocking you a little bit. “It’s okay, she’ll be back in just a few minutes, she told me so,” she tells you. You calm a tiny bit at that. “She even told me what to do while we wait for her.”

“R-really?” you sniff.

“Mhm,” Wanda hums, one hand coming down to rest on your tummy.

“What’d she say?” you ask, squirming on her lap a little. You’re feeling tingly, like how Natasha often makes you feel.

“Well, she said she worried your pretty parts might need some attention, and she said I can help you, since you’re just a little baby who doesn’t know how,” Wanda tells you soothingly.

“M-mommy said that?” you ask, trying to ignore the growing sensations in your lower half.

“Yup. She cares about you being comfortable and happy so much that she said I can help you instead of her,” Wanda says with a smile. “Isn’t that nice of her? You’re lucky, little one.”

“Mhm, mommy’s nice,” you say, struggling to put together the logical thoughts in your head that would can tell you what’s going on here.

“Aw, don’t think too much, little one,” Wanda coos, her other hand coming o to the side of your head and stroking your temple. As she smooths the hair there, it feels like she’s smoothing your thoughts, too. Little do you know she really is, but she figures what you don’t know won’t hurt you, right?

“When’s mommy coming back? I need her,” you say, a little dazed.

“Why’s that, precious?” she asks sweetly.

“I’m at all tingly. I don’t like it,” you squirm.

“I can help with that, little one,” her voice is like honey. “Just relax for me, okay? Wanda’s se gonna take care of you,” shepulls down your shorts and underwear, exposing your sensitive area to the air. You whine a little.like

“‘s cold,” you complain.

“I’ve got you,” soon Wanda’s warm hand has moved from your tummy down to cup your mound, quieting you. She reaches down further and starts slowly encircling your most sensitive bundle of nerves, making you sigh softly in relief. Something starts to poke at your entrance but you don’t know what.

“What’s that?” you ask, looking down. You see the hand between your legs encircled with glowing red tendrils.

“It’s alright, little one. It’s just magic, like I used on your mommy before. It’s perfectly safe. And it’ll feel really good,” she says, slowly filling your hole. You whimper softly at the stretch as her fingers continue to work your clit. “How’s that?”

“Good,” you breathe, opening your legs more. She smiles.

“That’s a good little baby, spread those legs nice and wide for me,” you heed her suggestion, letting them fall open to give her more access. “Perfect.”

She gracefully works up to a rhythm that has you whimpering softly with each thrust, clutching tightly to Dots. The hand at your temple moves down, allowing her thumb to play at your lower lip. You open your mouth eagerly, wanting to take it into your mouth, but she doesn’t let you. She simply teases your lip while your mouth hangs open, panting heavily.

“So damn precious,” she says, her voice husky. She leans over to see your hole clenching around red-tinted nothingness and bites her lip. “Feeling good, little one?”

“S-so good, Wanda,” you stutter, twisting and panting.

“Look at you, panting like a little doggie. Is that what you are? Are you a dumb little pup for me?”

“I-I-“ you don’t know how to react. Her words are nothing like Natasha’s, but they’re making your body feel the same way. You give a small whimper of confusion.

“Aw, too dumb to even know what you are,” she says with mock sympathy. “It’s okay, good puppies like you don’t need to think, just let me do it for you for now,” her voice is soft again.

“I-I can’t-“ you gasp, somehow feeling overstimulated before you’ve even had a single orgasm.

“You can. Be a good pup for me,” she encourages sweetly.

The door opens and you both look over to see Natasha at the door, who grins at the sight before her. She quickly comes to your side, smiling at Wanda and exchanging a few looks before looking down at you. She smooths some hair out of your face.

“Mommy!” you whine loudly, one hand leaving Dots to clutch at hers. You hold it to your sweaty face, her touch cooling, and whimper as you lean into it.

“Aww, looks like you and Wanda are getting along just fine,” she says. “You’re being such a good baby for Mommy’s friend. Do you feel good?”

“Yes mommy, feels so good, so good—can’t th-th-“ you whine desperately.

“Dumb little mutt can’t handle what I’ve got to give,” Wanda chides. “But they’re trying nonetheless,” she shifts you around on her lap so Natasha has an unobstructed view of your cunt as she uses her powers to press into your every crevice.

“Isn’t that a sight,” she breaths softly, getting her face in close. “Move your finger. I wanna taste my baby,” she instructs. Wanda obliges, focusing fully on her magic while Natasha begins licking and sucking at your clit harshly.

“Mommy!” you cry out. “Mommy, Wanda, I can’t, I can’t—“

“You’ll take what’s given to you like the good little slut you are,” Wanda cuts you off firmly, a particularly hard thrust punctuating it. “If you come nice and pretty for us, maybe we’ll be nice and give you a rest,” she says. You glance down to Natasha between your legs.

“Yes, baby, you can come. Come for us, all over me,” she pauses to say before diving back in.

It feels like her and Wanda have just increased their efforts by tenfold, making you cry out even louder than before, tongue hanging out as you pant heavily. It’s all too much—you can’t last much longer like this.

“Please!” you whine.

“Come on, you can do it baby,” Wanda says softly, encouraging you over the edge. “Be good and make a mess for us.”

The coil in your body snaps at that and your back arches as you scream, lifting your torso up off of Wanda’s lap as your hips buck.

“That’s it, that’s it baby, so good for us, for mommy and Wanda,” Natasha is your beside you in seconds, kissing your face and rubbing your tummy soothingly. You whimper softly at her kisses and your body calms down enough to return to Wanda’s lap. She too is praising you, petting your head in reassurance. Tears brim in your eyes and threaten to fall, but Natasha catches them.

“It’s okay baby, mommy’s got you now, we both do,” Natasha soothes. “You’re alright now, you did so good.”

“Did good?” you repeat hazily.

“So good,” Wanda confirms.

to be continued…

And that’s it, I’m sorry. If I don’t post it right now as it is I’m just not going to do it again.

read the rest of grad gift here

[blue-rose-soul]

What else is going on in Kid Alastor au? I'm craving the little chaos deer

The hotel was uncharacteristically quiet, given that the princess and her spear-wielding love were not around to reign in the rather boisterous collection of characters they'd gathered under their roof. When Charlie had solidified her plan to meet with Heaven's leadership, Alastor had fully expected to find the parlor in flames and everyone passed out drunk or temporarily dead at the bar. Instead what he found was a note left on the coffee table penned in glittery pink elegant script that read:

|

'Hey short stack. An old buddy of mine swung by and Charlie paid for everyone to have a night on the town. The place we're headed to ain't really for kids (yeah I know you're fucking old but I don't think the bouncers give a shit) plus Husk says it ain't your scene anyway. We left some cash so you can do whatever. I don't know what you do. <3 A.D.'

|

Well. How thoughtful of them.

In a burst of green flame, the letter dissolved into ash, and then even the ashes dissipated into a fine mist. The short stack of bills he left untouched on the table. As though he couldn't provide for himself, hah!

There was nothing these loathsome souls had that he needed.

Still... There were few things as dreadfully dull as a large, empty building. Perhaps he could pay a visit to Rosie in Cannibal Town. Though it was a tad late to show up unannounced. No, there was no need to go out. There were plenty of other ways one could occupy oneself in a large, empty building…

-

The pig grunted in contentment as it lapped up yet another treat. Alastor dropped another treat, lead the pig another few feet, then another few, then another.

The moment Fat Nuggets was fully inside the unused room Alastor tipped the bag and sent chocolate and peanut butter cereal pieces scattering all across the floor. With a delighted squeal, Fat Nuggets scrambled all across the room, snapping up cereal bits as fast as his little piggy feet would allow. Newspapers in one corner of the room, water and food bowl in the other, a bunch of cushions piled on the carpet. Plenty to keep the pig content – and most importantly, quiet – for a good long while.

Alastor shut the door quietly, leaving Fat Nuggets to his feast.

-

It was a small thing, but knowing how high-strung dear Vaggie was, it would be plenty enough to whip her into a storming frenzy.

Shadow men were busy rearranging the furniture. Nothing drastic, simply shifting each piece of furniture a biiiit to the left. The bed four inches, the dresser two, the vase three. Tilting every single painting, unscrewing a few choice light bulbs just enough to flicker. Nothing was glaringly out of place at a first glance, but over time…

Alastor chuckled, pleased with himself.

He was snapped from his daydreams of a frothing, red-faced sinner by a low growl. Alastor turned to find Razzle and Dazzle glaring up at him, the red baphomet flicking its tongue in displeasure while the pink one merely hissed. He raised his finger to his lips, offering the cuddly little monsters a close-mouthed smile.

“Let this pass,” he said, “and I’ll make you beignets.”

Instantly those reptilian eyes went lipid, tails wagging and growls replaced with happy chirps. A thought crossed Alastor’s mind. His lips peeled back to bare his teeth in a wicked grin.

“In fact, lend me your hooves, and I’ll make you all the beignets you can eat!”

-

Repeating the same little stunt he’d pulled with Fat Nugget on the Egg Boiz felt rather lazy. But using those little monsters was most certainly the correct method of targeting Pentious. As he entered the airship docked against the hotel building, Alastor found them all arranged in a circle on their fronts, scrawling all over pieces of construction paper with crayons and glitter glue.

“Hey, Little Boss!” the singular egg creature with a name chirped as it noticed him. “We’re making new evil plans for the Big Boss while he’s taking a break from being evil!”

“Hmm,” Alastor hummed thoughtfully. “Tell me, would you little monsters like to help me with a surprise for your boss?”

“A surprise?” Frank echoed.

The sweet smile on Alastor’s lips was at odd with the devious glint in his eye.

“Why yes! Our dear princess thought we might throw him a party in celebration of the great strides he’s made towards self betterment!” Hah. “And of course, who better to surprise that slippery serpent than his most beloved minions?”

The little egg creatures began chattering amongst themselves before they, in near unison, hopped to their feet and saluted.

“Surprise Party Division reporting for duty, Little Boss!”

“And of course, you’ll need supplies!”

With the snap of his fingers, five bursts of green light materialized five prop guns into the Egg Boiz’ hands. The Egg Boiz immediately started ooh-ing and ah-ing over the toys, one saying something about ray guns and another turning his prop over in his hand to peer straight down the barrel. That one jolted as he accidentally squeezed the trigger, letting off a burst of light and noise right in front of his face.

“Now remember!” Alastor said. “It’s a surprise. So you must hide, and when Sir Pentious arrives, jump out and fire off those party poppers!”

A little egg hand shot in the air.

“Why do the party poppers look like guns?”

“I thought it matched the aesthetic,” Alastor replied, gesturing about the metal airship and the various dismantled weapons scattered around. This seemed to satisfy the Egg Boiz. “Now off you go. Hide, and when Sir Pentious comes, jump out and fire off those party poppers! I’m sure he will be quite amused!”

With a final salute, the Egg Boiz took their new toys and scattered, disappearing into vents, canisters, crates and wherever else. An impish grin on his face, Alastor faded into the shadows.

-

The clinking of glass greeted Alastor as he reappeared in the common area. He found Razzle and Dazzle at the bar, right where he’d left them, rifling through the colorful bottles on the shelves. Dazzle placed a bottle up on the shelf, inching it around so that the label was facing outward before turning to Alastor.

“Last one?” he asked.

Razzle and Dazzle nodded.

“And the original bottles?”

The pink one lifted up a bulging garbage bag from behind the counter, the contents rattling together with each subtle movement. Alastor nodded in approval.

“Ought to put that somewhere dear Husker won’t come across it,” he said. “And I suppose I ought to get started on those beignets while you do.”

The plush demons bleated in joy. Before they could fly off with their stash of expensive alcohol, Alastor called out to them.

“Wait. Leave out a bottle of rye. Just set it on the coffee table, next to the radio.”

Alastor didn’t wait to see if they listened. With the snap of his fingers the radio blared to life, playing a lively jazz tune whilst he made his way to the kitchen to prepare a doughy, sugary feast for the adorable little beasts.

His shadows rose and solidified, pulling open cupboards and setting out the utensils and ingredients. One placed a stool in front of the sink so he could step up and wash his hands, another retrieved his apron and slipped it over his head while a third tied the apron for him.

Alastor was stirring the brown sugar into the mixture of milk and butter when the goats reappeared, hovering right over his shoulder. Alastor waved them off, then reached for the cinnamon.

“No hovering, if you please.” They backed up, but he could still hear their wings flapping, just behind him. Alastor sighed. “Well, I don’t really need help with this part, but you can help clean the kitchen while the dough is rising.”

A questioning bleat.

“Yes, it will take about an hour for the dough to rise before it’s ready to fry.”

Distressed, impatient bleats.

“Well too bad, that’s how long it takes. If you wanted cheap, mass produced styrofoam coated in icing, go beg the king for some lousy carnival crap. I’m making real food.”

More bleats.

“Then you have to wait. Shoo. I’ll call you in when I need you.”

With a final huffy bleat, Razzle and Dazzle flew across the counter, though their reptilian eyes remained locked on Alastor as he poured the mixture into the flour.

[heuristicallyinclined]

Cirque du Soleil

Summary: MSPA Reader gets their own show from the clownlets, and everything that entails.

Notes: Hey! Glad to have written something else! I'm definitely still getting back into the rhythm of it, but I am happy with how this turned out.

TW: Blood, Implied Gore, Implied child death (they're fine)

(See the end of the work for more notes.) (AO3 Link)

__________

The murmurs of the audience surrounding you immediately hush as the room begins to dim. The sound of spotlights clicking on booms throughout the tent and two massive lights swivel, each one on opposite sides of the tent turning to focus on a singular point. Shining their beams across the tent, they focus on a troll, casting their silhouette upon the curtain.

The long and spindly figure stands high above you in the middle of a tightrope, horns serving only to make them look even taller as they loom over the crowd.

Wait.

“LaDieS aNd GeNtLeMeN,” the voice projects.

Where are you? How did you get here?

“tRoLlS oF aLl CaStEs AnD aGeS,” the figure grandly gestures out to the crowd in greeting.

Despite the fog in your head, you think you still recognize that voice.

“MoThErS aNd FuCkErS Of ThE aUdIaEnCe!”

You know that voice. Those voices.

“aLiEnS!” they say, and the angle of the lights shifts, bringing the exaggerated figure back in proportion to a much smaller one that splits into two. Their smaller horns are no longer eclipsed by their masks and you can now finally see them. They’re holding hands as they balance on a tightrope each on one foot, using each other for tension to keep their balance.

Ah. Yeah. This makes sense now. Or at least about as much sense as anything you find yourself in does.

“WeLcOmE oNe AnD aLl!” they say, looking at you, “To ThE fInEsT aSsOrTmEnT oF cLoWnErY iMaGiNaBlE!”

They split, doing a sick backflip and cartwheels across the tightrope away from each other.

“TONIGHT YOU WILL SEE CHUCKLEVOODOOS THAT WILL BEWILDER AND BEWITCH.”

“And witness death defying stunts that will petrify and perplex.”

“JOIN US IN THE DESPAIR,” Baizli ends his cartwheel in a handstand.

“and delight,” Barzum mirrors.

“kNoWn OnLy HeRe At CiRqUe Du SoLeIl!”

The applause is deafening around you and you can barely hear yourself think.

Oh. You see what happened here. You did this.

You tried to convey some cross cultural connections to relate to some kids using your limited circus knowledge and it inadvertently turned into a horrific game of telephone.

You said, “hey it’s kinda cool your last name sounds like this famous circus back at home,” and then they mistakenly heard, “Hey, I want you to show up and drag me out of my hive to see your interpretation of it, preferably with no warning at an unspecified time.”

They look at you expectantly and you quickly join in the applause, almost dropping your popcorn.

Hold on, when did you get popcorn?

You examine it closer and pick up a piece and pinch it slightly, feeling the give. It feels real. You hold it by your face. It smells real. And your stomach rumbles like you have a real, perfectly good bag of buttery popcorn right in front of you.

Well you know what they say. If it looks like a bag of popcorn and smells like a bag of popcorn, it probably isn't chucklevoodoos.

Still, you better stay on the safe side and not risk it in case it’s a bag of spiders that are going to try to eat your face or something.

Wait, you realize as you clap. They said aliens. Plural.

Squinting, you look out in the crowd and realize not all of the hazy figures in the stands were trolls. Some didn’t have horns and that their eyes were ringed with white instead of the golden sclera you had become used to. They had included humans. Or at least what you think they thought were humans. They didn’t seem to get what the proportions of a human should be and seemed to cover their bases by including a little bit of everything. From short squat figures to long ones with too many bones.Their proportions were wrong though, distorted and extended in ways that created unsettling silhouettes without you actually being able to point out why since looking at them for too long made you feel dizzy.

You stop looking at them.

They had firmly parked the clown car Uncanny Valley and there was no way you were getting out.

But thinking about it, you feel kind of bad for being scared. Here you are getting all nitpicky about all of the terrifying hallucinatory homunculli surrounding you on all sides, when they were made by little kids who had only ever seen one human before. They had clearly added these human approximations because they care about you in their own weird way, even if it is a little clumsy, because they wanted you to feel more comfortable and enjoy the show.

Or maybe they just think you’re fuck ugly. Either or really.

“and now for our first trick,” Baizli begins as she walks across the stage, morosely making eye contact with you and you can barely hear her speak over the revving of her chainsaw, “i will saw barzum in half.”

There is something just so viscerally wrong about seeing a clown wielding a chainsaw, though you can’t quite put your finger on why.

Oh wait. Yes you can.

It’s a clown holding a chainsaw. There is no additional explanation required.

Barzum excitedly launches himself into the open box, cartwheeling into it and pausing on a handstand to look at you and grin.

Uneasily, you grin back.

This only seems to get him more revved up, no pun intended, and he effortlessly twists out of it, laying down in the box and bringing the top down on top of him with only his head sticking out like he was tucking himself into bed and not settling into a coffin.

You can barely watch as she brings it down slowly over the center of the box. If her actions are at all compelled by the troll equivalent of the Cain instinct, you can’t tell.

You cover your face with your hands as the chainsaw revving continues and continues, but you don’t hear it cut into anything.

After a pause, a foreign frustration bubbles up into your mind and you feel more than think, “yOu’rE nOt LoOkIng.”

You peek through your fingers.

Barzum’s face is still the only part of him visible. He remains unphased by the chainsaw, instead looking at you with a pout. Baizli looks peeved as she holds the chainsaw, unmoving and displeased. Even the illusions of trolls and horrific human approximations born out of the imaginations of young clowns seem to be judging you for not looking at their performance.

Sorry, you offer, forcing your hands away from your face, as the two study you. Baizli glances down and starts to lower the chainsaw again before pausing, her eyes and his flicking to you again.

I’m looking! You have to shout over the sound of the reving.

The two seem delighted to have your attention again and you practically have to sit on your hands when the whine gets higher as the blades bite into the wood. You hold your breath as it approaches where you think his chest should be. His eyes widen for a moment and he screams, bloodcurdling. The box shakes violently as his small frame seems to rattle inside of it, a massive gush of purple spraying out of it, until the chainsaw had passed through the center of the box in its entirety. Then he goes completely still as your heart pounds violently in your chest and your breathing feels like it’s going too fast for your lungs to handle and-

“BLEH,” he nearly shouts, sticking out his tongue, making you jump in your seat. You look at the two of them and see they’re looking at you expectantly.

You start clapping vigorously, standing. The crowd around you erupts as well, joining you in your applause as you try to get your breathing back to normal and not faint at what apparently wasn’t a live act of fratricide.

Barzum swings the box lid open and hops out with a flourish, spinning into a bow with Baizli.

That was a great show, you enthuse, clapping faster, relieved to be at the end of it.

They look a bit confused before giggling in unison.

“that was just the first act.”

“YEAH, THERE’S WAY MORE.”

Really? You ask in what hopefully sounds like enthusiasm.

“yEaH!”

The crowd quiets down unnaturally quickly and your legs either gave out or you were sitting back down. Either way, the show was on the road and you were locked in the trunk.

“AND NOW!” Baizli announces, producing a long, curved blade seemingly out of nowhere. “I WILL SWALLOW A SWORD.”

Barzum copies him and pulls out an intricate lighter, taps the end of it to the tip of his sword, and clicks it. “a flaming sword,” she emphasizes as the blade itself seems to ignite.

Your jaw drops, much to their glee.

The rest of the show is just as much of an emotional roller coaster of dread and relief. Somehow, you got through it. You got through the chainsaw, sword swallowing, escape from a locked underwater box, knife throwing, axe juggling, and maybe a few other things you had already repressed, but you did it. You were getting through it and their performance drew closer to its end.

“AND NOW!”

“for our final performance of the night”

“OuR gRaNd FiNaLe!”

You exhale.

Abject fear and terror aside, they have genuinely put on a really nice show for you and you’re genuinely curious as to what they chose for their closing act. Maybe some contortionism? They like that. Could be a nice note to end on.

They break character to smile at each other, Barzum snickering before they both look straight at you.

“We NeEd A vOlUnTeEr!”

Oh.

You freeze mid clap.

Oh no.

The two of them look away from you and make a performance of their search, really hamming it up as they scan the non-existent crowd, pressing hands over their brows and squinting, mirroring each other as they move in unison looking high and low for their lucky volunteer.

Being the only real person here, you’re guessing they're waiting for you.

You take a deep breath, suppress your survival instinct, and raise your hand.

They turn and gasp in unison, pointing at you.

“YeS! yOu!”

“step right on up”

You walk over for what feels like much longer than you should. It feels like you are walking towards the gallows as they lead you to an extremely tall ladder connected to a platform.

You have to climb up there, you state more than ask.

They nod in unison, waiting for you to start climbing before scurrying away.

You climb up ladders all the time. Your hive has one. And it’s less structurally sound too and you do it just fine.

You’re fine.

You are going to be just fine.

Just, just don't look down.

Don’t look down, you think as you climb higher and higher up. Don’t look down. Do not look down. You are not going to look down.

You look down.

You regret it immediately.

Your stomach lurches and your hands clench the rope ladder even harder, barely even feeling the rope burn as it nearly cuts into your palms. You pause nearly three-quarters of the way up, head spinning.

"We think our volunteer needs some ENCOURAGEMENT!"

Oh fuck.

Baizli still has that lighter and you half expect her to light the bottom of it on fire, but she doesn’t.

Instead, the two start chanting, “cLiMb! ClImB! cLiMb!”

It's no longer just them, but the non-existent crowd joins in.

You continue to climb. Whether you are actually climbing or just going through motions while doing something else is beyond you.

One of the “humans” in the crowd looks at you and gives you a toothy grin composed of one single blunt tooth wrapped around their gum.

You climb faster.

Finally you reach the top and scramble onto the platform, trying to catch your breath. There were no rails on it and you were terrified of falling off. Are circus tents subject to OSHA regulations? Probably not. Definitely not here anyways. You see an identical platform across from yours on the other side of the tent, and between the two platforms, they had set up massive metal spikes.

Oh god.

Okay. Just try to think this through. See where that gets you for a change.

They’re your friends which means they probably don’t want to kill you. They put on a whole show for you. It would be such a pain to pull your mangled bits out from their otherwise pristine spikes. Or maybe that was the goal, to christen the spikes with your blood or something like that. Clowns can be a bit hard to get a good read on. But it’s probably not that.

You glance away from the spikes and your stomach drops when you realize you’ve lost sight of both of them.

You turn back just in time to see a trapeze bar rapidly swinging towards you with Barzum perched on it like it was a swing at the park.

You think she’s about to Sparta kick you off the platform when at the very last second, in one fluid motion she stretches back, hanging off of the bar by her knees. The bar continues forward and she plucks you off of the platform like a bird of prey and swings you two over the bed of spikes.

To your credit you don’t scream.

Granted, it’s mostly because you’re frozen in place and terrified that you moving too much or yelling will make her drop you, but you aren’t screaming.

Her grip on you isn’t shaky in the slightest. You know highbloods are strong, even young ones, hell Amisia could probably bowl you if she were so inclined. But feeling the amount of strength she’s holding you with both makes you feel a bit safer but scares you for a fun new reason.

The two of you swing back and forth with the arc you make widening each time, drawing you closer to the other platform and you just need to make it a little longer without pissing yourself and you’ll have walked out of it with steller audience participation. You're even getting used to it. She’s probably going to fling the two of you off when you get to peak, you keep not screaming and maybe even hope to keep some dignity this time around.

You swing again, back and forth. Almost there. Almost done. Almost safe. You can feel it.

When the bar reaches the peak of its arch, what you feel instead is Barzum letting go of you.

You continue soaring higher, an unwilling Icarus, helplessly watching her pleased face as she rapidly swings backwards without you and you scream in terror as you fall.

Until Baizli grabs your ankle, interrupting the brief eternity you were falling, his swinging bar mirroring hers and approaching the center. You think maybe, just maybe, this will be over when he reaches his platform and you can lay down on it until your hands stop shaking enough for you to use the ladder to get down.

But he doesn’t. Instead he swings you back over the gap, towards Barzum swinging closer as she mirrors him. Again, you are thrown.

Okay. You no longer have dignity. It’s gone.

You are yelling while being tossed between the two of them like a sack of potatoes every time the bar reaches its peak.

Your screams seem to egg them on and they laugh as your throat burns. You’d like to say you can tell it isn’t manic laughter and is just some joyful expression of clownery, but you are extremely disoriented and it is hard to tell.

You just don’t want to throw up or pass out.

They two swing off of their bars in unison, still holding onto you and doing an acrobatic tumble as they fall towards the ground, and you tense as you brace yourself for spikes or impact.

But neither comes.

They land a hair’s breadth away from the spikes and set you down between the two of them, the audience now going wild at their finale. The two bow for the cheering crowd and after a second, you join them, trying not to shake too much.

As you rise up from the bow, your surroundings seem to blur and start to change. You blink, trying to bring the world back into focus. Upon opening your eyes, you notice you’re in their backyard. So it was chucklevoodoos.

Glancing behind you, you notice that the spikes are very real and nearly trip over yourself as you take a big step away from them. You almost land in their box of extremely sharp props, but stop yourself.

Okay. Mostly chucklevoodoos.

The two of them look up at you, clearly pleased with themselves.

“WHAT WAS YOUR FAVORITE PART?” Barzum asks, your mortal terror not hindering their mood.

You try to think what part if any didn’t have you on the verge of a panic attack.

You enjoyed how enthusiastic they were about the whole thing. It was very nice of them to put on a show for you.

You feel like that is a very diplomatic way of saying that you appreciate the effort the twins put into this even though it scared you nearly shitless.

“you were good at playing along. my favorite part was when you were pretending to be scared”

“LIKE WE WERE GOING TO DROP YOU”

“we’re really good so we wouldn’t drop you”

Oh, you were so aware they weren’t going to drop you. You didn’t even consider that. Not at any point. No. Not at all.

You wipe your sweaty palms on your hoodie.

Would they uh, ever consider maybe using a net for their shows?”

They look at you, each tilting their heads, “fOr WhAt?”

“we have a net.”

“BUT WE DIDN’T NEED TO USE IT SINCE YOU SAID YES.”

A stretch of silence passes at that, and you notice a bag of popcorn, tipped over on the ground.

Oh! The popcorn's actually real!

“WELL YEAH.”

“We actually have buttery kernels.”

“WHY WOULD WE NEED TO FAKE THEM?”

“That's dumb.”

Oh, okay. So most of the performance was them showing off their chucklevoodoos?

“no, we can really do that stuff.”

“CHUCKLEVOODOOS JUST MAKE IT LOOK COOLER.”

You don’t quite know how that answer makes you feel, luckily they don’t let you stew in it for long.

“WANNA SEE HOW FAR I CAN SHOVE A REAL SWORD IN MY MOUTH?” Baizli asks, not even waiting for you to answer as he grabs the hilt.

“No!” you exclaim, quickly putting your hand over his.

“we’ve gotten really good,” Barzum adds, balancing the pommel of her sword on her nose like a seal.

You believe them, it's just that, well, swords might spoil their dinner. Definitely yours. Do they have anything other than popcorn?

“cotton candy,” she replies, setting her sword down.

Normally, you’d be more than fine with this. But you’re with kids now and understand that to be a good example for them, you’re gonna have to pretend to be a person you’re not. A healthy person. Someone who eats balanced meals. Not a scavenger ready to horf down however much cotton candy they get their mitts on and call it a night… or day, you guess.

Do they have any dinner food?

“WE HAVE SNACKS.”

Any vegetables?

They frown in unison.

Incredible. They’d swallow a sword without blinking but make a face at eating a vegetable.

Okay, while you aren't a country girl by any means, what have you even been doing on Alternia if not making do?

“wHaT?”

You’ve given up on the illusion of health. They’re young, not stupid, and plus, you doubt that would have gone well anyways.

What you’re trying to say is you can make decent grubcakes if they have the stuff for them in their kitchen.

“yeah, we have whipped moobeast product,” Barzum says, sounding much more enthused at this option.

You meant stuff like flour, but you know what, you can figure that out when you get in there, you say, the two of them leading you into their hive.

“i WaNnA mIx,” they say in unison, and the look they give each other makes you grateful that they left their swords outside.

GOOD ENDING: DINNER AND A SHOW

__________

Notes:

Fun Facts: Cirque du Soleil does actually get inspected by OSHA. It was a fun challenge to write them as they are very baby, but also gremlins, and trying to figure out their odd version of being nice and acting their age in still in moderately terrifying ways. They're just little kids and have the needs all little kids do of showing off what they can do and express that in a completely normal way for young clowns.

[samsalami66]

Part three of my royal au is done!! Very excited about this one, it got longer than the first two drabbles and got quite. Dramatic. You can find the first part here and the second part here.

Of course, as always, biggest thanks and love to my wonderful, singular @im-not-corrupted . For the beta and the encouragement and being my best of friends.

Also I have no idea how this is usually done, but I was asked to tag @solalasoforth in this part, so here goes that! I hope you enjoy this little angsty piece!

----

The stars were painted high on the black canvas that stretched above the Dreaming, the pin-pricks of light each too beautiful to be something as simple and real as the night sky. No, the stars that day were stolen from a painting, the soft hues of purple and blue in their light a product of fantasy, of humans who had a tendency to make reality appear much more romantic than it actually was.

But somehow the beauty of this night was real. The stars were grazing Dream with artistry previously unknown to him, and he was nothing if not reverent of this singular night sky. If he were a better painter, perhaps Dream would try to capture this with colours that might rival the real thing, and yet never manage to do it justice.

He did not try to, in the end.

No, painting with oils had always been his youngest sister's forte. She loved colours about as much as Dream enjoyed a silent night, and the absence of such in Dream's clothing and room tended to make her sad. Her brows would furrow sometimes, her fine lips cast downwards, and then she would pin a pink flower to Dream's ear, which he wouldn't take off until the petals crumbled and fell, even if the little accessory was anything but proper.

It was no matter. After all, he was only second in line to the throne and therefore smaller missteps could be overlooked, as long as it did not damage the reputation of the entire family.

And since Dream's own reputation was already outrageous, he could allow himself to spend a quiet night in the gardens, head tilted towards the sky and eyes searching for the constellations he knew were hidden between the sheer endlessness of stars.

Hob was somewhere nearby, Dream knew, wandering around and chasing his own thoughts between roses and poppies, never leaving him out of sight for long. It was a blessing, to have this kind of safety, to fear for nothing as your life lies completely in the hands of another, and instead of dread, it only awoke elation in your heart.

There was a certain kind of giddiness when Dream thought of Hob watching him here, in the confines of this shared space, secluded from humanity and yet out in the open, to the feet of the stars. They would bear witness to every shy glance, every passing smile as their gazes met over a bush of roses, and every blush that would creep up their necks as they looked away quickly.

It was perhaps the finest game Dream had ever had a chance to participate in.

No wonder, then, that he was visibly disappointed when they were interrupted by a guard stepping up towards Dream, their face obscured by the shadow cast by their helmet, an unending darkness swallowing where a face would have been by day. The sight had something in his chest constrict uncomfortably, turn and twist the air in his lungs until all he was capable of were shallow breaths through a parted mouth.

The guard bowed sharply, a single tilt of their torso as the endless blackness remained turned towards Dream.

"My Lord," a dark but familiar voice started, and Dream let out a silent breath of relief as he could finally make out the shape of a sharp smile in the darkness.

"Corinthian, yes. What do you need?"

"Could I perhaps bother you for a short walk around the gardens? There has been something on my mind lately, and you have mentioned once that all… inquiries shall be reported to you directly."

Dream had in fact said this particular phrase to every new recruit they had, always adamant to be of some assistance as a regent, if only in the smaller ways of making the subjects of the Dreaming feel heard.

Knowing it was thereby his duty to give in to this request, no matter how much he'd rather sit and continue his little play with Hob, he simply nodded his agreement and pushed to stand from the bench he had been sitting on.

The Corinthian started into a direction and Dream simply followed, his gaze mostly fixed on the way before them. The path was hard to make out at night, and he'd rather not make a fool of himself and fall over a tree root without Hob nearby to catch him.

A few minutes passed before the Corinthian spoke, his voice carrying quietly through the trees of the royal gardens, his obscured face tilted towards the sky, hands clasped properly behind his back.

"I feel like there is a certain unbalance within the royal family, my Lord."

A furrow formed between Dream's brows, caused not only by the serious nature of the question, but also because he wasn't quite sure if the cherry tree to his right was the one near the library or the one between armory and the fountain.

"Why, royalty has never been known for its balance in things such as power, or even wealth. Please, elaborate, Corinthian."

No water could be heard running, so perhaps it was the cherry blossom at the library after all.

"You see, your brother, Destiny, he… he is not really the kind of man to lead, is he?"

Though has the fountain even been turned on for the year? A soft sheen of frost was still covering the ground they walked after all, and the gardener usually waited until the nights remained without frost before allowing the water to bend in its spectacular arches.

"My brother has been trained since childhood in the arts of leading a kingdom." Dream realised this wasn't a real answer to the Corinthian's question and quickly added: "But I do agree that he is certainly not a man made to rule. He is… quiet."

Besides him the Corinthian huffed a laugh, and Dream momentarily diverted his gaze from the darkness where he imagined a fountain might hide to look at the man's profile. It did not show much, but he felt like looking at the guard was important in this moment, somehow.

(If only he could discern if the path they were on now would turn back towards Hob or further into the dense tree-line. Dream did not usually get lost in the gardens anymore, but the filter of night made every tree look similar to the one on their right, every rose held the same shade of dark gray as the other hundreds down the path, even though he knew some of them to be of rosy pink and some to be the dark red of blood. They all looked the same now, and it made his skin crawl.)

(And where, in the holy name of the Lord above, did Hob go?)

"Yes, I figure 'quiet' describes the Crown Prince quite well," the Corinthian shook his head to himself, and Dream imagined a grimace twisting on his face. "Unlike you, Sire, he does not know how to command a room."

Compliments had never sat well with Dream, so he decided to ignore this particular part of what was said. "What are you suggesting, Corinthian?"

"I suggest, my Lord." He pauses there, the telltale sound of someone wetting their lips in absolute quiet sending a chill down Dream's spine. It felt, well, mocking, however a simple act such as this one managed to convey any emotion at all. The chill was there, though, an unwell feeling that crept through his blood and had it run cold. "I suggest you clear the path for your rightful regency."

The words rang in his ears, their meaning registering only several moments later when Dream felt bile rise in his throat to the point where he slowed down so as to not upset his stomach further.

"And by that, you mean killing him. You suggest murdering my brother so I might take the throne."

Each syllable rolling off his tongue felt like the vilest of acids, like the bite of a deadly serpent into the hot flesh of his mouth. He wanted to spit it out, get rid of its foul taste, and imagine that his mind was not already poisoned to the point where breathing seemed like too hard a task.

"Yes, my Lord, that is exactly what I am suggesting."

A ringing, loud and clear, echoed through his mind. His vision darkened – fat, ugly spots that grew larger every time he blinked.

He needed Hob. He needed Hob right there, to place a strong but kind hand on his shoulder and tell him that his thoughts had drifted again, to ask if he was still with him and throw an adorable lopsided grin into his direction. And Dream needed to blush and nod, embarrassment in his tone as he apologised, just to see Hob's smile gentle and his hand squeeze on his arm.

But Hob was not there, had run off to God knows where and left him alone with an armed guard who proposed murdering a part of Dream's family.

The Corinthian was proposing treason.

Dream was going to be sick.

"You. You cannot believe that I will approve of this, Corinthian. You think me capable of conspiring against my own brother?"

There was only a slight raise in his voice, a pitiful cry for help, as he stared at the Corinthian's profile, hands shaking on his sides even if his voice remained otherwise calm.

Images of what the Corinthian would do to him in order to keep him from talking, from telling his family what transpired out in these gardens, flashed through Dream's mind. His throat cut, blood soaking the damp ground in the early morning hours. His youngest sister screaming as she looks upon his cold and lifeless body, his eyes staring up to the sky, unblinking.

Hob, kneeling next to his body, crying in silence, his vow of protecting Dream for naught.

"I believe you to be a smart man, my Lord."

The words were a threat. A blade held to his throat, an eyebrow cocked in expectant silence.

But Dream was no traitor.

He would not betray his family, his elder brother, who taught him to read and write, who showed him the beauty that was the written word.

The brother who had always known what was wrong when Dream was upset, who had always consoled him with the knowledge that life was partly set in stone. That there were some things that simply could not be changed, no matter how hard Dream had kept trying. Some things were unchangeable by their very nature.

As were some people.

Dream, it seemed, was unchangeably, incorruptibly loyal.

"I believe you might have overestimated my intelligence, Corinthian," he murmured, quietly resigning himself to his fate, to the words written in his volume of Destiny's books.

Beside him, the Corinthian sighed as if he had been given a most tedious task, as if killing his Prince with the dagger on his belt did not prove to be interesting enough to require his full attention. And Dream guessed it really wasn't. Fighting had never been his strong suit. Destruction, he had been the fighter of them all, the one who would have given this traitor a thorough beating for his attempt to hurt their family.

But he was just Dream, incapable, good-for-nothing Dream, who would not even raise his fists to defend his very own life when it was threatened, because he knew better than to fight a lost battle.

And yet, when the blade came for his heart, Dream took a step back.

Not because he thought he could win.

No, Dream stepped back because he knew Hob would be furious with him if he did not try.

Trying is already half the deal! He heard Hob's cheerful voice in his head, a reminder of when he had been pulled from his back during one of their training hours, Hob a sea of patience as he guided Dream through wave after wave of parry and attack. You must try before giving up. Otherwise you will never know if it would have worked!

The blade slashed harshly into Dream’s chest, leaving a cut so deep in its wake that he felt pain bloom behind his eyes, and, for a moment, the back of his eyelids seemed to be lit by the sun herself.

Dream did not hear himself scream, not until a second cut joined the first and he tumbled to the ground. Blood soaked his clothes and made them stick to his body, the liquid viscose and hot where it poured over his chest. There was so much of it, so much blood running in little rivers down his ribs and pooling beneath his back, staining the earth beneath him brilliant red.

And, by God, did it hurt.

He had not known pain like this existed.

Had it been like this for Hob, when he got injured while jousting at the festival? Had he, too, felt like he would empty his stomach any second, the cramping of his body in response to the pain too much to bear?

Had he, too, felt like the angels would come for him, grab his hands and carry him off towards either Heaven or Hell, a sooner end than he was prepared for?

Had he been scared as well?

Had he cried?

Dream knew he did.

He cried, undignified sobs shaking his body as he blinked through the onslaught of tears in his eyes, each a river of resignation.

The tears were of pain, of sorrow. They were for his dear sisters, who he would not get to hug goodbye on his deathbed. Oh, how devastated Delirium would be, to lose her older brother so soon. She had always rather adored him, had tried desperately to spend more time in his presence than he ever allowed. Regret curled deep in his gut as he remembered all the times he had sent her away, especially when they were children. She had been… much, to his tired adolescent brain. A whirlwind of energy, never to sit still for more than a moment.

He wished he had indulged her more often, now.

Oh, but this wasn't the only thing he regretted, now that he lay in the cold, waiting for his final blow.

No, he regretted many things, from not ever standing up against his father when his siblings or… or friends were attacked to never admitting to having said friends.

Friend.

His one true friend.

Yes, this was perhaps what Dream regretted most. Running from his feelings. Running from Hob. And then, not running, but not admitting either. Being too frightened, too self-centered, to allow this thing between them to bloom. It would have been so easy. Three words, always at the tip of his tongue, but always, always swallowed back down, hidden again behind the corners of his heart where none would ever find them.

And now?

What good did this cowardice do now?

He was dying, dying and regretting past chances for he had been too much of a fool to speak his feelings.

Idiot, he heard himself say, and while this notion was once spoken towards his love, it was now undoubtedly most fitting for himself.

Though… perhaps his Knight had not lost the title entirely.

For as his vision blurred and blackened further, he saw a flash of glinting silver before his eyes, a familiar blade catching the hues of blue and purple in the night sky and reflecting them in defense of Dream, as the familiar sound of two swords meeting in a harsh blow reverberated through the air.

He gasped, from pain and surprise, as a figure stepped over him, their body blocking him from the sword that would have brought his early end, and he knew all too quickly that this was his Hob, his Knight, his loyal love.

And he was coming to his defense, like an idiot.

Dream wanted to speak, wanted to command Hob to flee and leave him to die, because he was not worth this devotion. He was not worth Hob's safety, his life, but the man was foolish enough to risk both anyway in order to protect him.

Idiot.

He could not talk. All that came out of his mouth were strangled sobs, something that edged on a scream, got caught on a plea, and ended up sounding more like a whimper than anything else.

Weak. Too weak to talk, to fight.

Too weak to keep his eyes open, to see if Hob was dying or living. Dream liked to think that Hob was alright, that his love would soon swoop him up in his embrace like a damsel that had to be saved from their terrible fate. He liked to think that Hob would tell him how everything would turn out well.

Reality and fantasy were two separate worlds.

Where in Dream's fantasy Hob's hands on him would feel like a hot bath on cramping muscles, like the soothing touch of a damp towel during a fever, his hands felt more like hot iron pressed right into his ribs. The touch hurt, and only his weakness kept him from thrashing out.

"Dream!" He heard Hob's lovely voice bellow, and even loud and frantic, it was enough to warm Dream's very core. "Dream, you bloody nitwit, don't you go dying on me now!"

"I…" Dream started, but it came out airy and strangled. Brown eyes stared down at him with fear and concern, making his stomach twist uncomfortably and a frown settle between his brows. Fear did not sit right on Hob Gadling's face. Laughter and smiles did, they would make the dark brown shine with amber specks, tiny tidbits of gold hidden in the grounding earth that were Hob Gadling's eyes.

He missed catching the gold reflections, wished, in fact, to see them one last time before the darkness on the edge of his vision caught up with him and plunged him into seas of nothingness.

So, he tried again.

"Hob, I… I am sorry," he whispered, this time less airy and strangled.

"Not a clue what you're apologising for, dove, but whatever it is, save it. I need you to focus on staying alive."

Always so full of hope, his love. Not even in the face of death would he give up on this spark that kept the endless fire in his eyes burning.

Dream wanted to reach out for the fire, wished to catch a fragment of its warmth to keep with him in the darkness.

Perhaps it would guide him through his end, provide him with a spark of hope to light his way to the other side.

His fingertips left red smears in their wake as he reached for the fire and caught Hob's cheek instead. It was wet, not with blood but with tears, and he wanted desperately to wipe them away, but his hands shook too much and were too drenched in blood to do any good.

Still, he tried.

Because his knight could not cry over him, his knight did not deserve to cry over anything, ever. He deserved sunshine and warmth, all the things he so readily gave to other people.

"I love you."

Because Hob deserved to be loved, and to know that he is, too.

"I love you, Hob."

The darkness he was plunged into was heavy. Oppressing. But there was a light calling out to him, stretching its rays to guide him through the dark.

Sunshine.

Hope.

There was Hope.

[captain-astors]

1, 2, 6, 7, 10, 20 and 26 asks, I included question 26 a few minutes ago

Thank you!

1. Who is your favorite character(s)?

I’ve discussed my current ones already but my first favorite characters were Nishiki, Yoriko, Hinami, and the very guy who got me into the whole series, Tsukiyama. So glad they all remained consistent and important parts of the story that were never taken for granted or disregarded by the main characters right. 

2. And your favorite ship?

I ship rather like a particular eater. I take bits and pieces of the fine meals you have prepared for yourselves and I congratulate everyone on their tastes! I enjoy them all in moderation so long as they are not illegal. Some more than others. (Utaren, Houtata, Arieto etc.) But will I dine upon those when serving myself, regardless of how appealing I find them? Nay. Should you follow me home and see what I think of, or consume, you will see me over the ship equivalent of a basket of uncooked potatoes covered in whipped cream, (MutsKanae) and a combination of caesar salad dressing and a singular green pepper. (Furutui) Judge me for my choices and I agree but tell me to stop and I will refuse. But it does change frequently so tomorrow who knows. However, it will never be wholly sensical. I thrive on crack pairings. I think I effectively murdered that metaphor. 

6. Which character do you find most useless or indifferent to the story?

I want to say every character serves some kind of purpose, but Suzuya’s squad besides Hanbee kind of didn’t really need to be there. Like you could’ve mashed them all into one third character and been none the worse off. That said I don’t mind that they are there and I wouldn’t change it, I just don’t think they need to be.

7. Which character(s) do you dislike? For a time, Ayato. Fun design, annoying kid. But he was already beaten up (and actually learned a lesson from it instead of just contemplating how sad his life is cough cough Kaneki) so I don’t have any remaining qualms. 

10. Which character deserved more? Or was it more unfair?

Rize, but I talk more about that in 26. Mutsuki! My son, what did they do to you. He is riddled with transphobic messages but I will ignore them because he is mine now and he cannot be hurt anymore, what do you mean he joined a different branch of the CCG upon its collapse and abandoned his friends he’s healing with them, trust me. 

20. If you could trade coffee for anything else to be food for ghouls, what would it be?

Okay assuming we’re still operating under the rule it has to be a one-ingredient thing that can’t be mixed with others without tasting disgusting anyways… I’m going to say straight vanilla extract and look yes I know, tumblr meme but that’s not actually why I said that, can you IMAGINE the awkward workarounds they’d have to figure out to justify it. Anteiku’s a bakery with a suspicious number of vanilla flavored products. Tsukiyama the baker. A human takes a swig of a ghoul’s drink and dies. Beautiful. 

26. If you could sacrifice any character to bring another back, who would it be?

I would like to trade in a Kaneki for a Rize. Specifically I want him to drown in the dragon with Nimu while Dragon Rize actually gets revived, autonomy, personality, mental function and all. Changed? Obviously. But free again in a world where she doesn’t have to run from herself. I just want to see her get to be herself without the objectified lens of a man over her to make her some kind of driving force, regret, etc. Or her own actions trying to bury the scared kid she once was through murder and indulgence. She was kind of on a self-destructive warpath from the moment of her escape, and regardless of how her intent was to distance herself from the garden in every way possible, counterintuitively her suppressed fear would’ve ended up with her right back in the garden. Anyways all in all I want a character who Kaneki has not deemed “good” to be given another chance. Kaneki’s fixed world (or world that “just is” according to him) is not a paradise for ghouls and humans alike, it is paradise for Kaneki. I would like an outlier.

[nemesis-is-my-middle-name]

Jumping topics is not at all the problem. And I'm a tad bit offended that you thought I was focusing on that. it's just that they're so closely compacted that they feel like they should be on separate posts.

That the asker themselves should be sending their ideas spaced out and separately and not topic change in the middle of their ask.

It's akin to having a bunch of topics/ supplies in tiny box. I want to see all of it I want to pick through it but I can't because the box is so tiny

And I have to read the instructions of what's happening in the first box (asker) to figure out what's happening in the second box (you). So I have to refer back to what the previous box says and the mile long of the other boxes which is fine. I'm just mad about the packaging.

It's literally easier for me to take everything out of the box and shake it on the floor so I can 'topic match' like I am a 5 year old.

I am mentally weak for having to do this. But you two have the benefit of knowing what you guys mean. And I don't.

+ Although this is a long post this is a singular topic that I'm talking about. Thus I when i randomly switch to something else I used a different ask.

-Cam

NO BUT THAT'S FAIR i hmm. i don't want to put the blame on the other anons either bc this is a joint effort that's just become like, the standard of conversation for some reason. BUT what i could actually do, and this might be a more parseable format for everyone, is like, copy/paste pieces of the ask down into the body of my response so that subject paragraph->response paragraph are directly linked? like uh, if the original ask was formatted like

[Paragraph A / Paragraph B / Paragraph C]

rather than just posting my thoughts directly below that as

[Paragraph A / Paragraph B / Paragraph C] [Response A / Response B / Response C]

i instead copy and paste it into a new post so it's more like

[Paragraph A / Response A / Paragraph B / Response B / Paragraph C / Response C]

if that. makes sense? because it IS a little unwieldy to have to scroll up and down through a long ask like that.

also to clarify jic. the other "pinball machine" post i just made wasn't about your ask, it was about me pingponging from warriors au to "break ingo's legs" to a taz au in such a short period of time. that could have maybe been clearer. that's the kind of topic switching that i feel like is maybe not so fun for other people orz

[absensia-archived]

A PARTY OF BODIES SAT AT THE LONG KITCHEN TABLE. SOME STARED UP AT THE CEILING AS IF IN IMPATIENT EXASPERATION. OTHERS APPEARED TO DOZE. THIS HADN'T BEEN THEIR DOING. THEY'D ONLY THE BAD LUCK TO ARRIVE AT THE FÊTE AN HOUR OR SO TOO LATE. DON'T FORGET YOUR GIFT BAGS, YOUR PARTY FAVOURS! A MESS TO MAKE SENSE OF AND IMMINENT POLICE SIRENS IN THREE, TWO, ONE...

Charlotte sat atop the marble kitchen countertop on one of the few spots that did not have blood spatter speckled across the monochromatic surface. She made sure not to move about too much as she spread the government papers she'd rustled up from one of the bedside table drawers upstairs. Birth certificates, insurance documents, health records, all splayed open across her lap and balanced on her outstretched legs. Her legs only just long enough to reach the edge of the heavy oak table where the corpses sat, STILL OOZING. From what she could tell from the papers, none of the people before them matched the papers in her hands. None of them were who the two of them were expecting to be in this house.

@8flesh / MAKING SENSE OF IT ALL TAKES A WHOLE LOTTA CONCENTRATION.

Tricks and falsities abound, the vessel's head hummed with the activity of pulsating logical circuits. Mistaken identities was a common riddle to this agent of chaos; she, an enigma of the same kind. But this was a different BEAST altogether. One which had not yet swallowed the two of them whole, but instead, still hunted them. Their scent ( a singular albeit maddening blend, she was sure ) on its nose, tongue, mind, or wherever it was these sort of creature contained their bloodlust. The bandits had traced a possible lead on clearing their muddied names to this address. A lawyer and a doctor, and it was odd how often these two often came together, and their two adult children. They'd been witnesses to the man whose scent still remained invisible.

And now, it seemed they were invisible themselves. Charlotte looked up from the papers at the sound of his voice. Here, another curious case: THE CASE OF HER ODD PARTNER. He was turned away from her, standing amidst the scene of the crime with what she was sure was something of a dumbfounded expression. It was a brief and subtle motion, but she did flicker her gaze up - down, observing her partner - in - fiasco with a cool irony. Amused, was the way her lips quirked, then.

Yes, she thought to herself. It sure does, and you just broke mine. He spoke his piece as if he were proposing the idea rather than taking it up himself. As if he were bringing it to her attention that one of them was going to have make sense of all this, that one of them should focus and apply "a whole lotta concentration" to figure this out before the police came and the crime scene would be lost forever. One of them. Not him, though. But that was fine. More than fine, actually. Charlotte didn't mind one bit if it meant that she'd still have him to run with. She looked back down at her papers and smiled at the bolded word peeking out from one corner of a file.

INSURANCE.

" I KNOW, " she groaned, dragging the latter word out as if she, too, were quite exhausted at the prospect of having to apply herself to the daunting problem at hand. " But we'd better think quick. I think I can already hear the sirens. Right? Those are definitely sirens. They're probably blowing every red light to get here. Just look at all the bullet casings. Must've sounded like a goddamn fireworks show had malfunctioned inside this house. "

[aro--chaos]

that's so cool! i love the hat especially. you're so creative. this isn't a question so much as invitation to infodump about historical fashion (or anything really!) - 🪴

thank you! tldr included because hooh boy when i infodump i sure do infodump. TL;DR: this made me realize I'd probably enjoy being a historian, museums are cool, secret pants supremacy, and according to one dressmaker guide, women should not have a pocket less than 14 inches long and eight inches wide.

I've loved history since I was little. I used to visit the state museum almost every week till I was around eight. I would always love looking at the diorama exhibits, it helped me feel less divorced from the people who lived long ago. I especially loved the children's area, where you could touch animal bones and furs, work on a fake archaeology site, and look at bugs under a microscope! I've also visited some historical re-enactment sites and villages, and they were almost magical to me. I'd love to be a re-enactor one day, but I don't know if I'd want it to be a long-term job. Around the beginning of last summer, I discovered historical fashion, and it was like my love of history had been reborn. The late Victorian to early Edwardian era immediately became my favorite because of its silhouette. I started watching a lot of dress historians on youtube, especially Bernadette Banner. I was also beginning to define my own personal style, so this new information hit me at the perfect time. The Victorian era lasts a long time in history, so you can imagine many different styles when you think of "victorian fashion" you could be thinking of bustles, hoop skirts, or long trains, all victorian women's fashion! By the victorian era, men's fashion was really boring and stayed relatively similar through the decades. Small changes would take place, but those changes were much harder to spot. While I love a nice Edwardian men's suit, I know more about women's fashion than I do men's. Clothes back in the day were outrageously expensive even for the wealthy. You needed to acquire fine imported fabrics and silks if you were a lady of high society, and silk was so expensive that wealthy ladies would shamelessly wear pieced garments (where a panel of clothing is constructed from several scraps sewn together instead of one singular panel to conserve fabric) Women would re-wear dresses as long as they could, having the same gowns remade into the latest fashions rather than commissioning new ones. Besides getting their dresses reworked, there would often be new undergarments for each new silhouette, with the iconic Gibson girl figure sometimes faked by padding, ruffles, or entire boned undergarments designed to be worn along with one's corset. Even models of the time would doctor their photos to make their waists look impossibly small. Fun fact: the popular late Victorian silhouette was defined as a ratio that could be achieved through any means one might think of, including all of the aforementioned methods. With the Edwardian era came the bicycle, and particularly the acceptance of women riding bicycles and participating in sports. special sports corsets were produced, and while cycling became immensely popular, wearing trousers or pants was frowned upon by ladies of society. Attempting to bicycle in a skirt proved to be a dangerous and deadly task for women, so the split skirt was invented. The split skirt is essentially a baggy pair of pants that could be passed off as a skirt to the rest of the world. Some had button-down panels in the front that concealed the crease in the front of the skirt, but others left the front buttonless. I am a believer in split-skirt supremacy, the only other garments that come close to beating my love of split skirts are waistcoats and ulster jackets (aka Inverness coats) I think this is where I'm going to stop, mainly because I'm running out of coherent thoughts but I very much love historical fashion, and tbh I would love for my future job to be thinking about history all the time

[writings-of-a-hufflepuff]

The Bookshop

Fandom: The Amazing Spider-Man (Andrew Garfield TASM)

Collection/Series: N/A

Pairing: TASM! Peter Parker x Comic Book Artist! Reader

Writer: @writings-of-a-hufflepuff​ aka @hufflepuffing-all-day-long​

Rating: T (cause kissing?)

Warnings: None

Summary: It’s your fourth date with Peter Parker and he takes you to his favourite bookshop...and you promptly find out that his favourite comic book illustrator is...well, you. 

Request sent in by anon:  Hi hi! Saw that you were still taking requests for tasm!peter and wanted to see if you'd write a fluffy sort of piece where Peter takes reader on a bookstore date (he seems the type right!!) and a bit of humor ensues when it is revealed that reader is one of Peters fave authors/poet/creative (your choice). You can change parts of this request to fit your vision if you want as well! Just an idea if u like it :) thank you!! 🤗🤗

Notes:

It’s your fourth date with Peter Parker and you’re delightfully nervous. It’s only to this little bookshop that he keeps telling you about, one that he says you’re going to love, but it stirs butterflies in your belly anyway. He stirs butterflies in your belly. 

He’s sweet, so far. This kind, generous, funny photographer who always seems to be late for things but so earnest in his apologies. You like him a lot. He’s handsome, incredibly handsome, too handsome for a nerd who skateboards in his twenties, and he doesn’t even seem to realise it either. That he’s handsome that is. He’s proven to be kind and unlike the last few men you tried and failed to date he doesn’t seem eager to rush this, he’s not asked for a kiss or to go home with you. When he asked to walk you home he did it solely to make sure you got there safe. He’s hesitant to even hold your hand, as if worried he’d scare you off.  He has proven so far to be a different breed of man and it makes you eager to see him again. He’s a singular sort of person. 

To the point where you have to remind yourself that this date is only to a bookshop and not to some fancy high class restaurant and that, no, that outfit would not be appropriate. Instead you find something nice and casual, comfortable but still dressy enough to show you put in effort…if it took you an hour to do so, well, he doesn’t need to know that. He doesn’t need to know how fast your heart beats when you think of him or how warm your cheeks feel when you tell your best friend about your dates. 

In true gentlemanly fashion Peter told you he’d walk you from your apartment to the bookshop, rather than meeting you there. It’s a little thing, but not having to take the subway on your own was definitely a good start. Something crazy always happens when you take the subway alone. 

When the knock on your apartment door sounds out ahead of schedule, you’re a little confused, mostly because Peter has a single flaw; he’s always late. Okay, actually, maybe two flaws. He’s always late and he always seems to hurt himself in the most bizarre ways. By some miracle, you’re not entirely sure how, you open your door to find him there ten minutes early and without a single scratch or bruise on his face. It impresses you more than it should, but you know by now he has terrible time management and if that’s the worst of his flaws, well, that’s fine by you. 

“Hi, uh, these are for you. I know you like sunflowers so…” The bouquet is slightly wilted and one of the stems has lost a flower in transit but they’re beautiful nonetheless. He smiles as you take them and you can’t help but smile back, looking up at him underneath your lashes. The fact that he even remembered your off hand comment about sunflowers says a lot about Peter, that he didn’t just go for the cliche of roses. 

“They’re beautiful…I…thank you, I’ll just…just put these in some water and then I'll be right back and we can go, okay?” The flowers are unexpected and sweet and they admittedly fluster you a little bit.

“Take your time, no rush.” It's a simple phrase, ‘no rush’, but it’s a relief. You find yourself taking your time to avoid a clumsy accident as you fill a vase with water and place the sunflowers in it. You take your time to lace your shoes properly and grab your things, making sure you have your keys, phone and purse and all the while there’s no sense of impending doom or anxious need to hurry up. It’s a small thing but you’re grateful for it. You once had a date tap his foot impatiently while you put your coat on to leave a restaurant, suffice to say you never saw him again. 

“Lead the way, Parker.” You lock your door on the way out and walk close beside him, shoulders brushing as you go. You like being close to him, he makes you feel safe and comfortable.

“Oh, I’m just Parker now am I?” Peter raises a teasing eyebrow at you, only last week you were calling him Peter, you go along with his teasing. The familiar repartee what you like about him.  

“First names are fifth date material.” It’s a total lie and a bad one, given you called him Peter on every single date after that, but his flirtatious response makes it worth the obviousness.  

“Oh, really? I guess I need to make a good impression today then, huh? If I want that fifth date, afterall.” 

“Absolutely. I expect only the best from you, Parker,” you wink at him and promptly curse yourself in your mind for thinking about winking. No one looked good winking, why did you do that?!

“I…I suppose I should start by telling you that you look beautiful today, like absolutely gorgeous.” There’s still a little bit of nerves in his voice that you find adorable, how he can flip from this self-assured confidence to something a little more bashful when he compliments you, like he’s worried he’ll say the wrong thing. It’s sweet.

“You don’t look too bad yourself, Parker. No bruises today I see, haven’t lost a fight with a wall lately?” 

He laughs loudly, not because it’s actually that funny but mostly because you don’t realise that the walls he keeps running into are actually the bad guys he fights on a daily basis, “Yeah, I think all the walls are on holiday.” 

The journey to the bookshop is uneventful but filled with teasing banter and those hesitant, innocent touches that come from just starting to date someone. A nudge of the shoulder here, a hand on your back to stop you losing your balance on the subway, a careful hand on your elbow. It’s nice that you can just walk somewhere together and feel at ease, not worried about what you’re going to say or how you look with the wind messing up your hair. 

He’s nervous, he can’t help it. It’s his favourite bookstore and if you hated it? He might just die of embarrassment, but he knows he picked the right idea for a date the moment you enter the store and your eyes grow wide. 

There are shelves upon shelves, row upon row of books, some new printings, fresh and clean and others are old bindings. Cloth and leather backings that are gilded with gold foil. You can see a whole row dedicated to comic books and graphic novels, another for art books. It’s enchanting. It smells like paper, cedar and coffee and the lighting is warm, not too bright, but not too dark either. Cosy. 

“Oh my God….I can understand why you love it here…”

“Pretty awesome right?” He watches you as you trail a finger down the spine of a book, watches you move like you’re in a trance through the shelves. You’re beautiful all the time, you make him nervous for that very reason, but this feels like a place you belong and if anything that makes you more attractive than ever. You fit in here like a dream. You look like the dream girl he had in mind when he was sixteen. Beautiful, intelligent, but nerdy, cute. 

“Yeah, yeah…” 

For a while the two of you just wander through the shelves, you point out your favourite poetry book and you have a deep discussion about the Hobbit and why it’s so much better than the Lord of the Rings trilogy. It’s the comic book section that you both really dig deep in. You’re searching through a pile of Wonder Woman comics, trying to find that one issue you’ve been unable to find when you hear a triumphant sound to your left.

Peter’s holding a copy of the Amazing Spider-Man comic in his hands, the most recent issue, it sends warmth through your cheeks. The familiar red and blue illustration that fills the cover, the art that you couldn’t mistake for anyone else's. 

“I’ve been waiting for them to get this in, it’s my favourite comic.” He knows he’s gushing but he can’t help it. Really. Okay, it’s a little lame for his favourite comic to be about himself, but it’s not all about that either. Maybe when he first picked it up it was some voyeuristic interest in what people might write him getting up to, but…it’s not all about that anymore. 

“Really?”

“Yeah, the writing is great but…” He almost looks embarrassed to say it, “the art, that’s my favourite bit. The illustrator is insane, I mean look at this,” He flicks to a double page spread you remember agonising over for hours. It was of Spider-Man mid-flight swinging from building to building in the pouring rain. The legs hadn’t seemed right and the emotion on his mask was all wrong and then the hands…it had taken you four days to simply get that one double page spread right. You still hadn’t been entirely happy with it when you finished. You’d stared at it for too long, seen too many mistakes or things that needed tweaking. 

“This spread is insane, I mean look how animated that looks!? I wish I could meet them. I just…I wish I had that sort of talent…”

“Well, uh, you’re in luck then, Parker.” You’re flustered and flattered and….and it hurts in the best sort of way to know he admires your work. Especially because you work so hard at it and it’s a labour of love that really takes its toll. To hear that sort of praise be said about your work…it means a lot. You don’t get a lot of recognition for what you do. People don’t know your name and that’s okay, but it’s nice to hear the praise. 

You flick to the inside cover, the smallest of small print that you know exists there, right underneath the words ‘Lead Illustrator’, in bold print is your name. You watch the shock, horror and embarrassment war on Peter’s face with what you can see is excitement and a little bit of awe. 

“I told you about my stupid sock collection…I just…I just, it’s yours and I just…oh shit…” He groans low in his throat, a hand rubbing over his face, “You must think I’m a complete and total idiot not to have…to have realised, shit…You even said you worked on comics!”

He’s a mess, that’s how he feels anyway. You’re standing there smirking at him and he’s a complete mess. He just explained your own artwork to you…fuck…he feels like an idiot. 

“I’ve messed this up haven’t I? You’re never gonna want to see me again…I’m sorry, I should…I should go…I’m sorry” You don’t expect him to think he’s messed up that badly, let alone to put the comic back and get ready to leave. 

You grab his arm on instinct, but the way you slide your hand down from his wrist to his hand is purposeful and deliberate. You don’t want him to go. He’s the nicest man you’ve ever been on a date with and he’s funny, kind, smart, he likes your art and…and…and God, you really like him. 

“Please don’t go…I…I really like you and you haven’t messed up…I actually…It’s really lovely that you like my work, Peter and I…” You’re finding it hard to articulate how you feel, probably because it’s only the fourth date and it seems a bit soon to talk about how much you like him, but he saves you from your rambling. Peter’s fingers intertwined with your own, slipping into the spaces your own leave.

“Does this mean I can get that fifth date?” That distraught look is gone, in its place is a little smirk that shows off a delicious little dimple in his cheek.

“Huh?”

“First name basis…does that mean I get a fifth date?” It makes you laugh, a relief filling you that his humour is back, that that twinkle in his brown eyes has returned. You tug him closer by the hand, until your chest to chest. 

“Yeah, yeah, it does.”

“...Can I kiss you?” God, does it sound good coming from him. Just the fact he asked rather than simply doing it makes you like him more. You like everything about Peter Parker and it’s ridiculous and silly and you feel like you’re thirteen again but…you really like him. 

You like him so much that you don’t even care that he’s asked in the middle of a bookshop in broad daylight, in public. 

“Kiss me.” It’s breathy and any other time you might have been embarrassed by the clear want in your voice. But, god, you really liked him and he was so handsome and so close…

His hand cups your jaw first, resting underneath on your neck, firm and warm and mind boggling. There’s a moment of hesitation where Peter just rests his forehead against your own, big brown eyes staring at yours as if to gauge your reaction, that you’re still okay with this, which you wholeheartedly are. Your heart is beating a mile a minute, blood pounding through your ears. 

When he finally kisses you everything stills. Your eyes close, your hands drift to his shoulders and you can’t think of anything but the soft press of his lips against your own or that his hand still wraps around your jaw guiding you. He kisses like a dance, give and take. It’s a simple kiss, no tongue, no aggressive groping or touching. Just his lips to yours and his hand on your jaw. It takes your breath away, quite literally.

When you pull apart you don’t go far, Peter keeps his forehead pressed to yours and smiles like he’s won the lottery. “Wow…”

“Yeah, wow…”

You’re definitely having that fifth date, you think, and you’re definitely going to kiss him again.

[no-droids]

Beginner’s Luck

Part Twelve of the Rough Day Series

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 14.6K

Warnings: 👀👀👀 SMUT.  Oral sex (male receiving), cockwarming, sexual acts in public, the use of blasters and other canon-typical weaponry

A/N: Twas the night before Mando season 2, and all through the house—NO IM JUST KIDDING SDKSFKSVS anyways I am so sorry for not being here for basically all of last month but I could not miss this incredibly momentous occasion for anything. Merry season 2 my lovely baby yoditos

***

“Well,” a modulated voice gruffs expectantly from behind you, clearly tired of waiting.  “Turn around, let me see.”

“No.  I look ridiculous,” you sulk from the corner of the hull, refusing to do as he says.  You thought this was stupid from the very beginning and openly told him so, but you’re also a complete pushover for him with just enough backbone to be frustrated when you inevitably give in.  “And don’t you ‘sweet girl’ me, it’s not gonna work this time.”

“Sweet girl,” Din’s deep voice lulls through the helmet, raspy and soft.

Fucking fine, if he’s gonna twist your arm about it.  You spin around with a deep frown and a chrome visor stares back at you as you waddle forwards, and you don’t even need to look at the kid cradled in his forearm to know he’s smiling toothily as you clunk and rattle.  Once you’re standing directly in front of them both, you blow the stray hair out of your eyes and plant your hands on your hips, just waiting for the inevitable response.

Only, you don’t get practically any response at all from him.  He stays perfectly still and says absolutely nothing, and though the baby’s mouth falls open with happiness and he reaches for you, he doesn’t make a sound either.

“I told you,” you grumble after a few moments of pained silence.  “I look ridiculous.”

Still, nothing.  You purse your lips, shifting from side to side uncomfortably, and eventually your suspicion grows and festers until it finally bursts forth.  Oh for the love of Maker—

“I know you’re laughing under there,” you accuse with a growl.  He doesn’t move a single muscle but you don’t buy it, not for a single fucking second.

Then suddenly the helmet glances away from you and stares purposefully at the wall of the hull as the kid starts giggling, and you knew it.  You fucking knew he was laughing.

“You look great,” comes tightly through the modulator after a moment, and you pull your lip up into a snarl, vindicated in your findings but not happy about it.

“Is that how this is supposed to protect me?”  You wave your arms, hearing them squeak and clank like you’re a droid that hasn’t been maintenanced in centuries.  The rough metal jerks up and smacks your chin with the shoulder movement and you grimace.  “Make the bad guys laugh themselves to death?”

“It's bad,” Din finally turns back to you and admits with zero shame, and your cheeks burn at how stupid you must look right now.  “Way too big.”

“Too big?”  You blink at him.  “That’s your criticism?”

When he presented it to you, your first impression was some sort of brown paint—but no.  It’s fucking… rust.  It’s damaged and scraped up and it looks like it’s been through the ringer and back, and not in a way that gives it character.  There’s almost a literal hole in the fucking chestpiece and it’s dented so much that it actually creates more than enough space for your breasts, what the fuck happened—?

“You’re telling me you went from this—”  You ask pointedly, knocking your knuckles against the ill-fitting piece of metal and feeling it wobble against your chest, “—to that—” you tap the pristine, gleaming armor strapped to his body that easily costs more than probably quadruple your entire life, “—without any go-betweens?  It’s missing one of the shoulders, Din.”

He ignores you, flipping the chestpiece over your head with his free hand and letting the metallic clatter of it meeting the floor behind you ring out through the hull.  “I’d hoped at least something would fit,” comes his filtered sigh.  “This planet isn’t nice.”

That sobers you up a bit, and you feel your heart thump painfully.  “Are we on Corellia?”  You ask without thinking.

“No,” he tells you immediately, quelling your panic while pulling off your one singular pauldron.  “Tatooine.”

You’ve never heard of it, but from the grave undertone of his voice, you know the drill.  Different setting, same kind of people.  Smugglers, rogues, criminals—the type he’s used to being around and knows exactly what to expect out of them.  You always feel safe when he’s with you, but when he leaves?

“Oh,” you say, because you don’t really have anything else.  It’s quiet for a little bit, but then he continues on before you can come up with something to fill the sudden uncertainty on your end.

“I know someone here,” Din murmurs, bending his knees and sinking down to start undoing and pulling the shoddy thigh braces off your legs.  “Someone… nice.  It’ll be safe as long as nobody sees me leaving or coming back, and the kid would be happy to see her.”

Your eyebrows pull inwards, something… unfamiliar settling inside you.  Din doesn’t have friends, he’s made it clear that he doesn’t really like anyone that he knows well enough to introduce you to.  Even when he’s lowered himself in front of you and is technically undressing you, you feel a spark of… no, not jealousy, that’s crazy.  But for real, who is he talking about?

“Why can’t me and the baby just lay low somewhere remote like normal?”  You ask instead, but he shakes his head.

“No such thing,” he grunts, pulling off the other thigh brace.  “Tuskans or Jawas will find you even in the middle of the Dune Sea.”

“I like Jawas,” you blurt, having had many positive experiences trading with the little creatures on Arvala-7, but his helmet immediately tilts up to pin you in place and you shut up, feeling the tangible unamusement radiating from the thin blade of the visor even when the kid starts giggling again.  “I mean I… don’t like Jawas?”

Din sighs and rises back up to his full height, finally handing the baby over to you now that you’re not weighed down by that ridiculous getup anymore.  “You can either stay with her while I get the quarry or run the risk of pirates finding you drifting above the atmosphere,” he reasons bluntly, not mincing words.  “But it’s not a good idea to be stuck on the surface without protection, someone will find you.”

You bite your lip, hugging the kid closer to your chest for a second.  “Okay, that’s fine,” you murmur quietly after a moment.  “We can stay with your… friend.”  

You clear your throat and move to let him pass by to get to the cockpit, except Din doesn’t take a single step.  You blink up at him and after what feels like an eternity of no response, the helmet slowly tilts sideways at you and… oops.

Was that not subtle?  You didn’t know what to call her, genuinely, that’s why you hesitated.  You didn’t want to use the word acquaintance, it felt too detached for the fact that he said the kid would be happy to see her again.  That’s what’s called a friend, right?  

Maker, why are you being so weird about this?

Thankfully, you end up getting away with it.  After a few painful seconds of looking at every single thing in the hull besides him and humming a song you make up on the spot, Din slowly walks past and disappears up into the cockpit.  You take a deep breath and gently rub the baby’s ears between your fingers as the Crest powers up with a ferocious rumble beneath your feet.

***

It’s bright.  Fuck, it’s so bright here.  You hold the kid to your chest with one hand and shield your eyes with the other as the ramp slowly descends, dust immediately kicking up around it.  Din’s palm is resting against your lower back and his thumb gently brushes back and forth, but your heart decides to drop the very moment his hand does, and as soon as the ramp clanks against the landing platform, he’s striding down into the blazing hot desert sun without you.

Something in your chest squeezes and whispers to you that he probably doesn’t want to touch you when he’s about to see an old friend again, so you wait a few seconds of space before descending down the ramp behind him, not really knowing how you feel right now.  But you’ve barely taken a single step to follow when a woman’s voice screeches out from across a vast distance.  “Oh no, no no no—don’t you even think about it!”

Din slows to a halt at the end of the ramp and gives whoever it is a small nod, nothing beyond it, and if you weren’t purposefully looking at him for cues right now, you’d probably miss the greeting entirely.  You stand on your tippy-toes from behind his cape as a fiery little middle-aged lady in a mechanic’s jumpsuit marches up to him with an attitude that more than makes up for the height difference.

“You’re not allowed here anymore,” she pokes his chestplate brazenly with one hand and props the other on her hip, clearly not excited to see him.  “Not after the ruckus you caused last time, no sir, not on my watch.”

“That won’t happen again,” he gruffs shortly, not providing a single thing beyond it, and you blink.  What… what happened last time?

“It sure won’t!”  The strange woman agrees shrilly, crossing her arms and widening her eyes until she looks a bit like she’s been out in the suns too long.  “I’m still recovering, Mando!”

“I compensated you,” he reminds her, a quiet edge of frustration beginning to creep into his voice.

She suddenly narrows her expression at him, going from manic desert lady to sharp and discerning skeptic within a split second.  “How much do you think my life is worth?”

Din takes forever to respond, seeming to either be choosing his words very carefully or grinding his teeth under the beskar in frustration.  Probably both.  “I brought my ki—”

“You bring trouble!”  She bursts out, stomping her foot on the dusty landing platform and holding her ground.  “I don’t care how cute your little one is, go park your ship on some other poor soul’s hangar bay!”

He doesn’t say anything back, staying completely silent while you stand there awkwardly and wait for his response, and it’s almost like you… forgot.  How quiet Din can be, how unnervingly little he can choose to offer to conversations until he deems the information absolutely necessary to provide.  He allows you to forget that reserved nature of his.  He talks to you.  He never used to at the beginning, but somewhere along the way it just became increasingly common to hear his voice, both with a high-pass filter and blissfully without.  Now though, there’s just too long of a weirdly tense pause in the reunion for you to handle without doing something about it.

So you step out from behind him with the child in your arms, giving her an apologetic smile with as much friendliness as you can possibly put into an expression.

“Hello,” you greet her gently, musically, lifting the baby’s hand to give her a companionable three-fingered wave from the both of you while he coos.  “I promise I’m not trouble, but he did bring me along this time.”

Din and the woman simultaneously turn to look at you; her like you’re just as strange and jarring of a sight to see on this planet as the tiny unnamed boy in your arms and him like your voice by itself is enough to loosen his shoulders.  Though neither one of them ultimately respond to you, you can tell by the way his fists unclench that you’ve at least helped him relax, even if the frizzy-haired lazy otherwise ignores your introduction entirely.

“Now just what in Maker’s name are you doing with a poor little stowaway like that?”  She faces him and pokes his armor again.  “You runnin’ a charity out of that battered piece of junk you call a ship?”

“Three hundred credits to let them stay with you for a week,” he turns back to tell her, cutting directly to the chase.  Alright, so you don’t really understand their relationship at all at this point.  He said she was nice?  And yet he’s already bribing her that handsomely?

“Five hundred,” she immediately shoots back, and your heart sinks.  Fuck, there’s no way.  There’s no way he would spend that much, you’re going to have to find somewhere else to stay.

But… he doesn’t respond.  Which you now remember with a jolt of surprise, means confirmation.  Not wasting words agreeing, he’d say something back to her if he had an issue.  Maker, five hundred credits.  You’re starting to wonder if he’s really able to make any money at all doing this, or if the job is just… fitting for him, so he continues to do it.  He’s spending more and more credits on you every single time you turn around, and while you don’t feel great about it, you know Din well enough to know he’s stable and independent enough to make the decisions he wants to make.

So you just stand there and hold the baby to your chest, unsure of your place, while Din eventually turns around to face you.

Sometimes, if you’re being honest, you almost find yourself wanting to… do soft things with him that you know you shouldn’t while other people are around.  Granted, he’s never told you not to, but the last thing you want to do is undermine his reputation by unintentionally revealing his gentler side.  You want to give him a hug and maybe hand him the baby to say goodbye, but you don’t know if that’s how he wants to present himself to company right now.  Unfortunately, that ends up translating into you just looking at him and awkwardly waiting to see what he does.  Your feelings won’t be hurt if he just takes off without another word now that you know that that’s his intent—you promise, they weren’t hurt the first fifty or so times he’s done it.  You understand him, it’s alright, he doesn’t need to—

But then he leans in and lowers his voice until only you can hear it.

“I’ll be back soon,” he tells you, and you feel warmth creep into your chest.

You understand him.  Which is why you feel like you could almost burst with how much he didn’t have to say that but chose to do so anyway.  You already have a solid time frame—a week—which is more information than you usually get, and it’s such a small thing.  It’s insane; if you made a list, you’d have 1) talking to you, 2) knowing his first name, and 3) seeing a glimpse of his forehead as your top reasons why he might care just as much about you as you care for him.  That’s insane.

He takes a second to reach a glove out and rub the baby’s ear as he makes his adorable little baby noises up at him, before the helmet tilts back up just slightly to look at you.  

“Be safe,” he waits for you to whisper back.

And you think now is finally the time to go, right?  Except he waits just a few precious seconds more, just holding there, silently.  Maker, you don’t want to miss him, why is he doing this to you?  You’re trying to play it cool, see-you-later’s have been commonplace between you for nearing a full year now, so why does it feel like now is the first time he truly doesn’t want to go?

You hold the kid with one hand and start to reach for him the split second he turns to walk away, and you quickly drop it as the dry wind snaps through his cape.  He leaves and doesn’t look back.

Still, you watch him disappear, until eventually you’re reminded of your host’s presence with the tap of a wrench against your shoulder.

“Hope you know your way around a hyperdrive,” the woman says with a smirk.  Maker, Din didn’t even give you her name, you’re going to have to ask.  “Gotta repair at least two of ‘em by sundown.”

You catch the hefty tool with your free hand and turn to her.  “Pre-Imperial or post?  Never done a restoration, but I’m a quick learner.”

She blinks at you like that was probably the last thing she expected you to say, but you give her the same friendly smile from before and look towards the entrance of the hangar for the ships needing maintenance.

***

So Peli is… a character.

She’s quick and entertaining and whip-smart, but you worry that if she had a whip, she might actually use it.  She’s nice—she is, but she damn near works you to the bone once you prove yourself capable.  You don’t think she expected the extent of your practical knowledge of mechanics, she went into it assuming you were going to be useless and did a hard U-turn that very first night.  You both worked together to fix two malfunctioning hyperdrives by sundown, just like she told you she needed, but then she looked vaguely surprised and nobody showed to pick up until two days later.

The second day is more hectic, and the third day is worse.  You cradle the kid on your hip while you work one-handed, smudged grease all over your forehead and sweat sticking your hair to your neck.  Using Peli’s sonic shower never leaves you feeling clean no matter how many times a day you find yourself wanting to wash the dust and grime from your body, the same way yours used to back on Arvala-7, and you immediately get why her dark hair seems so frizzy and dry whenever you step out of the stall and catch sight of the similar rat’s nest on your head in the small mirror.  Hypersonic waves dry it out more than the blazing hot suns on this planet—you look the same exact way you’ve looked for decades and while you don’t mind hard work, you can’t stand the complete lack of water on this forsaken rock.

Din was right, though.  She is nice, but in a way that she never wants anybody else to find out about.  She cooks you food every night but expects you to clean the whole kitchen after, she lets you have free reign over the caf maker as long as you remember to make enough for her, and she allows you and the kid to pass out on the beat-up sofa in one of the secluded back rooms for the time being.  On more than one occasion, when she assigns you chores that require two hands and a steady focus to complete, you overhear her babytalk behind the control panel as she bounces the kid in one arm and plays with his ears.  It fills your chest with a quiet, subtle kind of warmth, and you understand why Din trusts her with him.

At least you stay busy—which, understatement.  She works you so hard that eventually she starts handing you tasks that don’t really seem… pressing.  Replacing the spherical joints on her three pit droids, hand-scrubbing the grime off the pots and pans she uses to cook the same two meals everyday, polishing the dusty windows overlooking the landing platform even though they’re caked over with dirt not even an hour later.  You realize soon enough that she doesn’t have nearly the workload here as she claims, periodically catching her playing cards with the droids while you’re busting your ass doing chores once all the real work has clearly been accomplished, but you’re not upset.  You like being busy, it’s how you’ve lived most of your life.  However, at some point, you actually end up running out of things to do.  After that, it’s like she has to actively look for tasks she still needs completed.

One morning you find her in the parked Crest, ripping open the guidance systems paneling and talking to herself.  You sip your caf and watch silently from the landing bay, hair pulled up in a messy bun and the baby on your hip as the suns rise on your shoulders and she mutters, whole sheets of metal being tossed out from the insides of the Razor Crest.

You've also learned she responds incredibly well to the prospect of credits, so you don’t spend too much time wondering what her goal is—find something in the ship for you to fix and then charge Mando extra for the materials whenever he comes back.

Hilarious though, as if there’s anything in your ship that actually needs fixing.

You spin around with a sigh and walk back into the hangar, knowing today will probably be the first slow day in awhile.

***

A few hours later, you’re invited to play a game of Sabacc for the first time in your life.

There are so many rules—so many suits and names to keep track of, so many values to memorize, only to be forced to choose one card after every round to keep just in case the rest of them happen to shuffle at random, which occurs at least once or twice every game.  There’s too much luck involved to figure out any sort of strategy; you feel like sometimes you’re hopelessly lost and end up winning anyways or you wager nearly your entire stack of bolts on a perfect hand and then you lose the entire thing regardless.

It’s an unpredictable nightmare.  But it’s something to do, and you’ve learned that playing just as stupidly as you bet allows you to easily stay in the game.  The baby sits in your lap and plays with one of your rusty metal gambling pieces while your leg bounces, and Peli grumbles under her breath once it appears you get ahead of her in winnings.

“Beginner’s luck,” she tells her favorite pit droid quietly, who focuses its singular eye at you in a way that somehow feels unfriendly and nods on a brand new swivel, courtesy of yours truly.

You don’t argue, because there’s no point.  The whole fucking thing is luck, but there’s no point.  You know enough about this game to know that you might give something away if you speak, so you keep your mouth shut and let her fill the void.  You know how to stay silent, you’ve learned from the best.  Wordlessly drawing a card from the deck and tucking it in between two others of the same value, you decide to trade one of your other cards at complete random and hope it all just works out.

“Ship looks like it’s brand spankin’ new on the inside,” Peli mutters into her mug out of nowhere, and you pause for a moment, before silently nodding at the offhanded comment and trying not to show how pleased you are by it.  “Was falling apart the last time I saw it.”

You keep bouncing the kid on your knee and fan out the cards in front of you, hoping his big black eyes aren’t reflective enough to reveal your hand.  “I have a lot of free time.”

“I can tell,” she acknowledges, crossing her legs and leaning back into her chair.  Peli sets the mug down and sighs.  “You’re a good mechanic.  I’d offer you a job here, but something tells me you wouldn’t even consider it.”

Now, you do smile.  But it’s a hidden one.  A fond one.  One you find impossible to fight when you’re reminded of him.  You miss him and ache for him and all those collectively angsty things, yes—but mostly you’re just… able to find a bone-deep solace in even thinking about him.  Your heart tightens, but it’s far less constricting than it is a comfort, a firm embrace.  It surrounds you in its safety; Din’s mere existence is your protection, wrapping around you the same way the beskar protects him.  Nothing can touch you.  You’re safe, from all the things you used to fear and all the new things you’ve learned to fear.

No, you’d never consider it.  This planet is too much like Arvala-7, just slightly more populated and dangerous.  You love the baby.  You love him.  You’d never consider it.

“Don’t you get bored?”  She asks you with a raised eyebrow, and your smile admittedly drops the slightest bit.  “Just waiting around for him to come back?”

You don’t have to think about your answer.  Of course you do.  If you’re being honest, it does feel a bit like your life is split between worlds—one with him, and one without.  Whenever he’s not here, you’re thinking about how much you want him to come back, and whenever he is here, you’re thinking about how much you don’t want him to go.  You’ve never experienced anything like that before.  There were a few local farmers scattered far across the arid landscape of the place you used to call home, and three of your neighbors all had kids around your age.  So you experimented when you were younger, since you never had much else to do in your spare time, but you never loved any of them.  You’d always go back home and continue to do chores, continue to look up at the sky and wonder what you were missing.

“Yes,” you admit quietly.

But what you don’t tell her is that in exchange, you get to see the galaxy.  You get to have experiences you’ve only dreamed about, take care of the cutest little baby you’ve ever seen and become part of a family.  You don’t know of anything you could want more.  Adventure, companionship, pleasure, and fulfillment.  Sure, you get restless, and sure, you don’t necessarily feel good about the fact that Din seems to be your driving force even when he’s away, but you know independence.  You know what it means to live for yourself.  You’ve done it long enough that you’ll never forget how to, you’ve experienced it more than enough to know you’re happy about throwing yourself off the cliff and falling into something different.  As much as it’s new and terrifying, it’s better.  Now you have other people to live for, too.  

You marvel at the change—not just from a year ago, but from a handful of months ago.  He used to terrify you.  You used to keep your mouth purposefully shut around him because you were scared of overstaying your welcome and being dropped off somewhere equally as remote as the place you grew up.  Never could you have imagined that the fiercest guardian the galaxy has ever seen would decide you’re also worth protecting.

No, you figure, you just need to… find something in addition.  Something else to also commit to, give yourself something to do.  You can practice the new self-defense maneuvers he taught you, that’s a good idea.  But maybe you can also…

You eventually decide to prompt Peli in a change in conversation.  “Hey, can I ask you something?”

“What do you want now?”  She takes another sip of her caf as if you’ve been bothering her about this all day long, and… well, it’s times like these that you wish you had a helmet, too, if only so you could roll your eyes.

“I’ve got a few pieces of rusted metal in the Crest,” you eventually tell her, careful with your phrasing and not sure how much you want to reveal.  “They’re in bad shape, but I want to keep them.  Could I use some of your tools here to hammer out some of the dents, dissolve whatever crud is on the surface?  I saw you have a forge back there that’s barely been used, just need the metal hot enough to be pliable without sacrificing its integrity.”

She furrows her eyebrows at you.  “But I still need your help with…”

You wait, but she’s got nothing and you both know it.  Still, you keep a pointed silence and wait for it, wondering if this’ll actually work.  This is what Din does, right?  Just refuse to say anything and make the other person crumble under the crushing quiet?  Miraculously, it proves to be successful—you watch her flounder for a response, her will wavering the longer you sit there and stare expectantly at her.

“Fine,” Peli finally acquiesces, and you grin.  “But only if you win this round.  What d’you got?”

You set down your cards to reveal your hand.  A perfect twenty-three if you’ve been counting right, unbeatable unless she or any of the droids managed to get the same, and you know it didn’t happen as soon as she takes a few seconds for mental math and then scoffs.

“Beginner’s luck,” you tell her kindly, pushing all your winnings back over to her side of the table with one hand and scooping the kid up with the other, before turning around and heading towards the Crest in search of Din’s old armor.

***

It’s late afternoon on day five and you’re on your back on a creeper seat, sweat dripping down your neck as you reach up to fiddle with the engine of a T-16, a Skyhopper similar to one you built yourself on Arvala-7.  They're not space-faring vehicles, they’re only capable of reaching the upper troposphere, but owning one allowed you to develop solid flight skills without ever truly being able to leave.  Honestly, you don’t think you’ve ever despised a ship more.

You know you’ve got engine grease all over and you feel like you’re boiling in your own sweat, but you’re almost done.  After this, you’ll be able to go back to working on your side project.

As soon as you’d been granted Peli’s direct permission to do so, you mixed the chemicals necessary to eat away at everything besides the basic structure underneath, and then spent all day yesterday manipulating the metal to better fit someone your size and shape.  You slaved over the wickedly hot forge and developed a whole new muscle in your arm from hammering and reheating, hammering and reheating.  You had to repair the way the chestpiece was tapered into a concave point by folding the thin metal back in on itself multiple times, strengthening it without flattening it back into its original shape too much, and then you ended up melting down some of the extra material from the needlessly large shoulder and thigh pieces to fill in the gaps.

Granted, you still have a ways to go on replacing the crushed magnetics box that was falling off the chestpiece and filing down the rough scrapes and sharp edges, but you’re now left with almost a full set of armor that’s a uniform dull silver in color and molds way better to your general figure than before.  You’re not a blacksmith or armorer by any stretch of the imagination, but you’re good with your hands and did what you could in the time allotted.  It looks better than you ever thought it would, and without access to Peli’s enormous collection of tools and machinery, you know it would’ve been better off in the trash.

Still, you have to finish this engine first before you can rip apart the control unit wiring on the armor to see how the whole set fits together and what else needs to be repaired.  You’ve been working on it for a few hours before you hear the door to the hangar open.  Yet, when you don’t immediately hear Peli’s voice calling out to you, or anyone else’s voice for that matter, your heart thuds in your chest with sudden excitement.

“You’re back early,” you tell the engine suspended over your head, knowing he must’ve already thrown the quarry into the Crest parked outside before coming to see you.  Right on time, footsteps approach and then a boot carefully catches the flat platform between your legs, slowly rolling your seat out from under the ship until the rest of the sunlit hangar is revealed to you.

You know you must look a hot mess right now.  Your hair is a disaster and there’s not a clean spot to be found on your body—sweat glistens and pools along every curve you have and you’re probably drenching the spare jumpsuit Peli let you borrow, but Maker, there he is.  Every time you see him is like the first time all over again, except this time the Mandalorian is looming like a giant over you, the helmet tilted down and silently taking you in.

Instead of settling you, his daunting presence gets you hotter than dual suns in the sky ever could.  Fuck, he hasn’t said a word to greet you, and yet you’re already wondering if you can entice him to shove you back under here and join you.

You slowly push yourself upright and he steps back just enough to allow it, but not an inch more than that.  You have to crane your neck up to keep looking at him, and he stands close enough over you that you wouldn’t have to reach far at all if you wanted to touch him.

And it’s crazy to think that… you absolutely could touch him, if you wanted.  He radiates danger, he hunts and tracks for his continued survival, he’s probably got fresh blood staining the dark fabric of his cape and he’s so fucking intimidating—and if you wanted to, you could touch him.  

Maybe you can partially blame your sore muscles as to why you immediately drop your head back down, but mostly you just want to stare at a part of his body that happens to align perfectly at eye level.  And fuck, nothing stops you from looking.  He doesn’t help you up, but he also doesn’t move so you can haul yourself to your feet, either.  He just holds perfectly still with his body standing tall over yours, content to stay exactly like this while your hand slowly reaches out to wrap around one of his ankles.

He’s so warm, his muscles flex strong under your palm as you let it drift upwards, biting your lip as you flick your gaze back up to the chrome visor and then down again to the apex of his thighs.  Your other hand comes up to scale the beskar strapped to his leg and you roll yourself forward slightly, wondering if he’d let you…

The black fabric stretching over his crotch just barely touches your fingertips before his hand is suddenly whipping out and grabbing hold of your wrist.

You gasp and jerk your head up to look at him, somehow equally hoping that you’re both in trouble and not in it at the same time.  Din’s abruptly chest raises with a large, labored inhale, as if he wasn’t breathing at all that entire time, as if he just now remembered the setting, the fact that he’s not alone on the Crest with you right now.  Peli and the kid have to be somewhere in the hangar, you know that, but…

“We’re leaving tonight,” he breathes out through the modulator, and you have absolutely no fucking problem with that at all.  “But… shit, but…”

“But…?”  You prompt, wanting nothing more than to let your hands reach back up to his pants again, but you settle for slowly dragging one palm up his forearm as his grip on your wrist tightens.

“Fuck, I wanted to take you somewhere first,” he groans like your feather-soft touch is actually hurting him, his hands suddenly dropping yours and pushing you away to clench into fists at his sides.  “Maker—why do you always f-fucking do this to me…”

You raise an eyebrow at him this time, the curiosity starting to mix with the heat simmering down low, the kind that you'd feel even on a frozen wasteland of a planet as long as you were with him.  All at once, you decide to channel him and his trademarked silence, enthralled by the incredibly slim chance that it will work equally as well on its creator.

“…Distract me,” he finally growls out an answer to the question you never asked him, sounding frustrated with you for reasons you still haven’t figured out, and your mouth is drier than the desert outside.  Oh stars, you feel… fucking powerful.  “From everything,” he goes on, talking honestly and openly, more words given to you in thirty seconds than he’s probably offered to anyone all week long.  “Fuck, I feel like I can barely do fucking anything anymore, I’m losing my fucking mind.”

Your heart slams in your chest, wondering if he possibly feels the exact same way about you as you feel about him.  Missing you whenever he’s gone, dreading the moment he needs to leave again whenever he’s with you.  The thought alone is enough to set off fireworks through your veins, pumping hope and excitement from your fingers to your toes.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe out, biting your lip in a way that doesn’t look or feel sorry at all.

“No, you’re not,” Din grunts, before reaching out and hauling you to your feet, and even if there wasn’t a flat seat under you with wheels, it’d still be awkward and uncoordinated as fuck.  “Shit.  I… I need to clean up.  Grab your things, go tell…”

Din trails off after a second, suddenly sounding at a complete loss.  You catch your footing and stare at him as he falters.  “Uh.  Go tell…”  He gestures with a sense of finality to the control room, as if he’s actually successfully communicating with you by doing so.  “Her.  That we’re leaving tonight.”

“What?”  You ask him, thoroughly fucking confused.  “What are you saying right now?”

“The woman,” he clarifies, clearing his throat.  “The mechanic, with the… droids.  Tell her I’ll pay her before we leave, but we’re g—”

“Peli?”  You blurt, completely flabbergasted at this point.  “Did you forget her name, Mando?”

“I…” he shakes his head slightly at you, like you should already know him better than that.  “Never asked.”

“But you—?”  You blink at him.  “But you said she was your friend?”

“You said she was my friend,” he immediately points out, with—oh Maker, just biting accuracy.  It wasn’t necessarily a jab or anything, but you still feel dizzy with how fucking spot on he is about it.  Yikes, you absolutely did say that.  You forgot.

“Oh…” you mumble, at a stunning loss for a response.  “Ha.  Oh.  Yeah, huh.”

There’s too many beats of awkward silence after that, probably because he’s just so blown away by your way with words that he’s just attempting to analyze the wisdom.  Stars, you’re making a complete fool of yourself in front of him, aren’t you?

“Were you jealous?”  He suddenly asks, and you jerk upright, your heart kicking up to a gallop in your chest at the question.

“I’ll go tell Peli we’re leaving soon,” you quickly agree and go to scurry away in abrupt panic, but he catches your wrist and hauls you back before you can get far.  You run into him with a gasp and immediately start to repeat your explanation for why you very suddenly need to depart, but the tips of Din’s fingers catch your chin and force you to look up at him.

“Hey,” he cuts your rambling short with a hushed murmur and the pad of his thumb brushes down your jaw.  “Tell me the truth.”

You don’t have an answer that won’t be incriminating, and you don’t think you can get the delivery right on a lie, not to him and especially not when he’s got you so cornered.  So you just keep completely silent and look up at him like a scolded child would.  Innocent, wide-eyed and scared shitless about the unknown consequences of your actions.

His helmet slowly tilts as he studies you, watching you look up at him for help.  His fingers gradually spread out across your jaw, flattening under the curve of your throat but so gentle, so careful that you’re almost worried he actually is mad.

“I’m sorry,” you immediately offer before he can say anything, your eyebrows pulling up in the middle.  “I’m so sorry, it’s just—I just…”

His thumb carefully stretches up to brush your bottom lip, and you…  Mind blank, no thoughts.  Stars, you’ve got fucking nothing.

“I’ve got nothing,” you admit, giving up before you can even try.  “There’s no reason.  I was jealous.  It’s stupid and I wasn’t going to say anything because I know it’s stupid, and I shouldn’t feel possessive over you but I do, and it’s stupid.  I don’t want anyone else to know you the way I know you, and I’m really sorry if that makes you feel weird, I don’t want you to feel like you can’t have—”

Your chin lifts slightly with the gentlest movement of his hand and the subtle pressure is enough to cut your mindless oversharing off.  Din’s voice lowers until it’s throaty and quiet.

“See that wall?”  He asks, keeping the visor pinned to you while carefully turning his hand to the right, and your whole head easily follows the movement as he guides it.  You have to blink your eyes into focus a few times, but then you immediately see what he’s talking about.  It’s a partition separating the welding room from the rest of the hangar.  He waits until you nod in the cradle of his palm, before leaning in and murmuring to you.  “If we were alone, I’d take you around behind it and show you exactly how that makes me feel.”

You pull back from him with a startled gasp just as a voice calls out from the entrance of the hangar.  “Well, look who finally decided to come back!”

Din slowly drops his arms and stares at you for just long enough to make you seriously worry that he’s going to say fuck it all and do it anyways, before finally turning around and greeting Peli with another silent nod.

She plants one hand on her hip once she’s standing right in front of him, cradling the kid on with her other arm, and you have to take a second to collect yourself now that you’re not at the direct center of his attention anymore.  “Sure did take you long enough, didn’t it?”

“I’m two days early,” he grunts in his immediate defense, but it’s like she doesn’t hear him.

“You’re leaving soon I hope,” she drawls while handing the baby over to him, who makes an adorable little happy squeak at seeing his dad again.  “You owe me five hundred credits.”

“It was five hundred for the full week,” he reminds her, and… he has a point.  Though it was never part of the agreement, you wonder if she’ll be willing to accept less compensation for having the burden of your company be lifted early.

“Five days count as a full week, far as I’m concerned,” she shoots back, and your heart suddenly sinks when Din’s shoulders tighten and he doesn’t respond.

“Peli…” you sigh from behind him before you even realize you’ve spoken aloud.

Your host quickly sidesteps your bodyguard to eye you dubiously, and at the same time, you also jolt and wonder what your goal is here exactly.  You’re ultimately just attempting to diffuse any tension sparking between them, you figure, knowing you’re probably the best mediator here.  She looks at you up and down for a long time, hard and judging, before the baby babbles something wordlessly and she sighs.

“I suppose we can just call it even,” she finally huffs, turning back to him.  “You’re lucky your girlfriend earned her keep, Mando.”

And then your jaw drops.  Holy shit, is she serious?  You assumed Peli valued credits above almost anything else, you never expected her to just… turn down the entire offer like that, so willingly.  Clearly Din didn’t either, because you both just stand there for a moment in front of her in a baffled silence.

Also… girlfriend?

Is that what you are to him?  Admittedly you haven’t talked to him about what to call your relationship, but then again, you’re a practical person and you never really saw a specific need to do so.  You care about him, he cares about you—what else is important?  You don’t need a title to recognize your value to him, and for some odd reason, calling yourself his “girlfriend” just feels like you’re a teenager again.  If you were actually looking for a different word to use instead, you wouldn’t be able to find it, but you know that one just feels… not enough.  Not old enough, not encompassing enough, not complex enough.  It’s an elementary school version of what this is.  And to refer to someone like Din as your boyfriend?  Maker, just saying it aloud would probably make his eye twitch.

“Uh.”  He stands there awkwardly, and you’re so blown away by both the sentiment and specific verbiage she used that you’re practically useless at this point.  Shit, what’s beyond girlfriend, you wonder?  Lover?  No, not good enough.  Partner?  No.  No, not wife, definitely fucking not—  “Thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Peli waves him away and spins around to leave, but not before throwing one final thing over her shoulder.  “That ain’t an open invitation to come back, by the way.”

All of a sudden, you just can’t stop yourself from breaking out into a wide grin, tucking your chin in hopes that she won’t see it with her back turned and decide to pounce on the display of weakness.  The three of you watch her stride out of the room and immediately bark an order at one of her droids to get back to work, who starts looking around in desperate search of something to do, and Din’s palm finds its usual place on your lower back as she disappears.

“What a nice lady,” you offer to him, and he gives you a wordless grumble in response.

***

So it’s a couple hours later and you think the kid might actually have the right idea this time.

You find yourself wishing you had a little hover pod of your own that followed Din around, one you could close the lid on and hide in while blaster fire whistles through the air around you like the baby is currently doing.  You’re trying to listen to instructions—you’re trying, but there’s a lot going on here.  Voices chatting, guns firing, targets being pinged, a lively little band playing in the cantina next door.  

When Din first led you through Mos Eisley and inside this specific adobe hut, if you’re being completely honest, you had hoped for food.  A comparatively large restaurant, perhaps?  Peli didn’t starve you by any stretch of the imagination, but her dinners were the exact same every single night, and you’ve learned to thrive on new things.  While you didn’t necessarily think he was going to take you on a… a date, or anything, you certainly didn’t expect him to take you to a shooting range.

Well.  Now that you think about it, this might actually be a date.

Luckily you’re hidden away in the furthest firing partition from the door, but even without the near-constant barrage of gunfire to your left, the distractions are still plentiful.  The kid actually reached down and pressed the button to close his crib himself as soon as the bright beams of plasma started zooming past and reflecting in his large black eyes, and oh how you wish that were you.  You don’t necessarily feel like you’re in danger or anything, but you’ve also never seen so many guns in one place before and you’re worried you’re accidentally going to hurt someone else.

So far Din has taught you the fundamentals for any firearm—always keep the safety on until you’re ready to fire, never point at anything unless you’re a hundred percent willing to shoot it, yada yada yada—and also the safety fundamentals for blasters specifically.  So, making sure there’s no leaks in the gas cylinder when you first load it, never letting a strong magnet get near the power pack, checking the surface of your target for deflection curves if you want to prevent a ricochet, or maybe in his case, inspire one.  He’s taught you your stance, he’s taught you how to read your sights, now all that’s left is just to… shoot.

Your arms raise up in front of you and the metal feels too heavy and awkward in your hands, and you have to hold the handle in your left and creep your right index finger all the up the side of the barrel until you feel the indented safety switch.  It clicks and you reset your grip to slowly ease your finger onto the trigger, staring down the sight, right at the bullseye.  Din is standing directly behind you next to the kid’s tightly closed hovering pod, arms crossed and just waiting for you to pull it.

Come on beginner’s luck, come on beginner’s luck—

You fire, and… well.  You don’t think you’ve ever seen a shot miss its target that spectacularly in your entire life.  You’re almost surprised the beam of plasma didn’t somehow ricochet back into the booth you’re both standing in, that’s how spectacularly you missed.

“Try again.”

There’s no amusement in his voice, nothing mocking about it.  Pure monotone under the helmet, as if he was just naturally expecting that to happen.  

No, you think in frustration.  You want to surprise him again, impress him with how quickly you can pick things up, turn him on like last time.  You just fucking know that would get to him—seeing you easily hit the target dead center with his own blaster, you know that would get to him.

You adjust your aim and fire a few more times.  Miss, miss, wild miss, miss.  Fuck, so many distractions, plasma flying in the corner of your vision and an increasingly heavy gaze from behind you.  Another miss, a miss, yeesh that’s a miss—

Alright, so you're just embarrassing yourself at this point.

“I think it’s broken,” you shrug in defeat, taking a second to find the safety switch and toggle it before going to set the gun down on the raised adobe platform separating the line of booths from the targets—but then Din suddenly snatches the blaster from your grip and extends his arm over your shoulder, firing off six rounds in rapid succession so wickedly fast that you jump backwards into his rock solid chest in surprise.  He doesn’t give an inch under the collision and even wraps his forearm tight around your tummy as he hits the bullseye with such deadly accurate precision that even the char marks and the line of smoke left wafting from the target’s center are razor-thin.

“Works just fine,” he grunts, setting the weapon back down again before urging you forward a bit.  “Go ahead, give it another shot.”

But you’re on a remarkable delay, just trying to process his sheer speed, how fluid and seamless the entire fucking motion was.  Fucking Maker, blink and you’d miss the whole thing.  He waited to grab the gun from you until you turned the safety on, but then… then how did he fire it so insanely fucking fast?  That’s like five different things he had to do with one single hand within a split second…?

“I turned the safety on,” you blink down at the blaster, clearly just trying to process.

“Yeah,” he agrees blankly, as if he’s unsure as to what specifically you’re so stuck on right now.

“So how did you toggle so fas—?”

He picks it from the shelf gracefully and lightning quick—as if he just can’t help but go that speed around his weapon—and then he twists it on its side, flexing his wrist back until the barrel is pointed upwards and you can clearly see his index finger extend all the way up to the safety switch, flipping it up and down while his middle finger rests over the trigger guard.

“How in the f…?”  You mutter, lifting your hand up next to his and positioning your fingers in the exact same L shape, only the tip of your index finger barely stretches an inch shy of the switch.  “Psh,” you huff, dropping your arm back down again.  “Design flaw.”

“For you,” he acknowledges, using the trigger guard to flip it back to its proper position in his hand like fucking spinning it like that is just the easiest and most natural way to handle the deadly weapon.  “This gun was made for me, it’s a feature.  Yours would be smaller and lighter, have the safety towards the back of the chamber instead of along the barrel.”

The words and the casual display of ability cause a rush of stirring excitement to burst forth inside you, suddenly giddy at the very thought.

“Wait,” you draw the word out with a grin, leaning back into him and gently nudging him with your elbow to make sure he knows you’re only mostly joking.  “You gonna buy me a blaster, Mando?  I did earn my keep this week, didn’t I?”

“Have to find one that fits a big enough sight first,” he mutters while setting the gun down on the table, and you scoff at him as his hands come to rest on your hips.  They squeeze and try to guide you forwards once again.  “Prove that you can at least hit the target with mine and we’ll see.”

“You only get to make fun of me if you give me a real answer,” you rule, planting your feet and refusing to budge.

“Okay, but we both know I’ll make fun of you anyways,” he sighs, and you have to dig your heels in and push back into him to keep yourself rooted to the spot.

“You’re not being a very encouraging teacher,” you accuse without trying to hide your grin.  “In fact I feel very discouraged right now and I think that y—”

But then Din suddenly tips his helmet closer to your ear and lowers his voice, cutting you off.  “Did you know that gifting someone a weapon is considered a proposal of marriage on Mandalore?”

Your smile quickly drops and you gasp, wholly startled at the implication and immediately trying to spin around to look at him.  “Holy shit, are you serious?”

“No,” comes his modulated grunt, tightening his hold and keeping you firmly facing forwards.  “Of course not.  Pick up the gun.”

Okay.

Okay, so that one gets you.

You immediately start giggling, painfully aware that this isn’t the time or place for it, but that one actually fucking got you.  Din easily guides and parks your gullible ass in front of the window carved out of dried mud before picking up the blaster himself and forcing you to hold it with your loose hands, grumbling under his breath.

Shit, okay, focus.  Focus, you can do this.  You clear the laughter from your throat and suddenly get deadly serious, staring your target down like it’s personally gone out of its way to ruin your entire life.  The blaster feels cold in your palms but not when Din’s hands wrap warm and tight around the back of yours, letting you hold the gun how it’s most comfortable for you before gently settling his fingers down over yours.  His chestpiece presses tight against your shoulder blades when he guides the gun up and out, and his arms are long enough to extend yours fully even though he’s behind you and still has some bend to his elbows.  He uses his feet to kick your ankles apart until they’re shoulder-width and then you both carefully find the trigger together.

He’s quiet and slow about it and the whole thing is one giant fucking turn-on.  Maker, chill out.  Chill out, he’s teaching you how to shoot.  This is important stuff, there are people around, chill out…

Din takes a moment to aim the barrel and his hold is so fucking steady, so unwavering and strong.  You wonder if it’d be too obvious if you pushed your hips back a little, you might be able to feel his—

“Fire,” Din murmurs next to your ear, and you pull the trigger without a second thought.

The bright red plasma beam launches from the end of the blaster and hits the target dead center.  You gasp, pulling the trigger again, and unsurprisingly, it’s another perfect shot.

He suddenly lets go of your arms and takes a small step back, but the second he removes his body from yours, the rounds start bouncing wildly off the edges of the target.  Your eyebrows furrow and you try to emulate how you think the angle felt before, but you can’t find it anymore and you’re just failing spectacularly.

When you decide to pause for a second, Din steps up close behind you and wraps his arms around you once more.  You can feel the exact moment he’s locked in his aim, and you fire wordlessly as soon as you know it’s going to hit.  Bullseye, right on the nose.

This time, he lifts just his hands away from yours, staying perfectly still otherwise and you swear you don’t move a single fucking muscle in your entire body before pulling the trigger, but it still hits the far corner of the target.

“It’s broken,” you shrug once again, and Din drops his helmet to your shoulder with a sigh.  “This gun was made for you, which means there’s obviously some mod you have installed that reads biometrics and ruins the shot no matter how good it—”

“Not even close, but that’s not a bad idea,” he tells you, watching you click the safety on and set the uncooperative blaster down.  “I can’t figure out what you’re doing wrong.   Are you just distracted?”

Uh, fuck yeah you are.  So much is going on and more than that, he’s here and he’s just… fuck, you know what he meant when he said he felt like he was losing his mind.  He’s your biggest distraction, all the time.  He’s still standing so close to you and the baby is still isolated and tucked away in his hovering sphere, and you take a moment to think about it.  

Yes, it’s… it’s possible that you may learn better by example than anything else.

“Can I watch you do it?”  You ask him, and Din shrugs before reaching around you and quickly grabbing the blaster from its mud shelf.  “Wait—” you tell him while he raises and extends his arm over your shoulder, and then you wiggle sideways as much as possible in the small booth to squeeze around behind him.  He doesn’t say anything as you swap places with him and scoot up behind him, but you can tell by his body language that he’s confused.  You wonder if he liked that position and watching you shoot his gun, even if you’re complete shit at it.

He stands in front of you for a second and you give him an encouraging, “Okay,” to let him know you’re ready, but then the helmet turns back to look at the target like he’s still unsure as to what you want specifically.  You keep your mouth shut and let him figure it out.  You meant what you said—you want to watch him shoot.  You want to watch him where he’s infamous, watch him do what he’s best at and let completely loose in front of you.

As if it finally clicks for him, Din turns to face the target and suddenly throws the blaster into his left hand while reaching down and pushing a button hidden under the hollow platform with his right.  You have to lean around his broad shoulders to watch the target slide backwards on its track easily triple the distance before squeaking and slamming to a stop.  Din stretches his non-dominant hand out and subtly tilts his helmet before firing six times, easily hitting the bullseye with just as much accuracy as before, and you frown when you notice the only shots that have actually hit the target so far have all been dead center.

He sets the gun down and stands there for a second, staring across the range like it’s nothing at all to him and it’s… remarkable.  Not that he’s a wicked shot, you’ve known that the second you laid eyes on his armor all those months ago.  No, it’s just… you would think this is where he’d thrive, if anywhere.  The entire place is full of smugglers, raiders, scavengers, mercenaries—occupations that define themselves by their grit.  They’re talking as much as they’re shooting, conversing in languages you’ve never heard but suspect Din easily understands.  But instead of fitting in, he’s just… there.  He doesn’t look comfortable, but he also doesn’t look uncomfortable, either.  He doesn’t look like he’s having any fun at all.

None of this is considered a hobby to him, you suddenly realize.  It’s not fun because he’s too good at it.  This is life.  This is going back to school for the most basic fundamentals of a job he’s excelled at for decades—it’s not interesting, he’s gaining absolutely nothing from practicing.

You try to think of the last time you’ve seen him truly in his element.  You think back on all the different settings—he looked out of place on Canto Bight, got into fights on Corellia, hated Coruscant, seemed stressed on Nevarro, and even on Naboo, even in the middle of paradise, he looked unsure if he actually deserved to be there with you.  Now here on Tatooine, where he has real people that he trusts, where he’s surrounded by like-minded individuals shooting his favorite things in the world, it’s like he’s still not able to fully let go.

Is it just you, you wonder?  Does he stand out more just because you’re the one looking?

No, you think.  No.  You have seen him relax.  You’ve seen him laugh before, you’ve seen him be himself with you.  

But… only with you.  A hardened bounty hunter that much prefers the company of a young woman and an infant to literally anyone else in the galaxy.

Fuck.  Why does that turn you on so fucking much?  It’s the display of prowess, the sheer skill he’s developed, how fucking deadly he is—and how you’ve felt him use that trigger finger to trace slow circles around your clit.  The Mandalorian standing with his blaster raised has probably been the last thing too many people have ever seen in their lifetimes, and yet watching from this angle just makes you feel protected, guarded, and… so fucking horny for him.

“Do it again,” you eventually murmur, touching both your palms to his back this time just to feel it.  You want to feel him shoot, you want to feel his muscles move with it.  You want to touch how mechanically he’s able to aim, you want to know if he’s loose or tense when he fires, you just want to… feel it.

Din grabs the gun and as he extends his arms out, you slide your hands up his back to rest under his shoulders.  He’s so broad, he feels so warm and strong, and his trigger releases are so steady that nothing above his wrists move.

Shit, before he’s even finished setting the blaster back down again, you’re already scooting up behind him as close as possible and carefully slithering your arms around his waist, hugging your body tight to his back.  Din stays completely still while your mouth presses against the fabric of his cape and your hands begin to slowly slide down his stomach.

He doesn’t say a damn thing, which makes it even hotter for some reason.  There’s no warning he gives you, no low growl of your name or sweet girl being dragged through the modulator.  He stays completely silent and holds there while blasters continue to fire from stalls to your left, and it gives you the thrill of your lifetime.  Big strong man holding perfectly still for you to touch in the middle of a crowded room.

Your hand slips under his waistband and sink down low until you can trail your fingertips along his cock, hidden from sight beneath the edge of the clay shelf.  The small sound you make at feeling it already firm and at attention for you gets lost in the noise of the shooting range, but you wrap your palm around it and give it a good, slow pull upwards, feeling Din’s back expand with a breath from the sensation.

“Do it again,” you whisper into his shoulder blade, slowly playing with his cock in his pants with one hand while keeping the other wrapped tight around his abdomen.

Din immediately snatches the blaster off the platform and fires it the very moment he takes aim, and you can feel his cock pulse in your palm as he lets off the shots.  Dead center, as always, but he clunks the metal back down with a bit more force this time and then lingers his fingertips at the sloped edge of it for a second, as if he’s considering whether or not he should hold onto it.  

You’re already wet between your legs, but it gets worse the longer he allows you to keep doing this.  His skin is furnace-hot and he throbs for you, and you trail your thumb up to check—oh, Maker, he’s leaking for you, too.  You drag the pad of your thumb over the tip and gently rub the wetness along the curve of his head, before easing back down to give the shaft another slow pull.

A quiet puff of air comes through the vocal filter, but that’s all you audibly get out of him.  Still, it’s more than enough to fill you with a wicked heat and a desperate desire for more.  So you bite your lip and glance around just to double-check that nobody else has wandered over behind you and the kid is still tucked away in his crib, probably passed out in the secluded darkness at this point.  And then you barely take a split-second to consider it before your knees are bending and you’re slowly sinking down the length of his body.

Din is a fucking statue.  He doesn’t do anything to allow your wiggling underneath the raised platform anymore than he widens his stance to prevent it.  Once you’re on your knees in front of him in the dim isolation of your hiding spot though, he takes a single step forward and pins his waist to the hardened clay above your head, and a thrill skitters through you at being completely walled in on all four sides.

You reach up to hook your fingertips in his hem of his trousers and begin pulling them down, so tight and achy between your legs that you want to shove your hand down between them already.  You don’t though, not yet, because you need two hands to be extra careful in getting his cock out.  You don’t even want the fabric of his pants to touch it, you want your mouth to be the only sensation he knows here.

At the very last second, you decide to pull the waistband down far enough to let his balls rest outside the confining clothing, getting increasingly hotter at the thought that this isn’t going to be sneaky and dirty, even if you’re in public.  Din’s wide stance and the floor-length cape hide you perfectly from any prying eyes behind his back, so it’s going to be soft and it’s going to be slow and he’s going to be comfortable while you go down on him.

Your mouth is already watering, so you bend down just slightly and lift your chin to gently drag your tongue along the smooth skin of his balls before anything else.  Honestly—you don’t think he’s expecting you to go there first, because his whole body suddenly jerks at the velvet soft sensation between his legs and you let out a low hum in response.  He can’t reach you down here unless he tries to, so you scoot your knees up a little bit and just decide to go for it.  This way he won’t be able to get it confused, he won’t pull you out from under here halfway through when you suck on his balls before anything else.  This is what you want from him, what’s right here in your mouth.

You switch to the other one and Din twitches with a filtered breath, the skin already tightening up and responding gorgeously under your tongue.  His hand hovers somewhere near the raised platform above your head, fingers curling in his leather gloves and caught right between stopping you and letting you continue.  While he allows it, you ease your way up and make it just tantalizing enough to make him ache without providing any real stimulation, slowly trailing your tongue up the length of his cock and pressing plush lips to the flared head.

Din exhales a shakily while you take your time, tasting the precum as his body produces it, just kissing and licking and purposefully refusing to touch him with anything besides your mouth.  Without being able to see the rest of him from this angle, you're left to your own devices—you’re so gentle and soft about the pleasure that you start to separate the man from the throbbing erection you’re currently playing with.  You begin to enjoy yourself without thinking too much about the struggle he must be withstanding right now, you moan softly against his heated skin even though you know you’re being a tease at the worst possible moment, but no matter how you decide to take your time with it, Din continues to allow it.  He endures.  Silent, perfectly still, until you eventually decide to wrap your lips around the head of his cock and flutter your tongue up underneath it.

But then he jumps and your eyes open when a deep, unkind voice from the stall to your left calls out, “Hey, Mando!  Gonna fuckin’ shoot or just stand there, huh?”

You can hear his immediate frustration in the blaster scraping against the shelf over your head, and you moan softly around his cock the second you feel him tense and start firing.  The smooth skin pulses on your tongue and you slide your fingers around the backs of his knees, opening your throat and slowly taking him deeper.  

And, for a man that has repeatedly fired six perfect shots every single time he picks up his gun, he falters after just three this time.

The heat of your mouth must be too overwhelming.  Too fucking good, too detrimental to his focus and composure to even perform the most basic tasks he typically excels at.  Like a seasoned mathematician that suddenly struggles to count to ten, a renowned author that can’t recite their ABC’s—Mando can’t even fire a weapon right now and it’s all because of you.  

He has to keep trying though, he has to make an actual effort now that you both know someone nearby is paying at least some sort of attention to his performance.  The sound of more plasma arcing through the air over your head slowly disappears into the background in a way that it never could while you were the one firing—you’re completely hidden and safe down here, you can moan low in your throat while keeping your hands around his knees and begin to bob your head without another thought or worry whatsoever.  Handling it is all on him.  He just needs to stay quiet, be still, and shoot his gun.  It should be the simplest thing in the galaxy for him, right?

Wrong.  So wrong.  You hear the way the bolts are pinging off the sides of the target now, you listen to him grunt and let off a few more shots that also sound like they miss.  Your soft palate lifts and you’re practically drenching yourself at how wide he stretches your throat while you take him down as far as you can, and there’s a moment where you’re holding there and you think about doing something about the dull ache throbbing between your legs.  But once you pull off him for air and automatically touch your drooling tongue to your palm, you decide this is what you want more.

Your slick hand wraps around his cock and starts to slowly jerk him off while your mouth moves down to attach to his balls once more, your touch gliding strong and wet along his entire length.  Din almost doubles over into the platform, his hips stuttering up for the first time at the hard stimulation you’re finally giving him.  His skin swells and tightens in your mouth—you can feel the tension locking his thighs down, you can hear the shots above you start to decrease in frequency, and you know he’s already close.

So you move back up to suck on the head of his cock again and slowly swirl your tongue around it, continuing to use your hand to pull steady and firm on the rest of his shaft, and you just close your eyes and wait for him to give you what you want.  His firing soon stops altogether and you squeeze your finger between your thighs and press hard against your clit, just needing to relieve some of the ache.  You keep doing that, you keep drawing circles with your tongue while slowly jerking the rest of him off into your mouth, and at some point, it all just becomes too much for him.

“Shit,” Din gasps, along with the sudden sound of metal skittering against the clay above you, and your eyes pop open in surprise.  “Ah, sh—shhhhh—”

Maker, did he just drop his fucking gun?

You start to pull back, but then suddenly a trembling hand shoots down and clutches tight under your throat, hooking hard behind your jaw to make sure you stay right there.

His cock starts throbbing and he shudders, slamming his other palm on the shelf and cumming hard in your mouth.  You’re already swallowing before he even gives you anything but Maker, you’re fucking desperate for it that your hand moves to curl your fingers against the exposed skin at his hips as if that’ll somehow help you get it sooner.  The first taste of him comes as soon as you dig in and drag your nails down his flesh, and Din is helpless to do anything else besides clutch your jaw tight and gasp raggedly while emptying himself down your throat.

He shakes and shudders and you don’t spill a single drop, clutching his hips and pulling him close to keep him in your mouth, and as he slowly comes down from that plateau, you lick every inch of him clean.  His fingers gradually lose their rigidity around your jaw and eventually, his fingers drop down to press gently against your throat while his hips pull back.

He slips from your mouth and you wipe the wetness from your chin, staring up at his cock wistfully and almost wanting to keep going.  Is that fucked up, you wonder?  What would he think?

He hasn’t moved yet, why isn’t he moving?  Your job is clearly finished here, no matter what kind of way you may feel about that.  The coast must not be clear, you have to assume.  Perhaps someone is wandering around behind him, maybe he’s still being cautious about the nosy person next door—all you know is that you can tell he wants to move but he isn’t, which likely means he can’t.  You know his cock must be so unbelievably sensitive right now, but he’s not easing his body back far enough away from the shelf to tuck it into his pants.  He’s keeping it right in front of your face and expecting you to stay there until he deems it appropriate for you to get up.

The longer you wait for him to step back and let you out from under here, the more your need sparks and grows.  What would he think?  That you’re so desperate for his cock that you still want it in your mouth even when it’s soft and spent?  Maker, he’d be fucking right on the money.

At some point, you can’t stop yourself.  You lean back up to slowly take his soft cock back in your mouth, and Din nearly spasms while you slip your hand under your waistband and widen your knees.

You don’t do anything spectacular to it—you’re not that cruel—but you do hold him on the heat of your tongue and keep him there, fluttering your eyes closed as your finger finally touches your clit.  Air puffs shakily through your nostrils and you think Din is actually shaking harder than you are, his body fighting oversensitivity while yours starts the race towards bliss.  He doesn’t stop you but it also feels like he’s purposefully trying not to, like everything in him is rebelling against the wet heat of your mouth but knowing you’re only doing this because you’re so painfully turned on.  You’re doing this because you need it, in spite of the electric shocks of wicked sensation it seems to be inspiring in him.

Your finger speeds up and you start gently sucking on the warm, giving flesh, and his hand trembles as it grabs at your hair.  Fuck, you don’t care if he thinks you’re desperate—you want him to recognize it, you want him to know exactly how much you love his cock—

That thought sends a dark thrill down your spine and pleasure burns bright and needy where you’re still rubbing your clit, dropping your hips and rolling them forwards against your hand.  And oh, your only lament is that you wish he was the one doing this.  You wish Din was building your pleasure instead of letting you use his body in search of your own, you wish it was his hand working between your legs and about to shove you over that ledge, but then again.  Something about this whole fucking scene is just so… undignified.  Debased.  And you’re getting off on it, quicker than you ever thought possible.

When you cum, you’re good and you don’t make a single sound when you cum.  You squeeze your eyes shut and your entire body jolts with every single shattering wave of ecstasy, and Din tugs a handful of your hair and slowly rocks his hips once, twice, fucking your mouth while you endure wildfire burning through your veins.  By the time you finish convulsing on the fucking floor of a Tatooinian gun range, you know you can go for another and probably get it equally as quick as that one, but Din is already pulling his cock out of your mouth and shoving it back into his pants.  You’re like jelly as your elbow is immediately caught in his arm and you’re hauled up from your hiding spot, dazed and disoriented.

The chrome visor stares you down and you want to shrink in on yourself, thinking he’s going to take your happy ass back to the Crest.  You should be in trouble, you know you should be in trouble.  Leaving the recesses of your dark cubby and coming face to face with your surroundings brings a brand new clarity to light—you totally should not have done any of that.  He was trying to teach you, for Maker’s sake.  He was taking the time to show you the valuable knowledge he’s gained regarding weaponry and self-defense.  Fuck, you even told him on Naboo that you wanted to shoot a gun, and he brought you here to do just that.

Except then he just spins you around and picks up the blaster from the adobe ledge in front of you, placing it firmly in your hands.

“Okay,” he pants quietly next to your ear, breathing hard and shallow through the helmet.  “Now you should be able to focus, right?”

Fuck…  Fuck, is he serious?  You can barely hold the damn thing, you’re shaking so hard.  How does this work again?  What does this do?

“Wh-What?”  You croak—fuck, your voice is gone.  “I… I can’t—”

“Try,” he encourages, helping your comparatively tiny hands flip off the safety but other than that, stepping back and leaving you to it.  Completely and hopelessly lost, you weakly twist around to watch him stand next to the kid’s closed metallic shield.  “Hit the target,” Din reiterates with a nod, trying to catch his breath.  “You can do it.”

You look back out with unfocused eyes to see it still all the way on the far end of its track, and there’s just absolutely no fucking way.  “I… can’t.”

“Hit the target and we can go home,” he tells you, and while you don’t exactly know what home is anymore, something tells you it’s somewhere in hyperspace.  A resting baby, a metal floor, a pitch black hull, and your cheek pressed against a warm chest.

It sounds… wonderful.

Inspiring a newfound kind of desire in you, you lift your arms as best you can and work so, so hard to keep them steady.  The target is in your sights and you do your absolute best—fuck, you really do, but you pull the trigger and the shot sadly bounces off the edge.

You drop your hands, already defeated and drained.  “I can’t.”

“Hit the target and I’ll buy you a blaster,” he ups the ante, and you instantly lift your dead arms again.  Fuck, come on, come on, you can do this.

You shoot.  Nope.  So you shoot again.  And then you shoot again, and again, minutely adjusting your wrists purely based on where the bright red plasma is landing and ignoring the scope entirely.

“A nice one,” he continues over the pew pew pew of you just continuing to fucking miss, fucking miserably, over and over again.  “Expensive.  Hand-crafted, one of a kind…”

Miss, miss, miss, and—no.  Just, no.  There’s only so much glaring failure you can take before you snap.  You finally stop shooting and growl in frustration, going to slam the metal down on its resting place.  “Mando, I ca—”

“Hit the target and I’ll marry you,” he says quietly, and you freeze just before impact.

… What?  N… No…

Miraculously, you somehow manage to calmly switch the safety on and set the blaster down before turning back to see the helmet staring at you, unmoving.

You… you know it must just be a joke, right?  Just a stupid extension to the one he made earlier, it must be.  You blink dumbly at him and flick your gaze between the visor and two large black eyes staring at you from the crib, wondering if you glitched or if you’re just hallucinating.

“Uh…” you hear yourself say, even though you’ve got absolutely nothing, but Din doesn’t offer anything else to fill in the gaps of your startled misunderstanding.  If you didn’t have such a wild fucking reaction to the words, you'd probably wonder if he actually said them or not—that’s how much he gives away.  Silent, so unbelievably silent when you’re begging him to give you at least something.  Is he messing with you again?  Is he just that confident that you’re going to fail?

It takes forever for you to turn back around and face the target, but you eventually do when he refuses to elaborate.  Your heart slams in your chest and you wonder what you’re doing even attempting this.

The moment you lift your trembling arms is the moment you know your heart is pounding too fast—your finger twitches with the wild rush of blood flow and you end up pulling the trigger way before you’re ready.  You fire before you’ve checked your sights, you fire before you’ve taken any sort of aim whatsoever, you fire spontaneously enough to surprise even yourself and it—

—it hits dead center.

Your stomach drops and a jolt of some rabid feeling punches through you, you have no idea what it is.  You whip around so fast that you get dizzy, seeing him standing there, completely still.

“That was just beginner’s luck,” you quickly reassure him, suddenly feeling faint.  Holy shit, holy shit, what the fuck just happened?  “Listen—hey, no, listen, I can’t get it again,” you explain shrilly to the utterly dead silence from him.  “Look, watch this, double or nothing.”

You spin back around, well aware that absolutely nothing about what you just said or what just happened made any fucking sense at all.  Beginner’s luck when you’ve been consistently awful at this, telling him repeatedly to listen when you’re very, very fucking aware he hasn’t said anything, double or nothing on a literal proposal as if double marriage is something that actually exists?

No.  Shut up.  Don’t even think that word, don’t think about fucking anything.  Fire, fire without thinking, just lift the gun and pull the trigger—

You do, and oh.  Oh, no.

“Uh?!”  Your voice comes out on a squeak, now in a complete fucking panic.  What the fuck?  No fucking way.  Perfect, perfect, the odds are fucking astronomical—another deadly accurate shot.  “Ah, um, okay, scratch everything I said—th-third time’s a charm?”

Wide-eyed and having absolutely no clue what you’re doing at this point, you fail to see Din slowly turn his helmet down and to the right as he stands behind you.  You go to lift your arms and pull the trigger, but then he suddenly reaches out lightning-quick and bumps your elbow upwards at the very last second.  

The abrupt push causes your shot to be angled off course spectacularly and you can’t do anything but look up and gasp in horror, worried it’s going to ricochet off the ceiling and land somewhere this building isn’t architecturally designed to absorb.  There’s just enough time to wildly wonder why the fuck he did that—

—but then, like pure magic before your eyes… the beam of plasma adjusts itself in midair.  

It fucking bends.  Across the length of your entire firing lane, it curves in a downward trajectory and hits the target with absolutely impossible physics.

Your jaw fucking drops and you whip your body around in dumb shock to see Din staring hard at the closed shield next to him.

… that’s not closed.

The baby tilts his head at you and coos happily, one ear tipping up while the other tips down, and you’re completely blown away.  Not only at the entirely unexpected demon-power display, but what specifically he was hoping to get out of it.  You’re still stuck, blinking down at the adorable little goof with abilities you’ll never understand.

Only, a hand suddenly grabs yours and drags you back to yourself.

“We need to leave,” Din says quietly, switching the lid shut on the hovering crib and pushing it towards the booth’s exit while tugging you along behind him.  “I don’t know how many people saw that, we need to leave.”

Sure enough, voices in the next partition over start picking up, likely the only ones in here who had a good enough angle to watch the physically unthinkable shot somehow meet its target, and your adrenaline quickly begins pumping while you keep your head down and power-walk your ass to the door.  You don’t know the kind of consequences that could potentially arise from others witnessing the kid’s literal sorcery, but you know you’d rather not take the chance.  The voices start growing louder as you three make your quick escape, beginning to ask others around them if they just saw that, but you’re already out of the rectangular adobe structure and long gone by the time anybody steps out of their panels to hear the uproarious accusations of cheating beginning to fly.

***

Stay tuned for the next part!

[sweetchup]

Bi•valve

Noun

an aquatic mollusk that has a compressed body enclosed within a hinged shell, such as oysters, clams, mussels, and scallops.

AKA

The Most Common Seashell in the Ocean

————————

Vol. 1: Just Keep Swimming // Ch. 2

Type: Poseidon x reader

Word Count: 4,000+

Masterlist

————————

Sounds of horns and shouting filled the air outside as you stood on the packed bus. Cramped in from every side, it was hard for you to tell where you were going. Not as if you were paying much attention anyways.

“Okay, you left fish and pasta in the fridge… he could use the tv or read a book for entertainment while you are gone…what about…” You ramble incoherently to yourself.

Even though the storm hit Athens hard yesterday, your studio art professor was still having classes today. Forcing you to leave Triton alone at home. You shouldn’t be nervous. There was no reason to. After all, Triton is a god, he was hundreds of years old.

But…, he was still a child. No matter how old or what type of being he is. He could still possibly injure himself or get into trouble. And that single fact alone made you feel sick to your stomach.

“Is this how parents feel leaving their child alone for the first time…?” You groan to yourself, leaning your head forward so it hits the window in front of you.

“Now Approaching *Athens International School of Art*. I repeat, Now—“ The robotic voice announces over the intercom. At the familiar name of your college, you squeeze your way through the other patrons on the bus to make your way to the doors.

Sweet, sweet air, you think to yourself as soon as you exit the bus. It was starting to get way too cramped in there. So much so, you wondered if it was a safety hazard. Though it wasn’t as if you were one to talk, you left a little boy alone—

“Argh!” You scream out, slapping the cheeks of your face. You needed to stop thinking of Triton. He was going to be completely fine. But, what if…

“I’m getting too attached already…” You groan to yourself. It had only been a day. One singular Day. But you were already smitten by the blonde haired child. “It doesn’t help that he's absolutely adorable as well…”

“Who’s adorable?” A voice calls out from behind you, making you jump in surprise. Whipping around, you let out a sigh once you identify who it was.

“Bryce… how many times have I told you not to sneak up on me like that…”

Bryce Kroger. He was studying abroad at Athens International School of Art for a year just like you except he was instead an architecture major. You met him by coincidence while taking art history so you didn’t know much about the guy, the only thing being the few stories he told you about his home country of Australia.

“Oi! It’s not my fault you're so skittish!” Bryce banters back with a huff.

“Whatever…”

“Eh? Wait, where you heading?” Bryce questions as he watches you walk away, “I thought you had Studio Art on Fridays?”

“I do. I’m heading to the library first though.” You yell back to the tall male who stayed put where he was standing. Not even bothering to follow you.

“You need to stop studying so much!”

“Shut up!”

“IT’S THE TRUTH!”

“SHUT UP!” You scream back with one final huff before storming off. So what if you studied so much. You just wanted to get good grades in the classes that counted. It’s how you got here in the first place. By working your ass off.

Unconsciously, you feel your hand twitch as you open the library door. So what if you spent hours studying. So what if you didn’t go out with friends that often. So what if you didn’t have a social life. So what—

You feel yourself pause, your expression turning sour. Lonely. That’s what you were. You were lonely. A miserable lonely girl.

“Miss!”

Startled out of your thoughts by the sudden call, you realize you were no longer standing at the front door but instead standing in front of one of the librarians. You must have unconsciously walked up to the front desk while you were lost in thought.

“A-Ah. Sorry, I was just looking for books on Leonar—“

You feel your voice trail off at the end as a book on the counter catches your eye. It wasn’t the gold detailing nor the leather texture. No. It was the simple words of “Greek Mythology: Tales of Zeus” printed neatly on the front.

“…Actually, Do you perhaps have any books about Poseidon?”

You just found something better to do with your time.

—.—.—.—.—

“Damn… this is extremely confusing…” You mumble to yourself as you glare at the pages of notes in front of you. Each book seemed to be a little bit different from the last. “Perhaps I should recap…”

Okay, so what makes sense to you is that Poseidon is the second eldest of three brothers and is the ruler of the seas. The things that don’t make sense are… practically everything else…

You weren’t sure if you wanted to cry or scream out of frustration right now.

According to the books, Poseidon has had many consorts over the years. One of them being Triton’s mother, Amphitrite…

“My mother… can be quite mean to other women. Even to some of the female servants around the palace. She believes that they are trying to seduce my father…”

…but that doesn’t match up with what Triton mentioned last night. According to him, it sounds like Amphitrite scared away any women that would even come near Poseidon. This also leads to another flaw in the mythology books. You doubted that Poseidon would be able to have an affair with any other women with Amphitrite antics, nevertheless have 10 other children with them.

“Triton also never mentioned having any other siblings…”

Letting out a groan, which you seemed to be doing a lot today, you banged your head against the table. It seems like these mythology books weren’t going to be of any help after all. Though…. you couldn’t help but wonder why the books were so off in the first place.

Lifting yourself back up from the table, you glare down at one of the book covers. It was blue, almost silvery in a way, with a giant black silhouette of Poseidon right smack dab in the middle. Or, at least, what Poseidon might look like…

“Well, my father is extremely strong and handsome. All the sea nymphs stare at him with big heart eyes half the time. Oh! B-but, father doesn’t pay any attention to them. Father is not a cheater like uncle Zeus…”

“…Is Father…? Oh. He’s alright… He’s nowhere as bad as my mother. He’s never hit me or anything. He’s just… cold. Extremely cold. He really just ignores me half the time…”

“…I do love my father…I just wished he would at least spare me a glance…you know?…Acknowledge his own son…”

“God damn jerk!” You hiss out in anger as you push the book aside. Your blood practically boiling at even the slightest thought of Triton’s father, Poseidon. He doesn’t deserve to have such a good and nice son like Triton.

However, as much as you want to curse out Poseidon more, you realized class would be starting soon and you really had to get a move on.

“Shit. I can’t afford to be late again.”

—.—.—

“Ugh. Why did the professor have to assign me this type of painter…?!” You whined to Yuri. Class had already ended by then with the professor long gone. The only people left were students that were conversing with others or trying to get a head start on their paintings.

“Well, it didn’t help that you barged into class late for the second time this week, (y/n).” Yuri explained with a sigh as she continued to set up her palette, not even sparing you a glance.

Yuri Saito, Or rather Saito Yuri, was an abroad student from Japan. She was the closest person you knew at the college as you both were similar in many ways. Especially since you were both homebodies.

“I get that but at least I showed up in the fir—“

“(Y/n)!” A voice shouts out interrupting your talk with Yuri. You turn around to see Bella Woods, a student apart of your major, approaching you. “(Y/n). You were part of your student council back in high school right?”

“Uh, Yeah. Why?” You answered hesitantly. You weren’t sure why, perhaps instincts, but you were already having a bad feeling about this situation.

“Well I need your help on something…” Bella explains, her voice trailing off at the end as she grabs something from her bag. It’s a piece of paper, a flier to be exact.

“A…A Cultural Festival?”

Bella nods her head at your words, “Yeah. The college wanted to put something on for the public to show what our art school is all about and Mrs. Yamamoto suggested this. A-Apparently, it’s something schools and colleges do back in Japan.”

“B-But how can I help? Wouldn’t it make sense for someone like Yuri to do this? Since she’s from Japan and all.”

It was the truth. You didn’t know a single thing about japanese culture festivals.

“Hey don’t drag me into this, I’m busy.” Yuri counterbacks with a glare before returning back to her painting.

“Well… you see… The school wanted to change Mrs. Yamamoto’s idea a bit since they really didn’t know anything about Japanese Cultural festivals either. So it’s like a Cultural festival, kind of not.” Bella rambled. You could tell all this information was scrambling her brain as well. “Basically, it’s like a Greek version of a Cultural festival where each major picks a Greek god and plans an event or booth around it.”

“…Okay… So it’s just like a school festival in a way?” You questioned cautiously. This was a lot for you to take in at once.

“Yes. Precisely. We are just taking inspiration from Cultural festivals.”

“Okay. Okay…” You answer as you rub the back of your neck, “I still don’t understand why you need me though?”

“Well, I kind of… kind of saw you reading the mythology books in the library today and we need more people on the planning committee…” Oh, god. It seems like everything is coming back to bite you in the ass, “…Just. Please (y/n), We need your help!”

You let out a small sigh as you watch Bella give you a pleading look, “Fine…”

“Yay—!“

“But…“ You start cutting off Bella’s cheers, “But I’m taking care of something really important right now at home so I can’t always make meetings and things like that. I can help with planning but that’s it. Okay?”

That was correct. As much as you wanted to help Bella and your department out with this festival, Triton was your top priority right now. His care and needs were above all else right now, even your own. So if this would get in the way of that then you would drop this project instantly. Instantly.

“Of course! Oh, thank you (y/n)!” Bella cheers, her body visibly relaxing now that a stress has been taken off your shoulder, “Well, I’m not sure if you're busy right now but… the committee is currently planning two classrooms down… so if you could…”

“I’ll go…” You sighed out. Damn, what’s with you lately. Less than two days ago, people hardly approached you. Now you are as busy as a bee. A person magnetic… Well, more like god magnetic as wel—

Wait, a minute. You feel yourself tense up as a thought flies into your brain. If Gods could travel and spend time on earth, could they live here as well? Just like how Triton wants to?

Shit. What if some that live here are able to identify Triton? You could be in big troub—

“(Y/n)? Are you coming?” Bella calls, snapping you out of your thoughts.

“Y-yes.”

It seemed you would have to worry about that later. Not that it mattered right now, you could always just ask Triton when you got home. And even if he didn’t know the answer you would just have to be careful bringing him out of the house. Yeah… you would just do that.

“Guys, I would like to introduce you to (y/n). She’s a fine arts major just like us and knows about mythology. I think she would make a great addition to our group.” Bella introduces you as you enter the room. As you looked around the group of only 4 other people, you realized you really didn’t know anyone.

That is until everyone started to introduce themselves. You never heard of the first three—Brian, James and Kyle—but you found the last name, Marissa Samudra, quite familiar. You wonder if she was that Marissa.

Who you were talking about was Marissa, the hottest girl in school Marissa. Well, at least that’s what all the boys in your major told you. The girl in front of you at least seemed to fit the part. With white silk like skin, light green eyes and dyed coral pink hair, she truly was a sight to see.

“Okay. So shall we get started.” James suddenly spoke up, seeming to want to get the meeting started. You nodded your head in agreement before taking a seat next to Holly. As well as across from Marissa. “Well, I think we should first decide which god we should do. Culinary, Music, Visual performing arts and architecture already have chosen Aphrodite, Hades, Ares and Zeus. (Y/n)…”

You lift your head up at the call of your name.

“…as you know the most about Mythology, who do you think we should pick?”

“Well,…” You feel yourself pause, your palms growing sweaty out of nervousness. You really didn’t know that much about Greek Gods, only the class you took last year and the books you skimmed this morning. You also didn’t expect so many of the main gods to be taken already.

“…How about…”

You needed to think of someone fast. Someone that would satisfy all parties here. Someone that would bedazzle people coming to the festival.

“…Poseidon…?”

Why… Why was that what your brain had come up with? Poseidon? The very god that you were cursing out this morning. Wishing near death upon.

“Fish man?” Brian questioned, letting out a small chuckle at his own joke, “You really want to go with Fish man as our god? Isn’t there anyone better?”

“I think Poseidon is pretty…cool.” You feel a shiver go up your spine as you compliment the man. It was official, you might actually puke. “…He’s the king of the seas. It gives us a lot to work with for his character. Especially since most Fine Arts students are good at realistic elements, we could really do well on painting or using sea life.”

“True… but—“

“I think it’s a wonderful idea.”

You are shocked as you hear Marissa cut Brian off. When you first sat down, she seemed totally uninterested in the topic at hand. Caring more about her hair and nails than anything else. But now, now, she was paying attention to every little thing. You couldn’t help but wonder why. “Oh sorry. I really like the sea. It holds a special place in my heart… you know?”

Oh, that makes sense. You totally forgot Marissa’s paintings were mostly about the ocean and sea. Never drifting off to other topics.

“N-no. That’s actually pretty cool. You know what, we should totally do Posedin… or whatever the dude’s name is. He sounds really cool.” Bryan agrees as he bashfully rubs the back of his neck. Gross, could he make it any less obvious that he was smitten by her. And not in a nice way either.

You feel yourself shiver as you watch him sneak small glances down at Marissa’s chest area. Disgusting pervert…

“Well, with that decided let’s move on…”

…Great… You could already tell this was going to be a long meeting…

—.—.—.—.—

Again, for what felt like the hundredth time today, you banged your head against the wall. This time however it was against the door of your apartment.

“Seriously… a Café…?”

Yes, a Café. That’s the brilliant idea your group came up with. An under the sea type themed café.

In hindsight it didn’t sound all that bad. You could have a couple of students paint some props and decorations. Then another couple of students who know how to cook plan out the menu. Maybe even borrow some culinary students if you were lucky.

But,… there’s that.

Outnumbered three to two, the boys of your group insisted the girls that are serving customers should wear togas. Togas. They stated it was to bring in more customers but it was pretty obvious they had other intentions behind it. Especially since they didn’t even bother waiting a couple of minutes afterwards to ask if Marissa wanted to be part of the waiting staff.

“Poor girl… I feel bad for her.” You mumble to yourself as you pull out your keys, finally unlocking the door to your apartment. You wished you could just beat all those men senseless with a baseball bat. “That’s actually not a bad idea… Could I bring a wooden club and say that it's part of the character? They seem to not know that much about—“

“Miss (y/n)!” You hear shouted as something comes barreling into you. Knocking you onto the ground right as you enter your apartment. “O-oops I meant to only say (y/n)…”

Even though you got the air literally knocked out of you, you still let out a small chuckle as you reached up to run a hand through the perpetrator’s locks. Triton’s blonde locks. “It’s okay. I only told you this morning to stop referring to me so formally. It will take time for you to get used to it.”

Suddenly, you wince at a feeling of pain as you move slightly. Triton sure was strong. You, honestly, wondered if he held back some strength when he jumped at you. If so, you wondered how strong Triton was nonetheless an adult god.

Speaking of an adult god…

“Hey Triton.” The boy lifts his head up at your call, “Do any gods live on earth?”

The boy seemed to take a moment to think, “Well kind of? Not really Greek Gods though. Most of them are too proud to live with humans.”

“Oh well that’s goo— Wait, a minute! Other gods are real as well!?”

Triton nods his head furiously, “Yeah pretty much all gods. As long as it is considered as one, it exists. There’s Nordic gods…, Indian gods…, Oh! Even Buddha. I like Buddha, even though I’ve only met him once. He introduced me to salt water taffy! It’s delicious.”

“I-I see…I’ll try to get you some then. Another time.” As much as you wanted to hide your surprise you couldn’t. Learning that Greek Gods actually existed was one situation but learning that All Gods existed was a whole nother ball game. Did that mean demons existed as well?

“Hey (y/n). Could I ask you a question?” Triton asks, suddenly seeming bashful all of a sudden.

“Sure. What’s up?”

“Could I…” Triton pauses for a moment, “Could I call you…”

You leaned closer to Triton as his voice slowly got softer and softer at the end. His ears and cheeks were bright red as he waited for you to answer. However, you couldn’t answer him as you didn’t hear the last part of what he said.

“I apologize. Could you repeat what you said, Triton? I couldn’t hear the end of it.” You felt bad for asking him to repeat it as his face only seemed to get even more red when you asked.

“I-I… Could I call you… Mom?”

It was silent as his question, or rather request, fell upon your ears. You thought about it for a moment. Especially whether it was morally right for you to have him call you ‘mom’. Even if his true mother was a terrible person, she was still his mother.

Though, then again, She really didn’t act like his mother. Especially in all her hundreds of years of existence of having him. At least from what you’ve heard from Triton. She’s had plenty of chances to show her love for him and she never did.

“Of…Of course you can.”

You feel yourself smile as Triton’s face lit up. And you knew, Deep down inside, that you did the right thing. You would show this boy the love he deserved.

“Hey (Y— Mom.” You giggle at how Triton seemed to practically beam with happiness once the title left his lips.

“Yes, Triton?”

“Could we have dinner right now?”

You feel yourself jump up a little in surprise. Since you stayed later than what you usually would, due to the meeting, you didn’t have anything prepared ahead of time for dinner.

“Ah, yes. Do you think you could wait in the living room while I prepare it?”

“Of course!” Triton answers as he scrambles up off of you. As you make your way to the kitchen—which was technically in the same room as the living room—to start dinner, you find yourself drifting off into your thoughts.

You realized you really hadn’t thought this through. Taking care of Triton and all. Your apartment was small, he didn’t have his own room, he seemed to eat a lot more than a human boy his physical age and so much more.

You wouldn’t be able to buy a bigger apartment right now. Going through college and all. But you could take more shifts at work. After all, it was literally down the street. You were also good friends with the owner of the toy shop next door. You bet he would allow Triton to play with a couple of toys while you worked.

As you continue to list things you would need to take care of Triton especially if it was long term, Triton was watching cartoons on the couch.

“…Wonder cats will be right back!…”

As the show goes to commercial break, Triton feels himself let out a sigh. Television sure was awesome and all, much better than the plays and coliseum matches used to entertain gods, but he despised ads more than anything.

“Who in the world created such a malicious thing…”

Triton’s voice trails off at the end as the ad changes to another. As he stares at the screen, he feels a shiver shoot down his spine. As quickly as he could, Triton changes the channel to another before shakily dropping the television remote. A cold sheen of sweat breaks out all over his skin as he collapses back onto the couch.

To anyone else, the commercial before looked like any normal hair dye commercial seen on Tv. But not to Triton. Especially when he saw something oh so familiar.

“T-that hair color…” Triton feels himself shiver at the thought, “L-looked too much like Aunties. Mom’s…No…

…Amphitrite’s Sister.”

Author Note: Ahhh this chapter contained so much but I knew I couldn’t split it up. Especially if I was doing posting Tuesdays and Thursdays. I was worried that the time frame in between would mess my readers up. Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this Chapter. I know there wasn’t a lot of Triton moments but I wanted to get the ball rolling on the plot so that things and certain characters (*cough* Poseidon *cough*) will appear soon. Well that’s it for now, see you next time :)))

Taglist: @angeli-fucking-cat @marixxhq

[wrenhyperfixates]

We Make a Pretty Good Team

Pairing: Loki x reader Summary: It’s game night at the Avengers Tower, and you find the perfect partner in Loki. Warnings: ‘tis but fluff A/N: Just another self-indulgent, fluffy story. Hope you enjoy :)

Tag List: @lucywrites02​​ @frostedgiant​​ @lunarmoon8​​ @twhiddlestonsstuff​​ @lokistan​​ @lowkeyorlokificrecs​​ @gaitwae​​ @whatafuckingdumbass​​ @castiels-majestic-wings​​ @kozkaboi​​ @cozy-the-overlord​​ @birdgirl90​​ @myraiswack​​

Disclaimer: Gif not mine 

“First Saturday of the month. You know what that means,” Tony hollered to the Avengers scattered about the Tower.

“Yes!” Thor boomed. “Be prepared to lose.”

“Funny,” Clint laughed with a roll of his eyes. “I was just about to say the same thing to you.”

“What is happening?” you asked, somewhat bewildered, as the heroes came into the room. “What’s significant about Saturday?”

“Oh my gosh, that’s right. You just missed the last one. Every first Saturday of the month we have a game night,” Nat explained.

You’d been part of the team for just under a month, having officially joined on a Sunday. So, it was true that you’d yet to experience their apparently traditional game night. It sounded like a great deal of fun, though, especially because the Avengers had become your second family in the short time you’d known them. Well, you’d actually known Nat and Clint for years, since you all worked for SHIELD. In fact, they were a huge part of the reason you were an Avenger now. A few months ago there was a particularly dangerous crime ring, and they’d specifically requested you as backup. You’d clicked with everyone immediately and, numerous transfer papers later, here you were.

“Sounds exciting!” you told them. “What are we playing first?”

“Well actually,” Bruce said kind of sheepishly, “it’s not that I want you to sit out, but they’re all team games, and we don’t have an even number of people.”

“So we have a team of three,” Nat said, as if it were obvious.

“No way. That’s unfair,” Tony argued.

You bit your lip, feeling like maybe you were intruding on something you shouldn’t be a part of. It was their thing, after all, and perhaps there was simply no room for a newcomer. As they continued to bicker about whether one larger team mattered or not, you considered just slipping away. That’s when you noticed that there was someone missing.

“What about Loki?” you said. “He would make the numbers even.”

Much to your surprise, everyone burst out laughing. You nervously ran your sweaty palms on the legs of your pants and let out a small laugh, though you weren’t quite sure at what. Once their cackling died down, you dared to ask what was so funny.

“My brother never attends these games nights,” Thor informed you. “He isn’t one for group activities, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

“Well, have you ever invited him?”

“Once or twice,” Tony said. “Listen, if you want to try to make a social butterfly out of Reindeer Games, be my guest. In the meantime, we’ll work out a feasible way for us all to play.”

You rolled your eyes and scoffed a little, standing up to go find Loki. It was honestly ridiculous that they still treated him the way they did. Sure, he likes to be alone sometimes, but that doesn’t mean he likes being lonely. Not that he’d ever actually admitted to you that he was, but you knew. It was blatantly obvious in the way he sent longing glances toward the rest of the team when you gathered together. You always made sure to ask him over, an invitation he usually accepted. Everyone else had laughed the first time you’d done that, too. They’d only ever asked him a few times, and it was right when he was new and still so lost, so alone, so afraid. Why they took that to just be his permanent disposition, you didn’t know. Regardless of how insensitive they were to his situation, your inclusivity had brought Loki out of his shell a bit, and a friendship had blossomed between you.

A short walk later, you reached his door. You stretched out a hand, but hesitated to knock. Doubt gnawed at the back of your mind. Maybe he truly was not a fan of board games, and then you’d be interrupting his night. After all, he must have a tradition of his own if this happens every first Saturday. Still, you knew that was usually not the case, and steeled yourself against the uncertainty.

“Hello, my little mortal,” he greeted you, opening the door. “Is everything alright?”

“No.”

“What is it? Are you ill? Hurt?” he questioned, jumping into action and shepherding you to his couch.

“No, nothing like that,” you laughed, though you were touched by his concern. “It’s just that it’s game night, and we don’t have an even number of people.”

“Oh? And I suppose that you are asking me to join,” he mused as you nodded. “I am not usually invited, and I am notorious spoiled sport, just ask Thor.”

“Well, people say a lot of things about you, and they’re usually not true.” He shrugged his shoulders. “You don’t have to play if you really don’t want to, but will you? Please. For me?”

“For you, my little mortal, anything. After all, how can I resist those puppy dog eyes?”

You giggled and led the way out of his room, ignoring the thumping of your heart when his hand accidentally brushed yours. Nat and Tony were still bickering about the teams when you arrived, but were quickly stunned into silence when they saw Loki.

“Brother! Good to see you’ve decided to join,” Thor greeted, breaking the somewhat awkward silence. “Shall we begin then?”

First up was Cranium, and you could tell that everyone else was divided into their usual teams: Tony and Bruce, Clint and Nat, Thor and Steve. You rubbed your hands in excitement, ready for some friendly competition.

“Yes!” you shouted a while later, after you and Loki answered the final question right. “We win!”

Everyone else’s jaw hung open, shocked by how serious of a competitor you were. Not to say you were mean-spirited or gloated or anything, but it was obvious you took game night very seriously. Loki was a little surprised too, but he relished in the infectious energy of your feisty spirit. Not to mention he absolutely loved to be on the winning team.

“Congratulations, guys,” Steve said. “Don’t expect to get as lucky in the next game, though.”

The next game, apparently, was charades, which you and Loki absolutely dominated again. The two of you worked as a well-oiled machine, guessing the simple ones like sewing and the more obscure ones like whale watching with ease. Loki was also surprisingly knowledgeable about Midgardian movies and literature. The two of you high fived, having just edged out the competition.

“Wow, good job guys,” Nat congratulated. “Tony and Bruce usually win that one.”

“Way to rub it in,” Tony groaned, flopping back on the couch.

You could tell a part of him wanted to accuse Loki of cheating but, having no real evidence and not wanting to start a fight, restrained himself. Instead, he contented himself with just mumbling how much of an outrage it was. You, however, were on cloud nine.

As the next game was set up, Loki pulled you onto his lap, instilled with confidence after his latest wins. Of course, if anyone were to ask, he would just say he was saving room on the couch. It would have, though, been a lie.

“Ready for a clean sweep, my little mortal?” he whispered, his breath surprising cold on your ear.

“Bring it on!” you whispered back with a wink.

The last game of the night was Pictionary, and by now everyone knew you and Loki were the team to beat. Unfortunately for them, you got this win, too. The Avengers let out a collective sigh as you shouted a victorious whoop and hugged Loki.

“Good game everyone,” you said, starting to help clean up.

“What are you doing, my little mortal?” Loki questioned, half joking. “Do you not know the losers have to clean up?”

“Not sure that’s actually a rule, Rock of Ages,” Tony grumbled.

“Fine, I’ll help,” he replied, placing a singular piece back in the box. “There. Now it is time for our victory lap.”

Then he scooped you up bridal style using his superhuman strength and began running you around the Tower in his arms, both laughing the whole time. He finally brought you to a stop on the balcony of his room.

“You’re ridiculous, you know that right?” you said, still chuckling.

“Perhaps. But we deserved that after an excellent showing.”

“I guess so. As much as it pains me to admit it, we should probably go easy on them next time. We’ll just win one a night, ok?”

“That’s my little mortal,” he happily sighed, wrapping his arms around you. “Always looking out for others. Always looking out for me. Thank you for inviting me along tonight.”

“No problem. It was a lot of fun. We make a pretty good team.”

“Indeed.”

A comfortable silence settled between you, and you rested against Loki, whose arms were still wrapped around you. He felt more relaxed and happy than he had in a while. He knew he’d ask you out someday, but right now he was still too shy, this friendship still too new. One day he would, though, and he couldn’t wait to get there and to every day after.

[bubble-tea-bunny]

sweet talk

[tamaki suoh x reader]

author’s note: been rewatching ouran and found the time to write smth small. basically a really late valentine’s fic lol. i’m drafting an idea for takashi as well atm. maybe kyoya after? ;)

word count: 1,844

At this time of year, the weather is chilly, the air cold even without the presence of wind and warranting the need for a scarf to avoid a red-tipped nose and numb cheeks. Most days are gloomy, the overcast sky glaringly bright and difficult to look at. But today, it would seem the divine hand in charge of the course of the seasons has granted a reprieve, the clouds parting so the sun might wash over the grass that you and Tamaki sit upon currently, in the garden of the Suoh estate.  

The gardeners had finished their tasks this morning, as instructed by Tamaki the night before. It gave you two the opportunity to be out there alone in the afternoon. The hedges are trimmed and tidy, and the smell of freshly cut grass is strong. You inhale deeply, chest puffed, and sigh in satisfaction as the scent reaches your nose. It had been so long since you sat out in a garden, owed to the fact it had been too cold for that lately.

Tamaki chuckles at your enthusiasm and rifles through the picnic basket he’d brought with him. He pushes aside the array of deserts—cake slices, chocolate bars, fruit tarts, and more—their colorful wrappings crinkling loud enough to grab your attention.

“Where is it…” he mutters.

You tilt your head. "Where is what?”

The tip of Tamaki’s tongue sticks out the corner of his mouth, evidence of his concentration, and when he finally finds what he’s searching for, he holds it up like a first place prize, complemented by an exclamation: “Aha!”

It’s a small plastic pouch, clear with red stripes and tied near the top with a matching, shiny red poly ribbon to keep it closed. There’s what you assume to be candy inside, in various colors, but you don’t recognize it. You’re still just as clueless, but you don’t need to voice your question because Tamaki can see the confusion written across your face.

“It’s commoner candy!” he explains. “Well, commoner Valentine’s candy, more specifically.”

You continue to watch, intrigued by what he’s brought, as he pulls at the ribbon to loosen it and opens the pouch, reaching inside for one of the pieces of candy. He holds up the heart-shaped treat, gripped carefully between index finger and thumb, and angles it so you can see what’s written on it: Sweetheart.

Upon realizing there’s wording on it, and that the same must go for every heart in the bag, your eyes light up. “Cute!”

“It is, isn’t it?” Tamaki agrees, voice quiet as he observes the candy. The nickname is printed red though the lettering isn’t too sharp, which gives away that it was done by a machine. “Haruhi got one for all the host club members, and I wanted to share mine with you.”

When he turns to you, amethyst eyes warm like a summer night, you smile. And when he offers the bag of heart candies to you, you eagerly reach in for one. “How thoughtful!” You turn over the piece you picked out: Only You.

“Well, shall we try them together?” Tamaki inquires, and you nod. The two of you pop the candy into your mouths in unison, then sit silently for a moment in contemplation.

It’s… unique, is the best description you can come up with. The powdery, pressed substance is basically a sugar bomb that melts once it comes in contact with your tongue. But it isn’t the quality of sugar you’re accustomed to—it’s far and away from the refined sweetness of the handmade confections stashed away in the picnic basket Tamaki brought along. Still, this mass-produced goody is delightful in its own way, in taste and novelty, for you have never seen such small candies with words on them, and you say as much to your boyfriend, the last traces of the heart candy lingering on your lips which you lick away.

“They’re charming,” you remark, reaching for another piece. “For when you can’t find the words or get them out yourself.” You read what’s written on the yellow heart you grabbed, then turn it to show Tamaki: Be Mine.

Tamaki’s attention briefly diverts down to read it as well, and the corner of his lips lifts in a lopsided grin as he meets your eyes again. “Sure, they can be useful for some people, but I can get by just fine without candy telling me what to say. How could I call myself the king of the host club if I weren’t able to string together pretty words?” Always conducting himself with some semblance of dramatic flare, he puts a hand to his chest, and the sunlight reflects off his eyes in a way that makes it seem like there’s a tear or two forming in the corners.

As usual, his acting is impeccable, and you can’t contain your smile; he’s such a natural. You have no objections to his claim as king of the school’s host club, and if you’re being honest, you wish you had even half the charisma he does, that some of the skill he possesses at waxing lyrical would rub off onto you via proximity alone.

“They would’ve come in handy for me that day I confessed to you,” you admit shyly, and it’s Tamaki’s turn to tilt his head, confused but waiting for you to expound. “These candies say all the things I wanted to say to you then.”

The day you came to terms with your feelings about Tamaki and the day you actually revealed them to him were different, and the time in between had been spent in a state of conflict over whether it was worth mustering up the courage to approach him about it. There was little doubt in your mind that the president of the host club received declarations of love left and right, a routine part of his week, a clockwork consistency like that of waking in the morning and laying down to sleep in the evening. You’re a drop of water in the ocean; what could possibly make you stand out?

For all that, you figured you should confess anyway. Rejection was still an answer and it was better than nothing. At least after the gentle let down (because truly, Tamaki is, without fail, graceful in matters of love, both the reciprocal and the unrequited) your turmoil over what he may say would finally be put at ease.

Though you rehearsed over and over what you would say and how you would say it, the practice ends up being useless, and you weren’t sure why you even bothered. Once you met his kind gaze—expectant and patient, giving you the opportunity to gather the words in the stretching silence that would be oddly too long in any other context—the resolve you had slowly been building on your walk to the meeting point by the fountain crumbled. You tripped over your words at the sight of his tender smile. Tamaki just had that effect on people, and you wished he’d look at you that way always. To be on the receiving end of his affection was to bask in the warmth of a sun that never sets.

It’s a feeling you’re distinctly reminded of now, sitting in the garden on an uncharacteristically sunny day for winter and the center of Tamaki’s attention, and you think you might be set alight from the sheer intensity (due mostly to Tamaki; the sun is poor competition in contrast). He wears that beautifully soft expression, mind clearly having thought back to your confession as yours just had. But it seems his recollection differs slightly, for he presents a counterpoint.

“I thought you handled it perfectly.” He sets the bag of heart candies on the grass and braces himself with his now freed hand, which allows him to lean closer to you. He enters your bubble but you never mind it, and his touch is feather-light as he brushes your hair behind your ear.

You’re unpersuaded, however, and raise a brow. “Really?”

Tamaki chuckles and nods, blonde hair bouncing with the singular motion. “Your eyes spoke for the words you had trouble finding. I might be the one stringing together pretty poetry like diamonds around your neck”—his fingers slide lower to trace the curve of your collarbone left exposed by the cut of your blouse, and you shiver—“but you have no need for words at all, much less the turns of phrases on pieces of candy.”

“Is that why you liked me too?” you ask, remembering his own confession that had followed closely on the heel of yours. You keep your voice hushed because given how close to each other you are, there’s no need for any higher of a volume.

Tamaki hums in confirmation. His index finger delicately taps once, twice, thrice, on the hollow at the base of your throat, a sort of absentminded movement while absorbed in his thoughts, before he once more brings his hand up, cradling your cheek. “You say you’re a drop in the ocean but you’re the drops of morning dew on the roses just outside my bedroom window. My heart flutters to breathe you in.”  

You smile, bashful, and set your hand over his, interlacing your fingers. Your cheeks have darkened in a blush Tamaki would like to kiss. “Okay, I’m convinced,” you concede with a murmur. He’s so close to you now. “When I admitted how I felt, maybe it didn’t go as badly as I thought.”

This elicits another laugh from Tamaki. Instead of acting on his desire to run his lips along your silken skin (there would be time for that later), he settles for a quick peck on your nose, then reaches into the pouch of heart candies, temporarily abandoned but not forgotten. His fingers curl around two pieces and he pulls them both out rather than dropping one, but he sees the words on them before you do since his hand obscures them from your view.

“The powers governing destiny have destined our souls for each other,” he declares. “Because you and me, it’s love.”

He uncurls his fingers to reveal the candy in his palm, and you look down at them. The green one reads You & Me, and the blue one It’s Love. This prompts you to giggle. It’s music to his ears.

“What happened to not needing candy to tell you what to say?” Your tone is playful.

Tamaki shrugs, unable to hide his amused grin. “I pulled them out at random. If this is the universe speaking to me, who would I be to argue?”

You have no counter to this, not that you think there even is one. Destiny is destiny and as Tamaki feeds you one of the hearts and you bite into it, the sugar once more dissolving on your tongue, you can only thank those powers which make the world turn for conferring their blessing upon the two of you in such a deliciously sweet way.

[not-me-simping-for-blasty]

Wrong Number, Asshole - A Bakugou Katsuki Soulmate AU

All Parts

Part 21:

You were nervous, practically fainting under the pressure as you pulled open the hospital’s front door. The trip to Jaku was fairly easy, only a brief 45 minutes, and in that time you hadn’t managed to calm yourself at all.

You stomach was rolling with nerves- twisting and turning and making you feel so very sick. You tried to reason with yourself, tried to convince yourself to lower your expectations. There was nothing for you to be worried about, here! You hadn’t lied! Or hid anything, or pretended like you were a good person when you maybe weren’t. 

Bakugou did that. He did that and he was the reason your eyes were still puffy and why your head still ached. He had things to apologize for- not you.

So why did it feel like all you wanted to do was throw your arms around him and forget everything and just be happy?

The longer you sat with it, the more you thought you understood. Even if he was bad, even if he did bad things, he was still your soulmate. He was still the other half of you and you were selfish- so, so selfish and you couldn’t make yourself give that up. Couldn’t ever possibly make a strong enough argument for abandoning him. You knew that, even if you didn’t want to admit it. It was why you were even at the hospital after all.

You shook your head, trying to focus on the matter at hand. 

“Hi,” You greeted, hoping your smile seemed genuine to the receptionist. “Bakugou Katsuki, please, room 427.”

She just looked at you funny, tapping at the device in her ear. “Yeah, I got another girl down here asking for Dynamite? Where’s security?”

You heart began seizing, lungs stuttering with panic as she continued to stare you down. After a long fifteen seconds she spoke again.

“Well, isn’t it your lucky day. Apparently, he wants to see you. What a surprise.” She announced un-enthusiastically, handing you a slip of paper. “Take the stairs to the left, all the way up to level 4, and then follow the instructions on the paper.” 

You just nodded in a daze, holding the paper in your shaking fingers and moving towards the stairs. Suddenly, you were even more nervous than before. You pushed open the stair doors, and realized this moment felt bigger than you. Bigger than anything in your entire life. Every singular event and decision had brought you here and the only thing you could do was stare dumbly at the stairs in front of you.

No. You knocked a closed fist gently against your forehead. I’m fine. I’m been waiting forever for this shit. It’s just stupid Bakugou.

You took one step, pulling your shaky legs along with two hands on the guardrail. Another step, only pull. Another step another pull. You were conquering the stairs, and this moment, gaining momentum before you knew it. With feet moving unbidden and sure and careful and climbing, you rise, steps taking you higher and higher until you hit the 4th floor. It’s a maze of hallways from there, a strange puzzle of paintings that all look the same and tiles that are two shades too dark and doctors and people rushing past and shoving, but your feet are steady, one after the other, fast, fast, faster, and you don’t falter. You don’t falter and you walk down another hallway, look at your paper, take a left, walk a little further, look at your paper, take a right, walk further and faster and further and farther, past room 423, past room 424, past room 425, past room 426, turn another corner, rush past a man wheezing in a wheelchair, skid to a stop- room 427. 

You heart hammers in your chest- beating against your ribcage and threatening to burst through your too-thin skin. Your breath shudders, fingers shaking as you push the door- push it open, and wider, and widest, and open.

His face is the very first thing you see. It’s all you can see. All the machines and the hospital bed, all the bandages and the IV’s stuck into his skin- they all fade away. There’s just him and his blonde hair and the way his shoulder’s slope and the defined musculature of his arms. He is real and breathing and solid, and so, so, beautiful. Bakugou’s every breath seems to arrest you, keep you in place and strung tight like a live-wire, electricity running trails of fire through every vein- and his eyes.

His eyes that are darker, deeper, duller- less like raging volcanoes, and more like delicate rubies. They’re red. Red like nothing you’ve ever seen before, and startling and surprising, but it’s not an angry red. Not a violent red. You decide then that Bakugou is a soft, dignified red- he’s hot wax cooling over a sealed envelope, like a slowly healing cut just beginning to fade. 

Something in you slots into place. You feel it in your mind, in your bones, in your chest. You’re not itchy anymore, you’re not searching. There is no puzzle left to solve and your finally have all the pieces to your soul; no longer aching anymore for something you knew you should’ve always had. Your skin is finally yours- no longer loose and ill-fitting and stretched thin saving room for someone you hadn’t met yet. You felt right- finally. Settled for the first time in your entire life, like somehow, you’d always knew you’d end up standing exactly where you were.

You think Bakguou must feel it too. He nods something almost imperceptible, but his face softens. He looks so sure- so confident as he looks at you. Like he always expected you to be exactly who you were. Like some part of him too always somehow knew this was going to happen.

You’re tearing up before you can help it, rushing into the room and to his bedside.  

“What are ya fuckin’ cryin’ for, idiot?” Bakugou huffs, but his voice comes out strained; buried under thick, barely-restrained emotion. “Nothin’ new left to cry about now, stop it.”

“I can’t,” You’re wiping at tears with your sleeve. “After all this time- my whole life- It’s just- you’re- you’re you. ”

“Course I fuckin’ am.” He says. Bakugou then clears his throat, voice becoming much softer. “Always was to you.” 

“I-I know. But it’s just- you’re real.” 

He can’t say it back, you can see it in his pinched face and blushing cheeks, but Bakugou nods. You know he feels the same. 

“It’s- I- I just didn’t think I’d ever be here,” You start, sinking easily into the chair next to his bed. “And after everything I jus-”

“I’m sorry!” His voice interrupts the relative quiet, cutting through like a knife. He nearly screamed his words, and when you look over at him Bakugou won’t meet your eyes. He’s studying the hospital blankets beneath his fingers, folding and clenching them between fingers gone white from the pressure. “I- I mean that. More than fuckin’ anything.” 

“I know.” You say.

The room goes quiet again, and any of the calming completeness you had felt earlier seemed to be fading. Suddenly it’s not just the feeling of finding your soulmate running through you, but the feeling of finding Bakugou. Bakugou who is sitting in front of you, injured and weaker than Dynamite and he doesn’t look like someone who could hurt anything or anyone but then you remember that video- that scream, those eyes. 

“Just- fuckin’ say it already. I can see your face, idiot.” Bakugou’s voice is authoritative but not pushy. Inquisitive but not demanding. “It’s- I know your holding back, so just fuckin’ quit it already, alright?.”

“It’s- I just need to know. You said, on the phone, that it wasn’t you, in the video.” You close your eyes. If you look at him any longer you think you’ll lose your nerve. “If it wasn’t you, who was it?”

“I-” You watch as his face falls, eyebrows pulling together. Then he’s turning red, wringing his fingers together and casting his eyes toward your shoes instead of your face. “Can ya- can I- I just have to think. Give me a second. I have to make sure I get the fuckin’ words right.” 

You nod. Bakugou seems to leave you for a moment, eyes un-focusing and fingers twitching minutely. He suddenly looks up, meeting your eyes.

“It’s- I shouldn’ta said that shit. It was- I did that. Me.” He admits, words tight and strained like they’re hard for him to speak. He’s got a hand pressed to his mouth, head turned sharply to face the window. He refuses to meet your eyes once more. “But- I’m not- I’m tryin’ not to fuckin’ be like that anymore! I’m workin’ on it or whatever. Since then! E-ever since then.” 

“Okay.” You nod. “What happened to the person? In the video?”

Your question seems to upset him, and he throws his hand harshly against the bed. Bakugou breathes- eyebrows pinched together tightly until his shoulders aren’t held together so tensely anymore.

“I told you. I didn’t- everybody always talks about that fuckin’ stupid-ass video but it was only the camera!” He grits his teeth suddenly, sharply inhaling and exhaling until his jaw relaxes once more. His eyes still remain screwed shut. “I meant that. What I said on the phone. The fuckin’ person was fine! Wasn’t fuckin’ hurt. J-just scared.” 

You want to believe him. More than anything you want to believe him, but those eyes you saw were hard to forget. They almost seemed like they belonged to someone else- like they couldn’t possibly have belonged to the same guy who’d called you sunshine and helped you with your anxiety and cleared his schedule every night at exactly 7:00 PM. The Bakugou you had come to know was so far removed from the man in the video- the scary, feral, thoughtless man who seemed to attack someone without just cause.

You closed your eyes for a moment, bringing your hands together in your lap. He said he was trying- he made it very clear that was true with his careful breathing and the way he asked for time to think about his words first. The Bakugou sitting in front of you was not the same man in the video. His eyes weren’t violent erupting volcanoes anymore- they were slowly crystallizing gemstones. Precious, valuable things still slowly changing into something new.

“Okay.” You nod. “I believe you.”

Bakugou cracks open his eyes slowly, looking intensely at you. Something anxious in his eyes melts away, relief filling his features and settling in the barely-there curve of his smile. His shoulders relax and he takes a deep breath and a crackle, a pop and-

“Did you? Was that-” You point at his palms. “Was that your quirk?”

“No! Fuck no, why would you even fuckin’ say that- obviously not, because my quirk is fuckin’ cool not some shitty, embarrassing, tiny-”

“Bakugou.” You interrupt sternly, staring him down. “Honesty, remember?”  

He groans, and flushes. His hand crackles again, something small and dancing just across his palm and Bakugou races to cover it. He then wipes his hands on his hospital gown harshly, turning his entire body toward the window to cover the way he’s still blushing. It doesn’t work though. You see him all the same.

“Yes.” He admits, and he just sounds so defeated, it makes you crack a smile. “But don’t fuckin’ say anything, okay? It’s all your fuckin’ fault, damn woman! Started the first time you called me and I can’t get it to fuckin’ stop no matter what I do it’s-”

“Can I see your hand?”

“H-huh?”

“Your hand,” You reach toward him gently. “I wanna see. Give it.” 

Bakugou doesn’t look at you, just raises his arm and jabs it out toward you. The movement is stunted and awkward, like he can’t control his limbs right, and when you look at him his entire neck has started going red too. He waves his extended hand impatiently, urging you to get on with it.

Slowly, so very slowly, you poke a single finger into the smooth skin of his wrist. Just a feather-light touch. A near-weightless pressure against soft skin.

Pop.

You poke him again.

Pop.

Suddenly embarrassed, you pull both your hands to cover your eyes and blushing cheeks, and begin giggling uncontrollably.

Pop. Pop. Crackle. 

Bakugou moves so brashly that it startles you, and he’s pulling his hand back to him, and curling it into his chest. He’s using his other hand to press into the crackling one, finally smothering the sound of a last few pops sounding off. When you finally peek between your fingers, he’s somehow redder than before. 

He’s adorable and you’re laughing and you can’t stop laughing because he’s shy and embarrassed and so defenseless against you. Every part of you is warm from the top of your head to the burning tips of your toes, your smile spreading so wide that it over takes your entire face. 

“It’s-it’s not fuckin’ funny!” Bakugou shouts. “Stop goddamn laughing, you shitty fuckin’ woman! It’s a good quirk! It’s not fuckin’ funny!” 

“It is.” You agree, gasping to catch your breath. “It’s a very good quirk Bakug-.” 

“K-Katsuki!” He shouts suddenly, interrupting you entirely. He seems surprised at his own outburst, blushing again and smacking his hand against his forehead. He groans. Loudly. “It’s- I- Katsuki. That’s my name.” 

“O-oh. Okay.” You say shakily, heart beginning to race once more. “K-Katsuki, huh?”

Pop. Pop. Pop.

Bakugou screams. Just howls something deep and defeated and animalistic from the bottom of his chest. It fills the room, seemingly taking up all the space, and you could’ve sworn the windows were rattling. You start laughing.

“Fuck! Oh my god! You fucking did this to me, shitty woman! You- you’re- stop fucking laughing!” Bakugou is screaming, arms gesturing wildly. “This isn’t fucking funny! Something is seriously fucking wrong with me! A-and and you don’t even fucking care! You just think it’s funny! I’m fuckin’ broken, fuckin’ suffering, and you’re laughing!”

“It’s- I’m not!” You shakily defend, barely able to complete the words. 

“See now you’re just fuckin’ lyin to me! Goddamn fuckin’ liar for a soulmate!” He’s yelling, hot air and fire and irritation seeping from his lips. “You know, it’s just my fuckin’ luck too, you know! To end up with such a fuckin’ idiot for a soulmate! Who just fuckin’ keeps laughin’ and lookin’ cute an-”

Bakugou screeches. He throws his hands down on the bed, palm up, full-on miniature explosions beginning to spout from his fingertips.

“What the fuck did you do to me? What the fuck- I-I didn’t say that! You didn’t hear anything! Would you quit fuckin’ laughing at me?” 

You just hold your palm up, tears gathering at the corner of your eyes. Bakugou stares at it, burning holes so intensely and brazenly, so utterly focused and enraged that it sends you into further hysterics. It takes you a good five minutes to sober up.

“It’s- I’m not. I’m not laughing at you.” You lean forward in your seat, just a little bit closer to the guardrail of the hospital bed. “You just- you make me happy ‘sall.”

Bakugou gags. Audibly. The sound rips from his chest and up his throat and contorts his face.

“Don’t just fuckin’ say that!”

“What the hell?” You ask incredulously, hands flying wildly. “You literally told me you like me over the phone! Literally yesterday! But now you’ve got a whole ass problem with me saying that you make me happy? What the fuck, angry man?!”

“It’s- I didn’t- fuck!” He shouts, voice raising to cover yours. “Stop makin’ me remember all this embarrassing shit! You’re doing this on fuckin’ purpose! I know you are, shitty woman!” 

“I wouldn’t make you remember it so much it you just fuckin’ owned up to it in the first place, you coward!” You screeched. “If you already said it, and I said I like you, then what’s the big fuckin’ deal, huh?” 

Bakugou suddenly goes quiet, his hands fidgeting with the sheets. He chuckles. “You said you like me. Again. Fuckin’ dork.”

“Oh my god! You’re fucking infuriating! No-no don’t just sit there and fucking grin at me! That’s- stop!” 

And truly, you meant it. You wanted him to stop looking at you like that, stop crinkling up his eyes, and most of all stop smiling because you didn’t think your heart could handle it. Everything about him made your blood boil, and every nerve stand straight on end- but it was good too. So warm and comforting and just funny. 

He was Bakugou and Dynamite and your Soulmate. All in one, awkward, crackling, loud fucking package. 

-//--

ee hav sum fluff ,, as a ~reward~